The cave is alive with chaos—the ground still weeping marl dust from the Maw’s violent eruption. Shards of stone clatter down from the vaulted dark while the ropers writhe, their graspers flailing in frustration.
The deep gnome drifts upward in a slow, spectral coil of mist, slipping through gaps in the blind monster’s reach. Each pulse of tremor from the Maw sends his vaporous form rippling, like smoke in a storm.
Above, the fairy warlock zips between pillar-tops, cloak snapping in the cave’s stale air, a shimmer of eldritch light marking her path. She wheels sharply to bait one roper’s attention just long enough for the human—arm bruised, breath ragged—to dart from cover to cover, boots crunching on loose gravel.
The bugbear lopes in long, deliberate strides, one eye always on the subterranean quiver beneath his feet, dragging the second gnome forward in a half-crouch. Behind them, a roper’s grasper slams into a pillar and splinters stone where they stood a heartbeat ago.
The ground still thrums—dull, deep, and hungry—but it begins to fade as they break through a narrow cleft between two fused columns. Suddenly, the noise drops away, replaced by the steady drip of unseen water.
They spill into a wider chamber, panting, eyes adjusting. The passage forks: to the south and east, familiar corridors where danger already lurked; to the north, a dark throat of rock none of them have walked before.
Without a word, they turn their backs on the pursuit and head into the northern tunnel—shadows swallowing their figures, the memory of grinding stone still echoing in their bones.
If we are making our escape into the dark northern tunnel then Kos can drop concentration to gain his full movement and stuff.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
"Wow, that was a bit close for comfort. It's important we realize why we are here. To find the source of the rift." He looks at the human who took his ration earlier.
"They call me Captain, Captain Sparhawk." Sparhawk is a sort of strange mix of orc/ bugbear. His arms are elongated, he has greenish skin under some patches of fur. He wears blackened plate armor, and appears to be heavily armored. He is also huge, standing about 6'5 and weighs over 250lbs. He has a very distinct broken nose, which goes at strange crooked angles.
"anyone in need of some healing. That was a tough area."
The northern tunnel narrows, forcing you into single file. The air grows still—no drip of water, no whisper of wind—only the faint crunch of your boots on dry stone. Ahead, the passage widens abruptly into a low, circular cavern, its walls painted in pale lichen that gleams faintly in your light.
At the exact center, placed as if for ritual display, rests a small silver coffer on a patch of bare, undisturbed rock. The box catches the light with a muted gleam, its surface engraved with curling patterns worn smooth by time. Perched atop it is a bleached humanoid skull, its empty sockets fixed eternally on the mouth of the tunnel.
Nearby lies what appears to be a folded leather cloak, heavy and still in the gloom. A few stray coins and glints of cut stone lie scattered near the coffer—gold winking faintly in the torchlight, a few deep green shards catching the light like tiny trapped flames. A pair of small glass vials, stoppered and opaque, nestle half-hidden beside the silver box.
The air in here is drier than the rest of the cave, and strangely warm. Nothing moves, yet it feels—somehow—that the room is holding its breath.
Gharzun slowed as the tunnel opened into the circular chamber, shield angled close to his body, hammer held low but ready. The silence pressed in—unnatural, expectant—and his eyes narrowed on the silver coffer and the skull that crowned it. His boots ground softly against the stone as he shifted position to the flank, giving their captain room to stand at the fore.
He dipped his head slightly toward Sparhawk, voice measured and even. The air here carries weight, Captain. Not natural stillness. The coffer may be placed with intent. He let the words hang, not as a warning barked, but as an observation offered for the leader to judge.
Drawing a steadying breath, he pressed a gauntleted hand briefly to the sigils worked into his armor. The faint pulse of protective wards stirred along his frame, a quiet act of vigilance rather than a display. Gharzun stepped just far enough ahead to act as shield if something stirred, but kept his bearing deferential— alert, watchful, a soldier waiting on his commander’s word.
Action: Moves a few paces into the chamber, taking position slightly ahead and to the side of Captain Sparhawk.
