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heygerald · 4 months

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Love Mummified (The Mummy, 1999)

OFC x OMC

just watched zodiac and couldn't stop thinking about jakey jake, then found myself circling back to these two. i happen to think they're quite adorable.

Running.

They were running. Again.

And just like the time on the boat, and the time they raced across the sand, it seemed that there was no plan. Perhaps that was another thing that Rick and Louis had in common; foresight was not their strong suit.

"Rick, what is the plan here?" Catherine cried as the group barreled further down a dark hallway that was coated with spiderwebs. Their only source of light was the torch being carried by Rick, and each movement he made cast exaggerated shadows all around them.

"Plan?" he echoed, a familiarly stupid look on his face. They reached a circular room that opened into three different hallways; none of which were marked. The group spun through it at random. "Uh, how about, don't die? That seem like a good enough plan for you, Catherine?"

Despite the time crunch, she glanced away from one of the halls to scowl at him. "The sarcasm is entirely unhelpful, O'Connell," she snarked.

"Oh, really? Because I found it pretty damn helpful, actually!"

Catherine popped a hip at him bitingly, glare sharpening, and the shadows cast daggers across her face. Evelyn stepped up between them before any other words could be shared, however. "Neither of you are being quite that helpful at the moment if you ask me. Now, there are three options. Which are we going to take?"

Catherine and Rick immediately pointed in opposite directions.

"We're going this way."

"No," he argued. "We're going that way."

"I thought you said there was no plan."

"Sure there is. The plan is to get the hell out of here, and to do that, we're going that way," he said as if that was the only thing that made sense. And—oh, did she want to hit him. Moreso even than she wanted to hit Beni. Rick must have seen that because his eyes narrowed at her challengingly, flames flickering from his torch. "Happy?"

"If the plan is to get out of here, then we shouldn't go deeper inside, we should go back the way we came," Catherine argued. However, when she went to do just that, she came to the awful realization that all the tunnels looked quite similar, and that, well, she wasn't really sure which way they had just come was as they all had been mindlessly spinning around the cavern during the argument. "Oh. Well... does anyone remember which way we just came?"

The others groaned when they came to the same realization.

Rick spun sharply in a circle, torch flaring. "Er, well, you know, one of these has to be the way out, right?"

"Good math, Ricky," Louis joked as he peeked his head down one of the ways at random. "Anyone feeling particularly lucky?"

"We can't—gentlemen, honestly!" Evelyn huffed at them, throwing her hands up as she spun in a circle herself. Despite her irritation it seemed that she had no more idea which route to take than the rest of them. "The locusts are still outside. Is out really the direction we want to take?"

"As opposed to, what, staying in here for eternity?" Jonathan asked glibly. "You may fancy becoming the next museum installation, dear sister, but I for one would like to live a long and happy life under the sun."

Their bickering continued in the typical sense of a brother and sister as Rick tried to pick a path. Catherine watched him spin in a circle three times over before pointing down one at random.

"That one," he said.

"You don't have any idea where that leads," Catherine jibed with her hands settled firmly on her waist. She was out of breath from all the running, already, and didn't fancy darting off into the unknown on one of Rick's whims. "Give me the torch and help look for footprints. At least we'll be able to see which way we came in."

"Jolly good help that'll be," he mocked.

"To the only way we know for sure leads back outside," she corrected him sharply. No one else seemed to know what to say—or perhaps no one else wanted to be the person that had to make a decision—and Catherine threw her hands up with a huff. "Gracious! If you don't want to pick a way then I will."

She picked the tunnel closest to her with a nod and started off down the shadowy hallway.

She only got a few feet into it, however, when there was a loud cracking noise—as if stone splitting from stone—and she squinted at the dark hole that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the floor. A hole that wiggled and moved and—chittered?

"Scarabs!" Evelyn cried at the same time that Louis tugged Catherine backwards by the elbow. "They're flesh eating, don't let them touch you!"

Nausea swelled hot in the back of her throat when the large black mass started to move in her direction. Suddenly, a hallway at random didn't seem like the worst idea.

"Rick?!"

"This way!" he shouted, leading them down the hallway to the right.

Catherine tripped over her own two feet in her haste to follow, but Louis held a grip on her hand tightly. He kept her from falling as they rounded a sharp corner, and then pushed her in front of him when the sound of chittering got louder.

"Keep moving!" Rick shouted over his shoulder—as if anyone had forgotten about the ancient flesh eating insects racing behind them, getting louder with every second.

