Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

The spectral figures do not react to the waver in Trusova's voice, to the jittering light Banio holds aloft, or to Lambert's outburst. They kneel, all seven of them, for long seconds before the head tumbles off one of them. That elf-priest falls forward as their ghostly head bounces and tumbles, coming straight down the depression towards Wolke and Phelbt before it disappears into the hole Banio had been looking in. And then it happens to another of the gathered figures, and another, and another -- until all seven have been beheaded by some unseen force. Spurting mist and vapors, the heads all roll and thump before they are gone, and each of the elves, corpses now, pitch forward and slide into position... perfect position with the withered wretches Lambert was just looting.

And then the trio is alone again, with the only sign anything unnatural happened being a sudden drop in temperature in the room. Each of them can see their breath now, and feel a chill permeating their clothes.

Lambert's shrill cries send Trusova into action. She isn't sure if a spear will avail her against ghosts, but she levies it at them regardless, ready for a fight if they make a move against either of her friends. Later, she might ruminate on when exactly 'allies' became 'friends,' but at the moment, she's all business.

And then the bastards go and dump their heads in the hole, and disappear.

"Are you two alright?" she calls out.

"I'm fine! Of course I'm fine," Banio blurts, to cover his disquiet. His plump lower lip pokes out. "At least we know that the hole itself didn't take their heads off. That's something."

No, the elves were killed-- sacrificed-- by someone else. Someone who survived his or her handiwork, and did not join the shades in this frosty chamber. After a moment spent waiting for any phantom to reappear, Banio squats and joins Lambert in rifling the corpses for obvious valuables.

"Did you find anything over there? On the dais?" Phelbt asks Trusova, as his fat little fingers crawl about in bone and rotten finery.

"Probably one of their own that did it!" Lambert suggests.

"Suppose they thought it was some ritual that would save the world, and all that!" he posits, baselessly.

"Any sign of that amulet then?"

The appearance of the ghosts had rattled her enough that she had temporarily forgotten about the dias.

"Right. Mostly gone to shit, but it's got low ridges on the top for holding something. A box, maybe. I wonder if we put the right thing here if it might have some effect on the room."

She places her lantern in the middle of the dias's centerpiece, experimentally. She also follows an invisible sight line from the top of the centerpiece to the ceiling and wall, in case this reveals some hidden feature or some clue to the dias's purpose.

With the ghosts apparently gone for the time being, the pilfering continues in the depression as Trusova fiddles with her lantern and the dais. Checking beneath and behind the thing, looking overhead and all around, the warden soon decides there's nothing more to learn from the rotten platform. Something (a book? a box?) was once placed there, perhaps stored there -- but that something is gone.

In the middle of the room, Banio and Wolke have spotted, appraised, laid out and pocketed a large amount of jewelry and other possessions. Things these long-dead elves will no longer need...

The two men sit back eventually, sizing up their prizes, quite happy with their respective hauls, really. Banio believes he has jewelry and ancient adornments worth seven pieces of gold, sold to the right buyer, and he's now in possession of two stunning looking rings. One is clearly ancient and was crafted in some bygone age. Golden, it is serpentine in nature, an intricate wyrm or dragon encircling itself, over and over. The metal is warm in Phelbt's palm, and the man feels an urge to put it on.

The second remarkable ring he pulled from a dry, grey hand is no less impressive. The band and setting look to be pure silver, and the opal stone, oval in shape, must be an inch long. It is smooth and milky white shot with blue flecks, that opal, and it begs for a rubbing thumb.

Wolke's haul is even more impressive. Delicate chains -- anklets, necklaces, and bracelets -- worth, he's certain, at least 16 golden coins. He's also recovered a knife made of what looks like star metal -- black and rough as wrought iron, but slightly tingling to the touch and sharper than any blade Lambert has ever held. It has a weight that makes it difficult not to obsess over, to put away.

But it is the last item, when unpacked, that might the most valuable. A leather satchel, so rotten it comes apart in the thief's hands, has inside of it two lacquered wooden tubes with something rolled and stuffed inside them, a long and graceful wand of carved bone that looks a bit like an elven finger, and another ring. This one wooden, but heavily engraved with forest scenes of streams, plants, animals, and the feyfolk living among them.

From the steps leading up into the room, Trusova wonders if she hears something. A scuff, a sound? The sharp intake of a breath? Then nothing.

"Very nice!" Lambert says, marveling at the find. He portions off half of the jewels for their third waiting above, spear in hand. He scoops it up out of the hole for her.

"Trusova! That’s your lot. Equal work for equal pay, and all that!"

Then, he sits back into the hole, and marvels at the knife once more, before trying on the wooden ring for size and weight. He holds the wand, too, for full effect.

All the better to know how to pawn them…

"Now, don't just--" Banio starts to say, but it's already too late; Lambert is happily decorating himself with ancient corpse-finds. The little man heaves a little sigh. The two rings he's found linger on his palm for a moment, but he retains the presence of mind to tuck them away in his pack for now.

"We can settle up once we make it out of here," Phelbt declares. "No amulet, no box..." His eyes dart about the chamber, then towards the space above them. Might there be another way out besides the steps they ascended to enter? Some closet or cubby they might have missed?

While the boys are scrounging the gutter for golden treasures, Trusova is stalking along the outside of the depression, watching their backs and the entrance to the room. When she hears the scuffling noises, Trusova leaps into action and charges toward the stairs. She skids to a halt just outside the doorway and peers around the corner into the stairwell, spear at the ready.

The knife feels good in Wolke's hand, and if he's honest... something about it makes him want to carve flesh. To dip it -- no, anoint it -- in blood. Even his own.

But away he tucks it, and then the man is trying on the wooden ring and he's more carefully examining the wand. The ring fits perfectly, and when it slides over one of the man's remaining knuckles... writing appears on the side of the beautifully crafted wand. What were merely tiny and meaningless characters seconds ago now make sense to the man.

Here to there, it says on one side, and there to here, on the other. In Elvish.

For his part, Banio secures his new goods and busies himself looking for another way out... but find one he does not. It's clear from the shape of the ceiling that they are at the very top of the tower, and he muses about this as Trusova suddenly moves to a defensive position.

There, at the top of that short flight of steps that leads down into the lower chamber, she hears the sound again. The scuff of a boot on a stone step. And then another, and another -- faster, and faster as she listens. It sounds like someone or something is coming, and its pace is increasing.

Chuff... chuff... chuff, chuff, chuff, chuff chuff chuff chuffchuffchuff!

Fishmen don't wear boots, Trusova thinks. They'd make more of a floppy sound as their webbed, wet feet slap against stone. She signals to the others there is someone approaching. She readies her spear for an ambush.

Lambert stands, scooping Trusova’s share back into his pockets for safe keeping.

"Here to there. There to here." he says, standing in the room, wand and ring in hand.

"What do you reckon that’s all about then?"

And then he notices the warden’s alertness.

"What is it?"

Banio puzzles over Trusova's gestures. He's no road warden, and a combatant of only the lowliest kind. After a moment, however, her posture gives him to understand that some danger threatens from the stairwell.

The little man draws his dagger and casts about for a good place to hide. Finding none, he scuttles over to a wall near the entrance, where he'll be out of sight from anyone mounting the stairs.