Kindle

A shortish while ago, during an evening downtime outside…

Holding his position, the bound Elemental; Dijonn flickers atop the tip of his vertical staff. He’d only recently learned to hold his position, when left unattended. He could no longer move independently but at least he could avoid the indignity of being laid flat out in the dirt or dust.

The sweet but tragically timorous Bard; Rifkin had been teaching the morally erratic Fortu to read over the last few months and it had peaked Dijon’s curiosity. Previously he’d only considered paper to be useful kindling but now, in his constrained state, he’s realised that the weird squiggles often scrawled all over it can hold knowledge, and knowledge equals power.

“Can you brighten your flame a tad Dijonn? The sun’s going down and it’s getting harder to see the printed words.”

The magical staff flares brighter behind the sitting Rifkin and Fortu. One of the compensations of his new bound existence is that he can’t now, ever burn out. The staff he inhabits sustains him, but the favour is unsatisfyingly bland, like an endless supply of cheap cardboard.

“Of course my fleshy fellow. I’m happy to help. Can you sing me the ‘ABC’ song again? I think I’m beginning to fathom these weird, black pictographs... ‘F’ is for; Fire!”

Run Rabbit Run

Under the watchful eyes of his faithful hound; Mir Hundur and his magical staff; Dijonn, Liga Bur sceptically tugs on the two magical rabbit fur boots, gifted to him by Lord Urdurel. Despite his doubts though, he’s amazed to discover that the small boots readily stretch and extend to fit over his long Halfling feet. Halfling feet that now, due to their disproportionate length and sable coloured fur covering, actually resemble the long back feet of a giant Jack-rabbit!

He’d never felt the need for footwear before and had always, secretly, taken pride in the fact that, despite his smaller stature compared to his Orcish brethren, his feet had always been bigger and tougher than theirs. 

Looking down at them now though, he has to admit that they feel pretty good wrapped in the soft leather and fur. Better than good. He feels ‘springy’ for the first time in his life. 

Springier and stridier!

S-Words

With a sudden lurch to the right, Cookie’s massive wagon comes to an abrupt halt and Rifkin looks to the two soldiers sitting with him in the back.

“What’s happening?”

Chape and Locket don’t answer though and instead, climb out of the open exit without a word. They’d all been on high alert ever since the suspiciously fallen tree about a mile back.

Steeling himself, the Bard clambers out behind them and peeks around the corner of the wagon. There’s an angry voice he doesn’t recognise, shouting near the front but more concerning are the dozen or so armed horse riders galloping towards them. Gritting his teeth, Rifkin mutters to himself under his breath.

“This is it. This is the moment I prove myself more than just a worthless minstrel.”

Drawing Spider Murphy’s magical short sword, Rifkin feels a strange sensation creeping up his wrist, through his arm, all the way to the top of his neck, where it joins with the base of his head and he hears another strange voice. A scratching, metallic whisper of a voice. 

Rifkin stops abruptly, mid-flourish and mentally strains to listen…

“Vampiric touch!”

Lowering the weapon with an involuntary shudder, the Demi-Elven Bard stares wide-eyed at the sinisterly gleaming blade now limply pointing toward the ground.

He’d had his fill of ‘intelligent’ swords, after Arowe’s Dryad-hating, magical rapier; Arogon Feybane. 

It had been fortunate that his Elven friend had been strong willed enough to resist its full influence, but the sword had still tricked them into attacking the beautiful Dryad guardians of Estrid’s mystical glade.

Seconds crawl by while Rifkin stares at the (apparently) inanimate sword held loosely in his hand, before he tentatively raises it up again in his pale fist and tries to ‘listen’ again to the, potentially intelligent, magical short-sword.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible? After all, wasn’t the recently staff bound, morally ambiguous, fire elemental; Dijonn, now a staunch ally to Liga Bur?

Another few seconds tick by and nothing immediately happens, but then the electrical itch travels up his arm again and he ‘hears’ the same words repeated just as before…

“Vampiric touch!”

The Perfect Match

It was a strange deal that he’d made with the large Druid. An enchanted, inexhaustible ironwood staff to subsist on indefinitely at the cost of the loss of all independent movement.

A harsh bargain, but Dijonn had been in an extremely poor, literally last gasp, negotiating position at the time…

Die now or live forever as a slave.

Eternal life was an odd concept for a fire elemental. Flames generally burn fast and furiously but not usually for very long. Would he become bored of the board he’d be eternally attached to? Could he, one day, become tired of life everlasting?

These thoughts though, were for another day. It was surprising however that Thornberg had come to trade, not for himself, but for the Halfling that he’d already previously sworn servitude to, for freeing him from the hundred years trapped in Dulcetta’s accursed tower prison.

Even more surprising was how much Liga Bur had changed in the mere four hours since they’d last seen each other. Flesh creatures were hard to understand sometimes but his Halfling saviour had seemed to have undergone an equally profound mental, emotional and physical transformation. 

It was impossible to predict if this new partnership would prove successful, but by tethering his flaming self to the top of this magical, blackened-tipped quarterstaff, Dijonn had managed to unlock a plethora of new and interesting abilities…

The (Apparent) Allies

Rifkin: 

Born and raised in the backwards, sister-wife village of Loretto by his Human Mother. Rifkin’s Quarter-Elf, travelling minstrel Father was killed by his Mother’s close-minded, inbred relatives while she was still pregnant with him. Loathed by the villagers for being different, the teenage Rifkin took his Father’s mandolin and left the moment his Mother died. Though cowed by the constant beatings of his youth and timorous by nature, Rifkin still sought adventure and used his good looks, natural charm and musical skills to earn a living.

