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Deceidon's eyes widen as he beholds a pair of almost-mythic creatures, these elves. In a world where magic is a thing of legend, a suspect dark art at best and perversion of evil at worst, this race would be exterminated by many in New Dathan. Had the elves not fought to help them against the skeletons, Deceidon would have cause to do the same.

"Gratitude, your arms did aid in vanguishing these undead," says Deceidon. "I am Deceidon of House Urshurak in New Dathan." He considers his words, careful not to give true meaning about the secret mission lest these elves be in service to the rogue mage. "We have been hunting down bandits and believe this mountain dungeon to be their lair."

Deceidon points to the fallen men. "They will not need their weapons," he says to Sunshine. "How did you come to this mountain? Your race is seldom seen."

Sunshine

Says to Deceidon, I have no idea how I got here. I was on a job, then I was here. We elves may be a minority, but we still exist.

He mumbles, always a prisoner . . .

Sunshine rifles through the dead's belongings, seeking weapons with which he is proficient.

While surveying the wreckage of the place, two people are confirmed deceased, the foot soldier and Gustov the half-elf. Some of their items can be found strewn about the place, though not everything is easily reached. You can find and pick up the following:

a shortsword
an elven dagger of intricate make (+1 to damage and to hit)
a few tools from a kit commonly used by thieves (a few picks and what not)
and another dagger, now bloody

Upon closer inspection of the half-elf's cloak, Sunshine and or Elithil notices the family emblem of Ormanthyr, a respectible Elven clan and one of the few that still openly engages with humans.

As Sunshine scratches his head for any vague memories of where his equipment could be held, he does remember that the skeletons from earlier retreated eastsward, somewhere to the north if his sense of internal navigation is still correct. Perhaps there is another room yet to be found in this place.

As the group meets new faces and contemplates their situation, the light of a torch that has been dropped to the ground, slowly starts to flicker away into darkness.

Sunshine Steals Shit

Sunshine snatches up the short sword, then the fancy dagger. He grunts in dissatisfaction, then offers the short sword to Elithil.

The dagger looks uncommon, he thinks, as he grips it anxiously.

He covers himself with the cloak bearing the emblem of Ormanthyr. Elithil's musculature can keep him warm.

I had a well packed bag and one hell of a bow. I would love to retrieve them, Sunshine says. Perhaps our equipment was stored somewhere in that direction, he says pointing north.

I'm very sorry about your friends he says without expression.

Elethil accepts the short sword. It is not his favored weapon, but he knows how to use it. Something about the pointy end.

He turns to the humans. His hair is jet black and tied behind his head in a long braid. His eyes are like a cat's, right down to their unsettling yellow hue. "My condolences on the loss of your friend," he says. "A brave man. He died saving my life. I will not soon forget."

"I am Elethil Noldorin of clan Noldor," he continues slowly. Each word is enunciated as if chosen meticulously. "My people have not had commerce with the human tribes for centuries. Some of my people are open to changing that. Others are...reluctant. I was sent as an envoy. I was in human lands for only a short time before I found myself ripped away from there and placed here, in this mountain, in chains. How, by whom, and for what purpose, I cannot say."

"Let us proceed north. I too am eager to retake possession of my weapons and armor, if I can."

The group exchanges paused and deeply disturbed looks as some of them realize the two are elves, mythical creatures from a time before man that may or may not be currently magical in origin. As they start to head north deeper into the mountains, will they be able to follow and travel with them like they did with Gustov? To each their own, a life is guarded more closely nowly, having almost brushed with death itself, a few them grow even more distrusting of certain people, Whitsell appearing to be the sole exception.

Mourning for the loss of two lives during this expedition of theirs, their silent trek forward is stopped by the sounds of humming, just up ahead. Who in the name of everything that just happened, is singing a merry tune in these dark recesses of the mountain?! Passing the cell that the two elves broke out of, an impressive display of bent metal, your remaining torch light fizzles out. Just up ahead in the darkness, you can see one last light source, a solitary candle on top of a a now mangled and slanted table. The sounds of humming is close by and can be heard echoing distinctly some feet ahead.

Sunshine

Rusty and out of practice, Sunshine fails his hide in shadows roll.
[1d100] = 69

He takes cover behind the leaning table, believing he is hidden in its shadow.

He whispers, do you gentlemen have friends in here or something?

Elethil peers into the darkness ahead, his elven vision perhaps revealing sights human eyes cannot see.

Whitsell continues to struggle with his thoughts, but knows he must stay alert to live.

Let us get a new light, quickly. Some of us are not as useful in the darkness.

He will attempt to light his lantern.

Flynn steps forward in the marching order, Deceidon in the middle, as the group advances with the new torch.

Because of the light source, it will be hard to make out any objects or persons within the candle's vicinity while using infravision. Those who approach closer and use their normal eyesight can see just in the distance, a some metal bars much like the ones in the cell Sunshine and Elithil broke out of. The sounds of humming come from within.

A man, from what you can tell, remains sitting on the floor inside. His arms are chained to the wall, his hair, long and filthy from years of neglect and abuse, hangs down his face as he stares out into the darkness. His clothes are torn and battered and his body starved, and yet he is humming? Looking into this cell, you see no others.

did whitsell get his lantern lit?

He will approach the man, and look for ways to free him.

onlyme wrote:did whitsell get his lantern lit?

He will approach the man, and look for ways to free him.

Grognardsw wrote:Flynn steps forward in the marching order, Deceidon in the middle, as the group advances with the new torch.

I assumed that from this passage someone used a torch from their inventory. In which case, Whitsell did not waste any lantern oil.

The humming stops, the man lifts his head slowly. The light playing off of his eyes as they peer past the grim and filth encrusted hair, giving them a dangerous gleam. He speaks, his words hoarse from days without water, "This place is for the damned and unlucky, which are you?"

I know! You guy's can't get rid of me, I'm everywhere!

Whitsell will offer him a quick drink from his wineskin.
Assuming he has one, of course

assuming you can even get in the cell

He looks at the offered object, he lets out a raspy and choked "heh" "And what poison is offered to me this time?" He inspects the other members of the group, he does not say anything but hangs his head down, the noise that comes from him could either be a hoarse chuckle or stiffled cry.

Elethil stays to the side of the cell for the moment, in the shadows as much as someone without formal training can manage. The prisoner seems crazed enough. Best not to add a feared and hated creature of myth to the mix just yet.

Sunshine's Skills?

Sunshine wants to dust off an old skill. He approaches with the thief tools (from above) and gets to work on the cell door.
Sunshine can't get the lock and gets irritable.

To the stranger he says, I am the damned unlucky -- I'm both.

And yes, I'm a frikn elf. So no need to comment on it.

If we wanted you dead we would just slice you open, so, just drink some damn water. You smell worse than me! Damn!

He stands up from his lock picking crouch and exclaims F****** **d damn this f****** piece of lousy s***. Anyone else want to try?

"I have some skills in these matters," says Deceidon, drawing his own tools to pick the lock.

"But not enough."

Deceidon Percentile Roll [1d100] = 63

He chuckles softly, "I could not care less what race you are..." at the mention the water he raises his manacled arms, "it is a bit out of my reach..."