At the bidding of the terrible Warg. Our heroes file through the dankly reeking den of the wolf-thing and to the door of the next chamber, having been directed thusly. Ever cautious Belton readies his testing-pole as Cröm hefts up the DoomStar, the mighty mace of the fallen Ogre, and readies himself to crush whatsoever opponent dares burst forth from the room even as it emerges.
As the door swings open the party can see that this small study looks like it has been lived in recently. Gnawed bones litter the floor and tufts of gray fur can be seen here and there. An old stone desk sits in the center of the chamber, scratched and cracked in many places. The stench of wet fur hangs heavy in the air. A hole, low in the wall and large enough to allow egress for something the size of a wolf catches Sif's attention right away. Belton makes with haste to the desk. the only likely source of important information or material gain int he room. The desk is completely empty save for a few scraps of ancient parchment and an old quill. One of the drawers has a secret compartment, which Belton and Renny's quick and watchful eyes uncover in a trice. Inside is a +1 handaxe, a small pouch containing 100 pp, and a prayer book.
The book is written in Dwarven and describes the worship of Droskar. A small note on the inside cover reads “Torag is no longer worthy of our devotion. Only Droskar can deliver us from the failings of King Garbold.” Gaia regards the book for a moment and remarks that the book is probably worth 50 gp or so to a scholar interested in Dwarven history.
The notion takes our heroes to use this heavy stone desk to block off the hole in the wall and disallow the wolves of Greypelt's pack to enter in behind them and become a danger as they move through the ruins. This proves to be a Herculean labor as many strong arms are applied to the task. Finally, Gaia enlarges Cröm and he heaves mightily at the desk, tumping it over and covering the hole most effectively. The party then makes to leave the room via the open door into some kind of ruined hallway to the south. As they make their way from the reeking wolf-den, Renny, her senses sharp and keen, espies a tell-tale seem in the wall near the exit-door. a Dwarven-height crack it he wall that should not be there and suggests the presence of a secret door. The collected wit and keen gaze of all the party are applied to the task until the outlines of the door are demarcated. Seeking and finding a trigger switch, the heroes cast open the door and Belton commands his viney-rotting servitor to enter the room both as a trigger for any clever Dwarven traps and to draw fie from any foes waiting in ambush. Neither altercation nor pitfall befall the shambling servitor and the group emerges warily into the chamber. Old cobweb-covered racks and armor stands dominate much of this small chamber. What must have once been a well-tended armory is now devoid of arms and armor. In their haste, the Dwarves who armed themselves from this chamber knocked over one of the bolt cases, spilling its contents across the floor. They gathered up most of the bolts, but 4 of the +1 flaming bolts
ended up underneath one of the racks and were never discovered. Also among the debris on the floor, Gaia discovers an ancient Dwarven ring. To her mystic's sight it emits a faint aura of Abjuration magic. This simple golden ring has a large red gemstone set into it that sparkles with an inner fire. The wearer of the ring gains fire resistance 10 against the first fire attack that hits them that day. This protection renews itself every morning at dawn. In addition, the wearer receives a +1 resistance bonus on saves made against fire spells and effects. The ring must be worn for 24 hours before its enchantments begin to have any effect.
From the armory there is a pair of strong double-doors of dwarven make. Heavy Stone and Iron barriers set with the strongest hinges. They swing open easily at the behest of the heroes, perfectly balance miraculously after so many centuries of structural ruin and decay. Beyond lies a ceremonial battle-chamber with a sunken dueling pit. The floor of the pit has collapsed into a dark recess beneath it, revealing the presence of a lower level. The room is bare, like a holy chamber of a tabernacle. Save for three horrid, creaking, leathery corpses that walk upright in a sham of the living dwarves they once were. Hungry for the souls of the living, they attack eve as the doors swing wide-open.
The dry, rasping shrieks of the unquiet dead fill the chamber as the leathery horrors scamper unnaturally across the smooth stone floor, alternately on all fours like beasts but interspersed with an appallingly fast two-legged sprint. Their once-heavy dwarven bodies, the skin and flesh now bereft of all life-giving moisture, creak and rasp like old leather and the joints pop dryly in their sockets driven by unholy energies from the Dark Realms of death and shadow, giving hellish unlife where only the conqueror worm should hold dominion. They race forward with their black, blood-splashed mouths and claws biting and grasping to pull the life out of the intruders.
Belton commands his Rosewood creeper zombie forth to do battle, eager to see what the viney monstrosity is capable of. Cröm flies into a berserker frenzy at the sight of these manxome foes, blood and muscle swell and he roars into the chamber to meet these dwarven wights head-on. In a trice, he is upon the first of them swinging his DoomStar with such ferocity that his muscles and armor creak with the effort as the hammer hurtles like an Adamantine meteorite, crashing into the lesser wight thrall of the Cairn Wight master at the far side of the pit. The blighted, blasphemous thing is dealt a terrible blow as Cröm roars a Boar-like shriek in triumph, savagely pumping the DoomStar into the air in defiance of the crypt-lord looking on.
