Tzingaal awakens on the damp ground with a chill and a runny nose. She sees her companions fared little better. Even the tracker seems waterlogged and miserable. Fortunately it was a quiet night; Fmurkhrez, the little demon bound into the iron collar about her neck, has no need of sleep, and its sharp little eyes made it the perfect candidate to stand watch. And as the diminuitive fiend was commanded to obey Mazgandrvehss in all things, it did so quietly, without troubling the sleep of the rest of the band.
Following a silent, joyless breakfast, the band once again sets off on thier slog through the marshes.
T3 : water - none - deahtrap
[The trap can affect 1d2=1 person, Rolling Luck (POWx5%) according to marching order (I T P M G) for each to avoid it: I ok, T ok, P fails. 3d6=15 -1d6 armour = 14damage, to -3hp]
The driest path is over dead weeds and brambles. Tzingaal must hod up the hem of her skirt, and Mazgandrvehss his robe, to avoid being constantly entangeld. Their guides had thought to warn them about wearing such cloting intothe swamps, but thought better of it, fearing to anger the sorcerers with their peasant criticisms. Each of the band chooses their own path through, as those ahead of them invariably sink up to the ankle in mud.
And then Pnoorgunth lets out a sharp cry. The others turn to see him gone, with a hole where he'd just stood. Looking down they find him at the bottom of the pit, limp and motionless, wooden spikes protruding through his leg and torso.
"We should be more careful, I suppose," says Mazganrvehss.
"Do... do we just leave him there?" asks Imlatie.
"I don't propose we waste a day trying to retrieve and bury his corpse."
Again, one does not wish to argue with sorcerers.
T4 : special - toad men - none
Location: Supersize
[random roll to determine what about the area to supersize: powerfully / ancient]
They press onwards. Their path takes them through a densely-wooded region. The gnarled and twisted boughs make it often difficult to walk erect, but the dead trees fallen over the path now and then provide convenient walkways over the muck.
At length they come to a clearing. Atop the grassy hillock is a colossal wooden statue of a toad god, to which (1d6=)a trio of toad men priests make croaking obeiesance.
[Q: Do they notice the party? unknown, 1d6=6: O2 C7 - no.]
"Let us not disturb their rite," says Mazgandrvehss.
T5 : water - basilisk - none
They give the batrachian priests a wide berth and move as stealthily as possible until they can no longer hear their groaning chant.
The trees thin out somewhat, and the ground becomes marshier, and at several points they have no choice but to wade through knee-deep brackish ponds.
Tzingaal, second in the file after Imlatie, grabs the scout by her tunic and bids her halt. [Difficult nature roll was needed: T (53/2=27%) 06!]
"Can't you smell that?"
"Smell what?"
"The water. It's foul!"
"You're just now noticing that?"
"No, this is different. Poisonous, somehow. We'd ought not to go this way."
[Q: Does the basilisk attack immediately? 50/50 (4+): Oc C3 - no, but...it stirs.
Hide (40%) roll: 61, failure]
A noise in stand of unhealthy seeming brambles draws everyone's attention, and causes them to freeze in their tracks. For in its midst is a nest made of blackened vines and bones, and a scaly tail and filthy plumage are just visible within.
Mazgandrvehss casts a charm of lassitude. The sorcerer's will is strong enough to overcome the creature, and the basilisk settles back into its nest, preferring to overlook intruders in its domain in favour of a nice littie nap. [He cast Fatigue (1MP); MP 16 vs 14 (60%), 35=success]
They back slowly away from the nest and befouled waters, and Imlatie finds them a new path, looking often back over her shoulder to ascertain that the sorceress is always at arm's length, should she need to stop her again.
[Day 2 end. Navigation roll=18, not lost]
T6 : water - special - none
Special: goes deeper (+3 PP for Encounters instead of +1)
The third day begins much as did the last. Tzingaal finds herself actively looking forward to her meeting with the hag. For all the misery it is sure to occasion (her Masters have seen to that), at least it will involve a speedy return to the Cabal and a warm, dry bed.
By mid-morning they have come to a river, slow and murky, and scarcely over Tzingaal's waist when they check with an obliging branch, but it is the landmark they sought, and will lead them on a surer path. Providing the bank doesn't give way beneath them.
T7 : water - expected - death trap
They keep following the river. The bank seems partly trodden-down, and they surmise they aren't the first to have come this way. But they're scarcely 500 paces down the trail when disaster strikes.
Mazgandrvehss and Gosk are foolishly skirting a patch of mud when the ground beneaththem gives way, dumping them both onto the merciless wooden spikes at the bottom of a wide pit. Mazgandrvehss has spikes protruding from his gut and his right arm and leg, whilst Gosk finds both legs and a shoulder skewered. But miraculously, they both yet live, as the screams and curses rising out of the pit immediately attest.
The sorcerer orders the tiny demon to manifest and extract him from 'this most damnable position'. It pours out of Tzingaal's iron collar like heavy smoke and coalesces in mid-flight.
"Whatever you say, O Great-of-Magic," squeaks the demon.
"Less... editorialising and more --augh!-- rescuing."
Fmurkhrez may only be the size of a sickly child, but is posessed of the strength of a charger [STR 29]. As the demon begins pulling Mazgandrvehss from the rough, splintery spikes, the sorcerer's feigned bravado yields immediately to screams so agonisingly hideous that Tzingaal cannot but feel moved by his suffering. Indeed, when the imp as flown up and deposited him safely on the path, she is right there to dress his wounds.
[Death trap: 1d2=2 PCs; M&G both failed their Luck rolls; 3d6 damage total (each die a separate wound): M 3+2+2dmg to 7hp, G 4+5+2dmg to 3hp + major wound: severed leg tendons -1d3=1 to Dx & Mv. Luck roll (70%) 81, fail = permanent injury.]
Meanwhile, Gosk has lapsed into unconsciousness. Imlatie looks over to Mazgandrvehss, wild-eyed. "He's still breathing! Do something!"
"You heard her," he says weakly to the demon. "Get him out."
With Tzingaal and Imlatie's ministrations, Gosk lives long enough for the half-bandaged sorcerer to crawl over and apply some healing magic to the bloodiest wound. A few minutes later, thanks to the combined strengths of magic & medicine, both of them are up and walking, though Gosk with a pronounced limp. [M uses 12MP for healing -- 3 spells each; Between spells & first aid (successful Physik rolls), both recover all HP.]
Still, the near disaster has shaken everyone's nerve, and they find a secluded spot in which to spend the rest of the day recuperating. [no random encounters]
"I suppose I should thank you," says Mazgandrvehss in a private moment when the guides are out patrolling the area.
"Wherefore?"
"The way you jumped to my aid, when you needn't have done."
"Why do you say that?"
"I feel very certain you wouldn't mind watching me die."
"The success of my task rather hinges on you surviving to the end of it."
"Ah, good! I was beginning to fear your blazing hatred were dying to mere embers."
"No. I still hate you. I just can't bear to see anyone suffer like that."
"And yet evoking the pangs of Hell itself is just about the only magic which you can effect."
"I'm considering giving you a taste of it right now if you don't leave me alone..."
"That's better! You know, when this is all over, I'm really going to miss our little tête-à-têtes.
next post: ever deeper...
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