1/8/1472 – 19:00 – 19:40: The
group, after a long rest, strike out across the vast cavern, and soon
stand at the entrance to the Great Maw's lair; an ominous arch of
ancient stone, studded with the teeth of huge sharks. Beyond a wide
corridor stretches away into darkness, its walls thickly carved with
eyes, tentacles and slavering mouths.
“There are less of the Shadrakuulite
carvings here.” Notes Lia.
“And by the looks of it,” answers
Varracuda, gingerly stroking one of them, “these were done by the
Maw itself, using its disintegration eye”.
A sickly smell – cloyingly sweet like
hyacinths, and yet, also rotten and fishy – drifts from the
darkness beyond, and with weapons drawn and powers readied, the group
enter the horrifically decorated tunnel.
It opens into a vast chamber, who's
ceiling rises to some 35' above the ground. Every last inch of it is
carved with grotesque images of eyes, fangs, slavering orifices and
veined tentacles. The stench continues to build, and fairly soon,
outlined in the unwavering light of the floating lantern, the group
see its source.
For a few, frozen moments no one can
even speak, for the thing before them is so utterly repellent and
alien that they are simply unable to craft words. It is clearly an
altar, raised to some vile and utterly monstrous being; a table like
central mass some 10' across and 8' deep, from which rise curling
ribs, which overhang the centre like the legs of a spider. However,
it is crafted from living flesh; raw, slickly shiny and bleeding.
Mouths set into the top of the altar's table – lipless and toothed
– suck the putrid juices that drip from several maggot infested
fish lain upon them, whilst the arcing “ribs” twitch and flinch
in apparent recognition of the group's approach. Stretched, blankly
staring faces – unmistakably human despite their grotesque
deformity and mutation – emerge like buboes from the arched back of
the altar (which seems to be made from living, meat wreathed spines),
their tongues protruding to ghastly lengths as they try to reach the
rotting meat set below them, their eyes almost coming free from their
tortured sockets as they boggle and stare at their torment.
“Kill it.” Whispers Lia in a small
voice. “Burn it.”
The two Dhampir stand motionless, their
eye teeth unconsciously extending at the sight of the blood that
pours from the altar, forming scummy, slimy puddles of sticky black
around it.
“I wouldn't.” Murmurs Thatari in a
sick voice, “This is an altar raised to Chelde, the Mother of
Abominations. That blood is almost certainly tainted.”
They stare a moment longer, before
finally winning over their instincts, and backing off.
The group search the rest of the
chamber, trying to ignore the squeaking whispers that issue from the
altar, and find nothing other than a few highly decorated pillars of
rock, carved entirely into more foul forms by Shumeth's artistry.
They then empty several flasks of lamp oil on the living altar, and
Thatari sets it alight with a spear of volcanic flame.
The heat is fierce, and the group are
forced to flee the chamber, whilst the altar wails and howls eerily,
shivering and writing in the midst of the inferno. A horribly
delicious smell, like burned bacon fills the air, and everyone
struggles to contain their bile. All in all, the flames burn for
about 15 minutes...
19:41 – 19:43: The altar's skeleton
lies blackened and creaking in the middle of its charred meaty
carcass, and soot and a thin layer of fat covers everything in the
chamber, revealing, in a far wall, that there is a concealed doorway.
The assassin, breathing through his mouth, gives the door a quick
look over, and declares it safe, before Shnecke forces it open with a
deep click of hidden latches and gummy runners.
19:44 – 19:49: A loathsomely
decorated corridor is found beyond, its walls filled with more of the
Xareth'Chelde's insane carvings – though unmistakably living
growths of meat, and gently pulsing blood vessels weave and wind
around them; living sculptures crafted by the same demented evil as
the altar.
“I just don't believe that the
beholder could be behind the altar and all this.” Growls the
assassin, looking at something that hangs wetly and shivers between
two glaring stony eyes.
“In ancient Draxia,” begins the
warlock, “There was an order of mages known as the 'Flesh
Sculptors'. They were masters of manipulating living creatures and
warping them into living works of supposed 'art', beasts of war or
slaves. They specialised in implanting symbiotic organisms into their
own bodies, and indeed, were supposedly hybrids themselves, having
changed their own forms to better suit their purposes. This seems to
be born of their crafts.”
“Didn't we meet a Draxian back in
Irin that time?” Muses the Ulnyrr.
“Yeah.” Replies the priest, “But
they are but a shadow of the nightmare they were in the Second Age
and early Third.”
Thatari nods.
“What do we know about Chelde?”
Asks Lia suddenly, her eyes huge and haunted as she takes in the
horror of the living decorations.
Grigori clears his throat, and shakes
his head as the details of the deity rise to the fore. “I believe
that certain monstrous codices describe “her” as 'an infinite
ocean of liquid flesh, reaching tentacles, slavering mouths, madly
glaring eyes and birthing orifices from which she endlessly spawns .'
“She
is universally held as a source of many aberrant species and many of
the more, um, unusual
monsters in the world, and although most of her worshippers are
utterly inhuman, certain cults and lodges dedicated to her as a
fertility Goddess or bringer of change have cropped up with
disappointing regularity throughout history.”
Everyone plods on,
trying not to imagine the Seas of Chelde, or the kind of person who
would willingly submit to worship her...
19:50
– 19:53: The corridor writhes through the earth back and forth,
heading ever southwards, and the group soon become used to the
quivering, staring, reaching, pulsing, dripping masses of clearly
aware and tortured tissue that hang in whorls and lines amongst the
increasingly vile carvings (which now seem to feature far more eyes
and “birthing orifices” as the priest put it than maws). Soon the
corridor widens, and its ceiling rises upwards to form a small
antechamber of sorts; the main corridor continuing southwards, whilst
another heads off to the east. Hanging from the middle of this room
are several stalactite like structures made entirely from living
tongues, melded together. Drool hangs down from them in long, sticky
ropes, pooling thickly beneath, and as the group come closer, they
begin to wave and twitch, their drooling increasing as they “taste”
their arrival.
