RP:Waylaying Within the Ways

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Part of the Dissonance Theory Arc

Summary: The Warrior's Guild launches its expedition into the subterranean tunnels unveiled by the recent chasm in the Southern Sage Forest, well aware that danger no doubt awaits them. Caught up in battle against vicious floral beasts, the team is caught mostly by surprise when the vengeful elves known as the Requital reveal themselves at last, citing the guild's actions as just the latest in a long line of terror committed unto the land by foreigners. A tense standoff ensues, with Rorin exacerbating the situation via haughty reply. Thankfully, Krice saves the day -- first by offering to bargain with elven war band leader Tuvoc for the safety of his granddaughter, Annika, and then by savvy reputation when Tuvoc recognizes the silver-haired warrior as a friend to the elven people. With the conflict behind them, and Kasyr gifting Lionel considerable voltage, the Warrior's Guild continues deeper into the tunnel, where they come upon a large area filled with material culture from a long-ago civilization felled in full by Xicotl's "Feast." In addition to jewels and precious stones galore, there is artwork depicting the savage thralls who are brainwashed into following Xicotl's command. A gigantic obsidian obelisk activates, and the ground trembles beneath the party's feet; thereafter, they are elevated back up to the surface -- with more questions than answers.

Downward

It was cold and damp today in the Southern Sage, and a chasm had splintered the earth. Lionel and his officers within the guild all knew the culprit was some sort of harmonic resonance emitted from a magical obelisk with ties to a terrible creature called Xicotl. Yet knowing why a quake had sundered the ground within a forest could only do so much to calm the senses when one looked upon this gaping wound in nature. Peering over the ledge, one could see that it was a considerable drop; eighty or perhaps one hundred meters down, though Lionel’s hired contractors had not been idle. The Warrior’s Guild had contacted a troupe of dwarves to ingeniously construct wooden platforms which extended from the surface on down to the depths below, each platform connected by makeshift maple ladder. Earlier this morning, when it was even colder and even damper, the lead dwarf had informed the Imperator that his suspicions had been confirmed: there were tunnels visible at the bottom of the chasm, and those tunnels looked more than a bit like they had been created with purpose rather than geological happenstance. “What I’m sayin’, led,” the dwarf explained, “is that I know of few in this world loon enough to enter a place like that. And it just so happens you’re one of ‘em. So take that how you will.”

Now Lionel stood beside the edge of the chasm, close to the highest of the wooden platforms. He awaited the arrival of those who had volunteered to follow his loon self into clear and present danger. The western skies were still pink, and the trees swayed with a relentless wind. Frost was in the grass, and water vapor hung in the frigid air with every breath. A yak lay on the ground beside the provisions she had dutifully brought here upon her shaggy back; the provisions included small lanterns, layers of rope, plentiful water canteens, questionable rations, and a collection of herbs, ointments, and antidotes. Whatever else the rest of the party arrived with, at least they would all share access to this. Lionel was dressed in a simple leather tunic dyed red which, stylistically speaking, only passably matched his plain black trousers. At his hip was a freshly-sharpened katana held inside a red lacquer sheath. Despite the despair which stemmed from the permanent loss of all his supernatural traits in order to destroy Kahran, Lionel still felt ready. He was somewhat comfortable by now recognizing his many weaknesses as a man with a sword… and nothing more.

Once the volunteering loons he had summoned had gathered, Lionel, the head loon of them all, would speak. “Most of you know by now that being a part of the Warrior’s Guild, or a trusted ally to the guild, requires a certain degree of… insanity.” He shrugged in a carefree manner. “Today, we get to showcase that insanity once more. Although Kahran’s now-leaderless armies still lurk someplace out of current reach, details on a more pressing threat have emerged.” Lionel took in the faces of the men and women assembled. “We have only the faintest idea what we’re up against today. We may even find nothing at all. But in the face of such uncertainty, I have decided against bringing any standard guards, soldiers, and scouts along for the ride. It’s just us -- the few, the proud, the reckless. Once we’ve reached the bottom, we’ll walk in unison through the widest visible tunnel. Use everything you’ve got down there -- technique, wits, clever quips -- we’re going to need it all.” A gust of wind knocked a small branch from a nearby tree. The sound was like thunder, a bolt to punctuate the Imperator’s words. It didn’t make Catal’s last prince feel remotely better about their chances, but he swallowed such thoughts and concluded his impromptu speech. “Our enemy would feast upon the world. You are the vanguard, the sentinel, the infiltrator, the hope that that won’t happen.” A wink. “No pressure.” With that, the Catalian took his first step onto the topmost wooden platform and began his descent into the deep, a pack of supplies on his back and a simple sword at his hip.

Quintessa Dragana considered herself the brains of this outfit. Although she did not yet command the kind of respect Lionel's leadership did, she still made it a point to oversee this endeavor from the beginning. As the dwarves built the scaffolding leading deeper, Quintessa escorted them, fearing that they be completely overrun by the many horrible creatures that the changeling had read about during her hours of researching Xicotl. Black Puddings and Giant Slugs were the least of her concern, for Quintessa knew that underground caverns were hosts to more powerful foes like Purple Worms and Neothelids- things she was not confident about being able to destroy, not by herself. Soon they had reached the bottom, and although Quintessa and the dwarven workers had the use of darkvision, the inky blackness of these depths made them all feel uneasy. "Jobs done, Lass," said one of the workers, snapping her attention away from the tactically created tunnels they had discovered. "We should head back up." Quintessa only had a nod of agreement to offer him before following his suggestion.

On the surface Quintessa joined Lionel with the foreman, pulling herself up the maple ladders in time to catch his comment about the state of their sanity. "Loons as we might be," Quintessa began, her arms folding over her chest, "But if we don't do something about this mess it'll only get worse." Quintessa's invisibility cloak furrowed in the wind, covering the simple black leather catsuit she wore underneath. Since her mission with Khitti not too long ago, Quintessa had taken to wearing it instead of her necromancer's robes, the skintight outfit improving her acrobatic maneuvers and quickness far more than loose fitting robes. Soon the men from the Syndicate of Shadows would join her on the ridge and Quintessa's mismatched eyes flickered up at their approach. "Good," she said to the trio, "You three grabs some supplies and wait for Lionel's orders." The gruff looking humans all nodded and headed over to get prepared while the others filed in. With everyone here, Quintessa and her followers listened intently to the Imperator, the Syndicate goons all exchanging glances as the gravity of the situation sunk in. They might have looked uneasy, but Quintessa was as stoic as she could possibly be. Never before had she taken something as seriously as she was this mission.

"You heard the man," Quintessa said to the trio, making sure the satchel on her side was filled with the things she needed before she descended into the darkness once more. The wood creaked as the group headed down and Quintessa had to warn her followers more than once to spread out so the damned thing didn't collapse. The dwarves built the scaffolding sturdy but that didn't mean they could all pile on the same one or climb down the same ladder at once. When they had finally reached the chasm floor, Quintessa gazed into the darkness cautiously, her darkvision only extending out to 60 feet before it became useless to try and see any further. "This one appears largest." The changeling would point out to the others, using her ability to see in the dark before the lanterns had been utilized. "Like Lionel said, we stick together. Everything down here wants to kill us, not just Xicotl's minions. If you wander off, chances are you'll never see the surface again. I hope my warning is clear." Quintessa didn't know who needed to be warned but after all the things she had read about Xicotl and the Underdark the young spellcaster hoped that they would at least heed the words of the resident monster expert. "Shall we?" She added, gesturing at the large opening that would lead deeper into this network of tunnels.