Her skin was crawling by the time their hallway opened to a large, rock cavern, a bridge trailing up across the room. She glanced over her shoulder to find the mass of insects getting closer, and bigger if that were possible, and when she looked back she watched Rick and Jonathan leap to a small rock on their left, Evelyn to the right.

Catherine didn't have a moment to consider where to go when Louis was tugging her further up the platform, and then throwing her to a small rock ledge of their own. He leapt a moment later, chest crashing into her own, forehead knocking into one another, and when he tried to overcorrect she watched in terror as he began to teeter backwards as his boot slipped on the worn down edge of the stone.

"Louis!" she yelped, before grabbing him by the lapels and hauling him against her. Their bodies flattened against one another as his hands gripped at her hips. "Don't—stop moving!"

"I ain't trying to," he said, and when she took too deep of a breath that pushed him back again, his grip turned almost bruising. "Don't do that!"

"What—breathe?"

"Just—here—let me..." he muttered while moving this way and that, and if they weren't in such a life or death situation, Catherine may have blushed when she realized how close they were to one another. His breath was warm on her face, lashes kissing her cheek, soft tendrils of hair tickling her forehead. Catherine took a steadying breath as she glanced over his shoulder to the endless stream of scarabs that were moving along the pathway. "They still there?"

"Yeah," she breathed.

His eyes locked with hers in the next moment; this time she did flush. Flushed at the way his breathing stuttered, at the way his eyes darted to her mouth, at the way that his fingers tightened ever so slightly on her waist.

She thought about what he said before—about loving a woman who had left him—and then she thought about what it would be like to kiss a man like him.

All those thoughts went out the door when Rick started yelling.

"Evelyn?"

"Evie?" Jonathan echoed, and she glanced over her shoulder to watch as the two men moved to the platform the historian had been standing on. Had being the key word. "Where'd she go? She didn't just bloody disappear!"

"I don't know!"

Louis twisted to get a better look at what was happening, and as he moved his boots kicked rocks into the abyss they were standing above. Together, the pair froze, and when they made eye contact again whatever had been there before was now replaced by a tense stress.

"Maybe you should—" she started as he said, "you should try to..."

They both paused, coming to a unanimous conclusion, and she tried to move as little as possible as Louis awkwardly shuffled along the thin ledge they were standing on. He got nearly to the platform the others were on when his boot once again slipped on stone.

A perfectly square stone that sank, rather than broke, beneath his weight. A perfectly square stone that reminded Catherine of a trap door button she would see in the newspapers as a kid.

Her eyes widened in horror. "Louis, don't—!"

But it was too late. He had already put all of his weight onto the stone, and as it sank, the wall that she was pressed flat against moved with her. It gave way beneath her back, and with it Catherine felt all the air rush out of her lungs.

Somehow she still found enough breath to shriek.

All three men snapped their attention towards the sound, Louis' gaze going the widest as he watched her teeter backwards.

"Catherine!"

Her shriek turned something very unladylike when her feet fell off the stone. Hair flew up around her face as she fell—something that was fine by her. Catherine didn't fancy watching herself plummet to death. Going out blind was far better than seeing something horrific.

She was just preparing her last sentiments in mind when something snagged her by the hand, and Catherine's body jerked from the fall. She swung forward until her shoulder collided harshly with the stone wall.

A painful grunt slipped past her lips.

"Catherine?"

She wrenched her eyes open to find the top half of Louis' body dangling over the ledge. He had caught her by the wrist—she wasn't even sure how that was possible—and stone and dirt clattered down past her with each minute shift he made. Clearly, this was as trepidatious as it could get.

"Y'alright?"

"I don't know," she breathed. Hanging all her weight by a single arm didn't feel all that good. Then again—she glanced down to find a dark pit with sharp, pointy spikes at the bottom of it. "Could be worse," she noted half-heartedly.

He grunted when he shifted above her, and she turned her eyes back upwards. "Yeah, I can see that. Can you give me your other hand?"

Catherine didn't really think she had the upper body strength for that, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so when Louis stretched down towards her, she did her best to meet him in the middle.

It worked just about as expected, and when he slid forward another inch in her direction, she let out another yelp. "Stop moving!"

"I'm tryin' to help ya."

"You're going to get yourself killed, you idiot!"

"Better than lettin' you go," he grunted. Catherine couldn't help but blink up at him, stunned. Louis had proven to be foolhardy more times than she could count—all action and no forethought—yet he never failed to surprise her with how effortlessly of a hero he could be. "Just hold tight, okay?"

