RP:Treasures and Terrors

Background

This rp is part 4 of the arc: Old Haunts and New

Meanwhile, at The Fallen Star Inn

The innkeeper trundled out of the back room in his long johns, scratching himself and yawning. It was early, and some knucklehead had left the door ajar, so it was cold, too. Grumbling, he started stacking wood into the fireplace.

Eboric stirs at the noise the innkeep makes, sitting up in the makeshift bed he'd set up in a corner of the common room. His mouth dry from the ale of the night before, he reached for his clothes. Stopping, he peers beneath the blankets at the still-sleeping woman and, after eying her critically for a moment, smiles in a self congratulatory way, and rises, donning his leathers, hauberk, and weapons belt, before moving toward the fireplace.

Valentin tromps into the tavern carrying his pack and a metal box, dour expression framed by shaggy muttonchops beneath his battered old bowler hat. It seemed his fickle guildmistress had gone a'roaming, and the butcher's efforts had not yielded him any joy in finding her. The butcher grumbled "Blimmin' women an' their harebrained wanderin'. Where in the black arse o'hell is she anyway?!" He notes the barbarian by the fireplace, vaguely recalls him from an interlude in Kelay where a drow had shown his true colour to be a pissant yellow in the face of the man's challenge. The butcher touches hand to the brim of his hat in greeting "Mornin, guv. Y'happen to see a deranged woman by name o'Jolie? Black hair, a barrel full o'crazy held in a flask? Likes dead things?"

The innkeeper gave both men a dour look, mainly as this was the expression he generally wore, but particularly as he had his suspicions as to who... "Left my bloody door open," he grumbled, "Wanderin' about in th' middle o'th' night like a spook." The kindling stacked in the firepit was set ablaze, and a log placed on top of it. Itching his whiskers, the man grumbled further, "An' she still ain't paid me full for all a' th' rooms." Here, he eyed Eboric squarely, obviously assuming him part of the 'hunting party' and just as obviously considering a corner of this common space a 'room'.

Eboric turns to regard Valentin as he walks in, remembering his face and, once the man's strange voice sounds out, remembering the encounter. "Jolie?" He asks, and nods. "Saw her out in the barrows last night. She was fooling about with the dead men. The warriors." His sentences are short, curt; the last vestiges of the ale he'd comsumed. Even so, he meets the inkeeper's look with one of his own, all the pride and violent rage he can muster put into that gaze, as if he considers the man's implied demand for payment a challenge.

Valentin casts a dour look at the barkeep "Th'guildmistress'll pay the tab when she's back, y'blimmin' banker, now quit your blimmin' whingin' 'less you want me t'give y'somethin' to whinge about. Your meat's as cleavable as any bloody cow's, innit." The butcher responds to Eboric "Women, eh? Bleedin' handfuls, innit. Can't even escape their rubbish when carked it, worse luck. Where's th'barrows, guv? I'd better hop off an' pull her out o'whatever mess she's gettin' into afore she pulls me into it."

A low mutter was all the reply either man would get, the keep slouching off to fetch the kettle and fill it, pointed offering no service to his guests before he did so. "Just shut th' bloody door on yer way out," was the last they'd hear from him for now.

Eboric grins his feral grin at the inkeeper, obviously considering himself to have won the faceoff. Turning back to Valentin, the big man says, "I'll take you there. I am to join her for a hunt." He rises, moving back to collect the rest of his things from the corner. The woman stirs, but the barbarian ignores her, exiting the tavern without a backwards glance. He leaves the door open for Valentin to follow; he can shut the door or not at his pleasure.

Valentin isn't an utter bastard. The butcher closes the door as he tromps after Eboric.

Hazy Barrows

Mists rise up, enshrouding most of the view beyond the immediate. Careful footfalls echo dully, the sounds caught within the dewy particles that hang thick throughout the air. Glancing down to steady feet, scores of small crypts are revealed in passing. All are unmarked, and unremarkable, except in their exquisite simplicity. Surprisingly enough, none have been touched. The mist hangs thick in all directions, though in straining, you believe you can see an opening to the west, as something dimly glitters from afar, and a few shrubs to the north, wretched and dying.

Jolie peered inside the barrow, a musty hole that was basically a low dirt room set at a downward slope from where she stood. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything…” she’d come back out to tell Duke that the place looked pretty empty to her, and found the wanderer gone. “…in here,” she finished, a bit flatly, and sighed. Typical..

The camp follower wriggled impatiently. “Come on, missus,” she said to Jolie, “This way’s the treasure.” Crowding the entrance behind her as Jolie stepped inside was the spirit of the warrior orc, who was glowering and flexing his arms, and behind him wandered Blackteeth, of indeterminate sex and heritage, in its filthy rag of an animal skin.

Eboric leads Valentin through the myriad barrows, threading between stone cairns and grassy mounds, some broken open, more left untouched. The werebear's eyes are fixed on the ground, looking for signs of Jolie's presence. "She is here somewhere," he reassures the butcher. "Call to her; maybe she is within earshot." The barbarian seems to be having trouble locating the woman's tracks, perhaps because the area is home to so many creatures, some with human-like feet.