Kasyr had done his best to arrive early, though that particular bit of due diligence was the highest virtue associated with that course of action- given that it hadn't taken him overly long to sit by the edge of that yawning maw in the earth, and begin drinking. Suffice to say, by the time supplies were being offered out, and Lionel was diving into the meat of a speech meant to rouse and inspire his troops, Kas had reached the bottom of his second bottle of whiskey. "I guess this is where we part." He can't manage the proper degree of gravitas for those words as he sets the bottle down, pushes himself up to his feet, and then braces himself to assert control over his sense of equilibrium. Once that's settled, the Kensai reaches over towards the pack he's set adjacent to himself, plucking out the stealth cloak that Lionel had bequeathed onto the temple raiding group. He was, after all, lacking his so often favoured trenchcoat- and the noise suppressing qualities of that particular garment seemed like they'd compliment his already bland grey tunic, sleeveless black vest and brown trousers he'd chosen to wear for this journey. In fact, the most vivid aspect of his ensemble is the Neon blue lenses of the goggles which hang around his neck- a nifty addition which had been enchanted for durability, and to help navigate the profoundly somber depths of the Underdark. Prepped as he is, it would be easy to mistake the swordsman for an assassin, especially given the lack of any visible weapon on his person. The scalpels squirreled away on his person are only apt to further that particular misconception. Prepped as he is, he makes sure to top up his pack with a few more food and medical supplies, before he bustles after Lionel, " Do you even have enchanted weaponry on you? That's been bothering me, enfin. A lot."

Syrri had gone back and forth all week on whether or not it wasn't just the worst idea she's ever had to return to the earth so soon after escaping from it. It had been an instinctual response when she had volunteered for the spelunking, given she had quite a lot of experience in dungeon-diving. Still, as she tucked pitons and corded rope into her haversack, organized her own rations of dried frost-elk jerky and waterskins, and ensured not only Fate and Luck were attached to her backpack, but that an icepick, hunting knife, and alchemical flares were all carefully packed away, too, it took her more than a few tries to get the buckles all secured as her fingers trembled, betraying her anxiety as it bubbled up. Frustrated with herself, she smacked both palms on the bag and huffed out a breath. What-ever, she was mentally screaming. The stupid bag was good enough for now. Gathering herself up, she finally left Frostmaw to take the first transport down to Sage. At last, she made her way to the chasm, and as she approached, she made sure her axes were moved to her belt before pulling at the edges of her Nightstone cuirass. Although normally the axeling saved her armor for sure-thing fights, there was no way she wasn't coming to this thing without it. In addition to her usual dark blue stone-like leathers, Syrri had twisted her silver tresses into a braided bun to keep them out of the way. Without the hair to hide behind, the three scars starting at her right temple and streaking back into her hair were particularly visible today, as was the fact that her right ear was missing the tip entirely. The halfling didn't hide behind the disfigurement either. If anything, they helped to remind her who she was, and she stood a little taller today (well, as tall as a three-foot-three woman could). As Lionel began to orate on that which they'd all gathered here for, she fixed him with azure-and-chestnut eyes, but her hands flexed around the throats of either dwarven-made ax. She was itching to get going; the sooner they got to the bottom of things - quite literally - the sooner she could get back to feeling like herself again. Or at least, so she hoped. As they were joined by the rest of their members and more and the wheels were in motion for their descent, the cursed girl found herself staring at the lip of the chasm. Each uneasy step toward it tightened the knot in the pit of her stomach. This was only further exacerbated as that branch snapped like a twig, punctuating the building tension and uncertainty enough to make Syrri furtively glance over a shoulder toward certain safety. Despite her trepidation, though, the axeling drew in a steadying breath and following the guidance of guildmates, filed toward the abyss. For the time being, her hands had left the haft of Fate and Luck, hooking her thumbs around the straps of her backpack, and really hoped no one noticed her knuckles were paler than usual. At least Kasyr's question paired with familiar hand-over-rung-over-hand of the ladders was a momentary distraction, although the answer she gave him was an, "Unfortunately not, magic an' I don't really get along." It was the first thing she'd said since arriving, and she paired it with a wan smile before returning to NOT looking down, at least until her boots found solid ground once more. At that point, she would just do as she was told, keeping her gaze wary and alert.

Krice wasn't a loon but rather a man who trusted the evolution of his abilities, understood the dangers of the mission ahead, and knew that -someone- had to endanger himself by being here to keep Lythridel safe. Thankfully for the entire realm, he was joined by not only the experienced Lionel but other familiar comrades as well. Dressed in his usual attire--black collared shirt, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled his elbows; comfortably-loose slacks that hung low around his hips, durable boots--he seemed every bit his typical self, devoid of armour but ready for battle just the same. With his katana once more strapped to his back, it seemed as though he had recovered well from the deep gash left in his flesh by the undead dragon several days prior. If he wore other weaponry, it was small enough to be concealed beneath his shirt. Krice stood at the far edge of the chasm and peered down as Lionel addressed the assembled warriors, his thoughtful expression shadowed between the silver strands that framed his face. It hadn't been his intention to watch Quintessa but there she was, ascending from the darkness below. Her answer to Lionel drew the enigma's focus for a short time until he noticed, in a break of concentration, a certain halfling whose path he had crossed some weeks earlier. There was nothing specific about her that held his attention, especially in light of the seriousness of the mission ahead, so he went back to scanning the scaffolding while the group began to descend. The Underdark - he had spent twenty-one days down there a few years prior, not by choice, and here he was intentionally submerging himself in the oppressive atmosphere of the Drow world once more. Shyte happens. Rather than descend via the scaffolding the entire way down, Krice used the topmost ladder and subsequent structures to reach the fifty metre mark, at which point he stepped clear of the dwarves' engineering to simply drop past everyone else. Shadows consumed his form, obscuring him from view, but he likely used some form of 'wall footing' to ensure safe arrival at the bottom. Once the others joined him, they'd find him at the mouth of a tunnel with his mithril katana drawn and held in a reverse grip behind him, the blade pointed up along his spine, his sensitive awareness attuned to their sense-stealing surroundings. Eyes sharp, he used every available moment to allow his keen sight to adjust to the darkness of the depths, pressing on with silent, purposeful steps as soon as the others arrived.

Rorin arrived in much the way that was accustomed to him. Little pomp or circumstance precluded the paladins arrival, and little still did he think to find it here. The paladin seemed at first ill prepared in only leathers accented with silver. The protection of his God was all he'd need. That, and the formless weapon, The Guardian Blade, slumbering as it did now in the shape of a talisman around his neck. But this too had been a gift, one Rorin did not see as fully preordained. It had been work to know the spirit within the 'blade' such as it was. It had been more trials still to come to terms with it. And now there had been a stirring further of a voice within Rorins own mind- the inhuman growl of that creature Justice. Yes, Rorin was prepared. He had weapons beyond a common mans understanding. They were within him, as was the light of the path he tread upon in his service to Arkhen. Rorin had stood from inspecting the pit to listen to Lionel, and thought it strangely portentous that a man who lays no claims to the goods should have such ominous theatrics follow his words. Right around this part Rorin would usually start a chant for victory among fellow soldiers. Long live Lionel, long live Catal, things like that. Lionel never really approved of that kind of thing but Rorin was into it. Still, the Warriors Guard elite didn't really seem like that kind of crowd. They were a rag tag, sometimes somber, sometimes goofy bunch. Definitely not the sort to chant. Rorin decided to pray instead. Lionel didn't really care for that either, but it was pretty much the only way Rorin would carry forward. He wondered what kind of spells or miracles or prayers or whatever you wanted to call them he might cast. Or perhaps he should save the divine energies for later. Either way gods knew they'd need them.

