by Pirateaba
“Better that than you screaming. What are you looking at?”
Carefully, Sostrom edged to one site and raised his staff higher so Ceria could get a look at what he was seeing. The white light illuminated a dark stone wall, but etched into it deeply were…
“Words?”
“Something like that. It’s not magic—at least, no runes I’ve seen before. But what language it is I can’t tell for the life of me.”
Ceria stared up at the strange words, if words they were. She was familiar with several written languages and she had travelled far and wide, but for all that she had never seen this style of writing. She beckoned, and Olesm softly padded over with the other adventurers following.
“Olesm. What do you make of this?”
The Drake frowned up at the wall as Gerial turned, watching the rest of the room for movement. There was none, but the countless tombs disturbed him greatly. He could just imagine something creeping up on them while they studied the wall, and so he faced the other way while his friends conferred.
“I’m not sure. It looks like some kind of message, but is it a prayer or something else?”
“You can’t read it? Does it look like something your people might have written long ago?”
He hesitated.
“It—it could be something written in the past. But we don’t write in the old tongue anymore. I certainly can’t read it.”
“Is this important?”
Gerial winced as Calruz’s voice echoed through the room. The Minotaur wasn’t worried about waking anything. He folded his arms as he stared at the carvings.
“It could be nothing. But it might give us a clue as to what this place was or what it contains.”
“But you cannot read it.”
“I can.”
Gerial twisted his head and stared at Ceria in disbelief. She was raising her wand, and the color had changed to a light purple as she illuminated the wall.
“A little spell I picked up when I was at Wistram. [Translate].”
Sostrom whistled softly.
“That’s handy.”
Ceria nodded as the words glowed faintly with purple light. She frowned, concentrating as she spoke.
“It is. But I’d prefer a translator even so. The spell takes time, and it doesn’t work unless there are enough words to read at once. And I often get a muddled message, sometimes nonsensical depending on the content. But it should…oh.”
None of the other adventures saw anything change, but Ceria’s pulse began to quicken as the words on the wall—
They didn’t exactly change, but somehow she understood them. And she could put them into her own language. She turned to Olesm, eyes wide.
“I really don’t think this is a prayer for the dead.”
“What? What does it say?”
“I—it’s disturbing. Really disturbing.”
Calruz snorted.
“We are not mewling human children. Speak.”
The half-Elf hesitated, and then she cleared her throat and began to read haltingly. The words she read were almost like a song, and had the same cadence, the same innocent rhymes. Her words were swallowed by the darkness of the massive room.
“Skinner, Skinner!
He’ll eat your tails and tear off your skin!
He’ll pluck out your eyeballs and devour your kin!
Skinner, Skinner!
Run while you can!
Your flesh will be taken with a touch of his hand!
Hide in the darkness, hide in the light.
Fighting is useless; Skinner is fright.
He takes our scales and hides our bones
And makes this place our very last home.
Skinner, Skinner, never open his door.
Or soon your bones will lie on this floor.”
When she finished, there was only silence. Then one of the other adventurers laughed nervously, and someone else joined him. Their laughter echoed in the vast room, and then faded away uneasily.
Gerial didn’t laugh. Neither did Calruz or most of the other adventurers. Ceria’s face was pale as the light of her wand and the glowing words faded again, letting darkness creep back.
Gerial’s voice cracked a bit as he spoke.
“That was disturbing, to say the least. But what does that mean?”
Sostrom hesitated as he stared at the words on the wall.
“It sounds…almost like a nursery rhyme. But not one I’d ever tell any child of mine.”
Olesm shivered.
“I’ve never heard that…that kind of song before. Who in their right minds would write such a thing?”
“It was a warning.”
Ceria whispered the words and Calruz nodded. The Minotaur’s hand was twitching towards the handle of his battleaxe, and that made Gerial even more nervous. He tried to laugh it off, but couldn’t bring himself to smile.
“A warning? Who writes their warnings so—so cryptically?”
“Maybe someone who’s afraid of speaking plainly. Or—or—this isn’t a warning. Maybe it is a nursery rhyme, or a prayer. The kind you write of something that’s been around forever.”
Sostrom shook his head.
“Who is this Skinner, then? An undead? Or a [Necromancer] or some kind? Whoever wrote this message seems to fear him.”
“Perhaps he’s the reason this place exists.”
Olesm frowned as he looked around the room. The other adventurers blinked at him and he pointed to the tombs.
“This is clearly a burial place, but that’s odd because we Drakes don’t tend to bury our dead in stone. Too expensive. We usually cremate them. But that line…”
He stared upwards and murmured.
“‘He takes our scales and hides our bones…’. That can only be my people who wrote this. So—so they built coffins to hide their flesh from him? But is he locked away with the dead down here? That would make no sense. Why not burn the bodies? Surely they’d want to keep him far away as possible.”
Sostrom raised a finger.
“A thought. Was this a trap for this Skinner creature or—or is he the guardian of this place?”
More silence. Gerial shivered. He felt cold, the uneasy chill of fear he’d felt on the most dangerous of missions. He opened his mouth, but another adventurer raised his voice.
