Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

Trusova really believed they'd get out of there alive, all three of them. Even when the door jammed and Lambert was pulled through, she was ready to jump through and haul him back, despite the many wounds she had taken this night. When he pulled out the wand, how her hope surged! They would all be back at the Manky Mermaid later that night, laughing about how close a call it was, daring each other to drink the fire brew.

But instead, poor Lambert ... he ... gods...

She couldn't really think about it right now. There would be time to grieve later. To feel guilt later. Right now, she had to survive. Banio needed her, Whiskeyjack needed her.

She turns to Banio, about to tell him to run, but instead just trades glances with the man. For a split second, she searches his eyes for a connection, to see if the man felt the same anguish that she was feeling. Maybe she was just trying to steal the small comfort of share suffering. Did Banio feel it, too? He came back for Lambert, after all.

Then she raises their last lantern and runs like the fucking wind up those cursed stairs.

The expression that contorts Banio's face is a strange brew of confusion, horror and awe. His thoughts jumble together.

What in all the hells just happened?!

That must have been excruciatingly painful...

Damn, what a way to go!

As he boggles, Phelbt is aware of Trusova dashing past him for the stairs. Carrying with her their only remaining source of light, as well as the little man's last hope of protection from the strange amalgamation of elves now prowling the bone chamber. He's a bright lad, and there's little question what he must do.

Banio turns and flees in Trusova's wake. However, he simply cannot stop himself from pausing on the stair to snatch up the strongbox that presumably contains the amulet for which the late Lambert Ninefingers... bravely, Banio supposes, sacrificed his life.

At least, that's how Phelbt will tell it if he makes it out of the ruin alive.

Lingering in the doorway just a bit longer, a few heartbeats after Trusova turns and runs, Banio watches as the bulbous nest of faces moves closer still to Lambert's remains. A half-dozen tethered heads detach and move slowly towards the blackened bones, their eyes lighting as they begin a hissing that cements Phelbt's decision to also bolt...

Fleeing the Spire
Round and round the pair goes, taking the crumbling steps two at a time, ascending from the depths of the ancient tower. It takes Banio some time to catch Trusova, but the threat of being left behind -- in the dark -- speeds the man's pace. He chases the bouncing light and the shifting shadows ahead of him, until finally, his heart pounding, he comes upon the woman at the place where they entered -- the indiscernible door.

The door is sealed, and connected to the complex-looking machinery, gears and pulleys and such, that claimed Lambert Wolke's finger. There is blood on the ground to remind the pair of that, and the sight strikes something in the road warden. The dead thief is still below, in the bowels of the decrepit structure. But he is... moving? Trusova is uncertain of how she knows this... but know this she does.

Trusova struggles with the odd sensation she's experiencing. She saw Lambert die, to put it lightly. This was some sorcery, but was it a trick from the monster? Some effect of that blasted wand? Or was this just her grief manifesting? Searching for grounding, she speaks to Banio, though she struggles to find the words.

"There's some weird ... shit going on in my head. I can feel Lambert's ... presence. It's moving..."

She pauses, with some semblance of understanding dawning on her.

"Oh shit, it's like the ghosts we saw earlier... is he one of them now? Doomed to repeat his death forever?"

She stares at Banio, horrified.

"The man burned up from the inside," Banio snaps. "From the inside! We can debate the metaphysics of where he might be now once we're well clear of this place."

Banio has a few ideas, although Trusova might not want to hear them.

Phelbt pushes out his fat lower lip and studies the mechanism of the door. How did the thief get this damned thing closed, so they can open it again? The wee fellow looks up for smudges of blood that might provide a hint.

Remembering where Lambert had stood, and spying now partly dried blood on various gears and cogs, Banio is able to determine exactly how the other man was able to reach into the dangerous-looking mechanism and close the door. He has to step around the severed finger that lies curled and cold on the floor, but the political agitator grunts as he stretches his reach... then stands back as a clunking and grinding precedes the door opening into the tower. Clank-clank-clank-clank!

Outside, the night air. The moon nearly at its zenith. The waters of the Vessen River, dark and flowing. All is quiet; the stone steps lead back down around the outside of the tower towards the water, and some distance away the lights of Grim Biskerstaf beckon.

"Great," is all Trusova can manage to say. Normally, that display of impossible lockpicking would have illicited a stronger reaction, but she didn't have much left in her. "Let's get to the boat before the fishmen notice us." She loads her crossbow and leads the way, slinking down the stair with the lantern held low.

As sour as the smells are from the river and the city, Trusova breathes deep when she exits the tower, leaving its decrepit, reeking interior behind. A night breeze stirs the woman's hair as she steps on the stone landing, then begins her descent towards the water. It's strangely quiet outside, with only the sounds of the Vessen and the wind accompanying the warden and Banio as they move down the winding stairs. Around and around they go, keeping an eye on the dark waters below, looking for signs of the fish men they encountered earlier.

