Act 1. I've got your back

Legolas waits patiently

Zyra crouched before the second "door" and set to work, sliding slender tools along its edges, tapping lightly, listening for hollows. Nothing. No give, no echo—just solid, unyielding stone beneath the illusion of iron-bound oak. Her jaw tensed. Another lie.

But then—something. Not from the door, but along the floor nearby. A whisper of motion caught in the grime: a subtle, irregular smear trailing away from the entrance and curving toward the base of the eastern statue. She narrowed her eyes, following the faint trail and pressed her palm to the polished marble base, feeling the faintest seam. With a careful press, a hidden panel gave way with a soft click.

Stone grated against stone as the panel shifted inward, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling down into darkness. A faint breath of air wafted up—dry, metallic, hot and tinged with soot and secrets. Zyra looked down the steps and allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.

There you are

Good job. But. We still don't know who killed our predecessor. Did he leave any footprints on the steps ?

Zyra pulls out a note book and charcoal pencil and starts sketching the room and annotating the mechanism releases and triggers. A value added service for the blacksmith. Can you check the steps while I finish up the notes on this room?

I'm not going there alone Legolas will wait.

Zyra glanced toward the opening, brow knitting slightly. Her eyes lingered on the first few steps, noting the smooth stone surface, untouched by grime or debris. The spiral stair descended into darkness. Too clean. Pristine, even.

Beside the opening, Legolas stood still as stone, gazing down with narrowed eyes. His elven senses also took in every detail—the subtle polish of the stone, the absence of even a single spider thread, the sterile quality of the floor.

Legolas puts bow on back. Ready? he takes his torch and leads the way down stairs. Moving quietly but swiftly.

Zyra allows Legolas to get a small lead then proceeds to follow him further down into the basement...

The stairway winds downward before opening into a large chamber.

The room is rectangular and lined with 6 soot-blackened pillars carved with dwarven runes—some still faintly glowing red as if reluctant to go dark. At the far end stands a wide forge basin of black iron, cracked but intact. Heat no longer rises from the cold forge.

Scattered throughout the space are heavy anvils, bellows half-eaten by mildew, and workbenches littered with things like rusted tongs, hammers, and old crucibles.

Slender metal pipes run from the forge, upward into the stone ceiling, and in one corner, a wide, low shaft gapes—perhaps once used for coal or airflow.

A heavy iron door sits in the southern wall, banded and bolted. Two more doors sit in the north and eastern walls, the last one just besides the forge.

Last but not least, a soft, rhythmic click… click… click echoes from somewhere deeper in the shadows of this room —metallic and precise, like a clock with malicious intent. It’s not the scamper of rats or the groan of wood.

Can you read dwarven runes? I can't. We may need to find some who does. but first he would like to make sure this location is safe.

Legolas concentrate on the sound source trying to figure out where it come from. Given he could see doors by the southern, north and eastern walls he would go west until he could see the wall behind the shadows of this room

ready to retreat if attacked he warn Zyra

Legolas stiffened near the western entrance, eyes narrowing as he focused, body poised like a coiled bowstring. He stood still, measuring the shadows, tracking the clicks. Then, just as suddenly as they had begun—Silence.

A sharp, metallic clang! shattered the stillness. Silver-forged tongs, worth at least 20 dragons, crashed to the floor near one of the workbenches, spinning with a ringing finality before coming to rest.

Nothing else moved.

The silence after the fall was worse than the clicking—expectant, as if something had noticed them and was now waiting and evaluating.

Zyra glances up at the runes. Legolas. We may need someone with a different skill set.

On a hunch, Zyra will step forward and says to the room: You dropped something. Put it back in it's place. wispering to Legolas: Don't touch anything other than the floor and the walls.

Legolas is an expert of that - will see who is more patient.

Click… click… click…

The sound returned, sharper now, more immediate. It came from somewhere behind the forge—then shifted, as if circling. Zyra’s eyes darted toward the movement, but saw nothing. Then, just behind her, the room answered back.

"You… (silence)… Put it back in its place."

Her own voice, hollow and strained, echoed from the shadows. But it wasn’t quite right—the cadence warped, the pause unnatural. A mimicry scraped through metal and stone, as though some unseen thing had recorded her and was trying to speak.

It may looks strange to Zyra - a person from city - as to what's Legoals is doing, but he behave the way he would trying to tame wild animal.
Elf ducks to look smaller and thus less intimidating. He reach out his free arm toward the forge and slowly approach it.

Peace. No harm. Peace no harm he repeats as a mantra.

The clicking faltered.

Then the reply came—not from a single point, but from everywhere. The forge, the pillars, the very runes.

"You… Put it back in its place. No harm. Peace. Don't touch anything other than... Put it back in its place."

The voice was a blend of Zyra’s and Legolas’s now, layered and distorted.

Legolas rise. And talks normally Where is it's place? Is ti event the tongs that needs to go to it's place? he point at the object with a finger.

Click… click… click…

The sound resumed, faster now, more deliberate. As if something was trying to decide what to say but couldn't find the right words.

Zyra continues to observe Legolas and continues to scan the further reaches of the forge.