The Mist Seethes

“My knives, perhaps,” Lionel answered Kasyr. “Though I’d sooner label them alchemical handiwork than enchanted hardware.” The Catalian smirked. “I know. I feel damned near naked without Hellfire.” Krice free-fell fifty-odd meters, interrupting Lionel’s thoughts with a perfectly-timed reminder of what he himself had lost. “Without Halycanos.” He nodded to the silver-haired enigma and continued speaking with Kasyr. “But this is who I am now. Perhaps in time that’ll change. Perhaps it won’t.” Noting Syrri’s remark was enough to keep that smirk upon Lionel’s lips a bit longer. Glancing at the girl was enough for him to see she was nervous. “If anything,” he tried to reassure Syrri, “I’d be far more worried about someone who doesn’t have the jitters right now.” At first, the only thing about the tunnels which seemed unnatural was their shape. The roundness of them, the smoothness of the walls, the fact that their size didn’t seem to differ from meter to meter. Down here, the only life seen thus far was of the insectoid variety -- and these insects were a far cry from the horrors of the Haathians. They were bugs, plain and simple; worms and millipedes and beetles and more, doubtless having arrived here only recently when the chasm had formed. Little sprigs of vegetation had already popped up out of the soil, just enough to supply the insects with a taste for greens. It was an unsettling trip through someplace odd yet somehow harmless. That was, until the party came upon a section of tunnel where the walls were covered in familiar glyphs. Quintessa, at the very least, would recognize the script as identical to that which had appeared on the obelisks. It was the same typography as the long-gone Maester Narek had observed in his books. It was, without a doubt, a sign that the followers of Xicotl were once here. As if to echo what Quintessa’s thoughts must surely have been, Lionel cleared his throat and remarked upon the scene. “Whether this was written yesterday or a thousand years ago, we know who wrote them, and that means we’re on the right track. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but I’ll tell you anyway -- keep your guard up. We’re in it now for sure.”

As if on cue, the ground ahead of the guild members burst open in a rush of dirt and filth and multiple creatures with enormous blossoming flowers for heads roared into sight. Immediately, each of the creatures sucked in the stale air and then spat out a hazy, purplish mist which stunk to high heaven and forced Lionel to cover his nose in pure instinct. It was fortunate that he did, and fortunate for anyone else who did the same, because breathing in this mist would bring a powerful poison into one’s body. The mist expanded, and action needed to be taken against the creatures as quickly as possible. They were in there somewhere, inside that poisonous cloud, with tentacle-like vines outstretched and groping the air manically in search of flesh. There was little Lionel could do here, and not for the first time he cursed in Old Catalian and wished he still possessed the ability to summon flames wherever he went. Instead, he withdrew both his knives from their hidden holsters beneath his sword’s sheath and threw them with expert precision into the deadly cloud. The knives’ handles had been packed with Gamorgian fire sand, and upon impact the weapons both detonated. Fate smiled upon Lionel today, as both knives struck the creatures’ flower-like heads and combusted. The number of them inside the cloud could not be ascertained, at least not by Lionel, but the shrieks from the pair which Lionel had either damaged or destroyed filled the tunnel with a dreadful dirge… a dirge which soon prompted more of the creatures to emerge from ground in the opposite direction -- the direction from which the party had came. The new arrivals spat their own cloud of poisonous mist, and now both clouds were expanding to trap the guild in place and kill them organ-by-vital-organ.

Outside, a squadron of elves whose faces had been covered in war paint swiftly descended the wooden platforms. Some brought masterfully crafted spears; others were equipped with equally impressive bows. The tips of each spear had been dipped in blood, and not as some form of ritual. No, the blood was fresh. The blood belonged to the dwarven craftsmen who had built the platforms in service to the Warrior’s Guild. Their bodies lay motionless a quarter of a kilometer away. They had been leaving the Southern Sage, expressing worry and doubt for the safety of their employers but eager to fill their bellies with Mesthak’s strongest brew, when these elves descended upon them from the canopy. Death was almost instantaneous, at least; the elves had no interest in making them suffer for long. “We will not prolong the killing of the wicked interlopers, either,” the grey-bearded leader of the squadron, Tuvoc, ordered the others. They were all younger than he by several decades or more, and one of them -- a red-haired lass with lighter skin than the tan shades of her peers -- had been disguised as a cleric at the Royal Academy of Aramoth in order to gain valuable intelligence on the guild’s actions. She nodded thankfully at Tuvoc’s command, but the others were disgruntled almost to the point of open defiance. Whoever these elves were, whatever their ambitions, they harbored a grudge and today they were going to make that known.

Quintessa gave a once over of all the people joining her, her blue and hazel eyes lingering on Kasyr and the question he posed about enchanted weapons. The hex blade had been using a mundane weapon for some time but she always just used her katana as a focal point for her own mana anyway, so she had no real reason to permanently enchant it, but the thought of being completely without the use of magic made her uncomfortable. "You 'don't get along' with magic?" Quintessa didn't fully understand Syrri's statement and the confused look on her face showed that. As the changeling's shadowy aura reached out to touch her, to read her magical signature (or lack there of) along the weave, she turned away unsure what she would discover about the halfling if anything. The thing that really concerned Quintessa was the way Krice leaped into the darkness below, barely within range of her darkvision. The young spellcaster was about to call down to him, to scold him for jumping ahead, but then she remembered his words in Frostmaw and decided she didn't care about his fate. The rest, however, were trusted guildmates, and Quintessa felt responsible for their safety, especially when it came to the areas of her expertise. Reading runes and ancient script were among those talents. Moving to run her lithe fingers along the carved glyphs, Quintessa pushed the front of the group. "700 years," she said, her gaze looking around the cave for something watching, "This is the same writing in that book we found in the Frozen Library. We are definitely getting clos- s***!" Quintessa was cut short by the arrival of poison-spewing plants and she reached for her katana as she backpaddled away from the runes. The changeling had to think fast but she only had two choices; Destroy the plants or protect her allies. She choose the latter. "Brychan y gwynt!" Quintessa calls, her voice echoing through the tunnels as a torrent of wind swirls around he blade of her katana. "Streic!" she adds as she swings her blade, causing the airborne poison to divert away from the group, splitting the cloud against either side of the walls, but not for long. "Quickly!" Quintessa calls to the rest, "This is your opening!"

