NARRATION 29
SATURDAY 11 APRIL 1571 P.C.E.
Nones (3 pm)

he echoes of the dying man's last screams linger for a moment in the cavernous chamber and are answered by the dry crackling and popping like that of dry leaves as the body settles to the floor. From its place on the dais, the smell of brimstone wafts through the chamber, stinging eyes and burning throats. The sudden shock brings automatic responses from many. Those of the Church cross themselves and mutter minor prayers of protection. Those of the sword tense, expecting assault from some new avenue. Lugnut begins to yip and snarl nervously, glaring at the many cracks in the stone floor with absolute distrust and suspicion.

After seeing the unspeakable horror of the Robe's death, Travana drops to her knees and says a silent prayer. Trying to regain her composure, she rises to her feet and asks almost in a whisper, "What was that thing?" A half fearful look entering her eyes.

Doran bites her lip, then responds, "I think...at least I'm pretty sure...it was something evil." A shudder runs through her slim frame, and she makes the protective sign of the cross. "May the Allfather have mercy...."

He has reaped what he has sown." Standing nearby, the WardChaplain casts a weary, saddened glance towards the sorcerer's corpse. "Like many, he desired power in the world of men and now he is damned in the next life." The older priest catches himself, and his face turns stony. His eyes hard edged, he let's his voice to drop to a lecturing grumble. "Such is the penalty for giving into temptation and dealing with dark powers." He then turns and walks away, leaving the two women to converse alone.

Nearby, Folly swallows hard and shakes off the effects of the past few moments, letting his nerves settle back to their normal calm, chaotic selves. Thus composed, his inquisitive nature takes over and he squats to take a closer look at the tome. It is a massive book, a full yard tall, two feet wide, and two handspans deep. It is bound in a strange leather, coloured an odd pinkish tan and marked with odd swirls and gnarled spots, which unsettles the 'sage'. Pausing to don his gauntlets and draw a wooden rod from his satchel, he notices that he has been joined by Rumil and Sir Talen, who are watching intently. "I would stay back if I were you. This is obviously of evil intent and may react violently to your touch." Talen only nods, not deigning to move closer, but Rumil is another matter.

The burly paladin's face twists into a mask of angry zeal. "I would not lower myself to touch it with anything other than a torch and let its pages be consumed by cleansing fire."

Folly blanches at the thought of burning a book, even one so obviously foul as this one. "You would destroy something that could tell so much about your enemy? Knowledge is power, my friend."

Rumil motions with his bastard sword. "This and my faith are all the power I need to deal with Nefandite blasphemy." Behind the burly human, Talen gives him a measured look and then moves toward the sorceror's corpse, rather than listen to the argument.

Looking upwards at the towering warrior, Folly cocks an eyebrow. "I'll remember that the next time we face some fiend, but for now, I'll leave this thing's fate to wiser heads than thine."

But it is a disgusting malignant leech, just waiting to suck the life out of us!" he protests.

Folly motions with his gloved hands and the wooden rod they hold. "Thus explaining my precautions, and now if you would let me be..." He waves off the paladin, who grumbles about those of little faith and moves to join Sir Talen. Returning his attention to the work at hand, Folly slips the rod into the book and flips the cover open. The parchment pages are of the same odd leather, scraped thin enough to let light pass through. Inscribed in a disquieting reddish-brown ink, the pages are covered with sharp runic patterns and mystical symbology of a fiendish nature. The text is a vile compilation of corrupted Imperial, colloquial Frencian, and several unrecognizable tongues. After a moment's inspection, the sage finds it unreadable and disturbing. The harsh pattern seems to squirm nauseatingly and Folly is sure he feels an odious coldness, burning and hateful, emanating from the book through the wooden rod into his gloved hand. Snapping the book closed, he sets aside the rod and rubs his numb hands together for a moment. Then unslinging a large collection bag from his satchel, he opens it wide and places it at the top of the dread book. Rather than touch it directly, he uses the wooden rod to gingerly push the foul thing into the bag. With a victorious sigh of relief, he pulls the drawstring closed, capturing the thing in a prison of heavy cloth.

