Nights at the Round Table

Dark room/Darker secrets

You’d gone through the basement of the Blade Runer’s shop and found his own room of horrors. A Death Slaad had followed you with a group of unwary city guards in an attempt to stop you. After working your way through the sewers, avoiding a heavily trapped set of stairs you opted to go down the, comparatively, non-descript set of spiral stairs in the storage room.

Once down the stairs you found yourself in a small 20′×20′ room with a single doorway leading out. The room is unlit and only a small amount of light leaks out from the doorway. A ‘crunching’ sound draws your attention to the floor. It’s littered with bones. Some with bite marks. The marrow sucked from all of them.

A loud ‘THUNK’ comes from above as you redouble your efforts to work out the door. A heavy stone slab has closed down over the top of the stairwell you just used. A push against it shows that it would be nigh impossible to open.

Your remaining exit, the door, seems to be barred from the outside as there is no signs of of a lock, or even hinges, on this side.

The smell of charcoal wafts through the small amount of air moving under the door. Feint whispering can be heard on the other side as well.

As you talk among yourselves trying to decide what to do you hear a feint voice. At first it’s mistaken for someone talking outside the room. Then it gets louder.

“What? The light, it’s real?

Well, no, it can’t be.

One hasn’t seen but the crack of light for so long.

Well, then, who pray tell is that? If the light isn’t real certainly they are?

I ’spose. The room is remarkably smellier than it was a bit ago.

Then I ’spose we should talk to them? Yes, yes, it would be rude to do otherwise."

The voices seem to be coming from just at the point where the stairwell meets the ground, on the backside against the wall. You realize there’s a pile of fur, no hair, a wig? Laying on the ground, shoved as tight into that hole as possible.

The hair moves toward you in a shuffle. Suddenly a spindly pale arm shoots from the pile of hair, its palms covered in leather wraps. Three fingers and thumb, coming to sharpened points, shoots toward you with remarkable speed, stopping just in front of you. Hand upright as if waiting.

“Well, I ‘spose they’re more rude than we are? Hand held out for shaking and they gawk. Like they’d never seen a Korred before.

Hrm, this is no behavior to have if we’re going to be sharing the oubliette"

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