“What the hell is a Skinner? Some kind of special undead?”
“We don’t know. But odds are that is what’s hiding behind that door Gerald and the others found. We should go back and let them know we’re in for a fight.”
Calruz nodded.
“Agreed. We will hold off opening them until we are prepared. And perhaps—”
He hesitated.
“—Perhaps we should send word to the surface. Ask if any know of this ‘Skinner’ creature.”
Ceria nodded. She felt relieved that he was the voice of reason, for once. She turned.
“Let’s hurry before Gerald makes a mistake. I’ll go f—”
It happened suddenly. Ceria screamed and dropped her wand, her hands flying to her head. Gerial drew his sword, but other adventurers around him were shouting or falling too. He looked around wildly, but nothing was attacking them.
Half of the Horns of Hammerad clutched at their heads. Ceria fell to her knees. Her [Dangersense] was going off, but it wasn’t like the ambush. That had been a premonition. Fear, foreboding, the knowledge of danger suddenly chilling her to her core.
This—
This was terror. This was death. She heard howling in her mind, and knew she would die if she stayed. She—
“Ceria!”
Caluz’s massive hand shook her back into reality. She looked up at him. He yanked her upright with one hand.
“On your feet! What’s happening?”
“My [Dangersense]—something just happened! The doors—the vault—”
He cursed.
“They opened them? The fools!”
He began to storm down the corridor, but Ceria grabbed at hi
m.
“Calruz! This isn’t like before. This—my Skill is telling me something bad has happened. Really bad. Far worse than the ambush.”
He stared at her, only partly comprehending. He couldn’t feel the certainty, the absolute terror in her head and heart. Olesm stumbled towards them, sword drawn.
“We are in danger. Extreme danger. We have to retreat.”
Olesm shakily wiped at his mouth. He’d thrown up. His tail thrashed wildly as he stared around in the darkness.
“I’ve never felt anything like that. When I was a child and the [Necromancer] attacked ten years back—that was the closest. But this is different. I am afraid, and the [Dangersense] doesn’t convey fear. We have to go.”
“Let us regroup. With speed. Warriors, form up and mages, follow close behind. Prepare for—”
He broke off as Ceria grabbed his arm. The Minotaur stared down at her as she looked around.
“Shh! Quiet. Do you hear that?”
The other adventurers fell silent. It took them only a second to make out what Ceria had heard. In the distance, a high pitched sound. No—many sounds, all joined together.
“Screaming.”
It was faint, but echoed down the long corridor into this room. And as if that had started something, they heard another noise.
Cracking. Dull thumps sounding from behind them. Muffled moans and hissing. The adventurers turned.
Gerial’s hand turned white on his sword. He stared at the coffins in the room as suddenly, noises began to echo from within.
“Oh lords and ladies preserve us.”
Half of the lids of the stone coffins shifted or crashed to the ground as their occupants suddenly began to move. The adventurers’ light didn’t illuminate all of the room, but they saw things crawl out of their stone beds, jerking upright, faint pinpricks of crimson light flare into existence as they stared at the living.
Their moans and ghastly sounds filled the huge room, echoing, growing louder—then they screamed as they got up and began running towards the living.
“Run!”
Gerial wasn’t sure who said it. It could have been him. But every adventurer in the room was suddenly running for the door as hundreds of undead began pouring towards them.
“The door!”
Calruz caught Sostrom as the mage ran out the double doors. He pointed to the corridor.
“Can you slow them down?”
The bald man hesitated. He raised his staff.
“I—I could cast [Sticky Ground]. The webbing would slow them down but this many—”
“Cast it! The rest of you, follow me!”
Calruz started running before the words had even left his mouth. Sostrom desperately raised his staff and cast the spell as the other adventurers sprinted down the corridor after Calruz. Suddenly, the lower levels were filled with sounds again, the clash of metal, surprised shouts from up ahead.
Screaming.
Sostrom caught up with Ceria, his longer legs pumping madly as he ran with his staff raised before him. He shouted, wildly.
“We don’t have much time! Only a few minutes before they catch up!”
No one else said a word. They pounded down the corridor, and when they rounded a corridor they saw a group of armed adventurers, around fourteen of them led by Yvlon. They raised their weapons but lowered them when they saw who it was.
“Calruz!”
Yvlon waved the Minotaur over as he ran towards her. Her sword was drawn and she had formed up her group into a solid line blocking the corridor down which Gerald had gone.
Calruz paused and pointed. Ceria and Gerial fell into line with the other adventurers, covering the way they had came as the Minotaur talked with Yvlon.
“What’s happening? Where are Gerald and the others?”
She shook her head.
“Last I heard they were up ahead, trapping the corridor. But then our [Dangersense] went off and—the door. They must have opened it.”
“Fools!”
“They didn’t say they were going to open the vault. I made it clear to Gerald he had to wait until he regrouped. So why…?”
“Have you sent anyone down there?”
Calruz looked down the dark corridor and Yvlon nodded.
“Two people. I told them to run back the instant they saw something. They—they never came back.”
She looked pale.
