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Post by Marshmallow on Oct 8, 2019 18:27:11 GMT -6
[Summary: Marche tries to avoid stepping on the ick wherever possible, and goes to investigate the scrap of paper first, then the knife (assuming nothing untoward happens in the meantime) in the hopes either object contains a clue. He's not sure what to make of the ick, and tries not to focus on its weird pulsing. If he has to, he will attempt to use his flame to burn it away in order to get at either item. ]
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Post by Sharei on Oct 8, 2019 19:13:02 GMT -6
[OOC: Draggo is frustrated, remembers he's been stabbed, and retreats back to his original room.]
The dragon's frustrated breathing filled the empty silence after the creature's escape. Azho's feather was gone, and he'd spent the majority of his charge on a mindless attack that had done little more than drain him of useful electricity. The juvenile kicked a chip of stone into the water with an angry growl and snarled at the laughing shadows, but with the fading adrenaline returned the pain.
The juvenile bit back a sound and cradled his wounded hand to his chest, recognizing for the first time that he'd been stabbed twice in the palm. It was still dripping and he couldn't close his fingers properly, and what small movement he could do caused excruciating agony. The stab wound to his other forearm throbbed. Experience told him that he had to staunch the flow, but the presence of danger hovering in the air caused the wounded dragon to look up. His hackles rose and he bared his fangs, conscious of the feeling of being watched.
But he'd never been a fighter, and he was already wounded. The juvenile shot one last look at the sunken statue and retreated back into the mural room with the well to get away from the unnerving darkness, a prickle of fear running down his spine.
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Post by jarahamee on Oct 8, 2019 22:24:18 GMT -6
[Ooc: Cassius frowns at the empty chests and moves on towards the door that the creature with the potion disappeared from.]
Cassius frowned. This was strange but hardly the worst thing that might happen. He looked upon all the gear, and decided there was nothing more for him here. These things did not appear to have any further draw to them.
He gave the room a last solemn look and then moved onwards. He went to the door where the little creature escaped and gave the door a good hard push.
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Post by MP on Oct 9, 2019 3:04:25 GMT -6
Jedidiah: Items: grey vial, scholar's note 4, flint and steel When Jedidiah recoils, the hissing sharpens. One of the serpents twitches forward, neck puffed, fangs visible as it works its jaws. The giant moves toward the door, upending trinkets. At that, the two serpents drop to their bellies and begin to glide forward. Faster. Faster.
They arrow towards the giant's feet, chasing him toward the door. The gold cascading from beneath them only speeds their approach. Their hissing seems to echo from every wall. They're closing in as the door groans open. They're at his heels as Jedidah tries to shut the door. One is caught in the turning stone, twisting and spitting, its black mouth gaping. Jedidah feels a sting in his foot as the second spills into the columned hall with him.
Its red body twists over stone as it releases his heel. Recoils itself. The black tongue flickers out at the vast space. The serpent seems disoriented. But its jaws are still parted, its sides still puffed with aggression. In another moment, it will surely recover. And behind it, the second serpent is writhing to get free.
Ari, Sara, Hau, and Grace: Ari's items: hunting horn, rusty knife x 2, maned pelt Sara's items: old spear Hau's items: human effigy Grace's items: unlit torch The figurine, at least, is undamaged after the encounter in the dark. It's a crude semblance of a human shape, its details suggested by finely carved lines: the curve of wings, wide slash of a mouth, and odd markings at its brow. When Ari takes it, the agony over the bond abruptly ends. He feels no pull, no pain. He feels like himself. Only, there is a new warmth in his chest, strong and reassuring. It feels like a flame in his core - as if by snapping his figures, he could summon it forth.
Hau feels the same warmth leave him. In its place, there is a creeping cold that numbs his fingertips. His blood continues to pool over the old stones. The kitsune is bleeding badly, and with her current resources, it's unlikely Sara can sufficiently staunch the blood loss. There are the corpses packed in their alcove. And there are three unexplored doors and whatever waits beyond. Without a helpful find, there simply isn't enough.
I don't suppose you know where this goes?
A familiar voice speaks over Sara's shoulder, audible to all four of the companions. But there is no Sarkany when she turns to look. Only the wall at her back.
His voice is followed by another, this time at Grace's back. This one is smaller, a defeated whimper. There is fear in the sound. Indecision. An almost animal pain. And again, no source. There are only four people in the hall.
