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.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
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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.