Valentin casts a disgruntled look at the surroundings "Cheers guv. Wench couldn't ha' picked a more miserable spot if'n she tried, an' aint tha' the right of it." The butcher applies some decent volume to his next statement "Oi, Guildmistress! Have you fallen in somethin' and canno' get up?!"

Inside a Looted Barrow

Just for once, Jolie had had walked into a hole in the ground willingly, rather than falling into it by accident, and the butcher’s booming voice sounded as a muffled yawp of half-distinguished words through the thick, packed-earth walls of the barrow. It was dark down here, but since she’d stopped using the ‘herbal’ smoking mixture that kept her lycanthropy in check, Jolie’s night vision had improved dramatically. As had her hearing; plus she’d recognise Valentin’s accent anywhere… “In here!” she yelled, which startled the ghostly whore so badly that she became invisible, though her curses were heard plainly enough by the necromancer.

Blackteeth had become a shrivelled shape against one rounded wall, beside a ruined wicker casket from which a few much-gnawed-upon bones had half-spilled.

The orc snarled and a spiked mace appeared in his massive, green grasp.

“Relax,” Jolie told him. “It’s a friend.”

The orcen ghost glared at her sulphurously, by way of saying that he didn’t really care to make new friends.

Eboric 's head swings around, his eyes snapping toward the open barrow, from which Jolie's words echo eerily. "That's her. Come," he says, probably unnecessarily. His hand dropping to the haft of his axe, he makes his way toward the grave, stooping to peer inside. The faint morning light is not enough to illuminate the interior, but he is able to make out the form of Jolie, standing by herself near the bones.

A phantasmal mace would pass through Eboric's head, just as Jolie spotted him. The necromancer scowled at the orc. "You stop that,' she hissed, and then gave Eboric a curious look - she could have sworn she'd heard Valentin.... Her hand rose in a weak sort of wave as the orc snarled and continued his ghostly assault on the werebear.

Valentin grimaces, and follows the barbarian. The butcher's shadow warps, extending two inky tendrils with shadowy eyes affixed to the ends. These stretch out and into the barrow within moments, providing Valentin enough visual information to operate in the darkness. The butcher doesn't pause at the entance but clomps in with an unhurried pace commenting loudly "You an' y'blimmin caves, Mam'selle. Y'got a blimmin' fetish or somethin'?".

Blackteeth itched madly at its nonexistent lice with one dirty hand, the other reaching toward one of Valentin's shadowy extrusions to give it an experimental tweak.

The camp follower had finished her conniption by then, and was instead simpering up to Jolie, whispering, "Oooh, hello handsomes.. I'll take the one with the hairy face. You can have the other brute."

Jolie eyed her narrowly. "You -do- realise that I am not a ...you know what... and that you're dead, right?"

The ghost-girl pouted, "Been a long time. And I do like me a nice set of muttonchops. Good for holding onto when they..."

"Shut up, will you,' hissed Jolie, and lifted her hand again to greet the butcher with what was left of her decorum. "Scleratus.."

Eboric feels a sudden chill brush across his face, as if from a gust of cold wind. The feeling continues, as if a small whirlwind had come from the north to torment him. He pauses, slightly uneasy, but then follows Valentin into the barrow, hunkering down just to fit inside. Thus stooped, he makes his way to Jolie's side, trying to ignore that strange feeling. "What are you muttering about," he asks, somewhat irritably.

Jolie coughed softly, watching as the camp follower drifted around Eboric, wrinkling her nose. The orc was about to make another lunge, when Jolie shouted, "STOP!"

The orc stopped, but did not look happy about it.

Jolie coughed, and said to Eboric, "Fancy seeing you here. I was just..." she peered about at the ghosts, thinking this was not the time to explain them"...exploring, a bit."

Valentin narrows his eyes. Seems his guildmistress had finally fallen off the deep end. Was a few sigils short of a ritual. A few ribs short of a cage. A few... ouch! The butcher grimaces as some damned hidden troglodyte with white eyes and black teeth manages to interfere with one of his eyes. "The hell are y'keepin' company with this time, mamselle?!" The tweaked shadoweye morphs, grows small shadowy arms which seek to slap away Blackteeth's attentions. The second, unmolested eye, keeps a careful distance as it focuses on the bizarre resident of the barrow.

Eboric steps back in some surprise as Jolie yells, his axe coming to his hand at once as he looks around to find...nothing. He looks back in puzzlement at the other two. "What is going on," he asks, his voice holding the barest threat of anger, which rises to replace his confusion.

Blackteeth made an odd hooting noise and bounced up and down in its crouch, snatching at the shadow-eye. If the grab was successful, the grubby little ghost would then take an experimental sniff at the eye, and possibly a nibble, too, if it managed to keep hold.

Jolie said to Valentin, "Oh you know how these places are. Very.. draughty." She coughed again, as the camp-follower oozed over the butcher and fluttered her eyelashes, grinning her best gappy grin. Jolie went on, as she glared at the ghost, turning a wan smile on Eboric to include him in her reply, "I heard there were … treasures… down here." The word 'treasures' was emphasised, in an attempt to get the footless ghost-girl back on track. "Thought it worth exploring."