Kasyr nods along to both Syrri and Lionel replies, though he does squint a little bit towards the axelings weapons of choice. Not that it's noticeable for all that long, given that their continued descent into darkness is reason enough for him to pluck at his goggles and properly don them. As the Catalian & Quintessa provides a bit of exposition on the subject of what's already been internally dubbed, 'historical chickenscratch', The kensai finds himself struck by a sudden spark of awareness, the likes of which has him shooting a look over towards the changeling, "Warn me if you brighten things up." If there was anything else he was intending on saying, it's drowned out by the building cacophony that blossoms from their floral foes- and serves to wrench the Kensais attention towards the billowing miasma. As Quintessa's quick thinking sends tendrils of gas spiraling along the cavern walls, and about the group- Kasyr also engages in a bit of quick thinking . . . and sticky fingers. Lionel's Katana is the subject of this particular bit of borrowing, with "Sorry." being the sum of what he gets as warning before the Kensai draws the Catalians weapon clear of his sheath, and then proceeds to twist in the direction of the newcomers. Akin to Quintessa, there's a swirl of condensed wind that coalesces about the edge of the wind, but it's noticeably different when the Kensai swipes the blade through the air- as it sends a queer distortion hurtling into the thick of the mist and towards it's senders. In and of itself, it manages to pull in a fair portion of that insidious mist, expanding in size as it travels forward- but there's a secondary property to that magical construct, as it's apt to be more than capable of carving through the flesh of that secondary batch of foes, if they've decided to make like their cousins, and take root in the face of that assault. "You know, if I know how long this was . . .?" Is this a time? It didn't get all the gas, and it's still creeping forward. Okay, drinking before undergoing the noxious land of vile creeping poison was not the best choice.

Syrri's been on dozens, maybe even hundreds of subterranean adventures, but not since-- Well. She wasn't talking about it, so it didn't matter. But she reflected on Lionel's words as a wrinkle found her freckled brow, and the young woman nodded in quiet understanding. Of /course/ nerves were heightened with everything going on, and she appreciated the reassurance. Nevertheless, beads of nervous sweat dotted the back of her neck as their group ventured deeper into the gaping maw of stone. When Quintessa offered up that question, Syrri glanced her way, confusion in her similarly dual-colored gaze. But unfortunately, the halfling didn't really have a better way of explaining her immunity and decided to leave it at that; a topic for another day, perhaps. Ignorant of whatever magical probe Quintessa might have sent out (and just as naive to the fact that she might just give off the faintest taint of a dark curse), she turned her attention to the task at hand. The deeper they went, the tighter her grip on her pack straps grew, and at some point, she lowered her left hand to curl around the knob of Luck, fingers toying with the familiar dark-blue leather that wound around it. She even slipped her wrist through the ax's Nightstone strap, as if preparing herself to swing its honed edge, should the need arise. The insects didn't bother the girl, not really. The former dungeoneer was almost comforted by their presence too. They belonged here. But those glyphs they now came across? Less so. Something pulled at the back of Syrri's mind, almost like the shapes carved into the stonework had a place within her memories. But azure-and-chestnut eyes never showed any true recognition, not as they did for Quintessa or Lionel, no doubt. No additional time was spared to investigate the markings, however, for seconds later the ambush was upon them. Muscle memory kicked in, and she reflexively tried to boot herself backward out of the area of effect of that poisonous cloud. Whether or not she proved successful, Syrri pulled her left arm across her face as a makeshift shield against its purple haze. Brandishing its namesake, she hoped Luck would be on their side too. Offering the carefully-whet edge of that ancient blade to anything that got close enough to feel its sting, she hoped to reposition herself in such a way that protected any guildmates within her ability as well. She felt dangerously outside of her scope, but Syrri was ready to fight and did so as the baneful plumes were ushered away enough to reveal any of those vines or the elven enemies. It was only partly rhetorical when she scoffed out a frantic, "Now who the heck are /they/?" between panted, half-masked breaths.

Moving with the group, Krice lurked somewhere at the halfway point to ensure that he could readily advance to the front or retreat to the back - to challenge a threat from wherever it came. The rune-covered walls caused him to move casually into the middle of the pathway, amongst the group - next to Kasyr - which enabled him to glance at each wall without obstruction. The smell of dwarf blood touched his sensitive olfactory but before he could question it, the ground burst open to release flower-headed creatures that spat ominous clouds at the mission group. Uncertain as to the effects of those clouds, the enigma inhaled and held his breath before he quick-stepped through the muck, well beyond the two who were subsequently exploded by Lionel's rigged projectiles. By the time Quintessa's magic had depressed the poison cloud against the walls, it revealed the warrior standing among the smelly creatures with is katana down at the ready, a screeching mass surrounding him; some of them had lost their grabby limbs and others lay dying. He didn't linger long, well aware that the others in his group would seek to exact their own attacks upon the defenders. Another quick-step cleared him of their attacks on the poisonous beasts, a whisper of wind brushing Lionel as the warrior passed him to halt just a couple metres at the rear. From the opening in the chasm, way up from whence the group descended, a high-pitched bark sounded, the wyvern upon whose back the warrior had arrived from Frostmaw. Gylworliath was alerting and as he flicked his katana to toss excess muck off its blade, Krice listened. Kasyr's own whirlwind dispatched some of the monsters at the warrior's back while he stared away from the group. Trusting that their magic and other such abilities would protect them from whatever further attacks came from the front, including the few remaining flower-creatures, the silver-haired enigma remained at the rear--that quick-step did have its limits after all, and zipping from front to back to front was an unnecessary waste of energy--to watch the approach of the elvish group. As queried after by the halfling. She was close enough that she might be able to hear him when he murmured, " They bring with them the scent of Dwarven blood." Katana at the ready, Krice would reciprocate if any of the elves attacked or advanced close enough to attempt trapping his allies.

Rorin walked through the tunnels and began to complain. "Ya know what?!" The youth began earnestly, "I'm sick o tunnels! It's always tunnels! Bugs with tunnels and plamts with tunnels and undead with tunnels. I hate underground dungeons! Yeah i said it. Why doesn't anybody make towers anymore?! Why can't we fight someone outside for once! Somewhere nice and sunny. Frack the darkness. Frak the musty dirty gross smelly old caves. I just want to fight stuff in clean fresh air for once! I'll fight em on the water- I'll fight em in the gosh darn sky if I have to- I'm sick o tunnels!" Just then the monsters come. The terrible plant beasts burrow out and spew their poison- but the elves attack from behind! Rorin has a moment to think. Protect them from the poison or the arrows? He would be hard pressed to do both at once. Quintessa partially swayed his course. As the fog of poison split, Rorin turned towards the elven intruders and summoned up a shield to repel the blood tipped arrows and absorb their force as they went. With a few quick motions the shield dropped and Rorin unleash a bolt of energy collected from their attacks back at them, aiming at one of the wooden platform supports to spill the enemy down a deadly drop. He was aware it may not get all of them - they were elves of course - so he held the line here and waited for them to come to him. With the power of the guardian blade Rorin summoned mighty gauntlets with knuckled edge and went to work. None would get past the paladin as he turned into a walloping beast of metal and light. None would dare.

The Silver-Haired Diplomat

The unexpected lack of his sword might have distracted Lionel to a point of weakness if it hadn’t been the Kensai responsible for the action. Instead, and in the midst of a do-or-die scenario, Lionel gave Kasyr a cheeky thumbs-up. “I want that back,” he needlessly added. What was it that Syrri had seen? Who the heck were who? It must have been a flash, a silhouette, an elven scouted whose surefootedness was no match for Syrri’s sharp-eyed gaze. As quickly as the halfling had spotted an unfamiliar aggressor, the image vanished, its identity unrevealed. Did it scurry back down the tunnel? “Wait, what?” Lionel ducked to avoid a vine, giving Syrri a perfect angle to strike it down. But then Lionel saw it too -- a silhouette beyond the miasma. The silhouette of an elf. Krice’s warning -- or rather, his wyvern’s rolled smoothly into Lionel’s steady realization. The warrior had also done well to thin the herd, for what little remained of the corpse flowers was but dust beneath the party’s boots now. The miasma itself had dissipated, or else scattered to the same effect. It would have been a moment of wearied celebration if it weren’t for the elves.