Bonus Action:Divine Sense – searching for celestials, fiends, undead, or desecrated presence.
Aura (active): Aura of Protection – allies within 10 ft gain +4 to saving throws.
Prepared Reaction: If anything stirs from the coffer or cloak, Gharzun interposes with shield.
OOC: Gharzun is scanning for threats and taking a protective stance, leaving decisions about the coffer or other items for the Captain to call.
Tenebril was flying just above the rest of the group as they were making their hurried escape from the maw and friends. As they make their way into the northern cavern he comes to a abrupt stop as he notices the change in the air and feel of the cavern. Having gotten used to Gharzun's behaviors, he floats over to him so he is within the aura of protection he can see lightly surrounding him.
Tenebril starts looking around the room to see if there's any other threats waiting to jump out at them at this point. (Perception Check: 16)
"Gharzun, Sparhawk, what do you make of this Room? I can try to use mage hand to place that coin wherever you think it should go if we want to try that. I'm worried that would be seen as us trying to mess with the treasure already in here. If we don't see any keys laying about, I think we might want to look for another exit and not touch anything, not sure what everyone else thinks though."
The leather cloak lies draped near the silver coffer, its folds unnaturally still despite the faint air currents in the cave. At first glance, it looks like a discarded garment—worn, heavy, maybe enchanted.
But something’s wrong. The edges don’t quite settle against the stone. There’s a subtle tension in the way it rests, like a creature holding its breath.
As you draw closer, you notice the texture isn’t leather—it’s flesh, thin and veined, with a faint shimmer of moisture along the underside. One of its corners twitches, just once, as if reacting to your presence.
Gharzun’s shield came up, steady and deliberate, as the folds of the thing twitched against the stone. He shifted his stance without wasted motion, boots grinding against the floor until he was anchored solidly ahead of the line. Whatever it was, it had chosen its ground well—but so had he. A veteran did not wait for orders to be ready.
His eyes swept the chamber once, gauging angles and space, then settled back on the creature draped near the coffer. He spoke in a measured tone, the calm weight of long service behind the words. If it breaks, it breaks on me first.
Hammer raised just enough for a clean swing, shield angled to catch the first strike, he drew a long, even breath. This was no panic, no surprise—only another field, another foe. The discipline of years rested in every line of his stance.
Position: Steps forward into the front rank, shield raised, hammer ready.
Readiness: Prepared to strike if the creature lunges or shows hostile action.
Aura (active): Aura of Protection – allies within 10 ft gain +4 to all saving throws.
OOC: Gharzun takes point, bracing for the creature to strike. He defers to Sparhawk’s lead on diplomacy but is fully ready for immediate combat.
Kos will use his action and a 1st level spell slot to quickly mix up an elixir of swiftness (10 feet increase to speed for 1 hour) and hand it off to whoever it was that mentioned they were interested in it? (Gharzun perhaps)
"Here's that elixir which can make you faster, it'll last for about an hour."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
The bugbear steps into the chamber, boots crunching softly on dry marl. The silver coffer gleams faintly in the gloom, the skull atop it grinning in eternal mockery. The folded cloak nearby remains still. The air ripples, not with sound, but with pressure, like the cave itself exhaling.
Three shapes unfold from the shadows. They don’t rise or walk; they unfurl, like cloaks caught in a sudden wind, but with weight and intent. Each one drifts just above the ground, its edges trailing like smoke, its underside slick and veined like something half-organic.
A pair of pale, lidless eyes gleam from each form’s center, unblinking and wrong. Their mouths gape open—not in hunger, but in silence, as if waiting for a scream that never comes.
They hover in a loose triangle around the bugbear, shifting slightly with each breath he takes. One glides a few inches to the left. Another mirrors the motion half a heartbeat later. The third remains perfectly still, its gaze locked on him with a patience that feels ancient.
The cave feels smaller now. The air heavier. And somewhere within, something is watching.
The cave is alive with chaos—the ground still weeping marl dust from the Maw’s violent eruption. Shards of stone clatter down from the vaulted dark while the ropers writhe, their graspers flailing in frustration.