Faolan: Items: unlit torch, flint necklace, (healing?) elixir A nameless anxiety curdles the pit of Faolan's stomach. The stone feels cold beneath his fingers. Feels wrong. Or maybe it's just the clamminess of his hands. The door cracks wider. He can't see through the dark. Wider. His eyes refuse to adjust. And then the answer comes: there's nothing else to see.
The room - if it is a room - is nothing but the dark. It hovers at the doorway like a cloud, unnaturally weighted, though it never crosses the threshold. To breathe it in is suffocating. To see it stirs the uneasy impression of something moving, alive, somewhere within.
But nothing lunges out to grab him. The movement never turns his way. Whatever it is, the dark area seems to ignore Faolan entirely. It might be possible to push past it, with a deep held breath and a swimmer's lungs. It might be better than returning the way he came. On the other side of the rubble, the door has begun to grate. Opening. It's followed by the sound of metal over stone. By the sound of chains dragging.
Kira: Nothing responds to the burbat's movements. Nothing moves after her when she hesitates. When she wades toward the gaping idol, the dark spot stays in a fixed position. Her path takes her closer to it, and now it resolves into the mouth of a tunnel, cramped and round and perfectly regular. Manmade.
The white shape is farther away, and her path moves her farther from it. It's little more than a sliver above the water, all but submerged. She can make out nothing but the two dark spots in its surface.
Last of all, the idol waits. It thrusts from the water, crude and twisted as a hatchling bird. Its mouth is just as expectant. The closer she gets, the worse the quiet becomes. Even the lapping water seems unnaturally hushed, like a held breath.
Edge: Items: simple knife The remaining pustules shudder and spew. With each one destroyed, the sense of presence eases, and the grainy dust and residue begins to disperse. Edge's dagger sinks deep into the last bulb. With a hiss of smoke, the feeling finally fades altogether. The silence it leaves behind is the natural stillness of stone. An almost restful feeling.
The scarred man shows no signs of resting. He wipes off the sword on the edge of his sleeve. It really is a beautiful weapon. With the smoke and grit cleaned off it, the blade all but glows. It stays unsheathed. Somewhere in the distance, through the door they entered and through the door ahead, Edge can feel other mental pings. Other massing pustules. The scarred man turns toward their original door. Looks back at Edge. There's a finality in the set of his shoulders, as if he's done what he came to do. He waves at the Darai. Perhaps in farewell. Perhaps to usher him on.
Marchelute: Items: falconer's glove, silver chain The ancient vellum crackles beneath Marchelute's claws. It was already torn, either by hard use or the age of the sheet, and much of the writing has been lost. The characters that remain are thin and geometric, written in a language even the long-lived ifrit has never seen before. But as he stares, these swim and blur into a strange kind of sense. He can read them, recognize the letters as easily as his own native language.
- that all the signs are sure. News to celebrate, if only there was time. But the western front is gone. Men like animals. Entire cities eating themselves alive. I'm not a superstitious man, but I think it knows his gift is waking. It's moving faster. Even the court is showing symptoms. We must do more until he's strong enough to -
The rest of the message is gone. Worn to dust, perhaps, or ruined by the residue.
The knife is unharmed by the grit, but it comes away with a thin, gray film. The touch of the stuff is crawling and unclean. But when Marchelute tries to summon his flame, there's no response. He feels the fire in his chest. Feels his magic, going nowhere. The gloom persists. And it seems, looking up, that the pulsing film is thicker than before. He can hear the pump of blood in his ears. In the air around him. Faint, but growing.
Draggo: The sense of menace lingers even after the dragon retreats to the previous room. He feels shapeless eyes on his skin. A weight on his shoulders, like the shadow of a predator passing overhead. It's a paranoid feeling - one that warps the shadows and plays tricks on the mind. The laughing whisper of the pale rats seems to follow him. And for a moment, stepping back into the room, it seems there is a white face, larger, more human, watching him.
A blink and it's gone. There's nothing but darkness in the well. Nothing but the uneasy hush around him. And when the dragon does nothing more, even that slowly fades. He is alone with the yawning mouth of the well. Alone with the fleshy patter of feet and the laughing whisper of rats.
