Memories of Holdenshire.

Eronar groans and holds a hand to his head, his mind foggy. When he hears the woman's voice, he jumps a bit and turns to look, feeling a strange sense of sadness for this woman he doesn't recognize immediately. He staggers to her, moving to keep the insectile creature in view as he feels for a pulse. If he feels nothing, he looks around for a door, wanting nothing more than to be away from this horrible place.

Harsk gazes around. Trying in rangerly fashion to figure out just what’s going on! What’s all this, he exclaims in orc-mindedness. Even as he approaches the spider like carcass, and stoops low.

Let’s see if we can determine just what this thing is, he says. Or, was.

Scarfs says "What!" as she is suddenly taking note of her new surrounds. Forget the massive headache has with it. (Assuming there is light here.)

With the realization that there are others here besides this female warrior that just bit the big one, Scarfs takes a step back. Seeing that the others here appear to have the same headache she has, "She may be dead from poision."

Scarfs steps forward to look over the dead corpse trying to decide if poison or the wound killed her. She looks at her trying to place who she was. Of course, that also including lifting her coins & such that she doesn't need any more.

"I don't think she faired too well."

Roark spends a moment to examin the womans armor of the strange metal.
Where are we?
Does anyone reconise that creature? It would be logical to assume that it was what held our minds

Hmmm. Intelligence (Culture) check. Scarfs scarf the few coins.

Harsk rises from dungeonous floor. Having checked the fallen wasp-like carcass.
It was a kind of creature that parasitically preys upon angels and planar beings. That’s all I know about it. Surprised I know THAT much!

The smallest among the group was examining the creature as well. It fascinated Garbuffel Braffelfrew in fact. Excited him! This creature was strong! Not just physically, poison and all, but if it truly could control minds, or at least befuddle them, it was formidable! And through the shifting magicks he was close to mastering, perhaps he could emulate such traits to make this strength his own!

..That this creature had just had the better of him didn't seem to bother the mad halfling. Why, that only proved its strength!

Chester's mind snapped to attention, the sudden jolt in his environment putting him on edge. He glanced around the room, seeing other figures, robed and confused.

With a flock of his wrist, he coiled the long, leather bullwhip, noting with some consternation that he had seen fit at some point to fit its barbed, scourging tassel. Blackened, hardened fingertips jostled the sharp metal.

"You all seem to be taking this in stride," his voice was tense, but level, retaining calm in this... rather bizarre turn of events. "I don't suppose I might ask whose company I find myself in? And what, perhaps, was in that cocktail?"

Scarf says as she departs from the body, "Can you not fathom the thought that there is no rhyme or reason that each us are here." Looking about,"I would not concentrate on the why's or even the who's. What I'm sure of is that we have been magically summoned here." She looks for disbelief. "That is a dead body and that is an angle killer. And we are now somewhere below here as those stairs is the only way up."

And she adds on, "I'm called Scarfs."

My name is Roark Ironhammer. I'm a dwarf. He is 182cm tall, pale purple skin with some darker markings. He says as he removes the black robe. Its a bit restrictive.

First order of business, but be getting out of here. We might pick up a thing or two along the way.
He bows down over the dead woman and searches her for an identifier or custom amulet or similar. If nothing else, the hammer is hopefully unique enough for someone to identify.

Well met, to all of you, says our half-orcish fellow. I am Harsk, a ranger. Yes, we should see about a way to exit this place. To relative safety.

"I can not fathom that this is without rhyme or reason." The tall, slender, humanoid cervine crouches over the body of the expired woman, rubbing his narrow chin as he took in the scene. Quite a mystery indeed.

He took a moment to self-assess, taking a deep breath to gauge if he had exerted himself recently, tongue running over his teeth and smelling his own breath to hunt for clues of an unfamiliar diet. Gauging his hunger and thirst in general, to assess his need, and perhaps how long it had been since he had eaten. He had never woken from a fugue state before, and part of his brain was quite amused by the puzzle, though most of it was churning to catch up to the situation.

"I would keep the robe, in case our fair maiden did not cut a wide enough or bloody enough swathe for us to escape. Unless one of you has a headcount for this..." he glanced around the windowless room, taking a moment before cresting a brow. "... crypt?"

He rose to his feet after concluding his examination of the woman. "Chester Artorius, by the way. Inspector Chester Artorius."

Chester was a tall, slender creature whose most striking feature was a slender, cervine skull with an impressive rack of antlers. Between them sat a checkered felt cap that sheltered his eyes with a stiffened brim. He was draped in a taupe cape of at least three layers, over a fabric doublet of a similarly drab, darker brown, but accented by dramatic diagonal herringbone quilting. All of which made the reddish tones and white undercoat of his natural pelt seem to stand out vibrantly - and none of which really made the black robe look wholly out-of-place but for its haphazard cut.

At his hip swung both a small sword and an intricate crossbow with an elaborate winding mechanism, no larger than a cubit in either length or span, but the weapon he held to hand was a long bullwhip of almost-black leather, at whose tip dangled a handful of caltrop-like spikes from tiny steel chains, designed to rake, rend, and grip.