Talen comes to the sorceror's corpse and is taken aback by its appearance. The body is a desiccated husk as if the very essence has been drained from it. The eyes are shriveled raisins, recessed back into the black pits of their sockets. The mouth is a circular abyss, frozen in a scream of ultimate terror and suffering felt only by a lost soul meeting its doom. The skin is pulled tight and the colour of old, dry parchment and the violently contorted body looks as if weighs no more than three stone. Even the man's belongings show signs decay. Dry rot dots his garments and leather satchel. Kneeling next to the ruined thing, Talen brusquely begins searching through the man's robes, finding little but a few loose coins and some hard candy wrapped in a handbill for the Three River's Fair.

Still muttering angrily, Rumil joins the knight and immediately turns his ire on the fallen sorceror. "I will not have this evil carrion near what may be a holy font!" He grabs one leg by the booted foot and pulls back roughly to drag the thing from its resting place. There is a dry popping, snapping noise and the limb comes off into the paladin's hand. Before he can drop it, the amputated leg disintegrates into dust, staining Rumil's tabard a sooty gray and leaving the paladin momentarily nonplused.

Unable to destroy their books, now you feel the need to seek vengeance on a Nefandite's mortal remains, eh?" With a jaunty bounce, Folly strides by the stunned Rumil and comes to a stop near the sorceror's head. Taking a seat on the step, he takes up the sorceror's satchel and looks up at the paladin with undisguised amusement. "I would say that tells something about your respect for the departed..." Rumil's face flashes red and he restrains himself with some difficulty, grinding his teeth in the process. Clenching his hands tightly, he turns away, muttering under his breath. Folly casts an eye after him and then turns to Talen. "I could come to enjoy my conversations with him... but now what do we have here." He unlatches the satchel and begins to rummage about the interior bag, moving things about but not removing any of them. "Ah yes, very useful....I was wondering when I was going to be able to resupply my component bag... and as for the other things, they are safer with me than anyone else. Shall we examine the fountain next?"

The knight says nothing but only nods at Folly's words. With an odd glimmer in his eyes, he rises and moves next to the fuming paladin. "I will leave it to you to say prayers over this man's body, if you wish," Talen says to Rumil, looking at the body grimly. "Though I suspect his soul's destination has already been decided." Rumil's twisted, sour expression tells all about the suggestion, as if saying, 'I would rather bless a toad.' Talen says nothing else and moves to rejoin Folly.

In the intervening minutes after talking with Travana, Doran wanders over to the fountain, which has captured her interest. She studies it, a thoughtful look on her face. "I wonder," she comments to no one in particular, "Since this was once the AllFather's temple...do you think this could be a fountain of healing, that is assuming one is a good soul?"

Folly and Talen are the first to approach, then joined by Brother Castus. Upon hearing her words and examining the inscription, Talen is the first to speak. "A place of healing or blessing, I suspect."

Doran pauses for a moment, then continues, "Or could it be a trap?--either one set to catch heretics, or a trap of the Di-...our enemy."

Stroking his bearded chin, Castus takes one look at the clean water and font. "Child, how could that be? It does not seem corrupted by the hand of the Nefandites."

She explains, "Well, the Nefandites have fouled everything else in this place. We should not assume that things are as they seem. The fountain could be a facade for a poisoned well...Evil does like to dress itself in a pretty covering...Or if it were a trap to catch heretics, the thinking behind that could be this---after all, what soul is truly pure? Someone might wish us to think these healing waters when they would, in fact, kill."

Folly grins at the convoluted logic of it; all the while Castus and Talen throw surprised looks at each other and the winsome bard. Talen's countenance is the most telling, as if saying, 'How could such a sweet child manage to think like that?'

The consternation caused by her devious reasoning is not lost on the blue-eyed bard. She shrugs. "I was raised by... professionally cautious... people."

Castus snorts. "Sounds like someone I used to know." Doran grins at the portly monk. "We'll have to compare notes sometime." She looks to everyone else. "Whatever the case, the water from the fountain may prove useful. Does anyone happen to have extra waterskin to take some along?"