Eboric looks around, noting the painfully obvious lack of treasure. "Unless it's buried," he says, "you heard wrong." He looks to the bones, presumably belonging to the owner of this particular grave. "And stealing from the dead can sometimes be dangerous."

As if to prove Eboric right, the hulking orc failed to contain his rage further and punched the back of the werebear's head.

Jolie said, "Oh, no.. I was told.. I mean, I have it on good assurance there's treasure of some sort down here." The orc was given a very evil glare, before she glanced back to Eboric. "Perhaps there's a .. hidden trapdoor, or a.. something. Like that."

Valentin grunts, and the shadowy eye Blackteeth had been harassing shifts into an entangling morass of inky tendrils, seeking to distract and bind the ugly little bastard. While the little git was distracted, Valentin takes three swift steps, guided by his remaining shadoweye, and grabs the little bastard by the neck, hoisting him up like an illbehaved puppy. "I don't know what you've been drinkin' mam'selle, but if'n y'didn't notice this little bastard sneakin' round, you ain't been payin' enough attention, innit."

Blackteeth hooted loudly and squirmed in the butcher's grasp, whereon it'd melt like sloppy butter through the butcher's fingers to a grimy sort of hair-infested puddle on the ground.

Jolie winced. "Ah. You can see 'em then."

Eboric , wincing slightly as the cold wind continues to blow, watches as Valentin seems to lose his mind as well, holding a hand up in the air and babbling nonsense. He shakes his head, and begins to search, skirting the walls of the enclosure, looking for trapdoors or hidden areas.

The camp follower followed Eboric, a rather salacious wiggle to her gliding as she approached him to hiss in the were-bear's ear, "That's right, lovely. I was the General's favourite. I heard all kinds of secrets, once he was satisfied...."

Jolie turned her head sharply at this news, straining to hear the ghostly muttering.

The orc, meantime, was practising his skull-crushing prowess on the bone-basket, furious at being told what to do by a mere slip of a lass, and not even an orcen one.

Valentin curses as the troglodyte melts in disgusting fashion, and mentally prepares a nastier, more deadly surprise for the little blighter, should it prove necessary "What in the blimmin' arsecrack o'doom is that bloody thing? Is it goin' t'be like this everytime y'go fallin' down a hole? An' what do you mean 'Them'? There's more'n one of the little bastards, an' you try to tell me it's 'draughty'? That's blimmin' fantastic, that is. Got us like blimmin' mushrooms, innit, kept in the dark an' fed arsegravy" It was, for the butcher, quite a rant, epic in length compared to his normal terse gripes.

Eboric stops his search, turning his head half to the side, having heard something - or the slightest suggestion of something, at least, as if he'd caught the sound of words too far off to make out. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he continues searching, drawing closer to the ancient bones.

Jolie drew up to all of her five-feet-five-in-heels and gave the apprentice a cold snap of a look. "There's three. That.. thing. And two others. And if you can stop complaining for ten seconds, perhaps we'll find out if they're to be any use to us."

Blackteeth wiggled, rather like a flat, disgusting caterpillar, in the opposite direction to Eboric - the same direction the ghostly whore was attempting to tug him in, saying, "No, handsome, over here. By that mark on the wall, see?" She pointed toward said mark, a faint glyph scratched into the packed dirt directly across from the casket.

Jolie beckoned to Valentin and Eboric both. "Over here. There's something... Look."

Valentin grinds his teeth and hefts the metal box a bit. The temptation was strong, but the butcher saves his surprise for another time. "As y'say, Thanatos Domina" The Scleratus of the Necromancer's guild tromps over as directed.

Eboric, although he does not hear the ghost's words, does stop, turning to look out over the room, without really knowing why. As soon as Jolie speaks, however, his eyes lock onto the out-of-place sign, and he moves over to it, dropping into a crouch to better observe it. "It's no letter that I can read," he says.

"A woman's treasure.." rumbled the orc, earning another scolding glance from the necromancer.

"Then find us a man's treasure," she suggested, sharply. "You said you knew where there was one. Prove it." That said, she looked about at her living companions.. so to speak, in Valentin's case.

The orc looked as though he might swing his mace at Jolie, now, but instead grunted and stalked straight through the wall, to the west.

Jolie breathed a sigh of relief, and joined Eboric in scrutinising the glyph.

"It's a secret mark," offered the camp-follower, a little smugly. "I'll tell you what it means, if you'll let me curl up next to this one tonight." She was running her fingers across Eboric's shoulder.

"Uh… sure," said Jolie.

The footless she-ghost smiled. "It means there's a tunnel," she said. "Behind there. A tunnel to another place."

Jolie said to Eboric, then, "Think you can smash through there?" She tapped the wall.