Cassius: Items: unlit torch, sturdy rope The door pushes open beneath Cassius' hands. He can feel the coolness of it. Feel the rasp of stone over stone. But his eyes don't match what his senses tell him. Looking out, he sees pale hands, not his own. They're holding open a doorway set in a wall he doesn't recognize. The smell of rot is all around. There's old, sticky blood and pulped meat on his hands.
And then he blinks and the vision is gone. Cassius is staring out into a long, narrow hallway lined with torches in metal holders. The ceiling has collapsed some way down the hall, and the passage is blocked almost to the ceiling. There is a gap at the top large enough for a man to crawl through, but it will require climbing to reach. Looking at the rubble, Cassius has the sense of tiny eyes, skulking and furtive, staring back.
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Post by kilnarak on Oct 9, 2019 5:36:01 GMT -6
[ Ari takes the effigy and is more confused by it than anything else. When he realizes how badly Hau is doing, he gives Hau his pelt and offers the others his knives, then begins to search the alcoves for anything that might help him. Upon hearing Sarkany's voice, he decides to check the direction it had come from. If he doesn't find anything useful, he'll try the door that Sarky was maybe indicating? ]
Ari frowned slightly as the idol was pressed into his hands, not sure what the injured man meant. At least not sure until he was holding the thing - then it became immediately clear. He blinked down at the idol, running his fingers over the vague humanoid shape, the curving wings and carved ridges meant to represent horns. The pain burned away when the idol was out of Hau's hands, replaced by a comforting heat that started in his chest then spread out to suffuse his limbs.
"I... I don't understand... How... It's just a statue, it isn't him... why does it... feel like him?" He bit his lip, then held the idol to his chest, looking up at Hau and Grace again, then aside to Sara. The idol had felt like Marchelute - or maybe it had made the blue-haired man feel like Marchelute? He wasn't sure and the thought was distressing. Now that he held the statue, it felt as if they were together - but it also felt as if he had gained his mate's strength. He wasn't sure what to make of it.
He pushed off musing on just what the statue was when he realized that Hau looked decidedly worse now that he had passed off the statue. The man was bleeding heavily even after pressure had been applied to the wounds. It didn't look like bandaging it would work, he had lost so much already. Ari bit his lip, unsure of what to do - neither of the others seemed to have much of an idea either. He thought a moment, then untied the pelt from around his waist, setting the knives and the horn on the floor for a moment. He gave the pelt's bristly fur a final stroke, then moved to drape it around Hau's shoulders, over his back. He loosely knotted the forelimbs around the man's neck, letting the rest dangle like a cape of sorts. "It... It's warm, but I don't really need it. Um... You two can have the knives too, if you want them. I don't... really have a way to carry them anymore."
Ari picked up the horn again and began to rise to stand again when a familiar voice spoke, seemingly out of nowhere. Ari's head jerked toward the source of the sound, but Sarkany wasn't there. His hackles rose as a second voice sounded, his head snapping that way - he didn't recognize that one, but that didn't make it any less disconcerting. He stared after the whimper-voice a moment, then turned toward where Sarkany's voice had come from. Perhaps they should search that way?
"We... We need to find something for him. I... Is... Is there anything in the... over here, with the-the bodies? Anything we could use?" The horn likely would be of no use here - he wasn't sure what it was for to begin with. The pelt... it made him feel comforted, but he had no sense that it might heal someone who was injured. Perhaps if he truly had Marche's fire, he could cauterize the man's wounds - provided he could control the flame enough not to outright incinerate him; he doubted it would help either way, and would likely cause more harm than good.
He bit his lip again as he turned to search the alcoves, clutching the idol to his chest with one hand and using the other to lift back the curtain and quickly look over each body. He doubted any of them would have been entombed with some sort of healing-magic, but what else could he do? He examined each, making his way down the hall, then reluctantly he tried the door there. He had no sense of direction now, was grasping at straws in trying to follow Sarkany's voice, but maybe he'd get lucky...
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Post by okami1reeka333 on Oct 9, 2019 9:47:52 GMT -6
Jedidiah:
[OOC: he reacts by Stomping on the snake that is free while its disoriented with the not bitten foot. then raises his own body temperature to de-nature the potential venom now in his body since he has nothing to neutralize it. ]
Hissed in pain after he shut the door on one of the snakes before seeing the one who bit him was free and near him. Now pissed he was bitten, he stomped on the freed snake that was seemed disoriented. aiming for its head but breaking its back to negate strike distance would be ok too. Then there's the potential venom in his veins. . .he has non of his tools, not even clothing. . . so instead of wasting the steel or flint he Opted to simply raise his own body temperature. from a resting 200 to around perhaps 700 degrees F.