There is a momentary hubbub as those within earshot check amongst their possessions for some suitable container for water. For a moment, it seems no one has an empty one at hand until Doran receives an answer from behind her. "Why yes, I think I have one." She spins about to find Folly, standing by the font, having slipped by her in the momentary confusion. Looking hale and bright eyed, the sage smiles mischievously while proffering a waterskin with one hand and wiping moisture from his mustache with the other. "If you like, I have some ceramic flasks as well. It would be a shame to not take as much of this refreshing water as possible."

While the tumult of activity occurs about the sorceror's body and the fountain, the rest of the oversized party is not inactive. They spread about the large chamber to indulge in various activities under the watchful eyes of Calimar, Cain and the Wardleftenant. The three swordsmen wander about in relaxed readiness, standing guard over their distracted companions. Likewise, Lugnut stands watch but in less collected fashion. With his cocked crossbow across his knees, the kobold squats, nervously watching the confines of the room with alarming intensity and the spidery cracks in the floor even moreso. Barely audible, a low constant growl rumbles in the back of his throat.

Nodisco's mercenaries are amongst the most busy. Under the hooded eyes of their halfling overlord, they drag the bodies of the fallen Nefandites and their guards together into a rough line near the center of the room. Then with a war-bred lack of concern, they begin to loot the bodies while whistling bawdy marching songs. Brutally efficient, they leave no place unchecked and abandon nothing of value. Weapons and armor are graded and discarded if found wanting. Clothing, packs, and other belongings are quickly rifled through with casual callousness. Pockets are torn out, satchels split open and tabards reduced to rags.

Drawing forth a pair of pliers, one mercenary goes so far as to yank free the occasional gold teeth that he finds. Finally, almost as if an afterthought, they pull away the purses of the dead from their belts and slip off any visible rings from their fingers. With each new discovery, they split the lucre and deposit Nodisco's share in a pouch, which they drop at his feet when they finish.

Sergeant Kasserein accosts the WardChaplain as he stands contemplating the fallen Nefandites. No one is close enough to fully hear the rather pointed and animated conversation, but it seems to involve the fate of the fallen Nefandite guards. The scarred veteran is quite passionate about his stance but the Warden priest seems equally as adamant. Sharp words are exchanged in sibilant hisses and both men tense, glaring at each other with undisguised rage. It seems in a long moment that the two men will come to blows, Yet, finally, the cleric relents with a rueful glance at Kasserein. Drawing forth his crucifix, the WardChaplain kneels next to the black garbed bodies of the Nefandite-bound mercenaries and begins the quiet ritual of the Last Rites. All the while, his face twists with disgust at his proximity to their Nefandite masters.

Likewise, Martin is troubled by the proximity of evil but unlike his Warden counterpart, his unease does stems not from the bodies of the fallen. With his heavy crucifix before him as a shimmering shield, he wanders about the room, searching for diabolic presence with holy light. To heaven ordained eyes, the entire labyrinth seems heavy with unholy contaminate but to the north it is particularly vile. It seems a vast sinkhole of blackness, a toothy maw waiting to swallow the unwary. His stomach churning from painful nausea at the sight, he turns to look back towards the fountain and is rewarded with a calming image. The fount glows as a white beacon in the shadows.

The room and its occupants go under another equally thorough albeit less esoteric examination. With feigned disinterest, Travana wanders in a seemingly aimless manner, pausing at each point of interest about the room for scant moments. Even while she absentmindedly twists a golden lock of her hair about one finger, keen eyes note each possibly important detail--from each discovery by Nodisco's mercenaries to the great number of obscured objects hanging in the heavy shrouds of the spider webs. Everywhere, everything, and everyone falls if but for a moment beneath her scrutiny. Finishing her circuit, the half-elfess gives a moment's look to a ring on her right hand and then looked up at those nearby. Smiling, she asked," What is our plan of attack now that we have the book and the sword?"

Most of those within earshot are too consumed in their own tasks and explorations so no verbal answer is immediately forthcoming. However, it does bring about one response. Leaning against a nearby column and running a whetstone the length of his bastard sword, the unnamed, dark haired stranger hears the half-elfess' words and pauses in his sharpening. Eyes growing momentarily distant in thought, he ponders the question before nodding as he comes to some decision. With a practiced smooth motion, he sheathes his heavy blade and takes up a half-burned torch dropped in the Nefandites' battle with the spiders. Equipped, he turns about to look for a suitable conspirator and drops his eyes on Doran's kobold protector, Lugnut, squatting on his haunches with his crossbow across his thighs. The little humanoid is the only individual in the room not involved in some pursuit and becomes the logical choice for the stranger ranger's plans.