The deep gnome drifts upward in a slow, spectral coil of mist, slipping through gaps in the blind monster’s reach. Each pulse of tremor from the Maw sends his vaporous form rippling, like smoke in a storm.
Above, the fairy warlock zips between pillar-tops, cloak snapping in the cave’s stale air, a shimmer of eldritch light marking her path. She wheels sharply to bait one roper’s attention just long enough for the human—arm bruised, breath ragged—to dart from cover to cover, boots crunching on loose gravel.
The bugbear lopes in long, deliberate strides, one eye always on the subterranean quiver beneath his feet, dragging the second gnome forward in a half-crouch. Behind them, a roper’s grasper slams into a pillar and splinters stone where they stood a heartbeat ago.
The ground still thrums—dull, deep, and hungry—but it begins to fade as they break through a narrow cleft between two fused columns. Suddenly, the noise drops away, replaced by the steady drip of unseen water.
They spill into a wider chamber, panting, eyes adjusting. The passage forks: to the south and east, familiar corridors where danger already lurked; to the north, a dark throat of rock none of them have walked before.
Without a word, they turn their backs on the pursuit and head into the northern tunnel—shadows swallowing their figures, the memory of grinding stone still echoing in their bones.
If we are making our escape into the dark northern tunnel then Kos can drop concentration to gain his full movement and stuff.
"Wow, that was a bit close for comfort. It's important we realize why we are here. To find the source of the rift." He looks at the human who took his ration earlier.
"They call me Captain, Captain Sparhawk." Sparhawk is a sort of strange mix of orc/ bugbear. His arms are elongated, he has greenish skin under some patches of fur. He wears blackened plate armor, and appears to be heavily armored. He is also huge, standing about 6'5 and weighs over 250lbs. He has a very distinct broken nose, which goes at strange crooked angles.
"anyone in need of some healing. That was a tough area."
The northern tunnel narrows, forcing you into single file. The air grows still—no drip of water, no whisper of wind—only the faint crunch of your boots on dry stone. Ahead, the passage widens abruptly into a low, circular cavern, its walls painted in pale lichen that gleams faintly in your light.
At the exact center, placed as if for ritual display, rests a small silver coffer on a patch of bare, undisturbed rock. The box catches the light with a muted gleam, its surface engraved with curling patterns worn smooth by time. Perched atop it is a bleached humanoid skull, its empty sockets fixed eternally on the mouth of the tunnel.
Nearby lies what appears to be a folded leather cloak, heavy and still in the gloom. A few stray coins and glints of cut stone lie scattered near the coffer—gold winking faintly in the torchlight, a few deep green shards catching the light like tiny trapped flames. A pair of small glass vials, stoppered and opaque, nestle half-hidden beside the silver box.
The air in here is drier than the rest of the cave, and strangely warm. Nothing moves, yet it feels—somehow—that the room is holding its breath.
Gharzun slowed as the tunnel opened into the circular chamber, shield angled close to his body, hammer held low but ready. The silence pressed in—unnatural, expectant—and his eyes narrowed on the silver coffer and the skull that crowned it. His boots ground softly against the stone as he shifted position to the flank, giving their captain room to stand at the fore.
He dipped his head slightly toward Sparhawk, voice measured and even. He let the words hang, not as a warning barked, but as an observation offered for the leader to judge.
Drawing a steadying breath, he pressed a gauntleted hand briefly to the sigils worked into his armor. The faint pulse of protective wards stirred along his frame, a quiet act of vigilance rather than a display. Gharzun stepped just far enough ahead to act as shield if something stirred, but kept his bearing deferential— alert, watchful, a soldier waiting on his commander’s word.
OOC: Gharzun is scanning for threats and taking a protective stance, leaving decisions about the coffer or other items for the Captain to call.
<Noted. Nothing celestial, undead, divine or desecrated detect.>
“This may be a place where a donation pacifies the spirits, gods, or traps here.” He pulls out a bag of coins?