He aimed to de-nature the venom in his veins. . . cause the proteins and what not to disconnect into something harmless that he would end up urinating out of his system later on. Since it was just him, he did not worry about having to figure out how to extract the poison or neutralize it through a more mundane manner. . .But he was not happy about having to do this, since now he might come off as too hot to touch anyone else . . . .He never thought he would come to the day when he actually wished he had his prosthetics rather then both limbs. . . .still not being the wiser that he had his prosthetics this entire time.
Fear is a finicky veil.
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Post by tsukikoko on Oct 9, 2019 13:31:47 GMT -6
[OOC: Sara rips up Hau's clothing, uses it to staunch the bleeding as much as possible, then asks Grace to carry the kitsune through the door Sarkany's voice seemed to be referencing (to the right as one is looking at the black death door), in an attempt to find something to help him. She walks close to Hau, keeping pressure on his wounds, through the shirt material, even as he's carried.]
The shifter worked quickly and efficiently, ignoring the sense of creeping dread at the sight of his injuries to instead focus on what she could do to help. Material was torn, a crude attempt at a pressure bandage was constructed for his back - by far the most pressing injury - and what little she could spare afterwards, Sara packed into the smaller puncture wounds in his chest and shoulder. All throughout she continued to talk gently, soothingly to Hau; phrases such as, 'ya doin' so well luv', 'this is gan sting', 'just 'old still a little longer for us'. When he apologised, she told him not to worry, it was fine, he was doing so, so well.
I don't suppose you know where this goes?
With a gasp, Sara turned at the strikingly familiar voice and her heart leapt to her throat at the idea she might see him in this godforsaken place. But there was no-one.
No Sarkany.
Her distraction was momentary, for that was all Hau could afford. But though Sara knew these places were designed to tear apart one's mind and soul, though she knew they would all likely die and then awaken, non the worse for wear physically-speaking but emotionally destroyed, still she found herself yearning. Wishing, desperately, that Sarkany were here, despite their strained relationship. He so often knew what to do.
But Sarkany wasn't here. Instead, there were people around her, people like the bloodied man in her hands, who needed help. She would have to cope.
"Reet," she said more forcibly as soon as the makeshift bandages were in place, a sudden and authoritative tone compared to the one she had been using with Hau, "-we 'ave tah move 'im. There's nowt 'ere an' 'e's losin' too much blood. Can ya carry 'im for us?" She asked Grace, turning her gaze on the bigfoot and then pointing to a pathway on the right (presumably in the same direction as Ari had been investigating given they both seemed inclined to follow where Sarkany's voice might have been referencing). If and when Grace lifted the kitsune, Sara's hand remained pressed into the puncture injury in his chest, maintaining pressure as best she could, while she kept hold of her spear in her free hand, staining the handle with Hau's blood..
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Post by qhostqrowls on Oct 9, 2019 14:29:17 GMT -6
[Faolan hesitates on the threshold, steps into the room and then back out to see if anything will happen. Is spooked by the sounds at the other end of the corridor but does not yet enter completely]
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Post by Pearl Dragon on Oct 9, 2019 15:21:23 GMT -6
[Kira doesn't readily approach the idol once things get quiet. Instead, she takes a piece of her remaining t-shirt, wets it, then balls it up and tosses it at the mouth in a morbid game of Lost Tomb Corn hole lol]
Kira sloshed slowly through the water, more out of caution for the pain in her mouth than worry of being attacked. However, her senses stretched as far as they could past the blur to remain wary of any potential movement or new discovery.
As she neared the idol, she was vaguely aware of a sliver of white in her right peripherals and the dark mass that began to clear. It seemed to be a tunnel of some sort and Kira felt a small bit of relief that it wasn't some sort of monster. Still, the idol waited just ahead and things already seemed...off. As she got closer, Kira began to feel the quiet intensify where even the water sloshing around her waist and the statue faded. She paused, hesitating again as it became more than noticeable. One thought crossed her mind, that whatever this thing was, it might send her back the way she'd come the way the other statue had done. That, she thought, wouldn't set well at all. She worried at what was left of her t-shirt, pulling at the tattered remains that were slung about her shoulders like a stringy toga.