Eboric gives Jolie an irritated look. "I did not say any such thing. All I said was that I would help you hunt a dragon." He looks at Valentin, as if checking to see if the other man is still acting as oddly as the woman. Convinced that he is, Eboric turns back to meet Jolie's next words. "Not if it's solid earth," he says. "But I could dig at it, see if there's anything buried there."

Blackteeth was all this while plucking at Valentin's shadow as though it might yield a delicious insect or two, a curious expression on its grimy face.

Jolie said to Eboric, "I... uh. Yes. Yes, please. I think it might not be as solid as it looks."

Eboric draws his seaxe, unwilling to sully his enchanted axe with the menial task of digging. Using the short blade like a pick, he begins to hack away at the wall, stopping once or twice to tap against it, listening for the sounds of any hollow space behind it.

Jolie stepped back a bit.

The camp-whore moved with her, whispering, "He's got big muscles, hasn't he?"

Jolie poked her, the finger passing through the ghost's ribs. "Sh. Tell me more of what you know. Is it dangerous?"

The whore shook her head, "I dunno, I just heard the General say he'd hidden somethin' for the King under here, with a special mark to show the way. Two things.. I forget what he called 'em now."

Valentin decides to take out his frustration on the wall Jolie had indicated. Gathering his shadow away from the nuisance troglodyte, he wraps them around his fists "This wall, Mam'selle?" And steps in next to Eboric, a stream of dissonant sibillants coursing over his tongue as the shadows on his arms are temporarily bound with the cryumbral tides. The butcher then throws his weight, momentum, and vampiric strength into a massive haymaker into the wall, the shadowice fists forming a chisel-like wedge to smash into the surface.

Jolie was hit with a spray of crumbling dirt.

Blackteeth was capering about hooting, pointing to the shattered wall.

Eboric , together the vampire, makes short work of the wall. Before long, the remaining earth collapses, revealing a stone-lined tunnel stretching away into blackness. Eboric rocks back on his heels, satisfied. As he cleans the dirt from his blade, he says, "Well. You might have heard right, after all."

Jolie brushed the dust of ages from her eyes and face, muttering to the camp whore, "I thought you liked the one with the muttonchops."

The ghost girl giggled, "Oooh, but I do!"

Jolie rolled her eyes, and peered through the phantom and into the newly-exposed gap. She said to Eboric, "This place is old, and the secret of a King. We ought to be cautious." Which was her way of saying, 'ladies last'.

Eboric nods his head, and draws his axe. Crouched to fit through the small tunnel, he duck-walks forward, peering out ahead with eyes that seem as worthwhile in the dark as Jolie's own.

Valentin felt strangely satisfied. He'd attacked the earth, and won, metaphorically speaking. Not that he'd voice that thought. "Well, mam'selle. Reckon we'll find more Gravewyrms?"

Jolie paused at the tunnel's mouth. "No," she said, decisively. "We shall not." But kept her eyes peeled anyway, as she stepped into the narrow, low-roofed tunnel behind the men.

Valentin watches the barbarian do his duckwalk. The large man looked ridiculous, and Valentin wasn't going to give Jolie more chances to make his life difficult. With a surge of his focused will conjuring his talent with the umbral tides, Valentin binds his physical essence into his own shadow, and slinks along the tunnel after Eboric, his incorporeal form another hazy shadow among many.

Eboric, quite aware of how silly he looks, and utterly without a care, passes through the tunnel, taking care not to brush the ceiling or walls, lest the whole thing come down on them. It is only when he feels the area in front of him open up that he breathes more easily, taking in air that's been trapped for gods only know how long, here beneath the earth. It is truly dark here, and he moves cautiously to one side to allow the others to exit the tunnel, while his eyes adjust themselves.

In The Secret Room of a Long-Dead King

Jolie followed the men into what would turn out to be another barrow, this one lined more strongly with rough bricks of rock and wooden beams to bolster the room’s walls and slightly elevated ceiling. Various sturdy iron chests lay about the place, and a pair of stout pole-axes were leant upon one section wall, crossed over each other.

The camp follower oozed past both males, giggling and murmuring filthy suggestions until Jolie cleared her throat sharply. The girl cast a sour look the necromancer’s way, and undulated toward another patch of wall on which two large iron hooks were embedded. On each hung a key, also of iron, each topped with a roughly-cast animal head, one a boar, the other a demonic sort of beast Jolie could not quite make out. “There you go…” whispered the whore in Valentin’s ear. “…treasures, to be sure.”

Blackteeth, notably, refused to enter the space, and hung at its entrance, hooting to itself, skinny arms slapping each other.

Eboric, at last able to straighten up, does so to a chorus of cracks and pops. A grin spreads across his face as he catches sight of the chests, and he moves to the nearest one. Taking a knee beside it, he attempts to lever it open, bringing his strength to bear against the ancient, rusted iron. As he does this, he catches sight of the keys, and frowns. Perhaps they are for the chests...