"As opposed to letting go?"

He took a moment just to frown in annoyance at her before he was hefting her upwards with a series of grunts. When she was close enough to reach the ledge, Catherine dug her elbow in and started to pull herself up as well. Her boots knocked loose a whole lot of stone towards the pit of spikes. Louis let go when she was mostly up, standing dangerously still on the thin ledge as she wiggled.

Thankfully, he had learned his lesson, and this time, he waited until he had both of his feet solidly on ground before he leaned down to lift her up.

"Careful, now," he tutted.

His hand was cinched around her waist when she finally got onto two feet, and the feeling of vertigo from seeing an abyss in front of her and behind her was so strong that she wavered into his chest.

"Woah, now," Lous held her tightly against him. He didn't seem to mind when she dug her hands into the front of his jacket for the second time that hour. "I got ya, yeah?"

Catherine met his eyes sheepishly.

She was shocked to find that she didn't doubt him.

"Now," he grinned, holding her hand just as tightly as he helped her hop back towards the bridge. He followed with a thud. Only when they were on solid footing did he take a moment to brush some hair out of her face. "Does savin' your life get me a kiss?"

The entire temple shook around them; in the distance, they could hear yelling, and the still reverberating sound of the scarabs chittering away.

Catherine huffed. "Get me out of here first and I'll consider it."

His smile was blinding. "Yes ma'am."

#love mummified #the mummy 1999 #the mummy fanfic #original female character #original male character #the mummy imagine #plot bunny #drabble

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theruneslayer · 6 years

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Oh Yes,There Will be Blood...

~Three years ago~

The teddy, decomposed to the point of crumbling in his grasp, collapsed against itself as rotten stuffing gave way beneath his tightened fist. Claws curled in silent grief, piercing the hardened leather and rough paws beneath his glove, coating the mouldy remains with a new trickle of blood.

Keel Harbor had not bustled in many years, the cacophony of a busy port utterly silenced in the hush that clung to these blighted lands.

Still, in the silence, he heard a newborn’s waking cry.

And when he closed his eyes to the tears,

He saw love’s bashful smile.

“Revenge…”

That single word slithered across the silence, the voice rustling like serpents through a mummified husk. Just as quickly as it was spoken, however, the beast’s eyes fell upon a gaunt and desiccated Forsaken, frail and seemingly defenseless against Tryn’s burgeoning rage.

What remained of the mouldering teddy tore from his grasp in the moment that followed, however; before the worgen could lash out and rend the fiend who’d intruded upon his grief, he’d found himself not only on his furry ass, but dazed from crashing through two trees that broke against his skull on the way there.

All from a single, bony finger to his chest, and the sudden appearance of an old man before him who’d been twenty yards away not a heartbeat before.

“We will speak of it when you wake,” that voice continued, a faint echo that reverberated within his awareness rather than filter through concussed and fading senses.

The last thing he remembered were the spores that’d replaced his daughter’s bear’s stuffing, floating into the night beyond his fluttering, flagging, sight.

---

Much to Tryndan’s surprise, and moreso his anguish, he woke to find himself still in control. He could feel it, crouched somewhere behind his heart as if building up the tension it’d need to tear free, but the beast was still at bay, lurking within the depths of man.

As if he’d known what he was going to find when he returned to the site of his turning, he’d used the last of his mandrake potions that morning. There were no longer any rebels who fought by his side, exhorting their kin to have a ready supply; Crowley had surrendered weeks… or was it months, before, and the Liberation front had faded back to whatever remained of their lives in the wake of war.

Tryndan, however, had nothing to return to… and he didn’t deserve whatever peace death might bring. Didn’t deserve whatever reunion might await him in the afterlife.

And in truth, he feared it… for he was afraid of what he’d see in his family’s eyes if he did.

And so he’d chosen the path of a coward, and the forgetfulness his beast would finally bring.

---

But it was not to be.

He wasn’t sure how long the fiend had been droning on when he woke, or how long he’d been listening before his mind began to surface from its daze. But enough of what was said filtered through the depths of his fugue, even if the words were some he’d never heard before. The Tirisgarde. Nielas Aran. Aegwynn. Sargeras.

The old man had been an apprentice of this Aran, and, like his mentor, came to see the error of his ways. Began to hunt those he’d once stood beside as their Council grew corrupt.

“...their single-minded focus, they were risking the very fate they’d been formed to protect; so desperate to reclaim the Guardian’s powers they dared contemplate even greater feats of magic to defeat her! Thus, did I turn my back on the Council, and upheld my vow.”

