A Gathering Storm

Lothar tries to help Kvarek out by aiming for the deft archer's ankle just above the boot to bringing the elf to his knees, but the arrow stab into the thick boot instead protecting him from harm. "Bloody lucky elf." the huntsman swears.

Lothar nicks one, but little else.

With the long-range threats eliminated, the wizard surveys the battlefield and decides Kvarek is most in need of assistance. As he moves towards his comrade, he holds out his arms and shouts at the assailants, "cease your attack and live, else you will burn like your archers"

The elves back off, clearly hoping that Bartalom speaks for all of you. They begin to slowly back away.

Do you let them go?

Bartalom looks around anxiously at his colleagues. "No more blood needs to be shed. No one else has to die here, today"

Lothar holds his next arrow knocked and drawn yet holds his fire as he watches the elves fall back.

Kvarek stands his ground, watching as the elves retreat. It's the honorable thing to do, but he doubts that they'll stay gone.

"Let them go. Maybe we will be pleasantly surprised when they don't return," Oria is ready for a rest from battle. Her arms and legs ache and hurt from the exertion of combat.

As soon as the last of the knife-eared bandits fade into the forest's shadow, Lothar lets the tension of his bowstring, but slow walks forward to their fallen. Soon he is scavenging arrows that he deems suitable from the archer's quivers.

The old stone ruin. A small entryway leads down into a hidden gloom.

Modek emerges from the brush and points, and repeats what he said earlier. "There. Lordling went down there." The goblin shivers, afraid to go down again.



The ruin contains a tunnel leading downward into the ground, curving to the left and with stairlike risers. The smell of foetid earth rises from the tunnel, but it would be quite defensible compared to the open ground and the elven archers.

Oria sighs loudly, her muscles aching in protest at the idea of more fighting. But it is the way.

She turns to the others. "Are we ready to go down through that tunnel that stinks like death? The bandits were just a warm-up."

"The elves were probably trying to do us favor, by preventing us from entering this tomb. Alas, our fortunes lie beneath."

Kvarek takes stock of his gear and self, lifts his shield and enters.

"I'll lead the way", says Batalom as he makes his way to the tunnel

Satisfied with his stock of arrows, Lothar slings his bow across his back, and walks back to collect his discarded staff. "Berter be frakin' wordh it by ma account." He was questioning their bargained price for all this trouble. He mutters to himself, quietly, as he begins following in behind the others, less concern upon their ears ahearin' and more to what hell lies within. "Goram golbins, bloody knife-ears, and a haute noble ta boot, if dat is we find em. This gotta be da worst way ta get me license e'er did."

Bartalom has no easy task. The lighting is dim, the ground hard, but the interior of the ruin proceeds around a corner and down into the depths. By torchlight, you proceed.

The stone hallway circles down, stone and mortar hold back a layer of gravel, and roots stick through even hard stone. The way down is cold and a descent from the faint veneer of man, quickly not so much built as carved from bare rock. Chill and dray, and then, a mausoleum. Here you find remnants of debris, bones from a meal, a broken wine bottle, and human waste in a corner. The men you follow must have come here.



A groan permeates your bones, until you realize that it is reverberating as if from rock itself. Farther on down the passage, was that a flash of light? Or reflection of your torch on something glassy, or metal?

"What a surprise, we have company it seems," Oria says in a low voice stating the obvious as she draws her two-handed sword, realizing that her arms didn't get half the rest they needed.

"Is anybody here?, the wizard cries out trying to keep his voice even, "we come in peace", he adds and then looks towards Oria.

Silent as the grave, as they say, save for the beating of your own hearts and the draw of your own breath.