Valentin releases his bindings, once more taking corporeal form. It seems that no sooner has he done so that he starts to hear things. Faint echoes of words rattling around his subconscious. That the creepy little troglodyte didn't enter was disconcerting enough without unseen voices. But perhaps the little blighter was just superstitious. Valentin grumbles "Y'little friend wi' the awful teeth seems t'think this is a bad idea, mam'selle. Jus' what exactly d'those things unlock?" The butcher's shadow grimaces in the darkness, shifts form to hold what appears to be a large shadowy net.

Jolie reached for one of the keys, having had the same thought as Eboric regarding the chests.

Blackteeth reacted violently, tearing at its own matted disarray of hair and lolloping up and down on the spot, gnashing its ebon teeth madly.

The camp follower wrinkled her nose at it, and cuddled up to Valentin, the bloody stumps where her legs ended obvious when she curled her missing feet up as though Blackteeth was some breed of pernicious vermin.

“I don’t know,” Jolie said to Valentin, and lifted the boar’s head key. The chest closest to Eboric sank suddenly into the ground, whereon a massive iron spike descended from an unseen slot in the ceiling of the barrow, directly above the necromancer’s head.

Valentin was kind of expecting something to go wrong, which was why he hadn't moved. The butcher's shadow, wielding the net it had intended for Blackteeth, is directed by Valentin's will to swipe at Jolie's shadow, the intention being to drag her out of the way of danger as Valentin calls out "Blimmin' 'eck, jus' go an activate th'traps why don't you? Feckin' genius, you lot are."

Eboric leaps back as the chest vanishes, perhaps in case there is some hole there that might suck him in as well. Noticing the spike, he moves toward it swiftly, lashing out with his arms in hopes of pushing Jolie fully into the strange net that Valentin seems to be controlling. He is careful, though, to keep out of the way of the spike, and his gaze focuses on the ceiling, expecting more.

Jolie made a meeping sound as she was torn and pushed all at once from under the metallic peril, which spiked heavily and deeply into the dirt floor. On another part of said floor, where she'd landed, covered in shadowy netting and a bit sore from the werebear's shove, Jolie stared at the spike. "Oh," she said.

The camp follower was almost wrapped entirely around Valentin now, her ghostly eyes wide, her mouth a gap-toothed 'o', as though in silent mimic of Jolie.

Blackteeth was gnawing its fingers, staring white-eyed at the demon-headed key, the companion of which Jolie held in her hand.

"We uh..." the necromancer struggled to regain her feet, "Perhaps ought to be cautious about fetching the other one."

Eboric grins, his teeth a white flash in the gloom. "Maybe have this one use his...net thing." He jerks a thumb at Valentin. "While we keep to the walls. Whose grave is this, anyway?"

Valentin grinds "Y'don't say" through gritted teeth. "How 'bout we ask mister scaredypants shadowbotherer with th'manky teeth an' the inklin's of danger how not t'get splattered like a rat 'neath a hammer."

Jolie thought that was a very good idea, and backed away from the key-hooks, taking a position close to Blackteeth, who clung grubbily to her leg. Giving the creature a totally ineffective shove, she said to Eboric, "I'm not sure it is a grave."

Jolie said to Valentin, "I don't know if it'll be able to..."

Blackteeth hooted pitifully, and clung a little harder to her leg, shaking its filthy locks. "

Jolie said, "I don't think it can talk."

Eboric moves with Jolie, but at Valentin's words, he stops, face finally displaying open anger. "What are you talking about? His hands tighten on his weapons, knuckles whitening. "Nothing further will happen," he says, his voice a low growl, "Until you tell me all that is happening here. I am no fool, and I will not be played like one."

The camp follower blew Valentin a kiss and scooted over to Eboric, "Listen to the clever one here," she murmured, "I've got a treasure for him alright."

Jolie sighed raggedly, "Better be more than a lapdance." Then she said to Eboric, "There's ghosts. One of them is..." she pressed her lips together as the ghost-girl brashly examined Eboric for 'size', "A whore. One's a warrior. He's gone to find .. something. And the other.." she stared at Blackteeth. "I'm not sure what it is, but it seems to know its way around."

Valentin grunts at Eboric's words "Fair enough guv. Here's the thing. We're necromancers. You aint. There's ghosties here, an' they're a blimmin' nuisance t'deal with. Count y'self lucky y'don't have to."

Eboric stares at Jolie, about to lash out at her for lying. But, he tilts his head; there could be ghosts in this land. And there was that strange wind. He looks to Valentin then, and nods, muttering something about filthy magic. "So. What do they know? Is there gold here? Armor? Something of use?"

Jolie examined the key in her hand. "The King went to a lot of trouble to guard these. I think they're probably meant to unlock something more than a chest of armour."

The phantasmal female gusted toward one of the chests, and bent provocatively to stick her head inside. "Nothing in this one..." she said, moving to the next to repeat the action. "Ooooh," she gasped, on peering into it.

Eboric turns back to the room, with its iron chests and sole remaining key. "Some dragon hunt," he mutters. In a louder voice, he adds, "And what do the ghosts say it is, then? And is it just another spike that waits above the other key, or something worse?"

Jolie waited for the ghost-girl to speak, then said to Eboric, "Gold. Old coins, and gems. In that one," she pointed to the appropriate chest. "As for they key.. I don't know, and neither do they." Blackteeth was shivering violently, but Jolie thought it best not to mention that.