But while there is no sign of the savage, aquatic warriors, the pair is greeted by a different sight as they reach the bottom. Foghorn's boat is still moored some distance away, but something bubbles in the water next to where the worn stone steps plunge below the surface. Just an inch beneath the water, a road is forming, a pathway that leads northeast, straight back towards Grim Biskerstaf.

Banio stares in silence at the road surfacing across the river Vessen. Then he looks skyward, to where the moon has climbed almost to its highest point.

"What did the voice in Lambert's head say? About getting this done before the moon reached its zenith?"

Perhaps this is what the mysterious woman meant: that there would be a means of escape provided to them, should they get the timing right. The thought of a stroll back to Biskerstaf is certainly appealing on its face. But Banio Phelbt, with his little legs, can't help but wonder how long this enchanted avenue might remain above the water's surface. It's a good ways back to town, and if that stroll should turn into a mad dash...

"Yyyeah," the little man drawls. "Are we thinking to take the boat?"

The boat is barely visible, hard to see with the one lantern carried by Trusova. It is there, the desperate companions believe, but it will require swimming or again trying that game of slick-stoned hopscotch.

A breeze picks up and pulls at hair, and clothing.

"Hurry..." a voice seems to say on that breeze, half-heard.

"I've never trusted magic less in my entire life," she says, resolutely. "I'd put faith in Foghorn's boat over some damned disappearing path any day, and that is saying something. Besides, I don't want to have to pay to replace the damned thing." When the wind catches her and whispers in her ear, anger rises in her heart. "Really? Politely fuck off," she calls back to the wind, not caring if Banio thought she was crazy.

Anger was good; it kept the grief at bay, and It was time to get to work. She set herself to the task of navigating the slippery stones back to the fisherman's moored vessel.

Before setting off after the road warden, Banio crouches and secures the strong box within his pack; he secures the pack, as well as he can, to one small and rounded shoulder. Sink or swim, Banio Phelbt and the presumed amulet will be going together.

Banio hopes it'll be neither.

Phelbt tests stability of the submerged wall with one toe, then eases a shoe out onto the ruin. Once his footing seems secure, he leaves the base of the elvish tower and baby-steps along as best he can. For the moment, his focus is on keeping himself upright and dry, and not on how Trusova might be faring ahead of him.

Focusing on his footwork, on the path of dark, slick stones and rotten old beams that leads back to their boat, Banio does not see the waters begin to froth behind him. Were he looking, he'd not be able to tell if the waters were rising, or the tower sinking. Either way, the window the witch spoke of has closed.

Hop. Step. Step. Hop. Step. And then... with only a small jump remaining that will carry him to safety, the man does realize there's something... else... that he doesn't see.

Trusova. She's not at the boat, waiting, as expected. Turning around, he surveys the black waters, wondering where his companion has gotten to. There's just the sound of the wind and the glurk of the passing water for long seconds, and Banio Phelbt begins to wonder if he will return from this night alone.

But then the woman suddenly breaks the surface of the water, gasping and struggling to keep her head above the surface of the putrid-tasting water she accidentally plunged into.

Two days ago, when they hauled up the demon spawn on the docks, there's nothing worse that Trusova could think of than falling into the Vessen river. Now, after being stabbed by fishmen, assaulted by ghosts, preyed upon by giant spider monsters and attacked by ... well, she didn't really have words to describe the horror that killed Lambert ... falling into the Vessen wasn't nearly the traumatic event that it once was.

Her spear slips from its harness as she flails about. She fumbles for it but doesn't catch it, and is too busy trying to not drown to do anything about it. That weapon was one of the last vestiges of her life as a Road Warden, now swept away in the polluted waters of this damned city. All that was left was Whiskeyjack, and if she died here, he stood no chance.

He should just let the Vessen have her.

How is he, a gentleman of refined size, supposed to haul an entire road warden out of the water? It's preposterous! Then too, she's probably waterlogged by now and twice her normal weight, which was hefty to begin with, quite apart from her gear. And the boots! Don't even start on the boots.

Banio Phelbt glances at Foghorn's boat, so tantalizingly close to him. It's a substantial craft, and another few steps will take him there.

Whereupon, he will have to get it back to shore. Somehow.

Alone.

"SHIT! Shitshitshit..." Banio growls a stream of invective as he picks his way back to the flailing warden. "I'm only doing this because I need you to row the boat," he mutters, jabbing his tiny hand out towards her. "Let's be clear about that."

The midget lowers what passes for his center of gravity, grasps the ruined wall as best he can with his other hand, and prepares to pull Trusova to safety. Something like safety, anyway.

Trusova reaches out, desperately!