She coughed from dust as she followed the others onto the first level.
“I’ll pay for the damages out of my share.” Crushstuff stalked up to a pillar, and casually shattered it with his battle axe. The ceiling trembled, but didn’t fall. “Man, that is satisfying.”
“I’d prefer minimal damage.” White waved a hand in front of his face to clear the cloud of dust. “Kit’s right, in this instance at least. Confine the destruction to the dark lord and his minions.”
“Speaking of,” Nutpuncher chimed in that deep voice, “where are those minions? And where is my haste spell?”
Kit followed the gnome’s gaze, which roamed the broad entryway. They’d been here before, and knew the tomb well. Not much had changed, except for the addition of flower pots with bright green tulips every few feet along the walls.
Colorful banners had also been hung along the edge of the ceiling in a clear attempt to brighten the place up, though it did little to relieve the dreariness. She couldn’t help but smile when she pictured Bert’s tiny form atop a swaying ladder as he hung them.
“Excellent point, Nutpuncher.” White strode further into the room. “Let us see what kind of defenses this new dark lord has prepared. Crushstuff…blow the horn.”
“My pleasure.” The ogre slung his axe over his shoulder, and withdrew a massive white dragon horn. He raised it to his lips, and unleashed a deep blast that could be heard for miles.
Dooo dooooooooo!
Kit began chanting under her breath, knowing they’d need to be fully buffed to face whatever Bert had prepared. “Iniquitas celeritous!”
A bright blue magical symbol pulsed on the ground beneath the party, bathing them all in potent energies. Time accelerated, as a shape emerged from the darkness.
“Oh, leave off already,” Sir Patrick’s cultured voice echoed from the shadows as the familiar death knight strode into view at the far side of the chamber. “This isn’t that kind of dungeon….”
Crushstuff was already lumbering toward the death knight, his battle axe held high over his head. Nutpuncher advanced cautiously behind him, his stance loose, ready to unleash a flurry of tiny punches.
“NO,” White boomed, rushing to head the pair off. “He’s mine. I still owe him for—”
“Owe me?” Sir Patrick placed his face in his palm, and gave a very put upon sigh. “I never betrayed you. I followed every one of your mad dictums. What could you possibly owe me for?”
White narrowed his eyes, and raised a delicate finger, which he stabbed in Sir Patrick’s direction. “Simon Saysicus!”
A wave of dark tendrils shot out and engulfed Sir Patrick, who stood placidly, uttering another sigh as the tendrils wormed through his spectral body.
“Now you belong to me, undead.” White advanced on the death knight, shoulders thrown back haughtily. “Take us to your master, so we can kill him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Sir Patrick rested his hands on the hilt of his greatsword, planting NC-1701’s tip deep into the stone. “The dark lord is quite clever, you see. In order to reach him you must undergo a series of trials. These trials are non-lethal, but are designed to weed you out, one by one, until only a single survivor remains. We call them the Thirsty Games. I am here to arbitrate the games, and you controlling me means nothing. You cannot order me to let you deeper inside, as I cannot do that, and I have no idea what you’ll be facing, so you can’t order me to betray my lord.”
Sir Patrick adopted a rather smug smile as he awaited White’s response. Kit smirked into her hand, but that smile faded when she considered Sir Patrick’s words.
“So these, ah, Thirsty Games,” she broke in, drawing Sir Patrick’s attention, and White’s irritated gaze. “Are you saying there can only be one survivor? Only one of us is going to make it down to the dark lord?”
Sir Patrick delivered a truly wicked smile. “That is the general idea, yes. Lord Bert has devised a number of stratagems that will winnow down adventurers, and force you to turn on each other. In his imminently wise words, ‘Only good adventurers come inside. Bad adventurers will get stuck forever.’”
“We shall see about that,” White growled as he stalked up to Sir Patrick. “Tell me about the next level. Presumably that is where these games begin, yes?”
Sir Patrick’s eyes glittered mischievously as he answered. “The next level contains treasure. Enough to make a single person a god. But only a single person. Each of you will be deposited in a different part of a labyrinth, and you will have to navigate your way to the center, where a powerful prize awaits.”
“What kind of powerful prize?” Nutpuncher interjected, his voice no longer deep now that he was under the effects of the haste spell.
“A potion of super-heroism,” Sir Patrick explained as if he’d just offered them to the keys to the kingdom.
The death knight seemed miffed when none of them were impressed.
“A potion?” Crushstuff growled, looming over Sir Patrick. “What kind of bullshit reward is that?”
“I think super-heroism is pretty cool,” Nutpuncher broke in, eyebrows knitting together in consternation. “Don’t those give you levels?”
“Yes,” Kit broke in. “At ninth level it will raise whoever drinks it to twelfth level, and that includes all the spells and class abilities you’d normally gain.”
“But,” Nutpuncher snarled, “it only lasts for 5d6 rounds. That’s like 30 seconds of combat, at best. So you’re a little cooler for one fight? That’s the prize?”
“Did I mention,” Sir Patrick interjected, as innocent as a babe, “that the potion was blessed with a wish, and that wish makes the effects permanent?”
It took about two seconds for Kit to figure out what that meant. The person who won these games would get three permanent levels, and be vastly more powerful than the rest of the party.
She