Valentin grumbles "I'm guessin' they are 'bout as smart dead as they were alive. Knowin' the guildmistress, it'll be a fancy ol' cursed dress or some kind o'deadly shoes. Could be ensorcelled hair ribbons. I'm all agog wi' anticipation, innit." Not done with his gift of sarcasm, the necromantic butcher concludes "I reckon the ceilin'll fall on us, or th'floor'll fall from under us. Either way, s'goin' t'get messy."

Jolie said to Valentin, "So. Think you can manage the other one? Without us getting squashed or.. spiked?"

Valentin decides to go stand where Blackteeth is.

Eboric regards the chest, cautious. "If I try to open it, will it vanish, like the other one?" The barbarian is entirely out of his element here, but he does seem to be learning.

The camp follower was tugging Eboric away from the chest, toward the others. "Come on, big boy. Squashing's a waste for the likes of you."

Jolie said to Eboric, "Perhaps we ought to stand here," she glanced about to the others, "Until we're sure of what'll happen."

Eboric nods, resigned, and watches Valentin, his eyes seeming to almost glow in the dark room.

Valentin pauses, having assumed what Blackteeth considered a safe spot, and replies to Jolie "Nope. Reckon we're all goin' t'be fleshy crepes if we touch that thing, innit. Question is: is the prize in th'box, or is th'box blimmin' bait for idiots." The butcher grimaces "I'm king high muckity muck, hidin' a special somethin', an' I know some banker's goin' to come searchin? I'd make all the obvious 'treasures' a death sentence, innit"

Jolie chewed her lip. "But nobody knew about this space. Except the General and..." she canted her head toward the girl. "…her. So why booby-trap ordinary gold? It's the keys he was worried about. So they must be for something truly precious."

Valentin focuses his will on his shadow, sprouting a handful of dark eyestalks from his silhouette and batting Blackteeth away with the shadow of his arm. The Scleratus patiently sends those eyes into every crack, nook, and cranny on ground wall and ceiling that he can find, seeking some sign that the entire room was but a decoy. He wasn't so optimistic as to hope to find the treasure, but perhaps another exit would be discovered.

Eboric shakes his head. "Could we put the chest of gold into the tunnel, so that even if taking the key destroys the room, we will at least have some prize left to take home?"

Valentin murmurs as he focuses on comprehending all the sensory input being filtered through his sorcerous shadoweyes "Might be doable, aye guv. I'll give it a shot if'n I can't figure out a safer way t'go about it."

Jolie had her eye on the demon-headed key. "If you wish to risk moving the chest, go right ahead," she told Eboric. "But what I want..." her gaze alit on those crossed pole-axes and she sidled over to take one up. "Right," and it was duly handed to Valentin. “Perhaps you could hook the key with that? It’s long enough that you’ll have time to back away from any danger.” Probably.

Eboric sighs, and shakes his head again. "It is a pity," he grumbles, "But my life is worth more than one chest of gold, I think. I will wait and see."

Valentin doesn't take the polearm. Whether Jolie lets it clatter to the floor in false expectation or maintains her grip on it is up to chance or decision. Instead, having inspected the room, he releases the shadows as he filters the information. Pointing at the designated key, Valentin looks at Blackteeth, his reformed shadow performs for Blackteeth a remarkable pantomime of a shadow-polearm lifting off a shadow-key from a shadow-wall. Valentin decides he'll seek an expert opinion on where the proposed action sits in the continuum from 'bloody stupid' to 'end of the world bollocksing-up'. Valentin watches Blackteeth very carefully for his response.

Jolie watched the pantomine, and cast a glance down to Blackteeth after. The scruffy ghost would earn a rather pointless jab of finger.

Blackteeth unburied its dirty face from her leg anyway, and peered at Valentin once more. White eyes stared madly for a moment, then the phantasmal creature made a snatching motion, as if it had grabbed something it would then clutch to its chest. Its next motion was a bony-shouldered shrug, its over-large palms splaying, as if to say, "I dunno what comes next."

Eboric watches the shadow display, unable to see the ghost's reactions. But, he assumes, and rightly so, that the two necromancers are consulting one of the hidden beings, and says, "Well?"

Jolie offered Eboric a wan little smile. "I'm sure we'll be alright." Then she backed up closer to the tunnel's mouth, dragging with her the raggedy ghost that had re-attached itself to her leg.

Eboric backs up as well, giving the iron chest a last, longing look.

The camp-follower all this time had been inspecting the other chests. "All but one is empty. But one has something nasty in it. I can't see what, but it doesn't feel very nice." She wafted over to Valentin, "Ooh, he's quite heroic. Can I change my mind and snuggle up with him instead?"

Jolie muttered, "Be my guest," and held tight to the pole-axe, a worried look planted upon the key.

