Floor by Floor, Oozing Right up to the Door

Unaware and indifferent to the fact that it’s losing ground on its prey, the brainless, gelatinous, green mass continues to advance onwards and upwards until it’s finally stymied by a barrier with gaps too narrow to easily ooze through.
The simple but pragmatic act of reblocking the three-foot-thick, ‘Lord Urdurel’ cold-iron door, probably saved the lives of at least half the Party.

It Creeps and Leaps

Because the tower narrows as it rises, the acidic, green slime fills more and more of the available floor space. If it makes it all the way to the top level, it’ll be utterly unavoidable! 

It Glides and Slides

Oozing its way along and ascending floor after floor, the acidic, green Blob finds itself on the labyrinth level of Dulcetta’s tower. The illusionary temptations and portcullis-like gate traps mean nothing to the mindless, amorphous creature though, and all the maze does is slow the gelatinous slime down just a little further.

Beware the Blob!

 

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. 

Poor Memory, Worse Drawing

A post mostly just to use the drawing wot I drew.

Dulcettas’s tower slowly (and nonsensically) rotates on the tiny tip of a small, inverted stone Gnome’s pointy hat. The sky is a vague grey all around with nothing to be seen and below, swirling, impenetrable blackness.

The Party is currently (but almost certainly temporarily) split in two, with Fortu, Arowe, Liga Bur and Mir Hundur in the magical darkness, outside and underneath Dulcetta’s tower. While the henchmen, Rifkin, Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman are looking down in the mouth of Dulcetta’s stone face.

The Henchies face the choice of taking a leap of faith after the Adventurers and counting on the magical updrafts to save them, or heading back down through the tower. If they choose the tower, they’ll have to hope that their combined strength will be enough to heave the solid cold-iron block back out of the way before, possibly, facing the huge acidic blob again and then, somehow hope they can work out how to open the huge main outer door again from the inside, without Fortu’s ‘key-sword’ to activate the huge lock.

The Adventurers, on the other hand, ‘only’ have the arduous task of climbing up the eighty-foot slope… in the swirling, smoky darkness!

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.

The Slime Left Behind

Although the concept of time is meaningless to it, the living ooze has been roused. Firstly by the falling gems, secondly by the fat, greasy man and then, for a few fleeting moments, by the delicious pig.

Of course the gelatinous creature has no understanding of ‘gem’, ‘man’ or ‘pig’, but it does understand stimulus and hunger and it hungers now.

Ironically placed in the lowest floor of the tower to be its apex predator, its role is far further reaching than just to control the rats and insect population. It’s a low maintenance, effectively immortal guard that exists in tandem, but on a more ecological level, with the Gnomish mechanical defences. Defences that are of no interest to it and are also totally immune to its flesh-eating acid. Two defence systems working together in perfect harmony, through mutual indifference.

Though deaf and sightless, the semi-sentient slime spreads itself wide and begins to hunt. Sloshing over the edge of its square, pool-like den, its viscous form stretches out until multiple pseudopodium probe all sides of the damp and dark-as-pitch room. Once it eliminates any possibility of any prey still being present, it gurgles slowly towards the bottom of the rough stone steps and starts to flow…

Upwards!

 

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.

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?!"