DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

Aldric is grateful for Ty and Dufgal's intervention. Maybe even Anora's!

He reaches down to the wet floor and dampens his fingers in the (what he hopes is) sea water, and then brings the brine to his wound. As the salt water stings him horribly, he prays to Pelagia to close his wound! The bloody wound closes and then disappears as if it never happened. He straightens his armor and thanks his friends for having his back."Is anyone else in need of the Bitch Queen's healing touch?"

"If the Sea Bitch just answered your prayers, she’ll surely scorn you again before long. I suggest we seek healing by traditional means." Anora says, as she pokes about the dead bodies with the tip of her sword.

Ty clutches his punctured hand. He half-sits, half-tumbles back onto his bottom, thereby taking his weight off of the leg that still oozes blood from foot and calf. His javelin-- shamefully un-bloodied-- clatters down beside him.

"We needn't tax the goddess' generosity, holy father," he assures the priest, through clenched teeth. Such as it is. Aldric's favor with Pelagia has been spotty at best, and the elf isn't sure he wants to entrust his body to any consequence of the Sea Bitch's displeasure. Instead, Ty tears a strip from his ratty cloak and wraps the wound that the serpent left on his leg.

As he works, Tyravasiel peers into the shadows above them. Now that the lurkers have been dealt with, perhaps he can have a proper look at the place.

Aldric snorts as the two are skeptical of Pelagia's "generosity." "Wisdom, that is. The Bitch Queen is not to be trusted. But, you cannot deny the quality of her gift, when she decides to impart them."

He gestures at his neck, which moments ago had been gushing lifeblood, but now bears not even a mark.

"Alas, we are running out of time. My vision is no longer blessed with Pelagia's danger sense, and we are not much closer to our target."

Anora's torch lights the room as Aldric beseeches the bitch queen... and is heard. And as Ty sits, almost collapses, to rest and dress his own wound.

A closer inspection of the domed walls and ceiling reveals little of interest beyond the stonework and spiraling patterns they have seen throughout the tomb. They find more and more depictions of cave bears and ursine warriors with bear-skull headgear and cloaks made from bear-pelts. They fight together against a plethora of ill-defined foes, but eventually all eyes fall back to the center of the chamber -- where a collection of stones are arranged like an altar, a large table or even a chest of sorts. The bear skull on top is from a huge specimen -- the beast must have been eight or ten feet tall at the shoulder when it was standing.

"well, this must ‘ave sumpfin’ in it, right?"
And, just like that, Dufgal shoves the bear skull to floor and takes the top off the table/chest/altar thingy.

The big bear skull shatters on the floor, sending teeth and bits of bone dancing as Dufgal attempts to move the heavy slab...

"Sacrilege!" scolds Ty. Of course he doesn't mean it. Even a human can tell from the tone of his voice.

He looks upon Dufgal's struggle with interest, curious-- in his unhelpful, elfin way-- to see what the big fellow might uncover beneath the altar stone. Having tied off his calf wound as best he can, Tyravasiel rips another tattered length of cloth from the bottom of his cloak and goes to work on his bleeding foot.

"uhhnnff"

Dufgal’s grunt is accompanied by a resonate grinding sound, and then the loud and echoing boom of the thick stone table top impacting the floor, breaking in two as it crashes down.

As the dust is settling, the thief peers into what is clearly a stone strongbox. A dozen human skulls leer at him, arranged in three near rows of four. Beneath them? What looks like a hide or bearskin rug or massive cloak, folded neatly. And there, in the middle — another bear skull, beneath the human ones.

A simple man, not phased by the human remains, Dufgal uses his 10’ pole to lift out the folded fabric to get a better look.

"Wait, we should…" but Dufgal is already lunging at the thing with the pole. Anora had been side tracked over whether she ought to donate some of her blue robes towards the elf’s wound dressings… and if so, then which piece of fabric might be bearable to part with.

With caution thrown to the wind, she simple asks the man:

"Well, Dufgal. What is it?"

Tyravasiel-Llir can't help but wince as the altar's stone top comes crashing down. The sound of it batters his sensitive ears and echoes up the stairs behind them.

"Well. If there is anything else alive in this place, it knows we're here," the elf observes dryly.

Having bound the wounds on his leg in some meager fashion, Ty swaddles his injured hand in the folds of his cloak until the bleeding is stanched.

More bones crash and splinter against the floor as Dufgal lifts the musty pelt high on his nail-tipped pole, scattering the brittle human skulls, sending them rolling and smashing.

In the end, he is left holding up what appears to be a bearskin cloak of incredible craftsmanship. The heavy bear skull serves as headgear for the heavy garment, and rawhide laces and thongs and awl piercings allow it to be worn as a proper cloak, rather than just some fur cape. The thing is majestic... and also quite smelly.

---

"Alas, the spear still eludes us! Sundown isn't long from now, and that crawlspace is the only thing we haven't explored fully yet. Do we take that path, or retreat?"

The pungent odor is powerfully nostalgic for Dufgal. He takes it as a sign and dons the cloak. He grabs the bear skull helmet but only to tie it to the upper back of the cloak so it’s within reach.
With an uncharacteristic flair, he emphasizes his turn around as if to say, get a load of me! He figured that this is how he’d answer Anora’s question.
And with Aldric’s reminder of our dwindling time, he snaps out his imaginative state and says, "We’se should be on our way real soon if not now." offering his agreement.