So it’s cold. Very cold and I’m not really dressed for this. I’m used to being in much more warm environments. Making my presentations. Wooing the prospective buyers. I warm my brain indulging in such memories.
Welstiril’s reedy voice snaps me out of my reverie. He urges us to seek shelter in a nearby mausoleum. Normally, I would balk at such a thing. My icy feet protest mightily and I’d rather not lose a toe. I like the natural symmetry of my feet the way they are.
We make our way against the wind and snow. Welstiril drags the sad frozen body of his ward behind him. Clinging to a stubborn belief that he will be able to somehow undo his massive failure. His faith is somewhat charming.
We fight our way to the mausoleum. There’s light and noise inside and I peek inside to see a person working feverishly over what looks to be a corpse. Welstiril wastes no time dragging his frozen charge in and dumps the body in front of the person just as they reach out to the corpse and frozen Meklor receives the boon instead.
Yeah, you heard that right.
There is also a half-orc present. Sitting stoically. He claims he just stumbled up here and got slapped with the luck tattoo and transported to the pit. He won’t cop to whatever crime sent him northward. In fact he insists there was none. That he left his village of his own volition. I don’t believe it.
We hunker in the mausoleum. Eating some trail rations. This is a far cry from the type of hall I normally hunker down in. There’s no crackling hearth or buxom serving wenches bringing overflowing flagons of beverages. Preferably hot beverages. And toasty warm pies. And warm baths. And blankets. Especially blankets.
The night passes slowly. I am unable to summon even a decent story.
I examine the bite on my arm. It looks ok. But I better keep an eye on it for a while. Sometimes it takes a while for sickness to fester. If it’s going to fester. Real festery.
We ransack the place respectfully (of course). And I get a nice fur lined magical armor out of it. So that’s nice.
Now we’re going to head back into the cold to see if there’s any escape from this wretched place. I am not optimistic.