“The screaming ended a few minutes ago. I was waiting for you to get back. What did you find? Anything?”
He nodded.
“A message. Too long to explain. Know that we most likely face Skinner, the guardian of this place. He—steals skin.”
“Steals? Skin?”
The other adventurer shifted restlessly. Calruz nodded.
“So it was written. And his awakening woke the other undead too. There is a horde approaching from behind.”
The adventurers groaned as Yvlon frowned.
“Right then, it seems we have a choice. We can’t fight another battle here, not understrength. We should retreat.”
Calruz shook his head.
“What of Gerald and the others?”
Her face was grim.
“I think we should fear the worst, don’t you?”
Calruz gritted his teeth.
“I do not want to run without seeing the enemy’s face.”
“I’ll be the last thing you see if we stay here. If we get caught in a pincer attack from both sides—”
“Calruz.”
The Minotaur ignored Ceria. He gestured to the corridor back where they had come.
“Set spells to slow the enemy advance. I will go to see if there are any living before we fall back. If we leave our comrades—”
“Calruz!”
Both captains looked over. Ceria was cupping one pointed ear with her hand. She raised her wand shakily and pointed into the darkness ahead.
“I hear something. Something is coming this way.”
They fell silent, and then heard it too. Pounding footsteps.
Sostrom raised his staff, but hesitated as he saw an adventurer run out of the darkness. It was one man, someone he recognized. A warrior from Kyrial’s Pride. The man wasn’t carrying a weapon, though. He was wild-eyed and running as if chased by a legion of monsters. But nothing was following him.
Gerial stood up and caught the man as he ran towards the adventurers. He would have bowled over their front line, and he tried to dodge around Gerial as the other man grabbed at him.
“Hey, what’s happening? Where are Gerald and—”
The other warrior struck at Gerial with a gauntleted fist. Gerial stumbled back, and the man tried to run past him. Calruz seized him and pinned him against a wall.
“You! How dare you?”
The man stared up wild-eyed into Calruz’s furious gaze. He didn’t even seem to see the Minotaur. He twisted wildly in Calruz’s grip, fighting to be free.
“Let go of me! Let go! I have to get away!”
Yvlon stared down the corridor, staring into the darkness.
“What is? What happened? What was behind those doors?”
The man spat and fought against Calruz, futilely kicking to be free. He seemed barely conscious as he babbled almost incoherently.
“Run, run! It’s right behind us!”
“What is?”
Calruz gripped the man even harder, until Gerial could swear he heard the other man’s bones creak. The Minotaur raised his voice.
“Why were the doors opened? Gerald was told to wait! Who—”
“We didn’t open the doors!”
The Minotaur stared at the man. He was panting, sweating, his eyes darting around as he strained towards freedom.
“If you did not open them, then who—”
“It opened them from inside!”
The man shouted it in the corridor, his voice echoing as he screamed.
“It opened then, and then it took Gerald and the others! Let me go. It is coming. We must run, all of us
. Can’t you feel it? It is coming!”
“Who is? Skinner? Is it an undead?”
But the man refused to reply. His foot came up and he kicked Calruz hard enough to make the Minotaur grunt and stumble back. He dropped the warrior and the man scrambled to his feet. He burst through the ranks of adventurers, dashing down the corridor, his footsteps echoing and fading as he fled towards the stairs.
Calruz cursed as he rubbed at his stomach. He looked at Yvlon and the two Captains paused.
“They’re dead. But what caught them? This Skinner—”
“We should retreat. Let us gather the wounded, and go. If we have the mages cast spells to delay pursuit—”
Yvlon nodded. She turned and raised her voice to order the adventurers, but the words died in her throat.
Something. Somehow, as they had listened to the panicked adventurer screaming they hadn’t heard it. It was such a faint sound. A sort of…dragging, scraping sound. It had been growing louder, slowly. And it wouldn’t have mattered. But now it had come closer and—something—had appeared far down the corridor.
The light cast from wands, staves, and flickering torches and lanterns illuminated perhaps a hundred feet of space of the wide, empty stone passageway. At the very edges of that light, something had appeared.
Something white. It was so far away, but it filled the corridor. It looked like—a cloud? Or fog, rippling slowly towards them out of the darkness. A wall of white that moved.
But that wasn’t what caught Yvlon’s voice in her throat. It was the faint thing she could see in the middle of that unearthly cloud, the familiar shape that appeared in the darkness, staring at her.
A face.
“Gerald…?”
He didn’t react to Yvlon’s voice. The Captain of Kyrial’s Pride stared ahead blankly, his face shifting in the mists. He stared ahead blankly, face pale and bloodless. And his head—it was moving in ways a head shouldn’t, not if it were attached to a body.
The white sea surrounding him rippled closer, but now the adventurers could see another face slowly float upwards. Cervial. He stared ahead, gaze empty and vacant, moving in the same disturbing way as Gerald.
“Cervial! Is that you?”
Again, no response.
Closer. Now the mists didn’t seem as transparent. It wasn’t mist, but something else. Something that rippled and shook as it was pulled along the corridor. Closer.