Murkstav, an amateur dungeoneer, hired mercenary raised under Rivermoon, breaks out on his own. Unlike most, he selfishly decides to go at it alone. But he soon finds out why people venture into the underealms in groups.
Finding a map as part of the booty from a wizard (they always say, whatever you find is yours my friend, but the staff or the tome, or the mirror is mine) Murk moves northward toward a forest burial site. Stealth is not the easiest thing among the undead.
Chased by ghosts appearing from about the shattered trees and out of the torn and desolate leaves upon the ground, Murkstav comes upon the temple or the crypt that he had been looking forward. Even with ghost swirling around him, the aggravated thoughts of the wizard ring in his mind. He fuddles with the lock, for he is nothing but a good thief, usually hired by others, so he is used to being a sword hand a defender. He fuddles with the lock and taps it, moving the tumblers until something snaps and the gate opens, perhaps opening too easily.
Careful when things are two easy, a paternal voice says in his mind.
Locking the gate behind him Murkstav crept into a 25 foot crypt divided into four chambers with a large coffin or sarcophagus in the middle. Amateur, amateur, for when Murk turned he found a witch practicing her dark arts on the floor. He goes on to learn that it was the witch manipulating the dead in defending this temple, the temple of the village idiot.
A battle ensues that ruins Murkstav’s bow and forces him to slay the witch with his sword as she used her powers to creep about the walls of the crypt.
No one was more surprised than myself when nothing emerged from the crypt in question.
Immediately something registers as wrong in this chapter. Why would the village idiot be buried in such an elaborate tomb? There was obviously something more to this, a secret somehow. Using his skills Murkstav, noticed smudges in the frayed map. A map drawn upon another map. Where the information lead him just to this tomb there was something, more something underneath.
Murkstav liked underneath, away from the topsiders. The mercenary always felt better under the civilized world.
An arrow pointing north. Or was it down? Cartographers in the continent could never really decide on one method of symbols. An arrow pointing north on a panel.
Relishing, Murkstav heads for the panel, easily pushing it and watching it turn.
Then a click.
The clicks are the worst parts of this job. Before he could remove his gloved hand, a rounded blade followed immediatly after the panel opening downward. The man caught a glympse of warm orange light before his hand was sliced. Then the blade stopped with a whir and a dying crash and clunk.
Murstav reeled back, looking at the gash in his hand, wondering if there was an ancient poison spread upon the ancient mechanism.
And since suspense is good for the soul, this is where the session ended!
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