Silent as snakes at midnight, the elven war band had stalked the Warrior’s Guild and their allies from far behind. Only now had they caught up, and their jaws went slack at the scene which awaited them. None knew these tunnels, nor did any of them have much by way of knowledge of Xicotl. They spilt blood and sought to spill that much more as a warning to trespassers of their land, and it was only now that they began to realize just how deep these tunnels truly went. “Annika,” Tuvoc whispered to the red-haired lass. “Take one of the others and leave this place. Report back that there is more here than the spirits foretold.” Annika sighed, flustered, and folded her arms in fury. “I’m not leaving you, grandfather.” Tuvoc’s expression brooked no argument. But before there was time for further words, one of the younger elves stood front-and-center and readied their bow, and by then Rorin had somehow managed to bring down a wooden platform many meters to the party’s aft. Thereafter, Rorin was gauntleted and grimacing, and the daring elf with the bow fired an arrow straight for the lad’s skull. The battle had begun in earnest. Tuvoc shouted something foreign, but by now the rest of the youth -- save for Annika, who was screaming at them to disarm in that some foreign tongue -- had moved ahead and readied bows and spears. “Very well, fools,” Tuvoc declared. “Interlopers,” he said, raising his voice to address the party. “I know not why you are down here, but your incessant tampering with our home among the trees will end with your deaths. The dwarves who guided you are a feast for crows now, and I can only surmise that it will be worms nourished by your corpses. No matter; all returns to nature. Die.” The grey-bearded elf sprung forward with the alacrity of a man half his age, covered on both sides by spear-wielding subordinates. Arrows were loosed from behind them. Between Tuvoc and the rest of the attackers, they counted twelve in all. Annika gripped her own spear, staying wayward of the pending bloodbath. To leave, or not to leave? To tell the tribe of this battle, or to defend her dear grandfather to the last? She flinched with uncertainty until at last her feet decided for her, and she ran, more fearful than she ever wished to admit. But when she reached the chasm’s maw, a wyvern awaited her. “The spirits are right proper jackasses today,” Annika muttered. She wondered if this was the end for her.

Quintessa was pretty annoyed at this point, first a miasma and now tribal elves? And if Quintessa had to listen to Rorin complain about one more thing there would be one less person making it to the surface. "Don't hit the platforms you idiot!" Quintessa screams at Rorin, the debris falling to the ground with a loud slam that echoed through the network of tunnels, alerting the things that were deeper within to their position. It was too late- and now none of them would be getting to the surface easily now. The distraction was enough to leave the girl an easy target, and while Krice could skillfully deflect arrows with his katana (something Quintessa was envious of) he couldn't block all of them. One such arrow finds its way embedded in Quintessa's left shoulder, just above her heart, and a gasp of pain escapes her mouth just after the word 'idiot'. The syndicate members try to keep their heads down, two of them crouching low with slings to lob rocks back at the attacking elves while the third one slowly backs into the wall. This decision would prove fatal for him, for the moment his back was pressed against the wall, a slimly tendril wraps around his throat. All along the cave walls here were Violent Funguses, unassuming at first but unexpectedly swift in their aggression. The syndicate thug has only a second to scream out in pain for the virulent venom coating the fungus's tentacle began to rot and decay the man's throat with astounding speed, leaving behind only warm bones that fall the ground to be wrapped up by many more small plants. "Beware of the walls," warns Quintessa, snapping the arrow jutting from her arm before turning away from the oncoming elves, continuing down the path to clear the way for a possible retreat. "Tân uffern!" She calls, letting her left arm rest as she swings with her right, filling the tunnel with flames to eliminate any remaining poison-spewing plants. As the inferno lights up the area it reveals the way forward, giving everyone a glimpse of just how far these tunnels twisted into the earth.

Kasyr’s expression deadpans, out of the sheer galling realization of what's happening. Arrows, murderous mushrooms, airborne elves . . . and yet the worst element of all is the simple realization that a wooden platform was clattering it's way down the tunnel towards them. "What." A shock of electrical energy sparks to life about his person, at once serving to light up the Kensais surroundings, as well as provide the elves a very distinct reason to aim in what had formerly been an adequately dark spot. "No. Just . . ." But even as their arrows are loosed from the bows, the swordsman's no longer occupying that spot, as that primal flow of raw elemental lightning is pushed into his blade- and then used to send Kasyr hurtling skyward, arcing past their position with enough speed to cue a rather thunderous sounding roar in his wake. Maybe it will disrupt the downwards dive of their pursuers, or play havoc with their sensitive ears, but the storm swordsmans goal is another target entirely- as he sends himself onto a collision course with the ruined platform to sunder it into pieces by virtue of brute force. What Kasyr had -not- planned around, was the manner in which a large portion of his right hand abruptly ionizes right after- sending the still lightning charged blade sailing out of his grasp and towards the cavern floor. He'd been intending on trying to help Lionel- but, "Not like this." Already, he can feel his upward momentum fading into nothing, even as the pain in his hand begins to surge to the forefront of his mind. "...Uh. Landings. I can do landings." Just, have to get that right degree of focus- thanks for the grief whiskey addled brain.

Syrri ; Luck's edge sliced through tentacled vine after vine, and as Syrri tried to regroup with those most familiar to her, the thick leathers protecting her shoulders likely bumped into the legs or hips of her companions. At least the trembling halfling felt useful, and she released her backpack strap from her right hand to take up Fate, too, driving both through yet another subsurface beastie. Grunting as she pulled the weapons from something's 'head' if it could even be called that, Syrri's attention was drawn away down the tunnel. The sound of wood clattering and crashing in reverberating echoes back up the stone surfaces to her renewed that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach she'd been trying to ignore earlier that journey. /Oh no/. Syrri kicked off the cave floor toward Quintessa at the sound of the changeling's voice; although she hadn't understood some of the otherworldly words coming out of the other's mouth, she seemed like the person to be following as she quite literally blazed a trail. Dancing just beyond the grasping vines of the shrooms, the halfling hoped her size would make her a difficult target for the hailstorm of arrows, too, and with an inhuman sound at the back of her throat, the dual-wielding warrior did her best to both avoid dying and losing the group.