Estrid:

A powerful, magical and long lived Fey creature, beautiful but righteous, Estrid, as ‘goddess’ of the pool, guards the magical glade, deep in the Feylands. She protects both her people and the mysterious portal beneath the life extending properties of the crystal clear waters themselves. She granted the outlander adventurers ’Champion’ status and her protection within the Feylands in exchange for their help. Now though, Estrid’s concern and priorities have changed with the return of the adventurers and their alarming news.

Thornberg:

A haystack of a man and powerful member of the ‘Circle of the Scale’ Druidic order. Thornberg (and his gigantic bear; Bamse) has recently spent a year of his life in a bubble in time, teaching the Halfling outrider; Liga Bur, the secrets of the ‘Green’. He has grown fond of Liga Bur over those twelve months and wants to keep him close but still respects the scarred Halfling’s desire for both justice and independence.

Tsigan:

The Centaur Prince, initially an enemy, has become a powerful ally to the Party, alongside his noble Father and the rest of his semi-savage herd. Despite his rescuing of Rifkin, under the Calcientan suns, he still feels indebted to Fortu, Arowe and Liga Bur.

Magritte: 

The dashing but pragmatic Satyr has formed a liking and an admiration for the adventurer, especially Fortu. A nimble, talented warrior and potion keeper, he also has the ear of (the occasionally suspicious and often ferocious) Estrid.

Henshaw:

A mercenary from a family of mercenaries, Henshaw is lean, tall, surprisingly intelligent and, perhaps as a consequence of that intelligence, overly cautious. Although a self-professed ‘Bad-guy’, his recent association with Fortu, Liga Bur, Arowe and Rifkin has caused him to re-evaluate some of his previous life choices.

Barbella:

Lifelong friend of Henshaw, Barbella is a thief of the lowest order. A goatee sporting, gold-toothed mugger and backstabber, he is however surprisingly skillful in several useful areas and loyal, at least to Henshaw.

Doberman:

As dumb as he is fat, Doberman is almost too stupid to be considered merely ‘retarded’. Treated as an imbecilic but tolerated pet by Henshaw and Barbella, he is strong, round and relentless in a fight. 

Dijonn:

A small but psychopathic fire elemental, left behind in the desert oasis when the Party was forced to travel through the water filled passageways between dimensions. It has, however, sworn a ‘life debt’ to Liga Bur when he was rescued from a hundred years trapped on a meagre wick in the ‘Singing tower’.

Lightning Tree:

Though a monstrous, flesh eating tree, it possesses a fine mind and a surprising store of knowledge. It also, weirdly, considers Fortu its friend for sparing its life and still waits patiently in the Fey forests for his return with that promised meat.

Shananaghan:

One of the two remaining ‘summoning’ charms on Rifkin’s bracelet, the tiny but foul-tempered, gossamer-winged Pixie has decidedly mixed feelings about the Party. Non-Fey creatures, especially Humans, are the hated enemy but the goddess; Estrid has ordered him to assist the Party to the best of his ability when summoned and, although begrudgingly, he’ll do it for her.

Lorellie.

The second and last of the two remaining magical charms on Rifkin’s bracelet, the flirtatious, small, green-skinned and fin-toed Nixie is more Fey-curious about the outsiders than antagonistic. Physically weak but a powerful swimmer and natural water breather, she may yet prove vital in an aquatic environment.

The (Primary) Villains

Sir Briefadel: 

Middle-aged and bitter, Sir Briefadel rules the small but fortified, Feywild bordering town of Scar Borough. He is the unloved and unwanted, only son of Lord Urdurel and a (apparently at the time) young and beautiful Gypsy woman. His Father; Lord Urdurel, rules over the entire Kingdom of Stowan but banished his son, at an early age, to the furthest reaches of his realm. After hiring the four adventurers to find a magical pool, Sir Briefadel betrayed them in order to save his (supposedly dead) Mother; Hetzabah from his Father’s imprisonment. During the chase, despite appearing to be a normal, if aristocratic, armoured Knight, Sir Briefadel revealed that he secretly possessed (much frowned upon in this realm) arcane powers and his Mother was much, much more than just a mere, innocent Gypsy healer.

Hetzabah: 

Dark haired and so eye-bogglingly voluptuous, every incidental jiggle is akin to a full blown ‘exotic’ performance. The second wife of Lord Urdurel, she was discovered, too late, to be no mere Gypsy. Instead it turned out that she was responsible for the (previously presumed natural) death of Lord Urdurel’s first wife; Dulcetta and, later, his teenage Daughter; Lamenta. Hetzabah encouraged Lord Urdurel to restart his stalled conquest of the neighbouring kingdoms and bore his second child; Sir Briefadel. Later, almost immediately after the death of his Daughter, Lord Urdurel discovered the truth and, despite her enchantment over him, still managed to drive out her witch coven, capture Hetzabah and imprison her on a different world, where she’s been held and perpetually tortured for a hundred years in that dimension’s timeline, although only fifty-years by Fissian reckoning.

Madame Morgarna:

Posing as a simple, flimflam, fortune-teller, this old woman is secretly a shrewd and powerful Witch in the, long-term, employ of Sir Briefadel. She was part of Hetzabah’s coven of thirteen witches, fifty-two years ago, that helped her ensnare Lord Urdurel and poison the Lady Dulcetta. The coven was broken up and destroyed by Lord Urdurel’s elite guard but many of its members, including Morgana herself, managed to escape. Recently tasked with reforming the fractured coven, she seeks to help her old mistress and more recent master succeed in their fiendish, possibly world changing goals.

The Circle of the Scale

A brief three chapter recap…

Module 1: The Rat King

The recently freed Human Gladiator; Fortu, the thrill seeking Elven Archer; Arowe and the Orc raised Halfling Tracker; Liga Bur met up, travelling on foot through the region of, magic-use-restricted, Stowan, toward Scar Borough. Though cautious at first, they found themselves bonding after rescuing a naked, demi-elven Bard; Rifkin from a band of bandits, lead by the Afro-haired; Spider Murphy. Only he escaped the slaughter by taking to the trees, after swearing his revenge on Rifkin.