Valentin shrugs "Likely kill us all." Without further ado, Valentin once more draws upon the shadows, commencing the cantatus of binding as dissonant syllables writhe like a viper-pit over and around the butcher's teeth. As the incantation proceeds, Valentin's shadow rises up, the temperature around it dropping as it takes form from the cryumbral tides. With a dour look, Valentin shifts the cadence of the canto into an undulationg sussuration, and his shadow forms a trio of long tendrilous appendages. These stretch out as Valentin continues the incantation, and the butcher grunts as he binds something of his own essence into the shadowice golem, forming hands at the end of those inky tentacles which open and close with the movement of the butcher's own. With a determined motion, he plucks up both the two indicated chests and the key at the same time, hoisting them across the room on sorcerous limbs to land just about where Blackteeth was. "An' now we're in for it."

And what happened was... nothing. Jolie blinked.

Blackteeth stared at the demon-headed key, giving it a little prod.

The ghostly whore was peeking over Valentin's shoulder, knuckles in her mouth, her eyes wide.

Jolie bent to pick the key up, turning it about in her hand, "Well, that was a bit of fuss over nothing, wasn't..."

The chest not containing the gold, the one which contained 'something nasty', sprang open. There was nothing in it.

Jolie huffed a sigh of relief. "Right, let's… EEEP!" Behind them a series of iron spikes thudded down to form stout bars, cutting off access to freedom. The floor seemed to writhe, then, and shudder in places, as though a hundred somethings were digging their way up from underneath. A moment later, she was screaming her head off and trying to climb up Eboric, as those hundred little mounds of swelling dirt popped up, and a hundred gravewyrms slithered out, heading directly for her.

Funny thing was, Valentin and Eboric would be seeing something completely different - their own worst fears and phobias, erupting to sudden and horribly realistic life.

Eboric roughly shoves Jolie away, turning instead to the main room. What he sees there strikes a pang of fear through him, but he steps froward are the same, silent as the grave they had left behind them. He goes to meet it, his weapons at the ready. He does not look back, nor does he have any inkling that the other two are not, in fact, seeing the giant beast, half man and half bear, slavering as it stands in the center of the floor. Eboric settles into a fighting stance, poised on the balls of his feet as he readies himself to kill.

Valentin turned to see the exit blocked, and was in the middle of saying "I told you so" to an obviously deranged and over-reacting Jolie when he heard a distinctive chuckle from behind him. "Aaahhh Valentin... J'suis désolé, for I have been remiss in your studies, mon garçon. It is time perhaps, to continue our examinations, non?" The butcher stiffens. He thought he'd heard the last of that voice when Vuryal arrived. He grits his teeth and turns, the words "Bonjour, maître, how may I serve" forced through his teeth both by memories of that powerful madman's mesmeric compulsions, and the power of the illusion itself.

Jolie landed on the floor, courtesy of her second brutal shove from Eboric that day. Her screams rang loud through the domed space, as gravewyrms slithered like dry and fang-mouthed eels, swarming upon her. She could feel their circular maws taking bites from leather and skin alike, and struggled up, bleeding illusory blood. Stabbing wildly at the creatures with that pole-axe, she was quickly reduced to even more pitiful sobbing noises, as the weapon cut through only a few, while the rest continued their attack.

Meanwhile, the two ghosts were staring at the trio, seeing nothing but three people gone suddenly barking mad.

"Here," said the camp-follower to Blackteeth in a thin whine. "What's happening? Why are they doing.. that? Who's muttonchops talking to?"

The little troglodyte bared the ebon rictus that had earned its nickname from Jolie, and gesticulated wildly to the open, empty trunk only a second before the blade of the pole-axe came slicing through its midriff and out the other side.

Eboric begins his battle. The beast attacks, all rage, claws, and teeth, knocking the barbarian back. He recovers, stepping in to bury his axe in the twisted flesh of the monster, the thing that has haunted his dreams since his battle with the wizard. It scarcely seems to feel it, pivoting to slam a huge paw against the man's side. Gasping in pain, he struggles to breathe, lashing out again and again with the axe, hoping for the elven magic to kick in, but it never does.

The figure before Valentin was physically unimpressive, a frail old vampire in velvet clothing - cravatted, frock-coated, cufflinked, and more bone than meat on his frane - though in truth none but Valentin could see this apparition. In that seemingly fragile physique, however, the solid black of his sire's eyes glared with a frightening intensity, hinting at the unearthly will which coursed through the powerful vampire who had made of the proud butcher a mere specimen in experimental studies. "Bravo, Valentin, you are eager, this is good. And yet, Valentin... you remain incomplete, mon garçon; are not the pliable clay I need to form my masterpiece from." Valentin was like a shrew in an owl's sight, immobile in the memory of his sire's gaze. "But we are reunited, Valentin, très joyeux, non? All will be as it was meant to be, before Vuryal arrived and I had to enjoy a... vacation."

Jolie was running around in circles, still screaming, with a writhing mass of gravewyrms on her tail, one fastened to her leg by its gnashing rows of teeth. Eboric's axe swished past her, almost cleaving her in half - it would have, had she not been confronted by what had to be the grand-daddy of all terrifying crawlies: a massive gravewyrm erupted from the earth right in front of her so that she skidded and slid to a halt, forcing her legs to take her backward - right into the waiting swarm.