”other thoughts?” Can we determine what type of potion lies within?” (Identify?)
(perception to see if any traps or mechanisms. (9)
Tenebril was flying just above the rest of the group as they were making their hurried escape from the maw and friends. As they make their way into the northern cavern he comes to a abrupt stop as he notices the change in the air and feel of the cavern. Having gotten used to Gharzun's behaviors, he floats over to him so he is within the aura of protection he can see lightly surrounding him.
Tenebril starts looking around the room to see if there's any other threats waiting to jump out at them at this point. (Perception Check: 16)
"Gharzun, Sparhawk, what do you make of this Room? I can try to use mage hand to place that coin wherever you think it should go if we want to try that. I'm worried that would be seen as us trying to mess with the treasure already in here. If we don't see any keys laying about, I think we might want to look for another exit and not touch anything, not sure what everyone else thinks though."
The leather cloak lies draped near the silver coffer, its folds unnaturally still despite the faint air currents in the cave. At first glance, it looks like a discarded garment—worn, heavy, maybe enchanted.
But something’s wrong. The edges don’t quite settle against the stone. There’s a subtle tension in the way it rests, like a creature holding its breath.
As you draw closer, you notice the texture isn’t leather—it’s flesh, thin and veined, with a faint shimmer of moisture along the underside. One of its corners twitches, just once, as if reacting to your presence.
It’s not a cloak. It’s alive. And it’s waiting.
“I am Sparhawk, we mean you no harm, but we will defend ourselves if we must. I can offer you a payment if you allow us to pass.”
he pulls a bag of coins from his belt. N
Gharzun
Gharzun’s shield came up, steady and deliberate, as the folds of the thing twitched against the stone. He shifted his stance without wasted motion, boots grinding against the floor until he was anchored solidly ahead of the line. Whatever it was, it had chosen its ground well—but so had he. A veteran did not wait for orders to be ready.
His eyes swept the chamber once, gauging angles and space, then settled back on the creature draped near the coffer. He spoke in a measured tone, the calm weight of long service behind the words.
Hammer raised just enough for a clean swing, shield angled to catch the first strike, he drew a long, even breath. This was no panic, no surprise—only another field, another foe. The discipline of years rested in every line of his stance.
OOC: Gharzun takes point, bracing for the creature to strike. He defers to Sparhawk’s lead on diplomacy but is fully ready for immediate combat.
Kos will use his action and a 1st level spell slot to quickly mix up an elixir of swiftness (10 feet increase to speed for 1 hour) and hand it off to whoever it was that mentioned they were interested in it? (Gharzun perhaps)
"Here's that elixir which can make you faster, it'll last for about an hour."
The cloak juat lays there, motionless.
Sparhawk take 5 steps forward
The bugbear steps into the chamber, boots crunching softly on dry marl. The silver coffer gleams faintly in the gloom, the skull atop it grinning in eternal mockery. The folded cloak nearby remains still. The air ripples, not with sound, but with pressure, like the cave itself exhaling.
Three shapes unfold from the shadows. They don’t rise or walk; they unfurl, like cloaks caught in a sudden wind, but with weight and intent. Each one drifts just above the ground, its edges trailing like smoke, its underside slick and veined like something half-organic.
A pair of pale, lidless eyes gleam from each form’s center, unblinking and wrong. Their mouths gape open—not in hunger, but in silence, as if waiting for a scream that never comes.
They hover in a loose triangle around the bugbear, shifting slightly with each breath he takes. One glides a few inches to the left. Another mirrors the motion half a heartbeat later. The third remains perfectly still, its gaze locked on him with a patience that feels ancient.
The cave feels smaller now. The air heavier. And somewhere within, something is watching.
Sparhawk advances on the silver coffer in the center.
He studies the coffer and its contents, without touching anything. (Perception: 11)
"Well, so far," the knight says to the group, "I have not offended anything as of yet."
(OOC: It seems to be waiting for us to take some sort of action, which will determine their next moves)
<Could be> Anyone else?