Krice had freed a handful of Elvish slaves from the Underdark a few years ago, a severely-injured silver-haired saviour releasing them of the hold of their dark-skinned counterparts. Fighting these elves to protect his own group, he saw no familiar faces among them. Granted, he had been a bit devoid of conscious thought for the majority of his visit to the drow world. This time, however, he was focused and whole of body and mind. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a battle with humanoids of the pointy-eared persuasion, given his peace with them in the past - and his more personal pointy-eared connections - but here they were, forced into a premature battle with one large-fist-swinging paladin. Brandishing his katana, Krice used a series of minimal but deft, artful flicks that angled the blade into tight, swift arcs, deflecting the bulk of the arrows with swift and relative ease. Still, given the width of the tunnel, the number of assailants, and the fact that he wielded only one sword, his protection of the group behind him was limited. An arrow soared past the tip of his katana while others hit the flat of the blade, lodging in the chest of an ally to his left. A quick peripheral scan identified the pained cry as originating from Quintessa but his reaction was minimal, for more arrows were inbound. Once the battle had dissolved into more close-quarters attack and defence, the silver-haired enigma advanced on his third quick-step, shouldering between Tuvoc and the suboordinate to his right. What elves remained were left in his wake as he engaged Annika, stopping her retreat in time for Kasyr's lightning to explode the tumbling scaffolding into relatively harmless granules. Though the party had been quite deep in the tunnel, the advance of the elves ensured that some retreat would happen to engage them. Overhead at the mouth of the chasm, still some one hundred metres up, Gylworliath the green-scaled wyvern squawked and trilled in anxious anticipation of the activity below, but up there she remained - not a threat to the elf girl. Now with Annika's shoulder in hand, her back against a wall, and his own back to the shower of wood post-Kasyr lightning, Krice protected her from the debris and called out through what was hopefully not too noisy a battle in an attempt to catch the pointed ear of Tuvoc. " I have your granddaughter!" His tone was firm and full, a hint of threat underlying the more forward promise that he would not harm her. He wasn't one to hurt women, especially those who had been retreating. He took a moment to quietly reassure her that he wouldn't hurt her, and if she had any sense of character, she'd notice that his eyes were distinctly lacking murderous intent. Katana still in his left hand, he waited just a few seconds to see if his call would be noticed, if it would kill the battle before they were -all- swamped by whatever beasts deeper in the tunnels had heard the collapse of the wooden scaffolding. Knowing how vital it was to get control of the situation for the survival of all, Krice forwent concern for the injuries dealt his party in favour of preventing more; assuming Tuvoc stopped to pay attention, the warrior would break his silence to speak. " We are not here as intruders, but as investigators.

Rorin seemed to have gotten the drop on them thanks to his blessedly internal warning system. As one elf launched his arrow Rorin batted it aside and clunked his massive gauntlets together with a rage fed challenging roar. He listened to them speak and then stood stalwart as their arrows rained down around him. None would touch him, such was his divine power. "Fools!" He shouted, his voice blasting out of the mouth of tunnel. "You know not what you have wrought! In the name of Arkhen and Ranger Master of Sage I command you, stand down. In his name I, Rorin Garecht, command you, stand down. The Warriors Guild has come to slay the cult of the under dweller and end this ancient madness! See me now, and obey his word, lest unneeded death befall ye as it has those you've slain." Rorin Commanded- not just commanded, but with the full shining force of a servant to the gods Commanded- their surrender. All of a sudden they were in a hostage situation though, and that's not something Rorin wamted to be in. The plants were hopefully dealt with by now, and anyone standing behind Rorin would have been safe from arrows. So maybe there was still a chance at de escalation in this whole thing?

Lionel caught his newly-charged katana by the hilt in a single, swift, practiced motion. His surprised azure eyes glowed intensely against the electric charge of his steel. “Not bad,” he quipped, “remind me to lend you my swords more often.” The young elf with a spear closing in on Lionel fast was having none of the Catalian’s japes, but Lionel did not wish to kill the lad for his lack of humor. These elves would need to answer for their crime against the dwarven craftsmen, but nothing about this battle felt… right; the enemy did not seem wholly without compassion. So instead of slashing this young elf from shoulder to sternum, the Imperator sliced up the elf’s finely-made spear, rendering him defenseless. With a whispered threat, the unarmed foe scampered wayward. And then there was further scampering, and worried looks on every elf’s face. Krice had Annika, and Rorin was spouting the Good Word in a bad way. Tuvoc instantly dropped his weaponry and lifted his hands in the air. “Harm so much as a hair on my granddaughter’s body, swordsman, and I will end you. Though it is for your prior acts that we retreat.” The grey-bearded warrior fixed Krice with a knowing gaze. “You have helped our people before. Pray, perhaps, you shall help us again. But if anyone else here wounds the earth any further, in any way, they will never again draw breath. And this one,” Tuvoc gestured toward Rorin, “speaks of madness yet exhibits naught but madness, himself. Brook no errors, swordsman: the paladin has made a permanent enemy of the Requital. Come, Annika.” Annika was presently transfixed by Krice -- by his grip, by his candor, by the gentility in his eyes. “He won’t hurt me,” she said with a sudden authority on the matter. “Let us pass.” It was delivered like a queenly order, and she meant it to be heard by everyone present. “No need for that, Annika.” Tuvoc, who had lowered his hands in order to warn the other young elves against further conflict, closed his eyes briefly. When they began to open, he and every other elf had vanished entirely. There was no sensation that any remained closeby, and whatever spell the war band’s leader had cast, it clearly was not in Annika’s possession or else she never would have ran for the surface in the first place. After a heated moment, Lionel exhaled. His katana’s charge lessened in response to its wielder’s more peaceful purpose. “Fraksake,” he shouted. “Someone help Quintessa with that injury. I don’t know what else is lurking down here but we’re moving on. If we haven’t found anything worth its weight in world-saving intrigue within the hour, we’re calling this operation quits and regrouping. We’ve got even more to worry about now, anyway.” He meant the elves… and he had no idea just how right he was.

If Walls Could Talk

Whenever the party was prepared to continue, Lionel led the way as intended. Nothing else awaited them in this tunnel but bugs, mud, and more stale air. It wasn’t long, however, before the tunnel ended. In its place was a massive open area with a dizzyingly high dirt-and-stone ceiling that was probably as far from the subterranean route the team was traveling as the top of the chasm from whence they came. The surface world was way on up there, though there was almost certainly nothing any of them could do to reach it from here. Most likely, anyone who noted the ceiling did not do so for long. It was difficult to concentrate on anything but what lay sprawled in piles throughout the wide room -- veritable riches to behold. Piles of silver coins were scattered in bunches, the symbols drawn upon them featuring people and animals with little in common with those who lived in modernity. Jewels of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and various unidentified gemstones lay loose and dirty or strung into golden necklaces. Ingots of bronze and steel were piled high along the outer edges of the room. Stone and gilt-bronze reliefs leaned against rocky outcrops, each of them depicting some scene serene or savage. Many of these reliefs displayed crude representations of even cruder creatures -- slumped-shouldered, emaciated, greyish-tinted, and with eyes like perfect black spheres. They had been drawn on the walls, even, and a medley of other beasts joined them in the illustrations. “Thralls,” Lionel declared. “It’s the thralls. These are the more advanced cases -- after several weeks posing as ordinary citizens and killing their peers in dark alleyways and the like, the thralls become… like this, somehow.” It didn’t occur to Lionel at the time that there was nothing written in any modern tongue to tell him this. As he gripped the hilt of his electrically-charged blade, he brooded over their findings and began to wonder what else awaited them in the weeks and months to come.