Blackeeth was shoving at the lid of the open iron chest, gnarly hands passing right through it.

The camp-follower was on the other side of the chest, watching the madness continue. "Oooh," she said, glancing at Blackteeth. "What're you doing? Why are you.. ooh. I see!"

Eboric doesn't even notice Jolie. In fact, had his axe caught her, he would never have known. Instead, he keeps up his fight. Around and around he circles, ducking, jumping, backing away...but it is of no use. The beast is stronger than him, bigger than him, and somehow faster than him as well, and every time he thinks that the killing blow has landed, it recovers, slapping him down. To his mind, blood soaks the floor, both his and the beast's, and his flesh is gashed, bruised, and broken, while his hauberk gapes with tears. He continues on, hoping only to kill his foe before death steals the victory from him.

Valentin's sire raises a hand, and traces a graceful sequence of patterns in the air "Do you remember, Valentin?" And Valentin remembered all too well, as a shudder runs through his burly form. His sire pauses "And, of course, deuxième..." before showing another pattern. "Now, Valentin, commence!" With that command, like a marionette, Valentin commences carving both halves of the pattern in the air. His sire had designed this, the butcher had always believed, as an obscure form of torture. As Valentin's hands dance to the sequence dictated by the memory of his sire, the scarred runes and sigils on his arms flare crimson as they draw deeply on Valentin's mystical reserves. Valentin's sire exhorts him to continue "Oui, garçon, très formidable! Now the flames, Valentin! Incinère!" And activated by the repressed invocation and his own will, Valentin's blood forms the powersource of a flaring of the pyrumbral tides. Black flames seep out of the scarred sigils on his arms, slowly at first, and then as a flaring of dark heat. The ritual circle, carved into Valentin himself, causes Valentin to stumble as he weakens, and he falls over the open chest. Perhaps his fallen bulk would push that lid down where ghostly hands had failed, while Valentin grimaces with gritted teeth as the heat of the flames starts to affect parts of his body not bearing the sigils.

The chest lid snapped shut as Valentin tumbled over it. Blackteeth let out a displeased hoot, seeing as it’d been inside the trunk at the time, trying in vain to tug the lid down while the camp follower was chasing Jolie about, wailing for the necromancer to stop screaming, please, and try to listen to reason. And, as that iron lid came down, all the horrors that had plagued the adventurers – wyrms, werebear, terrifying old vampire –vanished at once.

Jolie sank to her knees, buckling over to bury her face in shaking hands. She could only weep, relieved, though still residually horrified to the point of near-madness.

Eboric's foe vanishes while the big man is in mid swing, and he spins clumsily, falling to the floor. The dry floor, where once there had been blood. His injuries are not there, his armor is whole, and he is shaken, although he would not ever admit it. He draws himself into a sitting position, and just stares around, utterly confused.

Valentin groans as his flesh starts to smoke. Eboric and Jolie would feel the heat emanating from the blackflame-spouting runescars on the vampire's arms. Valentin grates out the counter-incantation, shutting off the flow of power to save him from reaching the point of magical backlash. Only then, as the flames die, does Valentin slump to the ground, waiting for some of his mystical reserves to replenish.

Jolie was not at all comforted at all by the cooing ghost-girl who patted her shoulder and murmured soothing things to Jolie about bad dreams and how she hated wiggly things too, like maggots, because she’d watched them eat all the flesh off her own dead face which wasn’t a bit nice. Still, the necromancer stopped crying, aware of a sudden how shameful this was, to be weeping like a child, and not a second later another jolt of fear would fill her as a massive dark shape oozed through the wall bearing the hooks where the keys had hung, and solidified into a grim and looming shape. “Oh gods, what now…?” her voice was rough, from all that screaming, and could barely rise past a whisper anyway as she stared at the ominous being.

“OOH!” shrieked the ghost-girl, not helping Jolie’s shattered nerves any, and whooshed toward the figure in a blur and threw her arms around it. “I never thought I’d see you again, my love! Not since the day you….” She blinked. “… cut off my feet and left me to die.” She frowned, pulling away from the spectre, who had indeed taken the shape of a huge and heavily-armoured man whose face was a mass of battle-scars.

The General’s ghost glared at the traumatised trio, a look that could surely shrivel even the stoic Eboric to his core. Then it swooped forward, spun about and shot an arm out, its calloused forefinger pointing toward the space between the iron hooks. A little long-dried mud crumbled away, and another glyph was revealed. The General lowered his arm and slowly began to fade out of existence.

The camp-follower turned to Jolie, then. “Sorry, dovey. End of the line for me.” She grabbed hold of the nearly-gone General’s arm and also began to fade. “Thanks for the lovely story and all. But you gotta follow your heart, as they say.” Her voice was growing faint, and was only a hush of whispers after she was gone, slightly waspish, “And my heart is saying I ought to follow this bastard here about for all eternity, and make him pay for what he did. See if I don’t! Cut off my feet, will he…”