Renny, amazed at having seen at last the legendary grave-born of Ustalavi tales, the spawn of the deathlands given gate into our world by the ancient Warlord Lich Tar-Baphon in the days of ancient wonder, rushes forward, her trusty dagger at the ready. Forged in her own home village by the finest smith for leagues around, this special blade, made for her at the behest of her noble father, has ever lent her strength in battle. She reaches the right-most of the Thralls and driver her knife deep, finding gaps in the Dwarvish armor meant for heavy Dwarven frames but occupied by a withered corpse, leaving gaps in the plates of the mail where none would normally be. But realization dawn on her that the fiend is without vital spots, it cannot be struck dead by blows to the neck or heart. It fights on undaunted from her deep lethal blow as though only taking a flesh-wound. She leaps back in time to avoid it's counter-attack and as it's hideous blood-stained claws rake down her armor, the feels the sepulchral tug of its soul-stealing power trying to draw forth her life to feed its loathsome un-life.
Sif, a clever warrior as used to flexing her mind as she is her considerable muscle, draws for the Horn of ancient Calling and with all her might, delivers a spartan blast upon it such that the air trembles and the ground cracks open, disgorging the horde of the Arcadian Wilds. Eight bestial, savage half-men of the days before history struggle enraged from the earth and broken stone. Their wolf-like howls and bearlike grunts and growls fill the silence in the dying tones of the horn. "Kill the undead Dwarves!" Sif commands them pointing into the duel-chamber. They pour forth like a raging tide to do her bidding. Within a single breath they are upon the two wight thralls, spilling around Cröm and laying into the Wight with antler and bone-spiked clubs, bringing it low and pounding it to death even within it's heavy dwarven plate armor. Across the pit the other thrall hold it's own, driven by the madness of death, it weathers the blows of the otherworldly savages and stands tall to strike Renny down.
Gaia, weary from the unrelenting pace of this days battles, inventories her remaining spells, finding herself at a disadvantage after the fight with the mighty Ogre took much of her day's arcana from her in order to bring victory against that terrible foe. She may not be able to rain down the worst of her magics upon these horrors, but her sword is keen and well crafted and she is a daughter of the Battle Mages of Kyonin, whose blades are feared throughout Avistan. She summons up from her reserves the trusty bolts of magic she first learned as an apprentice and send the magic missiles streaking out into the chamber to rend the grave-born that looms before Renny, giving her a change to recover and gain advantageous position. Having near-exhausted her arcane power for the day, she moves forward into the room to go toe-to-toe with these foes.
Belton, having reloaded his heavy repeating crossbow with the new flaming bolts recovered from the Armory, fires with true aim at the Cairn Wight across the chamber. The fiery bolts embedding deep in the monster's hide. Their eldritch flames leaping across the dried skin, setting it alight and enraging it. The crypt-lord draws forth a black and darkly luminous blade from the ancient days. A longsword that moans with terrible portent as it leaves it's sheath and enters the world of the living. Seemingly made of darkness, this shadowy blade leaves a wake of smoky evil behind it as it passes through the air, it's sepulchral moan betides a horrible passage to the Boneyard of Pharasma. The Cairn-Wight leaps into action crossing the distance between it's place across the chasm of the collapsed battle-pit at an uncanny, racing gait that defies explanation from one so dead. in a flash it is upon Cröm and the black blade bites deep into his chest. Cröm cries out in horror and disbelief as a portion of his eternal soul is sucked away into the fiendish long-sword and up into the Cairn Wight. He watches in dismay as his own vitality fills out the shriveled carcass of the monster, lending flesh to it's horrid body through sacrilegious magic.
Across the yawning pit from this, Renny, given an opportunity to seek superior fighting positions by the advent of Sif's raving savages pouring around her to confront the Wight Thrall and from the momentary distraction of Gaia's missiles, slips low and dexterously with an acrobatic flair impressive to behold and passes from the melee like a shadow slipping into the far corner of her room as she draws her shortbow and nocks an arrow in one motion. Turning, she lets-fly and sinks a shaft into the exposed back of the Wight as the howling horde of Sif's savages descend upon it, raining heavy blows with their clubs and stone axes, smashing it into ruin and destroying it utterly.
The Inquisitor, Belton Harald, summons up his righteous power, granted him by the Queen of Dreams and Stars infusing the next flaming bolt with added divine power as he castigates the remaining Crypt-Lord with voice resounding. His halo flaring forth like the Secret Fire of the Imperishable Flame of the Ainur and his Wings of the 36 Divine, Celestial Saints flaring wide and flashing in the golden radiance. His bolt streaks across the darkness of the chamber like a comet across the night sky, a deadly portent of doom for the Crypt-Lord and it plunges into the fiend's chest with a flare of arcane fire and divine force intermingled and the dark Dwarven devil shrieks a dry, raspy cry of denial and unbridled, mad fury as his corporeal flesh cracks and burns under its assaulting forces. Driven to madness in his desire to bring foul, soul-tearing death to the Angel-kin, the Carin Wight grasps at Cröm to hurl him into the open pit beside them dashing him to ruin on the rocks below, but Desna has cursed him now and his normally vicelike steel grip falters and he teeters unbalanced on the precipice of the black hole. The savages of the Horn of Ancient Calling lose not an instant to renew their vigorous assault again him and their spiky clubs topple the fiend into the darkness with pounding, heavy blows. The Crypt-Lord crashes down to his destruction amid the broken stones of the Dueling-pit floor down below. Cröm leaps down after him to finish the job is necessary and ensure that the deed is done. In so doing his barbaric rage passes and he takes from the Wight, his black and powerful sword and it's ancient sheath, Clambering back up into the now-quiet chamber to present the blade, so like the one at Gaia's side, to her in a gesture of manly friendship and respect. As the Horde of the Horn pass back into their Happy Hunting Grounds in the forest beyond death, our heroes pause for a well-deserved rest.