After some time, Kira looked again to the tunnel, and then back to the idol. With another soft huff, Kira pulled the t-shirt from her body and pulled a small piece from the worst of the shreds. She dipped it into the water to add weight, then balled it up and tossed it in an underhanded throw towards the open mouth to see if anything might happen.
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Post by Vaitris on Oct 9, 2019 16:25:19 GMT -6
[OOC: Hau needs a hug. He goes along with whatever Sara and Grace do with a minimum of fuss.]
In the midst of this pulsing red haze of pain, Hau had forgotten the warmth that had permeated from the effigy. It wasn't something he'd expect he would miss, but when cold seeped in to take its place he felt a pang of regret that it was gone. But clearly the figurine meant something to the spotted man, and it was where it was supposed to be now.
The progressive loss of his shirt strengthened the chill and Hau curled his legs towards his chest, letting loose a miserable moan as he did so, trying to retain what warmth he had left. Hadn't Sara told him not to move? "S'ry..." He managed through gasps. He couldn't take a full breath, not with the pain constricting his chest. And he was just so cold, his fingers were like ice. This was wrong, he wasn't supposed to feel this, at least to a point. He could go through winter in shorts and a t-shirt if he wanted. If it got below zero he might slap on a jacket, but he never felt cold cold. It was unnatural and a violation of what he was.
He tried to think of warm things, a task that turned out to be surprisingly difficult. His mind drifted and wandered like a boat lost at sea. The hot Hawaiian sun, warm sand beneath his feet, the humid forests where he hiked. Were the situation not so dire, he might have laughed at this, all things that had nearly - or had - given him heat stroke in the past. Inevitably, his thoughts were pulled towards his family, how he wished he'd never left them. Had that last message to his sister gone through? She'd be mad at him if he didn't respond.
Despite all this he continued to shiver profusely, whether from cold or pain or blood loss. Or perhaps just the bleak realization that this wasn't a dream after all and he may die here, in a dark tomb, among strangers.
He was woken from his thoughts by something soft and heavy settling over his shoulders. The spotted man was crouched in front of him, adjusting the fur he had draped over Hau. He shouldn’t do that, Hau lamented distantly, it’d only get blood on it. But the thick pelt immediately seemed to bring some of the warmth back where it lay on him and he hunched into it, incredibly grateful but unable to find the words to express it.
A moment later, the remains of his shirt were being pressed into the wounds and he bucked, gasping a sound of hurt that turned into a sob. He gritted his teeth, holding his breath against the pain, panting hard when that became too much. Nothing helped. "S-s-stop..." Barely more than a breath, it hardly qualified as a word. "Please..."
But there was no relief, not until Sara was satisfied, and even then the pain rumbled like thunder, vibrating along every nerve. Then he heard her ask the enormous bigfoot to carry him. No! He didn't want to move. Just leave him here, he wanted to rest. Hau tried to resist, to push them away, but the effort was feeble and his blood-slicked hands couldn't grasp. As he was lifted vertigo slammed through him, rolling his gut. He tasted bile at the back of his throat and tried to swallow it back down. It helped to close his eyes, block out the movement around him, and concentrate on breathing. Though it would be impossible to shut out the ache that lashed through him with each of the bigfoot’s steps, he’d pull the heavy fur as tight as he could and try to ride it out.
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Post by jarahamee on Oct 9, 2019 19:48:30 GMT -6
(Cassius approaches the rubble, trying to sort out the creature(s?) within it with his eyes. He seems particularly keen on tracking movement. If nothing presents itself, he will poke at the rubble a bit to assess sturdiness and then attempt to climb to the area he can squeeze through)
A flash of a body that was not his. Was it a vision? Was it reality? He could not say. He paused for just a moment to gather his bearings, straining his senses against the darkness. Was the scent of blood really here? And could he follow it?
Cassius moved towards the rubble, senses open. Not quite what he was expecting. He lowered the unlit torch like a baton and strode forward, cat-like, his dark eyes moving systematically through the rubble and debris. What was hiding in the detris? Another creature come to attack him? Or his quarry? If his quarry was still here, anyhow. He moved closer and closer, sniffing softly as he strained his ears for any sounds.
