Story I: The Rift

Erran cringes slightly while watching the fiendish flying creature move about as he sits down with his back against the wall near Devanis.

"I suppose we will just have to stay on our toes," he replies while placing his bag between his legs. Pulling out two packages of rations contains a few pieces of flatbread and in the other a pile of dried fruit. Making an offering gesture with his hand to the rest of the party, he asks the ranger, "What else do you think we might encounter down here?"

Devanis gratefully accepts some of the offered food. "I honestly don't know. Everything we've seen so far has been a surprise to me."

"Baric, you are unlike the dwarves I know in Khunburgh. They're a grim bunch, working beneath the city. They seem to have no wyrden among them. Although they talk much of leaving their service with the city and returning home, none among them seems to be willing to take up arms and march down here. Recently there was talk of some king to lead them, but I think that's just a pipe dream. So here you are, both a user of weapons and magic. The only dwarf I know like you is here." Ameera holds up the pile of cards from the War domain, flips two cards off the top to show a red haired dwarf, holding a sword in on hand, a trumpet in the other. "Why are you here?"

Pyrrah visibly shivers as she reads over the passage in her book entitled, The Restless Dead. "These things sound horrible..." She mutters. "The Restless Dead, I mean. They seek out the living in some twisted hope of body snatching or something. And they can sense a living soul through solid surfaces. Just being near them is enough to trigger their awakening..." She crosses her hands under her chin and leans on the open book pages, her thoughts racing about the creatures they'd thus far seen.

"Well, I'm starting to get restless too." Ameera takes a sip from her water skin and stows it away. "Especially if those dead are scratching at the door, or seeking another way to get in this room." She claps her hands together, rubs them as if for warmth, and then inspects her gloved fingertips like something might be visibly different. Seeing nothing (as usual), she scoops up her cards, carefully wraps them and puts them into her belt pouch.

I have seen a century of horrors nearly as terrible above as those few I saw below. Baric imparts, stoping the low humming of an old Dwarven chant he had pieced together from fellow mercenaries throughout the years, A Dwarf of my... profession he pauses and takes a morsel from Erran, sitting down. He has just completed marking something in chalk onto each of the paintings, and between bites, he continues, has few opportunities for reviving and leading a people against the offspring of... he glares pointedly at the graceful depiction of Cenerine, her.

At Flare's interruption, the cracks of openness shut tightly and, with a grin, Baric swings around his drum, unsheathes his daggers and begins a low rhythm, quiet and subtle, yet swift and erratic. In the face of such a task, He watches the seer put away her cards and begins speaking at pace to his own drumming, I've opted to take up treasure hunting, write songs about strange explorers and far off places, and possibly learn about my own kind in the process. It's less a drive toward something as it is a futile pull away from something else.

Devanis arches an eyebrow at Baric's display of aversion to Cenerine. Father Morgan told Devanis that he had found him abandoned as a babe in the wild goddess' shrine, and all his life Devanis has always felt a special bond - if not devotion, then fondness- for her. Father Morgan always said that the wildness in Devanis' blood was what made him better suited out in the wilderness rather than being shut up in the temple.

"Before we go, I wonder what this trough was for." Ameera stands and stretches each leg, then takes the smoldering torch to place it into over the trough and get better look. "There is some nasty stuff in here."

Pyrrah snaps her book shut and tosses it back into her bag. She rolls up onto her knees and then stands and dusts herself off before wandering over and looking in herself. "What do you think it is?"

"It's been unattended so long, it's hard to tell. I'm not sure why there is anything but dust left here at all". Ameera moves the torch closer so Pyrrah can get a good look too. She pulls her dagger and pokes the tip into the liquid, disturbing the surface in a S shape motion.

Ameera quickly reacts to the apparent motion of the sludge "Mother of Monsters!" she further lowers the torch, pulling the knife out and placing the blade in the fire, trying to keep the point somewhat downward as she steps away from the trough.

Pyrrah jumps and thrusts out her hand. A ball of flames leaps from her fingertips and enters the trough.

Pyrrah cringes. "Sorry. I must still be a bit jumpy after those dead scratching at the door." She clenches her hand and returns it to her side. "Any ideas what it is? Now that its... moved?"

"No idea .... look at how it's not flowing together again. Very odd. I think this was once a holy font, but obviously no more. There are holy symbols on the inside, I don't know if they are no longer effective or perhaps, whatever that is, it would be a lot worse without them." Ameera checks her dagger to be sure it's clean and sheaths it. "It looks like your fire cleaned it up quite a bit. Do you want to finish the job?"