A cock-eyed grin spreading across his face, the lanky woodsman strides over to the nervously attentive kobold and kneels on one knee. Looking obliquely at Lugnut, he whispers lowly, "Little one, would you care to exit this pox ridden room? Perhaps finding gold and more of these fiend worshippers to slay? You look the type for a little adventure."

At the mention of an escapade and possible wealth, Lugnut's eyes light like lanterns and his scaly hide seems to feather up in interest. He lets out with a surprisingly melodic trill before grinning toothily. "Gold, gold. Fight, fight. What do?" Still burning brightly, the kobold's eyes lock expectantly on the dusky skinned human.

He extends a hand and grabs one of Lugnut's taloned ones, shaking it vigorously. "Well, my partner, I am Garridan SancPaul and I want you to cover me with that bow of yours while I cross this room to the opposite door. Be sure to keep any vermin, two legged or more, from my back and I will share half of what I find with you? Deal?" Lugnut returns the ranger's handshake and then shakes his crossbow in readiness.

Garridan gently cuffs the grinning humanoid aside the head and stands with an exaggerated stretch. Shoving the end of the torch into a nearby lantern, he lights the brand and begins to move towards the thinnest portion of the webbing. Cautiously eyeing the silken mass for any sign of arachnid activity, the ranger thrusts the flame into tangling fibers. With an explosive rush and bright flare, the webbing goes up into flame like a charlatan's flash powder, consuming all the webbing in the room. As the supporting webbing burns away, a rain of hidden objects crash to the floor, spraying tiny bits as some shatter. Frightening as it is, the brief reaction only wafts a suddenly warm breeze at the party, but causes no harm. It sounds to be not so for the spiders. The fire rushes into their lair and finds stronger purchase. The agonized sound of spidery chitters and dying screams fills the chamber for several moments until it dies to a low, barely audible smoldering popping.

With a measured nod of his head, the ranger notes the effects of his handiwork with quiet satisfaction. Discarding his torch, he waves Lugnut forward and the little humanoid scurries to join him with lantern and crossbow ready. Making his own sword ready, Garridan, with Lugnut a few steps behind, advances to the western doors and begins to carefully examine the massive portals with a cautious eye.

The room now clear of most of the obscuring webbing, Folly is intrigued by the open maw of the spider's nest, rather than the odd bits fallen from the web. Not one to let a curiosity lie unexplored, the mage begins to move towards it, only lingering to take up Garridan's discarded torch. He disappears into the darkened rift. The consuming darkness seemingly swallows him up and along with him the glowing beacon of his torch. One minute, then another passes in quick succession without sight or sound of Folly, and some of you nervously consider to follow. Before you can, the dusty mage stumbles out from the opening with a large, moth eaten sack in hand. Clearing his eyes, he staggers over to Father Martin and drops the sack at his feet. With a clatter, the golden religuies of a church...candlesticks, the collection plate, crucifixes, the aspergill and other such...spill out. Gasping behind his dusty mask, Folly barely coughs out, "You might want to take a look back there. On the far side of the nest...is another hallway. I found the body of a priest, his head caved in by a fallen ceiling stone. He was carrying that..." Folly points toward the religious items. "Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to get another drink from that fount."

At the western doors, Garridan kneels, listening intently with an ear pressed against the heavy brass-bound portals. Yet, he hears nothing but the droning, heavy chants of the Nefandites that have filled this place. With a discouraged shrug, the ranger rises and tries the door, finding it blocked. Peeking into the crack between the doors, he sees a crossbar, locking them into place. He rams his blade into the gap and begins to lift upward, until the bar pops free. Majestically, the doors swing open pulled by their own weight. From the hallway beyond , everyone is immediately assaulted by a miasma of unpleasant smells...the heavy metallic tang of blood, sweat, things long dead and sickly sweet incense...and now the deafening drone of the redoubled chant, clearly heard and frighteningly familiar.