He had wound the rope around his body vertically, hanging it off his shoulder. An easy place to access it, and he could not argue with how useful it might be later. He did not need anything else. He could make his way in this dangerous world with very little, and that was how he liked to live.
If nothing stood out to him but the feeling of being watched, he would attempt to climb the rubble pile after pushing keystones a few times with the torch to ensure that nothing was too loose and would cause him to fall.
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Post by Marshmallow on Oct 10, 2019 6:53:43 GMT -6
[Summary: Marche gets grossed out by the grey gunk, becomes alarmed by the lack of fire, and abruptly notices the grey gunk is getting thicker, along with an odd pulsing sound in the air. He elects to GTFO as quickly as possible, abandoning the knife and the parchment scrap where he found them, and continuing through the next door.]
Even with careful handling, Marchelute half-expected the old sheet of parchment to crumble away to nothing as soon as he picked it up. Surprisingly, the scrap held together. Not that it seemed to matter much, for the language printed on it was one he didn't recognize - which in and of itself was surprising. He was about to discard it as useless, when the alien lettering suddenly appeared to shift upon the page. The way the symbols contorted before his eyes was disorienting, to say the least. Marchelute blinked, as if that could clear away the twisting blur. And when next he looked, the text wasn't so foreign anymore. He could understand it now...
But it answered nothing, only left him with more questions. No clues to name this place, or whatever force had brought everyone here. The paper seemed to be talking about some entity, or spreading plague, or... Well, it was anyone's guess.
Marchelute dropped the old parchment back into the dust where he'd found it, and went to examine the knife instead. Not that he needed a weapon - it was all in the name of trying to decipher this place and what was happening, and the hope of finding some trace scent or track of his missing family.
The strange grey substance coating the room also covered the knife. Touching the stuff was instant regret. The sensation felt inherently dirty, with a wrongness to it that he couldn't name. It made his lip curl with instinctive disgust. To clean the blade, and his hands, from the filth he reached for his flame-
Nothing happened.
He blinked. Tried again to pull the fire forth and burn the nastiness away, but still nothing came. He could feel the warmth, sense the core of his magic turning upon itself, but the circuit never completed. The magic never manifested, remaining stubbornly inert.
"What is this...?" he asked the empty space as alarm bells rang in his head.
Marchelute dropped the knife, no longer interested in the filth-coated blade. He used the old glove to try to wipe off the grimy, crawling sensation left behind by the digusting film. Latin and Persian curses hissed past his lips as anxiety welled up in his chest. Before his magic had simply been stifled, hard to channel but still present. What had changed? And why? At least his still had his flame, he wouldn't need to fear the chill, but it did little to silence the rising sound of his own racing pulse in his ears. It seemed to come from everywhere.
Because... it was coming from everywhere.
Marchelute snapped back to attention. That pulsing sound wasn't his own heart, it was in the air around him! And the grey substance... was it thicker than before? The ifrit felt a growing sense of forboding. Something was very wrong here, all of his instincts were warning him of danger. He turned and hurried to the next door, unwilling to linger a moment more.
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Post by NightshadeVII on Oct 10, 2019 15:06:13 GMT -6
[OOC: Edge carefully goes through the door opposite of the one he originally headed through, and begins to make his way towards the other mental blips, staying alert and on guard.]
A soft, yet deep sigh escaped Edge’s lips, as the sensation faded, and his muscles relax, even if only for a moment. There was a brief reprise, a short moment of silence where nothing tried to kill him. Then he felt the mental ping of other pustules, and a wave of preemptive exhaustion overcomes him. Was there no end to this?
Some part of him expected the scarred man to turn on him now that the room was cleared. Perhaps Edge had lived out his usefullness, who knew? But no attack came, with a look of slight confusion, Edge turned towards the other, one eyebrow raised, only to find that the scarred man waved at him, as if in parting. Before he even thinks it through, Edge lowers his head, a common show of respect and a gesture of parting among Darai. Even if he was still uncertain of what to make of the scarred man, he didn’t want to risk offending him.
Then he began making his way towards the door at the other end of the room, opposite of the one they had come through. There was a feeble hope that if he continued towards these other mental blips, he might find someone else who had been transported here. And besides, he had nothing else to go on, no sense of direction and very little understanding of the place around him. The Darai just hoped that Faolan was okay. Edge’s pace wasn’t as brisk as the scarred man, more careful and tentative, as Edge would rather not make mistakes. Carefully, holding his breath, Edge pushed open the door, peering through to check if anything would jump out at him and then he stepped through, into the hallway beyond.