At the center of the area was an obsidian obelisk of a height and width which made the obelisks unearthed throughout the Southern Sage seem almost miniscule by comparison. Plenty of text written in Narek’s ancient language had been carved into it, and the image of a maze of tunnels and fortresses beneath a continent was drawn at the base. The continent seemed eerily familiar. “It’s Lithrydel,” Lionel said after a pause, his breath having recovered quickly from the unexpected spectacle surrounding them given his disinterest in material wealth. He glanced at Rorin meaningfully. “It isn’t Haathian, I don’t think.” Rorin and Lionel had explored numerous subterranean tunnels during the Haathian insectoid war, but none of them looked remotely like the one they had meandered through today. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if some of it intersects.” For those in the party who lacked context, Lionel afforded them the shake of his head and a vibrant sigh. “I’ll explain later. Quintessa, can you read this thing?” He hoped she wasn’t too enamored with the more scoopable trinkets on display. When he squinted, however, Lionel realized that he could read the text now too. Somehow, that felt perfectly natural to him. Still, there was no replication for Quintessa’s intelligence on the subject, and it was all Lionel could do to hope the changeling would be capable of scribbling as many notes as possible before the party departed. “Half an hour,” the Imperator ordered. “We have half an hour to investigate as much as possible. I’m pulling us out after that.” And yet, he did not need to. Like clockwork, the colossal obelisk rumbled, its glyphs illuminating in bold, neon colors, and the ground shook and the dirt-and-stone ceiling parted as if by magic. The windy noontime surface world awaited them when the Warrior’s Guild and their allies were lifted up from where they stood -- along with the jewels, the reliefs, and most notably of all, the obelisk. The ground from deep below slotted into this new chasm’s opening like one great, big puzzle piece, and that was that; they were safe. Fate was a strange beast today. They’d fought tooth and nail against carnivorous plants and vengeful elves; they were now effectively in possession of a wealth of material culture, some of which was valuable in the traditional sense of the word and some of it seemed to depict cataclysmic monstrosities the likes of which made today’s encounters seem mere child’s play. There was no catastrophic finale in the massive area, no sign of the thralls themselves. The mission had ended, but the mysteries had only deepened. “They knew you somehow,” Lionel told Krice at last. “The elves. Whatever that was all about, you have my thanks.”

Rorin could guess that he handled that poorly. But he was also sure that he didn't really know how to handle elves killing dwarves for ill conceived reasons. He shrugged it off- he was a kid, he was allowed to make mistakes- and went to look at Quintessa. "I know this might be a stupid question but are you ok? Is there any way I can help with that? I know some conventional physician ways to patch someone up without holy healing." He looked around at the charred poisonous crisps of everything. Who were those goons that had followed her anyway... Why did she seem to be in charge of something? Rorin was feeling to claustrophobic to care. Let it sort itself out eventually. He followed Lionel after patching up whoever might need it and appraised the treasure trove and ominous wall carvings with a critical eye. "Freaky." Was all he had. Rorin was turning a little sour to this adventure. Could you really blame him? That kid is under a lot of pressure. "Do you think they're like, wasted away? By a parasite or something. Or turning into coccoon for something?" Rorin shared a look with Lionel. "Tunnels do be like that..." The paladin said. As the dias- surely that's what they were on now that he thought about it- raised up, he prepared warily for another fight. But there was none. "You gotta be crappin my drawers. That's it? People dies for this!" He groaned and wiped at his face. It all felt so useless. He was so tired of convoluted world ending plots. And he'd really screwed up with those elves. "I guess we should use this stuff to compensate those dwarven families." Now things really felt sour. Rorin really didn't want to fight anymore. Not for another week at least. Rorin would sit and listen to whatever Lionel would have to say. The commander must know where to go from here.

Quintessa was glad to see that the elves had decided upon an armistice. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding, one she could forgive if not for the arrowhead currently stuck in her shoulder. The changeling glowers as them from behind her allies but she makes no move to continue aggression. "Bah," the odd girl shoots at Lionel, moving with him down the corridor, "It's just a flesh wound. We can deal with it later, it's not like vampires can get infections anyhow, let's just move on." Truth be told the wound didn't bother her, not like Mathollak's crimson spike did, but the changeling had no intention of treating with the elves. She'd leave that to the others. As the two remaining Syndicate thugs follow her, confused at the direction this trip had taken them, they shake their heads at one another. Magik did not prepare them for the kind of trouble Quintessa often found herself in. However, the sight of gold lifted their spirits and one of the men even dared to lift the lid of a nearby chest to expose the contents. Unfortunately for him this chest was trapped and a large spear launches itself from the floor between his legs, trigged by a spring, to penetrate him in a horrific manner. As the tip of the spear protrudes from the top of his skull, the mismatched eyes of the changeling fall upon his twitching form. "Idoits!" Quintessa hisses, "Don't. Touch. Anything. Not without checking for traps- Seriously!" The last thug grimaces before nodding at Quintessa's order. He didn't want to meet a similar fate as his friends. At Lionel's question, Quintessa approaches, her pale fingers reaching out to touch the symbols gingerly. "Of course, Imperator I-" The rumble cut her off as she braces herself, the glyphs all becoming easier to translate as they glowed a bright neon. Was this a trap? Would this be the end of Quintessa? Any fears or reservations she had would soon evaporate as they were brought to safety. A quick glace of her pale blue and golden hazel eyes would confirm that. "I won't need a full half hour- but this works. This must be some sort of ancient transport system, probably as old as Xicotl itself. This might be the way the thralls came to the surface during times of the feast... Fascinating..." The young spell blade had already taken out her notebook and was frantically transcribing what she saw.

Kasyr really needs to work on planning things out better. And maybe drinking less- he'd certainly end up courting perilous situations less often. Like this ignoble bit of falling he's engaged in. Suffice to say, as the conflict gives way to the fledgeling beginnings of diplomacy, and Rorin does his quite literally holier-than-thou shtick- Kasyr likewise engages in a bit of divine dabbling. In his case, however, there's barely any sort of display, a faint glow forming about his figure moments before he impacts into the ground, As far as landings go, it's a pretty ignoble one, and yet, Daedria does heed her champions call- allowing him to -very- gradually collect himself to a sitting position with the most profound wound being to his pride. For a few tense moments, he waits for things to once more degenerate into fighting- before the elves abruptly dissapear, ". . . So, that happened." Alongside that observation, the Kensai reaches into his pack, pulling out a flask so he can pour some of it's contents over his wounded hand, and then the rest into his gullet. As everyone falls into step with the continued exploration of the tunnels, the Kensai simply busies himself with a crude bandaging job along the way. Maybe a bit too crude, since he manages to make that hand look like a mummies, and it impairs him from double fisting gemstones into his pockets. Shame. That said, whilst there is, perhaps, some offhanded acquisitioning of gems occuring- the Kensai does still feel the need to ask, "So, this ones bigger. Do we keep it away from the other ones? Where do we even put it, en fait?Oh et,...Do we prevent you from naming it, en fait?" Important questions, all of them. Those questions aside, the Kensai makes his way over towards Quintessa- less for social reasons, and more to hold a quiet vigil as she works. Or at least, that's official reason he tells himself.

Syrri’s mind was whirling, and somewhere in the blur she was mentally repeating, 'Gods help us.' Not because of Rorin's brilliant display of faith but rather despite it. Thankfully, no further friction would be pursued right now, and Syrri released a bated breath. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding it captive in her lungs, but the relief in her petite frame was evident. Regrouping her thoughts into a focused line, she lifted her chin to look up toward her much-taller associates. The halfling understood that there were a lot of layers to the plots she was witnessing; there were many details she knew she was probably missing. Notwithstanding, Syrri trusted /they/ knew and believed in that knowledge to guide them to the crux of their mission. Returning Fate and Luck to their respective belt-hooks, Syrri kept her hands trained on their familiar handles as they made their way to another set of glyphs and obelisk deeper into the tunnels. For now, she was keeping any additional questions to herself, but visually she was noting every nuanced, minute detail. She'd play the role of the dutiful soldier, storing away their hypotheses and hoping that eventually, things would start to make sense to her. The two years she was kept underground still hovered around the axeling, much like the deleterious poison clouds of before. Every little step she made further into the labyrinth of intrigues, Syrri found herself casting sidelong glances toward their intrepid Imperator; this time, when he mentioned 'explaining later,' his words offered less assurance than they had earlier. She chewed on her lip, thumbs pushing against the wooden handles of her axes in an agitated tic. And for all her assumed bravado, a small squeak (well, a Syrri-sized squeak) escaped her as the ground began to shake, and they were thrust up into the sky. The halfling really hoped no one heard that, but it was too late to take it back. Inwardly cringing, she squared her narrow shoulders as it was revealed to her that she wasn't about to be crushed by the ground itself. Swallowing past a nervous lump, she released another restrained breath. They were, indeed, safe now, and whatever misgiving had curled up between her shoulders dissipated. "All right," she told herself with a half-nod. "It's all right." She had made it through her first mission and hadn't been a /total/ deadweight, so there was something to be said of the reflexes sharpened once-upon-a-time. All that being said, well, thought, the handaxing halfling was sure looking forward to her bed right now.