The words meant little to Tryn, and made less sense as he struggled to turn his unfocused gaze towards a man he finally realized was no Forsaken… though that realization was borne away by another wave of darkness, surging forward to engulf his senses once more.

“...can teach you... to take your revenge.”

---

Tryndan never learned why the Leywalker chose him; mayhap he’d merely been in the right place, at the right time. Perhaps an aging crusader saw the fire of zeal in another.

Regardless, he’d never cared, nor asked. They’d shared an uneasy truce when he returned to his senses at last, and found a simple meal of boiled rabbit being prepared by the old man.

He ate, he listened, and he learned. Learned how, time and time again, the arrogance of those who would wield magic unchecked lead to their downfall… and the near-destruction of Azeroth as an endless army of demonkind was drawn like wolves to the feast.

Certainly, many of Azeroth’s citizens and families yet bore the scars of the Third War. The Legion was not, -could- not, be unknown to anyone only a decade removed from their defeat. But few of her citizens who went untutored in the use of magic understood it was the -arcane- which drew the Legion’s attention. Knew that the Forsaken were created in the wake of the Lich King’s actions… knew, even, that the Lich King himself was borne of the Legion’s meddling.

And a mind close to breaking beneath the weight of despair found a reason to rage… and a target upon which to spend it.

Magi.

---

The old Magus seemed to think he’d redeemed his sins by hunting those who grew too arrogant in their prowess to reign in their powers… and he’d seemed to believe such a narrow focus would suffice to sate Tryndan’s desire for vengeance.

But sins were not wiped clean in a world where all the remained of a daughter was the tattered carcass of a teddy bear, shredded of its stuffing as he disemboweled her before a mother’s eyes.

Tryndan was not a mage, nor did he possess any especial magical aptitude. He was keen enough in wit, and cunning, but not everyone had it in them to be a Magus. Many, however, could learn to see, to feel, and, in some ways, channel the power of the arcane. Through the knowledge and study of runes, they could create, and recreate, certain… essences, in the world about them. The placidity of a mountain lake. The durability of a boulder. The agility of water flowing along a rocky streambed. The swiftness of wind, leaving rustling leaves in its wake… even the renewal of bark beneath the skin of an old oak tree - all these and more could be brought to bear by one who knew the secret language of runes.

Perhaps it was his dual nature that allowed him to sense the raw elements of magic in its natural state, the beast he’d become closer to nature than the man he’d been. Regardless, for three years he’d been taught to seek it, to sense it, and, if never quite able to harness it, to use the power to enhance his own abilities… and on occasion, tap into the web of energy that bound all things, to make use of it in ways his mentor never had the chance to teach.

For once the old man had imparted enough wisdom that Tryn felt confident his crusade of vengeance could begin, he started by dismembering the very man who had ‘saved’ him.

For a few decades trying to right the wrongs he’d been just as responsible for were not enough to wipe his hands of Tryndan’s family’s blood.

Blood that stained the soul of every Magi upon Azeroth.

He would have his revenge indeed...

((For @inked-wolf ‘s July Challenge : Life Event))

#moon guard #moonguard #warcraft #writing #wolfram

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wizardsnwookies · 6 years

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DFD032618 - Sacrifice

The eyes...so many eyes of stone, glaring into them as if it were a living thing. Some baleful creature encased in the wall above a small basin of water where offerings to appease it were cast. Something told Baldric that if this thing were real, a few coins would mean nothing to it. The eyes...they wanted something more substantial. Just to be safe, he reached into his pocket and made his offering.

“Didn’t you say something about a curse to those who didn’t make an offering?” He responded to the questioning look Siggrun gave him.

“Aye, still...I’d think twice before offering that thing anything.” The ugly sculpture offended the priest. He felt like so many evil things were all looking at him, all at once, from a single glaring optic.

“Wow...I’d...I’d think twice about that assessment choir boy.” Baldric felt his muscles instantly loosen, and a lightness take over his entire body. He felt...good...damn good. Better than he had any right feeling in a place like this. Confident even...well...moreso than usual.

“Hmm?”

“I dunno...all I can say is that the way I feel right now is worth one measly coin.”

A small splashed sounded behind him, Baldric turned to see Surtur tossing a coin into the basin, and almost immediately reel back, throwing his hands to his head.

“Nnngg. The hells? Was that supposed to be some kind of joke boy?” He shook his head once, then twice, trying to clear a sudden fog that had rolled into his mind. He had to stop for a moment and try and remember where they were. Things were...slipping away. The crypts...he remembered that. A cabin? Was there a cabin at some point?