In town, the newly formed, four-man, Party encountered the usual corrupt town guards and spent some time at the town fete, where they met a worryingly convincing fortune teller; Madame Morgana, a troop of acrobat Halflings and several travelling merchants, including potion seller; Al-Khemi.

Then, hired as a group by the leader of the small town; Sir Briefadel, to discover what happened to Rat-catcher; Hamlyn and why an outlying tannery hadn’t made two scheduled deliveries. The Party found everyone dead, including the hung-by-the-neck; Hamlyn and were soon set upon by a crazed old Druid leading a mass of rats of various sizes. The battle was fierce but, despite being bitten and infected, the four adventurers managed to kill Koenig and survive. On their return to town, they passed on a map they’d found and the magical set of ‘rat summoning’ panpipes to Sir Briefadel.

Module 2: The Wolf Pact

Impressed by the Party’s tenacity, Sir Briefadel recruited them to accompany himself and his personal Wizard; Egrow-the-Magnificent, to find the magical pool deep within the Feylands shown on the map. 

During their horseback (aside from the Mir Hundur riding Liga Bur) journey, they encountered wild boars, bears and a little fox before finally arriving at a hidden glade. Once there, they battled strange hybrid creatures, such as the owl-horse; Howl, the orc-scorpion; Scorcion and the half-halfling, half-human; Three-Quarterling. Sir Briefadel took great delight in crushing the pacifistic, in-a-fish-form Three-Quarterling and killing him. Slightly disturbed by his behaviour, the Party searched the Three-Quarterling’s comfortable and fortified den. Enraged by finding ‘the wrong pool’ Sir Briefadel commissioned the Party to search on without him, as he rode back with Egrow to Scar Borough.

Travelling on with a rescued, old hawk-dog; Dawk, the Party encountered a tribe of Centaurs lead by the handsome; Prince Tsigan and after sparing their lives, were invited back to speak to his Father and chief; Rozinante. Though suspicious, the Party were welcomed and actively helped by the inner group of malformed Centaurists.

Next came a malevolent talking tree and then a wolf-pack, led by the Werewolf; Kane. Those battles were hard and the Party were lucky to escape unscathed. Then came the Dryad archer ambush and the discovery of the second magical pool and its Fey goddess guardian; Estrid.

But before trust could be earned from either side, the glade was overrun with Human soldiers! Sir Briefadel had planted a small scrying device, hidden in one of the horses saddlebags and used his Witch ally; Morgana to help him create a portal, linking Estrid’s glade to the Courtyard in Scar Borough. The battle was fierce and brutal with the tiny Fey Pixies, Nixies and Dryads trading their lives for their Queen. Realising the treachery, Fortu found himself fighting back-to-back with the charming Satyr, Magritte and Liga Bur and Arowe picking off the Human soldiers from protected positions atop the rocky formations. Despite their ‘cold-iron’ weapons though, the Human soldiers were quickly overwhelmed and it became apparent that they were just being used as a distraction so Sir Briefadel could reach the pool unconfronted. He and his, suspiciously clever Hawk, successfully made it through the hidden dimensional gateway, deep below the pool but the ‘Wizard’ Egrow was caught and stopped by Liga Bur.

Realising his dire situation, Sergeant Philco and a few of his men surrendered but they were butchered anyway, alongside their blinded Captain and the bleeding Egrow. Fortu was appalled but wise enough to keep the worst of his anger to himself.

Module 3: The Givrad Void

In exchange for her gratitude and the lives of the three surviving town guards; Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella, the Party agreed to help Estrid and persued the dastardly Sir Briefadel through the void. Whatever plans he had, he mustn’t be allowed back through the portal!

After a disconcerting journey, the, now enlarged, Party travelled to an ice world called Kik-ri, where they encountered a gigantic, burrowing insectoid monster and a friendly Frost giant called; Droofin.

Then they travelled to a three-sunned, desert world called Calcienta. After a skirmish with a group of human, snake and monkey zombies, they were back on Sir Briefadel’s trail and Liga Bur led them to an oasis, where they met a strange but welcoming merchant of magic; Whackeem. After that Arowe killed a highflying hawk before the Party were hunted down and captured by its owner, a wrathful slaver, Magician; Moody and his mounted swordsmen. Only Rifkin managed to escape, thanks to the aid of the (magical bangle) summoned Tsigan.

Fortu then realised, to his horror, that he (and his companions) had been returned to the slave arena. After several fraught death-matches, the Party managed to escape during an attempted city revolt and Rifkin’s cleverly timed rescue plan. They then, by an accident of fate, encountered and captured the very slaver that put them in that predicament. Moody pleaded for his life, but after unwillingly guiding the Party to the, apparently mythical ‘Singing Tower’, Fortu slit his throat.

More giant insectoid, pounce-predator creatures caused a moment of fright and the strange, targeted and protracted, dream harassment of Liga Bur, but the Halfling Ranger still successfully led the Party to the mystically shrouded tower.

Dulcetta’s tower itself was full of traps and tricks but it also acted as a prison to several other apparent malefactors, such as Dijonn the tiny fire elemental and Pardrik the teenage ghost guard. After rescuing them and evading the living green slime, Fortu, Arowe, Liga Bur, Rifkin, Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella finally caught up with Sir Briefadel again and his beautiful, raven-haired Mother. After rejecting his offer to join him, there was a brief melee, after which they fled on flying horseback.

Giving up any hope of still being able to track them down, the Party headed back to the void and to Estrid’s pool, where, despite their failure, they were welcomed with open arms, genuine smiles, music, sex, food and wine.