Krice withdrew his hand from Annika only once she reassured Tuvoc that he would not harm her, but his intensity had begun to soften before that - when her grandfather acknowledged the warrior's message and stood down. He reacted neither which way to Tuvoc's threat to 'end him' because he would feel the same if a loved one was under threat - and he knew that he was not going to harm the woman under his restrictive touch. Tuvoc's words about Rorin darkened the warrior's eyes and he turned his head to glimpse the paladin, little more. Battle now over, and debris having settled at last at the mouth of the cave, Krice saw no reason to hold Annika any longer. He released her shoulder and took a single step back, scanning the shadows for the elves that had disappeared just a moment prior. An interesting spell to be sure, one that stole the woman away from the wall in the same moment. Grunting quietly in acknowledgment of something in his thoughts, the enigma returned to his mission-group to survey the damage on his way back to the front, though not before sparing Rorin a grumbled, " You need to rein it in before you collapse the tunnels on top of everyone." Too much power had a way of weakening the integrity of things, the earth included, and the paladin had already provoked the elf leader. The last thing they all needed was more enemies. Noting Quintessa's injury as the most severe, Krice took it upon himself to walk behind her just outside her reach, close enough to ensure that she would not be further harmed should she be attacked while weakened. Her comment about a vampire's resistance to infection inspired a thoughtful squint of his eyes and he filed it away for later mulling. When they arrived at the end of the tunnels into a wide room filled with jewels, Krice paused to consider their surroundings, breathing in the scents and noting the various depictions of warped creatures. The jewels were fascinating but not his primary focus. While Quintessa and Lionel tag-teamed an explanation of what everyone was seeing, the silver-haired enigma listened and observed, his gaze scanning the obelisk from base to tip before flicking upward at the earthy ceiling. It split open in that moment and he pressed his lips into a thin line, uncertain at first as to what was coming. When the floor underfoot became a platform, the warrior shifted, a subtle adjustment of his weight distribution to ensure that he remained on his feet. He kept to the outside of the group, ready to assist any who looked on the verge of falling. With the platform safely delivering them back to the surface, he blinked in surprise which turned to a tired frown as he sheathed his weapon. Gylworliath was in the distance back where they had entered the tunnels, not here at the end of them all. After taking in a deep breath of fresh air, the warrior glanced at Lionel. " I guess they have long memotied," he said in regard to the elves knowing of him. Thereafter he said to the other man, " I need to find my wyvern. Take care of yourself," and oresumavoy the others. The warrior pivoted on at first an unsteady foot but managed to smooth out his gait a moment later, assuring himself of the group's health with a final glance on his way back to the chasm.

“Krice,” Lionel called out. “Thank you.” He repeated the words for emphasis. Whatever it was that Krice had on those elves, it may have saved lives. One way or another, Lionel was certain he would be calling on the silver-haired enigma to appear at the debriefing. Everyone gathered here, and everyone else back at the base, needed filling-in on what exactly had transpired. Lionel understood it, and Quintessa understood it, but even they had mental gaps galore. Watching Rorin wander off without much fanfare sans the negative variety, the Catalian ran his hands through his air in frustration. The kid hadn’t been himself lately, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Rorin had justly earned his promotion to commander, but after the events of this morning Lionel wondered if the paladin was even capable of commanding himself to get up tomorrow. This might have required an intervention; Rorin knew full well as Lionel did that when cracks began to form in the Warrior’s Guild surrogate family, disaster frequently followed. And disaster they had aplenty already. “I won’t frakkin’ name it!” Lionel pivoted on his heel and twirled around, bemused. “Damn it, Kas. I won’t frakkin’ name this one. Besides, what would it even be? Look at the size of it. Damned thing’s overcompensating.” A pause. “But it also got us to safety before anything else could do a number on us, so there’s also that.” Lionel surveyed the surrounding area. Serenity given form -- the wind had dwindled to a breeze, and birds had started chirping again after their understandable momentary silence. “This place really is worth defending,” he mumbled aloud to nobody in particular. “Not to a point of murdering craftsmen in cold blood… but the road to hell is paved with good vibrations.” He sighed. “Grab a few things that seem critical to our unraveling of the mysteries of Xicotl. Leave the rest. We’re going to keep a few scouts in the area but I want those elves to understand we didn’t go down there rags-to-riches. Take a few coins if you must, but don’t go overboard. And as for the obelisk…” He peered skyward at its peak, high above the treeline. “...We’ll know where to look for it.”

Kasyr is glad that he stopped stuffing gems pre-emptively in his coat by the time Lionels turned around, since it basically means he's either been given retroactive permission to keep what he snagged, or permission to grab more things. Or both. ...In fact, definitely both. "Aye aye, et tout cela." That brief bit of greedy planning aside, the Kensai's intent on whiling away his time near the changeling, and working towards properly remedying his hand, now that he doesn't have to worry about being mauled by plants, or riddled with arrows. It's whenever she goes to leave, that he'd go and collect his proper pay that he totally hadn't already snagged.

Quintessa finished with her writing, circling around the obelisk to make sure she had caught everything before snapping her notebook shut. "Okay," she says, turning her attention to her last remaining thug. "Grab some treasure for yourself, but don't take anything with symbols like these. That's reserved for my research." The thug would have been happy to do so if he wasn't terrified of traps, but collects enough to carry and heads back to the clan HQ to report to Magik. He had a hell of a story for him. Meanwhile, Quintessa was busy watching Krice as he walked away and the changeling tilts her head to the side. "...He might be brooding but Elazul's Bite has he got a nice a-" The teenager cut herself off, mismatched eyes flickering over to look at Kasyr. "Was I saying that out loud?" Quintessa looks embarrassed. "Anyway, I'm going to stay here a while and collect objects of interest," she tells Lionel and Kasyr as she idly touches the broken arrow in her shoulder. "And then I'm going to go get so pissed drunk I forget all about killer funguses and plants. Is this agreeable with you two?" Not waiting on them to answer her, the changeling turns away to collect the artifacts she felt would be pivotal for the overall mission.

Krice was walking away, past tense, but Lionel stopped him. When he turned around to answer the other male, Quintessa's unfinished sentence drawing his stare. If he thought anything of where she was going with it, he didn't express as much. Instead, the warrior addressee Lionel, his expression and overall demeanor taxed. Something underground had unsettled him and he looked a little less than healthy. " Thank me if something good further comes of it," he said to the Imperator, offering nod before he turned to continue on his way. In the distance, Gylworliath triller with glee as she caught his scent.

Syrri would normally be very much drawn to all the shinies as innate yearnings stirred within her. However, she was hard pressed to loiter any longer, and Frostmaw was calling her name. Carrying herself there, she would likely sleep until her duel.