“Surtur?” Siggrun put a hand on his shoulder but was immediately shrugged off.

“I’m fine. Blasted thing. Why is it my coin be worth less than his?” Things were coming back, slowly. He leaned up against the stone wall, trying to force away the fog, but no matter what he tried, there it remained blanketing everything in an obscuring haze.

“I swear I didn’t-” Baldric didn’t get a chance to finish, Siggrun waved him away and approached the basin muttering a prayer to Gor. He dipped a single finger into the waters and the blackness that swirled within retreated from his gloved flesh as if it were too painful to bare until finally, the waters were clear and a glistening pile of gold could be seen towards the bottom.

“These things cannot be trusted. Let’s keep moving.”

They made their way further into the crypts, with each step the strange hymn grew louder and louder. They were definitely getting closer. There was something else however that grabbed their attention. The ice that covered the seemingly endless rows of tombs...was melting. Another scroll was found, this one tucked away without a glance. Baldric was growing more leery of them, despite the two harmless Bardic hymns he now possessed, without someone opening them for him, he wasn’t going to take the chance.

Deeper and deeper they went, discovering more secrets hidden away beneath the mountain, horrors hiding in the shadows beyond mundane doors. A seemingly innocuous room produced more runes on a bronze plaque secured to a podium. A pot of ink next to a pile of bloody needles. Baldric stared down, remembering the gigantic books written in blood while Siggrun examined the runes.

“A scribe room?” Baldric thought aloud, but no one seemed to care to answer. Least of all Siggrun.

The priest read the runes, and then read them again just to be sure. A moment’s hesitation passed and he stood and walked towards the door. “Just another prayer room.”

“What about the plaque? Would you care to share with the rest of the class?”

Siggrun turned and stared Baldric dead in the eyes. “It says you’re fucked.”

---

In the distance, barely audible over the growing hymn music, another skull of ice shattered as it fell to the floor. They were becoming more frequent now, and even though they had thus far no clues to suggest anything as a result, gave them all a dark sense of time running out. Combining that with the fact that Siggurn still refused to say what was written on that plaque, Baldric was starting to get nervous.

“Hey, seriously now I’m don’t asking.” He reached out and grabbed the dwarf by the shoulder, cold dark eyes peered behind him and glared at the hand being laid upon him. “I know we have our differences, but if I’m in danger, I need to know...now.”

“Boy, the only thing you’re in danger of is having my axe between your legs.” Siggrun shrugged off the hand and glared ahead of him, his mind much more focused at the horror that stood before them. “It was a riddle.”

“There, was that so...” Baldric trailed off as his attention too was drawn forward. Another large vault door, wheel secured in place, but flanked on either side were a set of statues cared in a dark marble. Children, doubled over in what could be described as nothing short of agony, spewing a dark liquid from their mouths into basins at their feet.

“Just when you think this place couldn’t disgust you any more.” Raven murmured to herself, hugging her arms to her sides.

“All the more reason to keep moving.” Surtur spun the wheel, his mind was on other things. The shield was near, he could feel it, his flail trembled in his hands with anticipation. He yanked on the doors and once again an explosion of mildew, rot and dust invaded their nostrils. What lay behind the threshold would be something they would never be able to wash clean from their memories.

Standing upon a row of pedestals lining the central hall of the mausoleum, where hundreds of mummified children. Toddlers, adolescents, and young men and women just barely reaching their adulthood, stood solid in their preserved state, heads turned to face the doors. So it was, that an army of dead young ones, stared them down as they stood in stunned silence in the doorway.

“You know...this is probably the only time in my life I’ll say this, but I’d really rather we not loot this place.” Baldric instinctively reached for the holy symbol around his neck before realizing nothing was there. He wasn’t the religious type, the motion was almost an instinct, something pre-programmed into the depths of his human brain, a comfort response passed down to him from ancestors that he could only assume were more pious than he. He hoped it provided them comfort, and for once in his life, he wished he wasn’t so cynical to own one himself.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Raven turned away, not being able to bare the image any longer.

“It looks like they were being worshiped...or at the very least honored in their death,” Siggrun offered, “if that’s any comfort to you.”

“No. Not at all.”

Without another word, Siggrun closed the doors and whispered a prayer to Gor. Taking out a small grease pencil, he drew his lord’s symbol upon the door hoping this small gesture would bring the little ones some kind of peace. “Let’s keep moving.”