Liga Bur was forced to sacrifice himself for his friends though, after the mighty Thornberg demanded restitution for the deaths of three of his brothers. The Halfling was forced to give up his lance, his bow and a year of his life to join Thornberg’s Druidic brotherhood; ‘The Circle of the Scale’.

Now though, decisions must be made.

Next…

Module 4: Return of the Demon

Twisted Fire Starter

The torch-sized Dijonn burns steadily on the dried out bush that Liga Bur had placed him on. The gullible, fleshy, two-legged creature and all his larger friends had disappeared down the stone well several minutes ago now and they didn’t look like they’d be returning anytime soon.

Looking around itself, the fiery elemental cackles. So much to burn! But he reminds himself that all around the oasis, for mile upon mile, is nothing but desert. Nothing but uninflammable silica… The flame creature shrinks a little at the vastness of an element so alien to itself. His ‘Master’ had also warned him that it’d be unlikely that anyone else would be coming by this way for weeks; possibly months!

Dijonn accepts that keeping his promise to Liga Bur about controlling his appetite is indeed the best course of action. Still he could consume a fair stretch of the dried up outer bushes before settling down to a slow burning ember until someone or something came to transport it to somewhere else.

…

Twenty minutes later, the entire Oasis is ablaze! The dead outer perimeter, the dry but still living brown middle section and, with some effort, the still green inner hub. Even the abandoned marquee, desiccated corpses of the zombie animals and the recently slaughtered giant insect-men are burning!

The gigantic Dijonn laughs as he roars ferociously. He’s never been bigger or burned hotter and, as he towers over the blackening oasis, he looks around him. The only things he can see are the seven galloping, wide-eyed camels, already far in the distance, within the hundreds of miles of orangey sand in every direction and everything he could burn, already alight.

…

“Fuck!”

Fire and Water

The last few days travel pass uneventfully and the Party finally get to within sight of the doubly-dead; Zephir’s oasis. It’s withered and browned a fair bit since they were first here but, considering it contains their way back home to Fissa, it’s still a very welcome sight.

Scattered prone around the outer periphery are several tall, multi-limbed bodies though. Several dead, tall, multi-limbed bodies. The corpses of about a score of the nomadic, insectoid Tri-Kreen. The skilled Liga Bur initially suspects another zombie trap but, after ‘careful’ inspection with a ten foot pole, he’s relieved to find them merely mundanely dead. Probably innocent desert travellers exploiting the free water supply here and killed needlessly and mercilessly by Sir Briefadel, his Mother and the dark horse they rode in on.

Scouting ahead and grateful to find no opposition guarding the inner oasis, Liga Bur cautiously approaches the top of the central stone well. Once there though, the fiery Dijonn on realising what’s happening, suddenly flares wildly atop his torch perch.

“Oh No, Oh No, Oh No! Please Master, don’t put me down the well! Leave me here; I can guard the oasis for you. I can easily survive on just the dead, dried out bushes and trees. I promise I won’t burn the living green stuff!”

Rifkin’s slightly-almond eyes also flair, but far more subtly as he hears Dijonn’s terrified hisses and crackles. Why hadn’t he thought about this before now? There’s no way that the flame-bodied Dijonn could survive for even a second underwater and there’s no way to protect him from it for anything more than a few moments.

Arowe immediately comes to the little elementals defence and Liga Bur has no interest in extinguishing his spluttering servant. The canny Halfling had noticed that Dijonn always shrank to his smallest, unnoticeable flame whenever Ghostly Pardrik was on guard or when the Hag had visited. The fire elemental was definitely hiding something, but what?

Still, whatever that ‘what’ is, it’s no reason to kill him. The rough Halfling had begun to question his own cynicism of late. He hadn’t trusted Fortu, Arowe or Rifkin when he’d first met them on the road to Scar Borough, and now he’d trust them with his life. He had been trusting them to protect him from the protracted attacks from the Hag and they’d not let him down. Considering his past losses, it’s hard to have faith in people but perhaps it’s time to change that mindset. Perhaps he could have faith in something bigger than himself. Something deeper. Perhaps he should choose to believe that Henshaw and Doberman weren’t secretly plotting against him… Barbella would be more of a stretch though.

After making Dijonn swear on his favourite fire gods not to burn down the entire oasis, Liga Bur frees the tiny elemental by gently transferring it from his torch to a dried out bush on the dead outskirts of deader Zephir’s oasis garden.

Immediately growing larger, as he consumes the dry and brittle bush, Dijonn smirks as he wavers the Party goodbye.

“Good luck skin-wearers!.”

The Cost of Confrontation

The long anticipated battle at the top of Dulcetta's slowly rotating tower had been shockingly and frustratingly brief, with Sir Briefadel literally choosing flight over fight. Doberman had barrelled in before Sir Briefadel had the opportunity to properly speak and, in the cramped observation deck, Fortu and Arowe were unable to properly utilise their magical weapons.

After just a few scrambled and confusing moments, Sir Briefadel and his Mother, realising that the adventurers weren't going to be persuaded to change sides, chose to step back off the ledge and escape into the darkness far below. Fortu, almost immediately dived after them, followed by the now oath-enraged Arowe and then by the more restrained Liga Bur and his big dog, but to no avail. The third, hidden enemy made itself known and carried the others away to safety. A huge, bat-winged, black horse, seen only by Liga Bur before, and even then, only in his nightmares.

It’s only after the Party members had all clambered out of the swirling darkness below, and everyone is reunited, do they realise the full cost of that brief encounter. They’re all injured to one degree or another. Cuts and scrapes mostly; easily fixed with a few days rest and some magical healing. Some of the others though, are carrying far more serious afflictions.