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Post by Sharei on Oct 10, 2019 18:06:48 GMT -6
[OOC: Scared off by the rats and the odd feelings, Draggo goes into the room with the chest and begins investigating them, beginning with the ones closest.]
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Post by MP on Oct 11, 2019 3:23:48 GMT -6
Ari, Sara, Hau, and Grace: Ari's items: hunting horn, human effigy, Sara's items: old spear, rusty knife Grace's items: unlit torch, rusty knife Hau's items: maned pelt The bodies Ari searches are packed so tightly together that they've folded around each other like crumpled cans. The bodies are strung together with a massive length of rope. Others bind the hand and feet. Even after unnumbered years of decay, the cords are sturdy and strong. It makes the items in the mummies' hands difficult to extract, binding the withered hands around them in a death grip. Ari can see the shape of a vial, the liquid gray and thin. Another grips an old flint necklace, the frayed string tangled around its fingers.
Whatever Ari chooses to take, none of it seems immediately helpful to Hau's injuries. Transporting the man, while easier thanks to Grace's strength, is a slow process. And it might be best to hurry. Should any of them look back, they find the door to the altar room open. A black shape is moving down the hallway, the dark and suffocation rolling in like a wave behind it. In the deepest part of the gloom, one might make out the edge of the sword. Or maybe the rippling movement of the curtains, stirring as the dark sweeps over them, is the more commanding sight.
Any who delay in the hallway are plunged into darkness. The air is ripped from their lungs, and they can feel the breath of curtains at their backs. Those who passed through the door find themselves in the corner of a massive room. Columns line the walls, and the ceiling presses down, uncomfortably low. It funnels the eye toward the rigid figures facing the door. The room is lined with row upon row of clay soldiers, clad in rusted armor, armed with rusted blades. Every face is subtly different. All bear the same faint smile. And behind the smiles, the dark. It masses at the back of the room, deepening past the first few rows of soldiers and obscuring everything in the back half of the room. The air, already stale, is harder to breathe in this room. The deeper one moves into the dark, the worse it becomes.
There is a door in the righthand wall - the only other exit visible. If there are others in the room, the dark is far too deep to make them out. The only other feature of the room is a massive mural on the opposite wall, which stretches away to the left and vanishes into the dark.
Jedidiah: Items: unlit torch, gray vial, scholar's note 4, flint and tinder The serpent's skull caves in with a wet crack. Jedidiah's foot is slimed with bone and pulped meat, cracked fangs stinging in his heel. As the serpent's coils slap against his ankles in its death throes, the sound of hissing quiets. The second serpent is pulling back, thrashing to be free of the door. It seems anxious to get away from Jedidiah - away from the gathering dark.
Jedidiah's inner temperature is oddly sluggish to respond. His body heats more like an old, tired oven than an inner fire, and the warmth is weak and dissatisfying. The more the heat builds, the darker the room seems to become. It feels like eyes on his body, prickling and eager and closing in. It feels like icy skin against his own, leeching - almost feeding - off the warmth. It feels like something building.
The paranoia - it must be paranoia - thins the air in Jedidiah's lungs. Turns the walls to flat blanks, the shadows to something thick and uncertain. One of the distant horses seems to toss its head. The other paws the ground. But it's surely just the imagination. Just the fading venom. Just a trick of the darkening room.
Faolan: Items: unlit torch, flint ornament, (healing?) potion Stepping into the dark is like submerging in deep water. The air fills Faolan's lungs like tar, thick and suffocating. He can make out shapes through the dark - the dim contours of walls and corners, of dark smudges all around the walls, and a dark shape in the middle of the room. In that brief glimpse, the darkness seems to part - just enough to see that the central object is some kind of table - perhaps an altar. But Faolan pulls out, back in the narrow hallway, and it's hard to say for sure.
Nothing in that dark has noticed him. Nothing drags him back. But the door doesn't close when he lets it go. It hangs open. Inches wider. The dark is massing against the threshold, and the air is thinning. Even through the hush, Faolan can hear the sound of chains - so much closer. There's a hoarse breath at his back. Like a gasp. Like a laugh.