They continued down the corridor, the source of the eerie music was so close now, they could feel the reverberations through the stone at their feet. Then, something came into view further down the corridor. To their right, an opening in the wall. Another passage way? Another door? Something didn’t look right, something opaque and milky white was hanging halfway out the doorway. Neither of them could figure out what exactly it was, the shape was bulbous and seemed to undulate with the music.

“What is that thing?” Raven slowly reached for her shortsword, the passageway finally directly across form them now, the object in full view. Despite it being directly in front of her, her mind still could not piece together any kind of meaning in the collection of shapes.

This...thing...took up nearly the entire room beyond the portal, a massive amorphous blob of milky white fluid. A gelatinous blob of this ichor with a galaxy of glittering objects suspended within it. To her horror, she finally recognized the collection of shadows and highlights within it’s center. What at first seemed like another strange growth protruding from it’s body, was now quite clearly a face, a human face gaping and gasping at the air as it sang it’s haunting song.

“Steady, let’s be smart about this.” Siggrun put a hand on the pommel of Raven’s shortsword, pushing it back down within the sheath. “The globes inside it...”

“Liquid time?” Surtur finished his partner’s thought who responded with a nod of the head. The four of them stood silently, pressed up against the wall opposite trying not to stare at the monstrosity before them.

Taking a deep breath, Siggrun closed his eyes and sent his mind out into the aether, out beyond this place, beyond the mountain, beyond the skies and the earth, beyond this very realm. He reached out to the realm of the Gods in all its light and splendor, across the vast battlefields of Gor where those loyal to him engaged in glorious battle for all eternity. The ultimate reward. Every time he gazed upon it his heart ached, hoping that one day he would prove to be worthy of such an afterlife. He moved forward, yearnings for another time, and into the tent of Gor, the tent of a warrior chieftain where his god awaited him.

“Why do you hesitate? Your path lies forward.”

“I seek your guidance oh Glorious Gor.” Siggrun addressed his god with all the respect and reverence that was demanded, despite Gor’s rather brusque manner of speaking.

“Speak quickly, your quest is almost complete.”

“I am hesitant to act against this creature.”

“Normally I would punish such cowardice, however in this case it is most wise. If you slay it, the liquid time within it will spill out and consequences would devastating to your cause.”

“How should I proceed?”

“Pacify it. The song the creature sings, if played back to it, should do nicely. Make haste, I grow impatient.”

Siggrun’s eyes snapped open and found himself back in the depths of the cursed mountain. Although he had been traveling the sacred realm for minutes, barely an instant had passed in the realm of mortals. Surtur was already moving towards his flail.

“Surtur, there is a better way.” The dwarf then turned his eyes towards Baldric, transfixed upon the creature before him. “Take out your lute Boy, time to prove your worth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Play its song.” Baldric just stared at him. “Just do it curse you!”

“Fine...” Taking the instrument off his back, Baldric plucked two of the strings, checking it’s tune. He carefully turned and made the necessary adjustments, all this hiking up the mountain had knocked the strings around quite a bit, but soon enough it was in perfect order once again and slowly, he began to mimic the sounds emanating from the mass of fluid in the doorway.

With the very first note the mass trembled, the haunting music it sang paused and lessened as it listened to the warm music of the lute. Its “head” swayed and nodded, its own signing dying into silence. There was a horrific sucking noise, the sound of something wet and heavy slapping against stone. Before their very eyes the mass began to shrink back, the head lolling back and forth before retreating within itself. The echoing slosh was sickening, their stomachs churned and Baldric had to struggle to remain composure, but with one final PLOP, the creature disappeared into a small circular hole in the floor, leaving the room empty and open for exploration.

Once again the Lute was slung across his back and Baldric stepped forward with his companions to examine the chamber. If it had not been for all the things they had already seen, he would have claimed it an impossibility, but he was wiser to the workings of this place now. A perfect replica of the painting form the cabin stretched out before them. It was all here. The altar with twin goblets of gold. The massive tome. The giant gray skeleton, arms stretched wide, looming over all with its permanent grin of death.

But there was something else on the altar, something that wasn’t in the painting. Slowly, Siggrun stepped up the dais and reached out for the small polished box caked in dust. It clearly didn’t belong here, its decoration of ivory inlay and elegant carvings did not match the macabre theme running through all other cult items they had found thus far. With a slight groan in the brass hinges, it opened upon a deep purple velvet inlay, and resting gently in the center was a gleaming platinum key with the Umber Family crest engraved on the end.