The musician; Rifkin seems, much to his horror, to have been permanently deafened by the armoured Sir Briefadel’s somehow silent and motionless spell.

Arowe’s recent ‘vacuumed’ blood loss is still apparent and the activation of his Oath-bow, but failure to actually kill Sir Briefadel, seems to have enraged him to a state of barely contained frenzy.

And poor, stupid Doberman; the surprise hag-bite on his blubbery neck that he sustained from Hetzabah, has resisted all of Rifkin’s attempts to treat it. The two opposing, semi-circular teeth marks are already inflamed and festering with some sort of foul rotting disease. A disease so vile and virulent that, even with Doberman’s ridiculous constitution, he might not survive the arduous desert trek to Zephir’s oasis portal, let alone the dimensional trip back to Fissa.

All this from less than a few dozen seconds of combat and then, after all that, Sir Briefadel actually succeeded in rescuing his Mother and escaping. Despite his (very) near death to Arowe’s newly activated Oath-bow, the annoying aristocrat actually won!

Dejected but determined to get home, the band of Adventurers gather up their belongings and head back out into the multi-sunned Calcientan heat, with the irreplaceable Liga Bur sent off ahead to recover their ugly camel creatures.

Once the last of the adventurers makes it out through its veil of illusion, the 'Lost Tower of Stowen' is finally hidden again from prying eyes. Indifferent to the escape of its prisoners, the damage to its mechanical guards and its loss of purpose, it continues to turn, and having completed its full rotation, merely turns on. 

Reflections in the Dark: Liga Bur

Clinging tightly to the much heavier Mir Hundur in the ferocious updraft, Liga Bur tumbles after his Elven and Human compatriots. The semi-plummeting Fortu was quickly swallowed up by the swirling darkness below but he actually starts to gain on the slenderer, lightly armoured Arowe. Still, he and his faithful hound are the last to enter the absolute and unnatural shadows beneath the rotating tower.

Unable to judge the remaining distance in the black mist, they land with a bump and Liga Bur immediately rolls off his loyal companion to prevent further injury. The fire elemental; Dijonn, despite flaring wildly, is only able to pierce about ten feet of the, almost tangible, blackness that surrounds them. After picking himself up and soothing his wide-eyed dog, Liga Bur starts to search for his friends. He calls their names but his voice is worryingly muffled in the fog-like darkness.

Ever the pragmatist though, he considers what their next move should be. He's a great tracker, ironically better than the skillful Orc who'd trained him, and he's only gotten better since. His old mentor; Gajutar Auga had often joked that it was just because he was closer to the ground. Despite that though, tracking a flying horse for several days across a desert on a unfamiliar world? Impossible. The life-toughened Halfling is confident however, that once they find their way out of this black hole, he could easily guide his charges back to bustling Valdez city or dead Zephir's oasis and the portal back home to Fissa.

While leading Mir Hundur slowly forward and calling out every few steps, the sharp-minded Halfling wonders about Sir Briefadel's last few words.

"Tell my Father that, after I’ve raised my army, I'm coming for him. And then, once he's dead, I'm going to finish what he started!"

Liga Bur, perhaps due to his cautious Halfling nature or his outsider Orcish upbringing, held an instinctive distrust of large Human settlements and had avoided the main cities of Stowan. He'd travelled there only because of the stories he'd heard of old Halfling settlements along its Feyland boarders. 

Now though, perhaps it would be prudent to travel to Stowan's capital city; Cottis and warn old Lord Urdurel that his son is coming to get him?

The Room of Possibly too many Possibilities!

With the help of Doberman and Henshaw, heavy Fortu lowers himself from the hatch, before carefully dropping down onto the tangled, confusing detritus of twisted metal, broken glass and cremated rat corpses. The ex-gladiator then uses his dark, armoured sabaton covered feet to stomp flat the area directly under the hatch as best as he can, to make it safer for his teammates. He then catches them all, one after another, but tough as he is, Fortu still flinches slightly when the chunky Doberman falls from above.

The barefoot Liga Bur and four-pawed Mir Hundur seem the most vulnerable but both possess leathery soles or tough pads and, although being cautious, find themselves mostly safe. Everyone else depend on a combination of sturdy footwear and heedfulness. Then, using the brightly burning torchlight of his fiery assistant, Liga Bur examines the state of the two, blackened-to-charcoal, cold-iron reinforced, wooden doors. Dijonn has kept his promise regarding concentrating his flame there and the two, formerly substantial barriers are thoroughly burnt through. A solid shoulder barge from the heavily armoured Fortu, is all that it takes to break them down.

The, now open, twin doorways both expose tightly spiralling stone stairwells leading downwards and, after a brief discussion, the keen sighted Arowe draws his magical, camouflaging Elven cloak around himself and slinks down alone into the darkness of the right-hand one. His footsteps also muffled by the matching, soft-leather, magical Elven boots he wears.

After a brief descent, the stone steps lead into a short corridor, so dark that even his hyper sensitive Elven eyes can perceive nothing and he's forced to grope his way forward. After a little while though, he comes to another short flight of stairs with grey 'daylight' seeping down from an already opened hatch.

Utilising his magical cloaks subtle power, Arowe raises his head just above the hatchway to see that it opens up on a giant stone palm. The fingers and thumb curled upwards to act as five ledgeless balusters, partially preventing anyone accidentally falling off. It’s with a mild sense of surprise that he realises that he’s on an ornamental balcony outside of the tower. The hand he’s peering out on, is one of the outstretched hands of the elaborate giant statue of Dulcetta.

Looking out from his hidden position, he can see the stone left hand across from him at about the same height and in between and above is the massive head, open mouthed in song. Straining to see or hear anything, Arowe's frustrated as he can’t really make anything out either way, due to his low vantage point and the roar of the fierce updrafts.