Something is coming over the rubble, crawling. It's pushing through the gap. Dragging itself down, a tangle of shattered chains rasping behind it. The creature is vaguely humanoid, wasted sides and emaciated limbs. But whatever it used to be, the creature is overgrown - devoured - by its armor. A calloused mass envelops the head, the back, part of the shoulder, ropy limbs and mandibles clamped into flesh in sick imitation of helm and pauldrons. The right arm isn't armored so much as consumed by its gauntlet, and the left looks as though the fanged growth there has gnawed it clean.
The creature reaches the base of the rubble. Stands, its limbs unfurling. It's taller than any human should be. The mass of flesh turns blindly after Faolan, wheezing. And the dark is rolling in, edging the door wider. Blacking out the hallway. Choking off the air. If Faolan lingers in the hallway, it'll soon be too dark to make out the creature at all.
Kira: The sodden fabric hits the mouth with a dull splat. It hangs there. Slides. Vanishes over the rim. The idol accepts the gift without so much as a ripple. Its mouth gapes skyward. Still waiting, Kira feels. Its silence feels almost mocking.
The burbat's fur stands on end; her skin crawls to be close to it. But her test has no effect on the idol, and the only thing that responds to the noise is the distant white patch, which drifts gently out of her peripherals. The idol waits. Shreds of fabric, it seems, will not suffice.
Cassius: Items: unlit torch, sturdy rope The pale rats retreat from Cassius' hands. Their skittering bodies flicker under his fingers as he climbs, burrowing deeper and out of sight. But he can hear them on the other side of the rubble: wet, sucking sounds. The whisper of tiny feet.
The stench of rot strikes Cassius like a wave as he climbs through the gap in the collapse, and now he can see what the rats are doing. There is a corpse ahead - a woman, crushed by the debris. The rats are crawling over her face, her neck, her outstretched hand. They're picking at her body, gumming at her flesh with flabby mouths and burrowing through the rubble with flabby pawss. They look up in unison as he approaches, and the rats scatter like roaches, bumbling against the walls and the door at the end of the hall in their hurry to escape. Several are oddly bulbous, and Cassius can make out objects beneath translucent flesh.
Marchelute: Items: falconer's glove, silver chain The soft pulsing fades to a backdrop as Marchelute hurries to the next room. When the door shuts behind him, the sound cuts off, and it's only his own heartbeat in his ears, he's almost sure. The silence of the place is a dead, creeping thing - a relief after the sickly thrum.
The ifrit is in the corner of a massive room, low-ceilinged and columned. There is no trace of the residue here. No trace of the dark. A light shines out from the left wall, warm and strong and oddly reassuring. It's not as bright as the light of Marchelute's original room, and through it he can see the faint contours of a mural, which stretches along the long left wall to the far end of the room. There are two doors in the far right corner - one in the far wall, and another in the righthand wall. The light, ignoring all obstacles and corners, carries in an unbroken glow almost as far as the threshold. There seems to be nothing else of note.
Edge: Items: simple knife Edge's door opens before his hand ever touches it. It pulls gently open, as if inviting him in. Beyond is a narrow hallway - bare stone walls, bare floor. The passage is empty - that is, aside from the collapse that spills across the floor. The ceiling must have caved in at some point, and the rubble is piled so high that only a few feet of space remains at the top. In order to reach it, he'll have to climb. There's no way of seeing what might be on the other side.
Draggo: The dragon finds the task of moving the door unexpectedly easy. Though he might have missed it through the whisper of rats, he finds that his hand feels stronger, refreshed, despite the wounds. The holes in his palm has closed. The once-torn skin is white and slightly raised - more like an old scar than a recent stabbing. There's black blood - rat blood - on his hands. It feels good. Feels invigorating. As he stares, even the white scar fades, leaving his hand whole and unblemished.
After this phenomenon, the room is something of a disappointment. The ivory chests are surely a letdown after Archie's generous troves. Both are filled with old, faded clothes in various stages of decay. Most are tattered and eaten through with holes. All are coated with fallen dust and chips of stone - same as the floor and the lids of the chests. As the dragon stares, another stone falls before his eyes. There is a web of cracks along the ceiling, and he can hear an ominous groan. Another piece falls, larger this time, and it chips the ivory where it hits.
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