---

“Where’s the gold?”

“What?” Raven snapped out of some kind of trance, turning back to Baldric who had by this point examined every inch of the chamber. She had been staring at the altar, her mind nagging at her. Something was missing. The image of that painting would forever be burned into her brain, there was no forgetting it. Yet as she stood here now, this chamber was not yet a perfect replica. She hadn’t found out what yet, but something was not here that should be.

“The gold!! The hoard!! Everything these wretched people stole. We’ve been in every room in this place and have found nothing!” Baldric stamped up the altar steps and swiped one of the goblets from the altar. An image of Surtur drinking from this chalice in the painting flashed in his mind, but his annoyance quickly pushed it aside and he stuffed the cup into his pack before returning to its partner.

Surtur ignored his tantrum, slowly walking up to Siggrun who knelt before the base of the altar, examining yet more runes leafed in gold. He had his own frustrations. There was the shield to find, that and an inconsistency to address.

“You say Gor rewards the warrior, and that glory lies in combat.”

“Aye.” Siggrun did not bother to turn his head, his fingers brushing up against the engravings.

“Then why do we sing that thing lullabies?”

“That would not have been a test for you. Besides,” Siggrun stood “I believe there is more to fight here.”

“Quit your sulking lad,” the war priest spat “the stones say there are two doors to be found here.”

“Secret doors?” Baldric immediately perked. “Secret doors usually hide treasure.”

“Usually, yes.”

“Great, did the stones happen to mention how to open them?”

Siggrun’s eyes went dark, he cast a glance to his feet and debated on whether or not to say anything at all. In the end, it was wise to inform everyone of the stakes. “Aye...one can only be opened by force.”

“Great, that’s easy enough. The other?”

Siggrun looked down at the runes at his feet, glittering in gold, and read them aloud. “ ‘We hail to nothing and offer this one onto it.’ “

Surtur felt something try to claw its way into his brain. He felt cold talons gripping his mind and whispering vile things. To his horror, they didn’t sound that unreasonable. What was one girl against his destiny? NO! What was he thinking?? He shook his head violently.

“Nnngg...a human sacrifice...” Surtur looked up at Raven. “It want’s the lass.”

Raven took a step back, her eyes wide with nothing short of pure terror. Shockingly, Baldric took a step to the side, blocking the path between her and the alter.

“Well...we’re obviously not doing that.” It was less a statement than a question. He didn’t like the look of struggle about Surtur, and he didn’t think he could overpower him if it came to that.

“Of course not.” Siggrun answered for all of them, the tone of his voice final. He stopped as his dwarven fingers found an imperfection in the stone, unnoticeable to anyone who was not of the great people of the earth. Stepping aside he nodded to Surtur.

CLANG CLANG CLANG

The massive flail cried out with each swing, crashing against the stone that refused to budge, creating a cacophony that bounced off the walls and rang in their ears. A familiar sickening slurp sounded behind them, turning, Baldric watched in horror as the white blog began to twitch, and rise from its slumber. Quickly, he pulled out his lute and began strumming the strange hymn once again.

“Think we can keep it just below a racket?!”

“Blasted walls are tough!” Surtur sung again and again, his arms quaking with each strike, tensing his muscles. He could feel it starting to give. Just a few more hits.

CLANG CLANG CRASH

Stone and mortar flew away in chunks and large boulders tumbled inwards as a blast of cold musty air escaped from its prison, a long hall stretching out beyond the hole. Surtur turned in triumph but his grin quickly faded from his lips. Baldric continued to strum, but to no effect. The beast had awoken, its gelatinous body rising and growing, the “head” stretched out towards them as a long stalk grew between it and the massive body. With a wheezing gasp, the mouth gaped open, its body bulging as it took in a great bellyful of air.

“TAKE COVER!” Siggrun screamed and raised his shield just in time to block the icy blast that spewed from the montser’s lips. He could feel the freezing cold through the steel, through his gloved hand, through the chain mail beneath even. Such a cold blast of ice, nature would never hope to contend with. Beside him Surtur cursed and threw his shield down on the floor with a clatter of ice and iron. It was little more than a useless slab now, riddled with chunks of ice that rendered it brittle and far to heavy to heave up to a protective stance.

Siggrun turned towards the others, following the trail of ice upon the floor the solid stream of ice left behind. What he found at the end of it, he never expected to see in his days.

