Upon casting the spell, Mal gives the door a push and it swings open a little. Constant pushing moves the door all the way open, revealing four suits of rusted plate armor sans helmets, sized for a dwarf, in the corners of this 20-foot-high room. Each suit is draped in cobwebs. Dwarvish runes are carved into the far wall.
"Hmm. I could try a thing or two. As a performer, I get a fair bit of access to private situations, though somehow I think something more personal might be best. And to answer your question, Morph, I can do one encore, but nothing further, and it will also slow me down a good bit in future situations. Still, might as well, right?"
*Assuming that most of the party are over in the room by this point.
Mal sweeps down and walks to the center of the room, and in a clear, tenor stage voice, calls out: "I have for you today a secret never shared, for who could know of it, in this group, but I, Mal Dulinn!?" He takes a deep breath. "I've been funding and running a ring of voluntary spies and information gatherers, and have been keeping it secret from my friends and co-owners of the good establishment, Trollshaw Manor in Waterdeep."
Silence falls on the room as Malspeaks his secret. And then a soft click sounds and a trap door, that nobody had detected at all, pops open. As it lifts it reveals a spiral stone staircase descending deep into the vault.
Titus stares and gawks at Mal as the trap door opens. He starts to speak but only sputters out some gibberish, sighs, and walks away. He is disgruntled with the reckless act of managing an underground spy ring, but happy that they had found a way to advance further into the chamber. Unable to find his words, he decides to spare Mal his lecture, and presses forward into the trap door.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Nemean Goldenmane: Tabaxi Fighter - Lost Mine of Phandelver
Titus Vorenus: Dragonborn Paladin - Waterdeep: Dragon Heist
Lanielbrings up the rear behind the bugbears and the two women in descending the spiraling stone steps. The steps seem to go forever. One of the bugbears tried counting them but gave up after his brother cuffed him behind the head. It must have been nearly 200 steps, perhaps more before the group finally reached the bottom. What waits them is a sight to behold.
Although deep underground, the vault is lit by streams of sunlight that pour down from the ceiling, catching motes of dust in their luminous pools. Ornate columns support a thirty-foot-high vaulted ceiling, which is adorned with carvings of dwarves basking in the presence of their gods. Deep alcoves line the walls, and piled in one of them is a vast golden trove.
Out of the dusty gloom steps an aged dwarf clutching a staff carved and painted to resemble a pair of entwined dragons — one red, one gold. Despite the dwarf’s age, his eyes are steady and bright. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he says plainly. “As you can see, the place is a mess. Perhaps you should come back later, after I’ve tidied up a bit.”