Adventure Thread

Orm's first aid proves effective, and Father Marcus begins to awaken.

He groans and then sits up. He blinks several times and listens to Orm and Hobb. "Yes, thank you for coming. Especially you, old Hobb Puddlefoot. Always good in a scrap."

Father Marcus takes a more thorough scan of the room. He sees the dead cultists and the mistress of pain, and then his eyes stop on the green form of Nikkghak. He coughs. "Nikkghak, my boy, you're here." He tries to push himself up further, but his strength fails him and he slides back down to a prone position. "Come closer, my friend. How did you come to be in this awful place?"

At Ivar's question, Father Marcus points to the cage and shakes his head. "I do know that they took a total of fifteen from our village, including myself. I assumed that they were slowly, one by one, sacrificing us to their evil blood god. Thank you for rescuing me and for helping me to regain my strength. Nikkghak, if you don't mind, I would speak with you privately." Marcus and Nikkghak retire to the corner. Father Marcus places a tender hand on his shoulder. "I am most proud of you, my boy. When you arrived on our doorstep, I never imagined what you would grow into. I would pray with you before I depart." Both Marcus and Nikkghak kneel and bow their heads. Father Marcus offers a whispered prayer to St. Terragnis. The other Hillshire Wayfinders watch silently.Father Marcus stands and says goodbye to the group. He shakes hands, pats backs, and offers simple words of thanks and encouragement. He hefts his mace and strides out of the caverns.

The sounds of chanting grow louder, and as you slide the skull key into the door, a loud booming voice echoes from within. "Yes! As we sacrifice these, our power grows, as does our connection to our lord, Ramlaat!"

Several voices then chant in unison: "Ramlaat. Ramlaat. Ramlaat"

The Hillshire Wayfinders open the door to the ritual chamber and are faced with the horrific nightmare before them. A large, muscular black-robed figure stands behind a pulpit, arms outstretched, a wicked-looking longsword belted to his side. Four red-robed cultists chant and sway in pews. Four villagers stand bound to wood stakes. Around the room, a five-foot deep river of foul-smelling, bubbling blood flows.

Moloch pounds the pulpit. "I told you all that I was not to be disturbed!" But then the robe tilts to the side as if listening to an unseen voice. "Yes, lord." He points. "My followers, it seems that our ranks have been infiltrated with unbelievers. Ramlaat has spoken! Kill them!"

Moloch thrusts a chainmailed hand at Tyrus and speaks a magical word under his breath. Tyrus strains against his bindings, his eyes rolling back into his skull. He struggles for a moment and then relaxes. Tyrus bows his head and speaks in a low guttural growl: "Yes, Lord Moloch." Moloch steps forward, pulls a dagger from his robe, and cuts the ropes holding Tyrus to the stake.

Llewellyn slices deep into the cultist's belly, spilling his innards on the floor. He seizes and then falls to the ground dead, a rotten grin on his rictus face.

Hobb swings his mace and connects with the red-robe. A sickening crunch, and the cultist cries out in pain, but he remains upright.

Tyrus turns and focuses on Llewellyn and charges. He wraps his arms around Llewellyn from behind, underneath his armpits, and begins to wrestle Llewellyn towards the river of blood.