Raven laid out upon the floor, holding herself up by a single arm, a look of utter disbelief upon her face. There was not a scratch on her. The blast was a wide cone, there was no way it did not reach her. Then he saw him, Baldric, standing in a pained hunch above the woman clutching at a patch of frostbite that ran up his arm and just at the edge of his shoulder.

“Can you still strum that thing lad?”

Baldric offered a curt nod and shook off the pain, propping up his lute and continued his song, albeit in a far more restrained performance. Good enough, Siggrun thought, before holding up his axe and shouting out words of magic that bound the creature in place. He could feel the thing struggle against its magic, but Gor was strong, his magic was strong, let it fight all it wants. He could hear Baldric’s playing improve, a second wind boosted by the ease of pressure the hold spell granted him, and soon enough the monster’s head once again lolled on its neck before sinking back into its hole with more sickening slurps.

Raven took the hand Baldric offered her and was pulled to her feet, still staring him down as if she had seen some kind of miracle. “Baldric...I don’t know what to say.”

“Save it, I may be a scumbag but I’m not a complete monster.” He favored his arm, turning away. Out of embarrassment or something else, she could not tell. She felt a pang of guilt shoot through her. Not so much because she had judged him harshly, no. What he did for a living, she still could not condone or tolerate within her establishment. But she had not thought that perhaps he had some kind of humanity to him as well.

“Apparently not.”

A hearty slap on the middle of his back shook his entire body, Baldric winced slightly as it rocked through his wounds. The two dwarves stood behind them with just the barest of grins upon their lips.

“Well done lad. Perhaps you’re worth something after all.”

“Yeah, yeah. let’s just hope that leads to the hoard.”

---

“BALDRIC!! DAMMIT, SNAP OUT OF IT!!” Siggrun’s warning came too late as two massive fangs sank into Baldric’s shoulder, the giant white tarantula attached to it wrapping it’s legs around it’s prey, readying to cocoon him whole.

The pit from which it scurried had been lined with a strange phosphorescent paint. He didn’t have time to think too much of it at the moment, but Siggrun guessed it was that paint that had sent both the Bard and Surtur into their trance from which only now did they awake. A trap to make easy prey for the cult’s little pet.

Baldric howled in pain and struggled against the hair legs that were attempting to close in on him. Despite his wound he managed to wriggle free, ducking and tumbling out of the way. Hefting his flail high, Surtur swung in a powerful arc that connected with the arachnid just as it left for another attack. The thorax made a dull crunch and gave in with the hit, Surtur could feel the sudden lack of resistance through his grip. He followed through, turning his hips and crushed the giant spider between his mighty weapon and the stone wall. A sickly green ichor poured from the creature, and it’s legs trembled and spasmed until dead.

“You alright?” Surtur walked up to the edge of the pit where Baldric was already peering back downward. Before the attack, they had spotted a small cave about twenty feet down, and something sparkly.

“I’ll live. Think you can get down there?”

“Try and stop me.” The shield was down there, Surtur had no doubt now. He could feel the aching longing in his flail. It wanted to be with it’s mate. It’s partner. The three of them lowered the dwarf down slowly to the lip of the and a kaleidoscope of color bounced off the walls with the light of the enchanted candlestick. So gold and gems and other assorted treasure. This should shut Baldric up. He trudged ankle deep into the treasure, pushing his way towards the back of the cave. There, just a bit further.

The face that greeted him, was that of a steel Gargoyle, howling triumphantly with piercing eyes. Yes. His flail practically sang on his back. Here it was, he was now complete. They were now complete. Gently, with great reverence, he lifted the shield and attached it to his arm. How light it felt, like an extension of his own arm. Like it was meant for no one but him. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his spirit, and now, he could finally move on. His eyes fell to the treasure at his feet, and he readied his bag.

Between himself, Raven, and Baldric they were carrying several hundred coin worth of gold, gems, and other exquisite artifacts. It was difficult to move too quickly, and their backs would be sore from the extra weight, but they all agreed this was something they could deal with. As they exited back into the dark altar room, their ears were treated to the sound of another skull shattering to the ground where they first entered.

“Well, I’d say I’m about ready to get the hell out of here.” Baldric was much lighter in spirits now, knowing his purse would be much heavier for the effort they had just made. He found no argument from the others, save a lingering look from Surtur towards the back wall next to the hole they had wrent. He stroked it longingly with gloved fingers, peering into the stone, past it, into some unseen destiny beyond.

“Siggrun? Time to go.”

“No...Gor demands I press on.”

#death frost doom #Dungeon World #powered by the apocalypse #role playing games

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