“May as well have a look around while we’re here, I suppose” croaks Aronn.
Clearing a path with the torch, you see that the spacious room is supported by two central pillars. A closed metal door leads off one side while a pair of similarly metal doors lead from another. The single door has a keyhole, and may be locked; the double doors look as if they’re designed to easily swing open at a push.
Hawk raises an eyebrow, a mannerism he has learned from the city dwellers.
“When we are out of this room? Nothing. It has not harmed us, nor have we harmed it, and we are in its home uninvited. I see no reason to send its spirit to the spirit world.”
There is little web in here, but there is a lot of dust and rat droppings.
There is a coffin-sized waist-high rectangular stone platform in the middle of the room, with grooves cut into its top that run through a central channel to a hollow space below.
Along the back wall are piles of splinters; perhaps the remains of cupboards or shelves.
The goblin advances while putting as much space as possible between him and the spider as the walls allow. He peeks into the room Jabril just opened.
There is a coffin-sized waist-high rectangular stone platform in the middle of the room, with grooves cut into its top that run through a central channel to a hollow space below.
“You gettin a ‘human sacrifyse’ feelin from tis ting? Mebbe we shoult leaf it.”
“Assistance?” The shaman thinks for a moment. “As much assistance as a spider can provide, but I do not think that is much.”
As the others examine the double doors, Hawk attempts to open the door to the other room.
“It is too large to easily get through a door, so we must simply rest when we are in the next room, and then I will be able to control it again for going out.”
Hawk is not surprised to find that the door is locked. He has seen no indication that the previous inhabitants left in a hurry, and when there are locks on doors, the owners usually lock them upon leaving.
“This door is locked,” he tells the others. “Maybe hurry to open it so that I can release our friend?”
Jibrīl bends down to the door, takes out his picks and works the lock as quickly as he can, nervously glancing back at the shaman occasionally.
It’s been a while, I’m going as quickly as I can, shouldn’t be too much longer - are you able to hold onto that thing for a little while longer so we can look in here?
The shaman is visibly tired from the strain of controlling the spider.
Jibrīl continues a nervous patter - I hope someone’s ready to look in here quickly. Better be no nasty surprises. And someone keep an eye on that spider.
Hawk puts a hand against the wall to steady himself.
He says, wearily, “Everyone get good look around; I cannot hold the spider much longer. Two minutes will be hard; better if I stop after one.”
That said, the shaman starts moving back to the entrance to this area. If everyone is out at the end of this minute, he will drop the spell then, otherwise, he will give everyone another minute.
Quickly digging through the wreckage, Jibrīl, Thwip and de Courcy find that the gleam came from a collection of small glass bottles and jars. Many of them are broken, but a dozen or so still appear to be sealed.
Scooping them up, they hurry back to join the rest of the party in the hallway just as Hawk staggers and releases his control of the spider.
As he does so, the creature scuttles back into the far corner of its web and watches the party cautiously.
“Shall we continue, gentlemen?” asks Aronn, indicating back towards the large chamber with his staff.
– Junk. Junk. Cold sore medicine. Junk. Junk. Junk. Salve for ‘sailor’s sack’. Junk. Junk. Junk. Diluted medicine memory water?! They bought into that nonsense back then? Sheesh! –
Thwip grabs a couple of bottles that look promising and heads back to the entrance to join the others. He avoids looking at the spider. They should never be bigger than one can cook on a skewer. Ugh. It’s like encountering a man-sized chicken.
“I tink we shoult follow t’ wall instead off walking threw t’ dark t’ where we tink t’ door shoult be.”
Hawk has slumped against the wall, breathing a bit heavily. He is glad that he did not have to kill the magnificent spider-creature, although he can’t imagine the beast is happy that they’ve destroyed most of its home. He briefly entertains the idea that the arachnid will enjoy the opportunity to redecorate, but then dismisses that for folly; if the creature were that intelligent, it would have been a lot more difficult and wearying to control.
As the tribesman is pondering the eternal verities, a glint of something coming in his direction. He has the briefest moment to realize that it came from one of his companions, and thus is not something dangerous, and to decide to catch it rather than get out of its way. His hand bats the bottle rather than closing around it, but he is able to direct the bottle’s motion so that it’s trapped against his body and in no danger of falling.
“Feeling lucky?” the Wazifi-man asks.
Lucky? It is lucky that he was able to catch the thing at all, as weary as he is. Medical supplies are unlikely to burst into flame (and the ones in storage didn’t seem to have done so when they were broken), but having known a few alchemist shamans, it was the ones who treated their concoctions with respect that had managed to keep all of their limbs.
“The spirits are with me,” the shaman replies absently as he examines the “lucky” bottle, “and that is enough.” He observes the viscosity, colouring, and the feel of the magic, and runs his finger along the edge of the seal and smells and tastes the potion, to try to determine exactly what this might be.