Confident that he hasn’t been spotted by anyone though, the stealthy Elf quietly retraces his steps and then, once back with the others, tries the other door, corridor and steps to similar effect.

On his return from his second foray, the grimacing Arrow realises, that despite seeing through the Gnomish ‘only-two-doors’ misdirect, he’d somehow still fallen for it. By spotting the relatively easy to find ceiling hatch, he’d been lulled into the mistaken conclusion that there’d only been one extra option. 

The question then becomes ‘where’s the missing exit?’ and it’s Liga Bur that suggests the answer. The only point that Arowe couldn’t see properly from his outside positions, was the statue Dulcetta’s wide open mouth. If her hands were balconies, then her mouth would make a perfect, shielded-from-the-elements, observation point.

Arowe nods in agreement, but that would place the additional doorway exactly between the two already burned down ones. Refocusing at the wall again, it suddenly becomes obvious. The hidden third door would sit perfectly between the overt two on its right and left, with the deceiving Gnome statuette, lying directly overhead. The weirdly unsooted section of the wall adds credence to his theory.

Stepping forward, the tall Elf feels around behind the illusionary wall space with his fingertips and almost immediately touches roughened burnt wood. Retrieving his charcoal blackened fingers, proves him right. A skillful glamour covers the secret third door.

Giving it a firm push though, proves it also still standing and only partially damaged by Dijonn's general, undirected flames. It’ll still need to be broken through.

Fortu draws his huge magical sword, smiles and steps up to the mark…

You have a surprisingly large number of options here.

1) Run back down the open stone stairwell to retrieve your camels and ride away.

2) Climb up through the now open spire top into the blustery windy outside.

3) Through the burnt down right door, down the anti-clockwise spiral stone staircase and across and up into the open air, right palm.

4) Through the burnt down left door, down the clockwise spiral stone staircase and across and up into the open air, left palm.

5) Through the still locked, cold-iron reinforced door directly in front of you.

Friendly Fire!

Peering down through the small hatchway, from the now secure spire space, Fortu can’t fault Liga Bur’s clever plan. Letting their tiny new fiery teammate deal with the swarms of rats while they stay safe and unburnt up here? Brilliant! But he’s still disturbed by the fiery elemental’s level of delight.

Apparently incapable of disguising its maniacal glee, the flame creature; Dijonn cackles and crackles with joyous laughter as the, seemingly endless, procession of grey rats crisp and char beneath him.

“You’re not on fire, you filthy, fleshy, furry vermin! Fire’s on you!”

Despite the flames, the rats continue to swarm into the room from both doorways, suicideally compelled by the enchanted panpipes, just to burn up almost instantly. 

As Doberman, Arowe, Fourtu and Liga Bur continue to gaze down from the small attic hatchway, the intense heat from below singes their hair and eyebrows, while the greasy black smoke, thankfully, vents up past them through the opened spire top.

It’s an alarming sight to behold. The small fire elemental uses the four flaskfulls of oil to increase his own power and burn with such intensity, that the two sturdy, cold-iron reinforced wooden doors, are quickly reduced to blackened charcoal.

After just a few minutes roaring mayhem though, as his oil, fat and fur fuel supply runs low, Dijonn starts to shrink back from a room-sized inferno to his usual torch-like flame.

As the stuttering fire creature cries up to Liga Bur for help, the Halfling immediately stretches down with a third, unused and unlit, tar saturated torch and proffers it to his greedy but grateful servant. 

Fortu though, can’t help but notice the surprising distance the slightly panicked Dijonn is able to leap, with an unsettling feeling of foreboding.

Hatching a Plan

Using the mysterious black-glass lenses hidden beneath his helmet, Fortu gazes around at everyone puffing and panting after their recent exertion. They stand victorious after the frantic, confusing battle with the terrifyingly dangerous, mechanical bat/gnat creatures, but there were several injuries. Reassuringly though, the life auras glowing around his friends and colleagues still burn brightly. Only his Elven companion; Arowe’s seems slightly dimmed.

The pacifistic Bard; Rifkin also stops playing now the immediate danger has passed and instead, rushes over to the injured Arowe, so he can attend to his, disturbingly still bubbling, wound.

The Elven archer tightly grips his neck to help staunch the flow of blood from the strange sucking injury, while Rifkin uses the last of his healing spells. It was fortunate that the bat/gnat machines were such poor flyers. Shuddering involuntarily, Arowe realises how much worse it could have been if they had been even slightly otherwise!

Meanwhile, rummaging through the buckled metal and broken glass, Henshaw pulls a thick and strangely weathered leather collar, with an old bronze tag from the metal hounds headless neck.

“I spotted this earlier. The tag says ‘Belvedere’ on it. That’s the same name of the big bloodhound in one of the grand paintings downstairs.”

Fortu takes the sturdy strap from Henshaw’s outstretched hand. What could it mean? Was it somehow, just another petty act of revenge from Lord Urdurel? What, he wonders, happened to the original flesh-and-blood Belvedere? 

While the others are dealing with what just happened, the pragmatic Halfling; Liga Bur is already three-fifths through thinking up a plan of action. He has no interest in facing thousands of rats again and considers what tools, other than their swords and bows, they have that can be used to their advantage. The stone tower has tapered to the point where the chamber is relatively small. The only remaining ways forward are through the two sturdy wooden doors, behind both of which are the magically commanded rat hordes. 

What they do have, is oil to spare and a fire elemental completely unafraid of the rats and immune to their bites.

The only issues would be, them not being caught in the flames and where will the smoke and fumes vent to? Looking up, Liga Bur sees the hatch and wonders if there's still yet another way out?

Quickly organising the three rescued guards into an impromptu Human pyramid, the agile Halfling warrior, being the obvious choice, clambers up and into the, now undefended 'attic' space. Once securely inside, he braces his strong feet against the hatch frame and reaches down to help the surprisingly nimble Barbella climb up after him.