“Am I the only
one that thinks we are inside some kind of great beast?” Murmurs
the Ulnyrr, his jagged axe raised and ready.
“Ssshhh!”
Growls Grigori suddenly, I can hear...laughing, coming from this side
tunnel.”
He turns to face
the others, his pale features even paler than usual.
“It's not the
good kind of laughter though.”
19:54 – 20:05:
They move along the side corridor, the air hot and humid, the walls
here pulsing with fleshy sacs and quivering body parts that are
normally not seen. Ahead a bloody, sanguined light bleeds wetly from
a large cavern, and by now all the group can hear the sobbing, broken
titters and thickly slurred prayers that ooze from ahead. Moving with
surprising stealth for them, they manage to get near enough to see
into the chamber without disturbing its occupants.
It is a large
cavern, though almost every last inch of its walls, floor and ceiling
are covered in flesh. Three membranous doors lead from it; one ahead
to the east, one to the north and one to the south, each reminding
the group of the hard fats that sometimes cling, sticky and fibrous,
to cooked meats. The northern door is guarded by three canine beasts;
skinny, slime skinned thing with narrow, pointed heads and four
lidless eyes. Flies crawl over them constantly, feeding on their wet
flesh, apparently drawn to them for some reason.
In the middle rises
a column some 15' across, of what appears to be meat, a baroque mass
of entrails, limbs, eyes, mouths, tongues and genitalia. Steam rises
from this column, and the red glow that suffuses the heavy air seems
to come mostly from it.
Kneeling around it,
wearing robes that are apparently made from flesh and lank hair, are
six humans. They are the source of the laughter and prayers, and seem
to be engaged in some kind of worship; bowing towards the pillar and
heaving up their clotted prayers.
The first of them
dies in a blast of cleansing radiant fire, as Grigori sweeps inwards
and unleashes his fury – though his entrance into the room triggers
some kind of alarm glyph, a multitude of larynges that grow from the
walls like weird fungi, suddenly emitting strident, mindless, piping
screams. The rest of the group pile in, the barbarian splitting the
chest of another before they can rise, the assassin running a third
through. As they fall back, so the cultist's hoods drop away from
their faces, and the adventurer's are suddenly confronted with
visages straight out of a nightmare; their faces frozen, so it seems,
midway between the features of a human, and something akin to a
Xareth'Chelde. Tortured folds and bulbs of flesh bulge noisomely from
their warped, melted faces, pulsing with slightly differing rhythms.
Their mouths are twisted gashes, filled with human and monstrous
teeth, whilst their eyes are either too close together, preparing it
seems to fuse into one giant orb, or spaced at differing heights,
weeping viscous fluids that reek of alchemical acids.
Now aware of the
group, the canines launch themselves to attack, a gut ripping stench
flooding before them, bringing tears to the eyes of all (save the two
undead, who's breathless state renders them immune). At the same
time, the eastern door suddenly thins and parts, revealing another
monstrosity, quite unlike anything the group have seen so far.
It may once have
been human, or may be some abomination that wears the bipedal form of
one. There is no way to tell, for it is utterly wretched in form; a
hunched, tumour covered thing with soft flesh the colour of wet clay.
Its head seems to almost melt into its bulging, wobbling shoulders,
and several 10' long tentacles, wet and spongy, are wrapped around
its body, their origin impossible to tell. Its eyes are impossible to
see, for they rest within deep holes that look almost scooped into
its soft, rubbery face, giving it a lugubrious, almost pitiful
expression. Its mouth is full-lipped and down turned, and tiny, sharp
teeth are clearly visible within its wet, gabbling interior.
Despite its
appearance, this horror moves with sure speed, and as it approaches
Lia feels a steel hard cold reaching down her spine and into her
soul.
“It's psionic!”
She snarls, throwing a potent barrier of psi-energy around the group,
shielding them from direct psychic attacks, and making the nightmare
snarl with anger.
Beyond this thing,
in a chamber lit more by varying shades of darkness that true light,
the group get the impression of sturdy barbed feelers sprouting like
strange, bloody ferns from the walls. And stretched upon their cruel
ends, their bodies warped and bent into forms one would think
impossible to allow life, whilst undeniably being both alive and
aware of their horrible predicament, are several more cultists.
For terrible
moments the cramped, stinking chamber is filled with ferocious
combat. The canines are surprisingly durable enemies, who's savage
bites send those they strike tumbling to the ground, whilst the
tumorous horror proves to be a potent force of destruction, its
tentacles and fists sending poor Varracuda and Lia tumbling to the
ground, near death. However, hampered by the ardent's magnificent
psionic shields, it is unable to effectively make use of its most
potent psychic attacks, and the group are able to slowly beat their
way past the surviving cultists and snapping Retch Hounds, to engage
with it.
It fights like a
daemon, but even as it knocks Lia unconscious, and prepares to blast
the group with a wave of mind-shattering psionic power, it finds the
barbarian's axe embedded in its chest, and with a despairing
gurgling, psychic cry, collapses, flailing to the floor, its
sweet-smelling blood pumping from its diseased heart sacks and
smoking pipes.
With its mental
goading gone, the surviving hounds beat a sudden retreat, taking
their choking stink with them, and the group rush to heal Lia, and to
secure this place of warped flesh and madness made manifest...
