Coldeven 21, 576 CY - Dusk
Weather:
Cold, clear skies. Temperature: 18.7°F to 47.6°F. Light breeze from the north.
Cold air hung still over the Abbey like a breath withheld. The well in the courtyard, ringed in frost, beckoned with ancient hunger.
A chill wind stirred the trees as Dog paused at the stone rim of the well. Something was wrong. The rope was wet—recently used. A bucket dangled in the dark like bait. But it was not sight or sound that summoned the group—it was a voice. Not heard, but felt: a low, gurgling whisper in each of their minds. Place the rod into the well...
Slash frowned. “That’s not ominous at all.” He conjured a drifting orb of dancing light and sent it spiraling downward, illuminating only more shadow.
Dog volunteered first. Tying the rope around his waist, he descended, torch in hand, vanishing into the throat of the world. Forty feet down, he found a chamber: slick, damp, thirty by forty feet wide. The light flickered on glistening walls. The others followed, some by rope, others by plunge—Dixon with a grunt, Oleg with a splash.
The narrow passage that greeted them reeked of age and moisture. No breeze. No footprints. Only stillness, and the drip of unseen water. "Like something's been waiting," Dog murmured. Terry chuckled darkly, "Reminds me of a long, wet nine-month stay... I don’t recommend it."
The group pressed forward in single file, Dog leading with a torch, Terry behind, then Dixon, Oleg, and Tiger. In the darkness ahead: motion. A writhing, furry shape. Then another. Two great osquips—mutated moles with gnashing yellow teeth—lunged from the gloom.
The tight space made the fight brutal. Terry’s mace was too large to swing. He stabbed with a spear—missed. Dog’s torch flared as claws raked him, drawing blood. Oleg muttered arcane syllables and sent a magic missile arcing into the shadows. Slash shifted back to allow Tiger to vault forward, his fists like iron.
The creatures clawed and bit, but the party held their ground. Dixon moved in with a crushing blow from his war hammer, finishing the second beast. They stood panting in the torchlight, blood dripping, tunnel steaming.
Wounds were mended with spells and potions. Then onward—Dog’s torch revealing a hidden wooden door beneath the Abbey, half-rotted and swollen with damp. Terry pressed it open slowly. Beyond: a 50-by-50 foot chamber. Quiet. Undisturbed. A second door at the far end.
They approached—and it opened. From within spilled the stench of decay and the clatter of skeletal limbs. Five creatures emerged, twisted and malformed: the Sons of Kyruss. Pallid eyes glimmered with cursed awareness.
Steel met bone. Dog slashed with precision. Terry called down holy wrath. Dixon crushed ribs and skulls with a fury born of grief and justice. One creature bit Dog—its filthy teeth carrying disease—but he fought off the sickness by will alone.
The final blow came from Dixon and Terry together, holy mace and hammer smashing through the last of the cursed. Silence fell.
XP 500
No comments:
Post a Comment