Inside the octagonal spire, there are a series of evenly spaced beams, that makes ascending to the top relatively easy. It’s near the peak that Liga Bur finds another intricate Gnomish mechanism. Calling Barbella up after him, they work out between them, how to crank it open and the apex of the spire spreads wide like an eight-sided beak. 

It’s only then, when Liga Bur hears the rush of wind buffeting the, now exposed tower tip, that he realises that the bat/gnat creatures, that were obviously too heavy for proper inside flight, were really intended for aerial combat outside of the tower, Their normally too-heavy frames, actually designed to be partially supported by the constant and powerful magical updraft, whilst still heavy enough not to be completely blown away.

Looking around at the (just-about) adequate space for all eight of them to shelter away from the flames, the canny Halfling smiles at his Human climbing partner. With the top of the tower opened up, that’s the smoke venting problem solved as well!

Death from Above

As Arowe creeps stealthily up the final flight of stone steps, he cautiously peeps around the last curve and over the stone threshold. He’s not a fool though and he’s not willing to just rush in alone, without at least taking a few moments to assess the scene before him.

There's no door blocking his entry but, besides the wreckage of a large mechanical hound on the floor, there appears to be no other defences in this room at all. Sir Briefadel had obviously run out of pre-prepared plans at this point and was forced to fight the automaton directly. Parts of the bronze and steel creature are scattered all over the flag-stoned floor and its head and four legs have been cleaved from its mangled body.

Only a sparking, two-foot tall steel rod, partially emerging from its circular bronze track, still seems to be pointlessly and blindly moving. It wasn’t completely a one-way battle though, as there’s blood all-over the jaws of the mechanical defender. Red Human blood.

As the rangy Arowe fully enters the new level, one of the dismembered hound’s glowing, mechanical eyes follows his movement and on further inspection, he recognises the beginnings of some recent repair work. Still, the immobile metal beast is of no threat, beyond that of being a trip hazard. Other than the bronze rail, stumpy rod and destroyed metal dog, there are two more doors on the curved wall opposite. Two identical doors leading somehow out of the tower, with another of the simple stone Gnomes mounted on a plinth above and between them. It's hewn in a sort of shrugging, finger-pointing pose, indicating the two options. Although initially seemingly identical, the door on the right has already been broken through and then roughly repaired. On testing though, they both remain locked and Arowe can hear the summoned rats scrabbling around behind them both.

The preternaturally sensitive Arowe though, is old enough to know, that the little stone Gnome statuette on the wall is a misdirection. By merely offering two choices, it strongly implies that those are the only choices available. An obvious Gnomish, tricksy-dicksy misdirection to fool gullible Humans.

While the rest of his rag-tag band of teammates shuffle in, one or two at a time, Arowe exploits his fine Elven senses and searches for another exit hidden in the room; a third option. And before the last straggler finds their way into, the smallish, now crowded room, he spots it. Not along the walls but up in the ceiling, a good six feet over his head. A small, two foot square, hidden hatch leading to yet another level directly above them!

The question then becomes, how to open it? A wooden pole perhaps but that wouldn’t facilitate him actually getting up there. It's too high to jump, so to gain access, he’ll need to be lifted up... Again.

Doberman and Fortu, being by far the strongest, are the obvious choices but, despite Arowe’s striking six-foot Elven frame, Doberman’s roundish body is still too short to make up the twelve-foot span needed from floor to hatch. Standing, instead on Fortu’s broad shoulders and further supported, triangle-like by Doberman and Henshaw, the athletic but slender Arowe reaches up and pushes with all his might. The hatch above however, doesn’t budge. It’s either locked or just too heavy for Arowe to shift alone.

It's the much stronger and heavily armoured Fortu, from under Arowe’s feet, who offers a slightly different option.

“If you can, just brace yourself straight and I’ll raise myself up on my toes. Once the hatch seal breaks, shove it back out of the way.”

Arowe is slightly embarrassed when this ploy proves successful but, as his keen Elven eyes adjust to the darkness above, he sees four rows of small hanging creatures. And then, even as he watches, in a slightly delayed fashion, their crystal-like eyes blink on like tiny red, then orange, then green lights.

More automatons!

Rows of Mechanical ‘bats’ hanging upside-down. Bronze bodied bats with leathery wings, needle noses and bizarre glass bulb bottoms.

With an ominous click, the bottom rung of four detach themselves from the rafter they were hanging from and drop down toward the hatch, even as the startled Arowe instinctively slides hastily down off of Fortu's back.

Thankfully, although these mechanical Gnomish creations are much smaller than the ones they'd previously fought, they still struggle to get through the open hatch due to poor cooperation and their wide, bronze rodded, leather wings. Flailing and scrabbling over each-other, two manage to find their way out.

Falling as much as flying, one misses the currently unarmed but heavily armoured Fortu but the other one succeeds in stabbing Arowe in the neck with its hollow, needle-nose. Despite the smallness of the weapon, Arowe is shocked by the sudden and inexplicable loss of blood as it’s literally sucked out of him under a vacuum. His knees weaken for a moment before he’s able to pry the blood-filled thing off.

Everyone joins the fight, with Rifkin urging them all on with his inspiring melodies, but every second, more and more of the wicked, clumsily flapping, mechanical creatures escape from the overhead hatch until the air is filled with them!

Barefoot on Broken Glass

Liga Bur, leading loyal Mir Hundur and carrying the fiercely flaming Dijonn, is the last to enter the brightly lit ‘Orb’ chamber. His friends have already beaten its trap and stepped through the round cage to the other side of the thick diagonal wall and he moves to follow, but his keen Halfling senses and Orcish training force him to stop in his tracks. 

As a Halfling raised by Orcs, Liga Bur had been encouraged to trust his more primal instincts. Something was distinctly odd here and, before he could move on, he needed to know what?

Taking in the room, the sharp-eyed Halfling tries to work out what's troubling him. Is it the copper running through the mortar of the rough, central wall? Is it the blackened gutter feeding from whatever used to be clamped to the central metal stand? Is it the smashed, darkly lacquered display cabinet?

Despite being raised by the more tender footed Orcs, Liga Bur has never felt the need to wrap his feet in cloth or bind them in leather. Now though, he has cause to pause. 

Examining the shallow collecting pool beneath the black-blood stained 'T-bar' stand, Liga Bur realises that the tiny swords were designed, not to kill but rather keep the prisoner bleeding constantly. The blood from the thousand cuts would drip down and collect in the stone basin beneath them and flow across the gutter leading from it and then out of the tower through the narrow pipe. The very same pipe that he'd seen from outside. The very same stone pipe that had endlessly fed the outer circle of scorpions! 

Being careful not to stand in any of the dried black remains, the Halfling tracker jogs back towards the broken cabinet. The glass was smashed hurriedly and the floor immediately in front, is covered by sharp shards of it.

Climbing back up and standing on Mir Hundur’s saddle, Liga Bur urges his hound mount forward, counting on the big dog’s thick paws to keep them both safe. The varnished wooden remnants of the display case are bolted to the wall about five feet above the floor and deliberately positioned in a direct line of sight from the main orb. It's empty now but, by the indentation in the plush, green velvet, it patently contained the chain and heart-shaped pendant worn by the Hag during his fevered dreams.

It was also obviously valued greatly by the prisoner, so why keep it almost within their reach? For the sake of vindictive cruelty? Was this half of the room kept unnecessarily bright, just to allow the prisoner occasional glimpses of their prized possession? It made little sense but what other reason could their be?

Scowling, the gruff tracker, dissatisfied with his own conclusion, drops back into his saddle. Guiding Mir Hundur with his knees, he raises the brightly burning Dijonn high in the air and follows his companions through to the other, darker side of the diagonal wall.

Ghost of a Chance

Shrewd as he is, Liga Bur can’t help but notice Dijonn's flame flare back into life as he emerges from the three-foot crawlway under the iron ‘Urdurel’ door.

Glancing back through the gap, he sees the keening ghost, sobbing silently while surrounded by the seven animated statues of the murdered Lamenta. Seven statues representing the seven days guard duty he'd failed to honour.

Why did the fire elemental dim so much while within the tortured ghost-guard's well lit prison room? Was it because its light wasn't needed? If that were the case, why brighten here, where more than sufficient light is streaming down the stairs from the floor above?

Putting this worry to one side, Liga Bur feels another nagging concern take its place. He'd rescued the fire elemental but why not the ghost? Were they not both just prisoners in this accursed tower? But more; the Hag that had tormented him for the last five days was spirit in form. Spirit like this guilt-ridden ghost? A cynical thought occurs to him; could an arrangement be made? A deal that would benefit them both?

Snapping back to reality, the cauliflower-eared Halfling hears the overhead grunts of exertion from Fortu and Doberman, as the gap between the block and door slowly narrows. Leaving Mir Hundur and Dijonn behind, Liga Bur calls the lithe human; Barbella to follow him through the remaining gap. Confused, Fortu stops shoving and gestures to the stout Doberman to do the same.

The light back in the room is tinged blue, creating an eerie effect, but bright enough to see clearly by. It wouldn't be much of a punishment if Padrik didn’t have to constantly view the cringing, crying, dying faces of the teenage girl he’d failed to protect.

Examining the central cabinet, the Halfling warrior is frustrated by the obvious thickness of the glass. He knows that his fine bladed, silver Kukri won't be able to break it. Barbella though immediately finds a solution. On the opposite side to Liga Bur, the glass panel has a hinge that is secured by an intricate bronze padlock.

Noticing a couple of rats scamper up the stairs from the floor below, Liga Bur feels a renewed sense of urgency… The Blob is coming!

"Can you open it?"

Barbella smiles wryly, revealing that golden tooth again.

"Wot exactly are you implying?"

With that though, his smile broadens as he deftly twists his magical, glowing sickle tip in the lock. With a gratifying 'click', it pops open and the glass panel swings slightly ajar.

Suddenly aware of what's happening around him, the ghost rises again.

"What are you doing? You must leave, leave, LEAVE this place!"

Unperturbed, Liga Bur explains his predicament with his 'night-time’ tormenter and makes his request. At this surprising news, the shimmering, vaguely human shaped ghost, falls silent for a moment…

"You want ME to guard YOU from the spirit Hag who haunts you in your dreams?"

Liga Bur nods in affirmation and the translucent ghost of Padrik expands on his original question.

"You want me; the wretch who failed utterly to protect Lady Lamenta, to serve out my uncompleted seven days of duty guarding you?"

With a confused but hopeful look upon his wispy face, the ghost of Padrik finally nods back in agreement.

"Gather up my remains and place my skeleton where you want me to guard. I can only materialise for eight continuous hours before fading for the next sixteen. Remember though, I can’t travel more than ten feet beyond my bones, even without those statues surrounding me, so arrange them carefully."

With the ghost's permission gained, Liga Bur gathers up the tabard in the case and, using it like a sack, pulls everything inside the glass case into it. Bones, weapons and helmet etc. and drags it off the plinth.

Even as he and Barbella rush back to the, now tight, gap in the iron door, Liga Bur spots the emblem on the sack that was Padrik's uniform. It's a wavy, black bastard sword, broken in two on a field of grey (but what was probably white). A sword that looks almost exactly like the one Fortu just cut through the iron door with.

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?!"