😂 hilarious!

Returning to the sands, we returned along the path to the village, now to all observation deserted, and past it, to where the track around the pond led into the higher dunes.  Soon we approached the shallow dell where we left the bodies heaped around the central fire. All that remained were bones gnawed clean. A curious pyramid of stacked ribs was topped with a polished skull. A circular hole showed where the brain had been.. sucked out?  Writhing tracks were tumbled all around in the sand. Snowdog peered about, his stoicism unpierced. “I think we should move on,” was all he said.

The tracks of the man-eating cultists led further to the East, and thence we followed warily, backtracking them to their lair.  Several dusty but uneventful miles later, we came across the fabled Warlord’s Palace. It was a dump. High walls of plastered mud-brick extended between tumbled-down towers on the corners.  A broad dome, cracked across the middle surmounted the whole thing, which was being consumed by a towering dune from the rear. The plaster was cracked and the bricks crumbling. In the center of the wall, the tracks we followed entered a massive pair of splintered wooden doors strapped with greening copper bands.  The doors were just open enough to permit a single man to pass.

Well, of course, you never enter the first door opened to you, and even though we had destroyed several of the cannibals, there was no sign we had reached the end of them.  And despite the ramshackle condition of their lair, it was huge and it could conceal a great number more foemen. We resolved, therefore, to work our way around the perimeter and search for a less obtrusive entrance.With Snowdog in the lead, we passed around the site to the south.  We saw no movement on the battlements, but the walls held enough cracks and gaps that innumerable eyes could have observed our progress with ease.  We passed around the south-western corner, and the looming wall blocked the sun, wrapping us in purple shadow. Along the southern wall, we traversed in single file, while above us flaking murals showed the triumph of a Warlord long dead.  Everything was quiet. Of a sudden, Snowdog paused and sniffed the air. He slowly approached the wall and poked into the sands beneath it with his spearpoint. He sniffed again. “Meat,” he said. “Dig here.”

Naturally, I keep certain tools with me to expedite my researches, so the shovel and pickaxe were quickly grasped by burly hands and the sand flew.  In no time at all, a gap in the wall showed a downward slope leading into darkness. Snowdog crept into the opening, and then slid down out of our sight.  In short order, we heard a softly called all clear, and we followed in a file. Below, we reassembled in a dimly-lit broad low-ceilinged hall awash in sand.  Indeed, a strong odor of searing meat was in the air, and it seemed to come from a closed door to the west.  “Shall we, gentlemen?” 

-- Bytorr the Necromancer, the Warlord's Palace

Last edited by Hackhamster (11/21/2019 11:16 pm)

With a mighty blow of Birgir’s shoulder, the door splintered and gave way as the hinges ripped free, and our warriors were through with battle cries and bared weapons.  From the rear, all I could apprehend of the melee was a great clash of arms, shrill screams, and potent oaths. A potent aroma of roasting meat perfumed the air, and to my horror, I salivated.   Snowdog charged past me and buried his spear in the breast of a dagger-wielding figure in priestly garb, whose mouth gaped wider in agony than it seemed possible for a normal man, revealing fangs and hooked teeth in a silent shout as it died.  Another started to make an arcane gesture but fell to a flurry of wicked axe strokes that rent gaping holes in its robes. An ophidian stench arose to compete with the savory scent of a dead man trussed to a spit over a hot bed of coals. The four anthropophagi rose from their cooking implements a beat late and were summarily dispatched before they knew their doom was upon them.  Spatulas and roasting forks were no match for the plunging thrusts of sword and spear.

Three bound and gagged captives writhed against the far wall, their eyes rolling in their heads in their transports of emotion.  We freed them, hauled them to their feet, and without a backward glance at their roasted compatriot, they fled out the door in a headlong gibbering rush.

“So much for gratitude,” grunted Roark in a huff. A quick search of the room discovered naught but crude weapons, broken crockery, and roasted haunches of presumable human origin. Snowdog knelt by the snake-men who had been flung into the corner, curiously fingering their now ruined finery.  Nothing was to be found on them, and nothing explaining their presence here. All of us save the dimmest had heard of the evil legend of the snake-men and their hatred for all the walked the lands of Hyperborea. To abruptly find a myth made real was at the least disconcerting.

There was another splintered wooden door exiting the room, and we formed up preparing to leave I had a sudden thought: was this cycle to be never-ending? Find the door. Open the door.  Rush in and slay some miscreants. Rifle their belongings and pocket their paltry treasure. Find another door, and so on.  I saw a vision in my mind’s eye of a seemingly infinite series of rooms receding into the future, ending at last in an ultimate chamber that contained not blood, screams, and the rape of grubby reward, but my doom. I pondered this sudden insight for a moment, weighing its significance until I was startled by Lycos’ sudden ejaculation.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “What about him?”

We had all seemingly forgotten the roasting corpse in the middle of the room, the grisly guest of honor at the interrupted feast.  Without the rotation of the spit, it had begun to char and smoke on one side. Suddenly another uncomfortable frisson of mixed disgust and lust for flesh passed over me, and I remembered my porcine experiment in mobile rations. My mouth watered.  Maybe if I, but no, Birgir, as usual, had preempted me. He trotted over the rotisserie hominidis and gave a quick sniff.

“He ain’t done yet." Did he glance at me when he looked up? "Let's go.”

-- Bytorr the Necromancer, the Warlord's Palace

Last edited by Hackhamster (4/11/2020 9:32 am)

Down the silent hall we crept, to find a village of sorts in a large square room. Haggard women and their squalling brats all dressed in rags slurped noisome stew from wooden bowls, and of course several brutes of the type with which we had become familiar lounged about the smoking fires.  They took no notice of us in the dim light, and we withdrew without incident.

After a short consultation, where we made and discarded several plans, I had a stroke of inspiration.  Maybe we could intimidate them and drive them out, scattering the thralls and their spawn, leaving their warriors confused and disorganized.  I sent Snowdog back to the kitchen where he retrieved the robe of the ophidian priests we had slain. Our largest warriors donned them and we returned, intending to cow them with our mastery of their prior masters.  Or so we thought.

The moment Birgir came forward, bellowing, cursing, and waving his axe belligerently over his head, the savages sprang to their feet and raised blowguns to their lips.  A quick shower of darts pelted Birgir, most bouncing from his armor, but one lodged in his arm. We withdrew yet again pursued by the howling maniacs who showed no sign of intimidation.  We quickly took up positions back in the domed chamber and met a sudden rush of foemen. Crammed together in the narrow hall, they could not come at our broad front but singly, and were quickly dispatched.

The lull after the melee was broken by Birgir’s frantic panting.  He had entered his berserk frenzy, overcoming the numbing agent from the dart that had pierced his shield arm, but the fight had ended too soon for it to abate. Consumed with unsatiated bloodlust, he let out a bellow that shook the ruined marble halls and, with the clashing of his hobnails on the gore spattered pavers, he sprinted back into the darkness waving his axe on high, ululating a wordless howl of doom.

As screams of terror and pain erupted, those of us that remained behind exchanged almost sheepish glances as none of us looked to be the first to go to his aid.  None looked to receive a wild axe blow delivered in the dark. Only Snowdog looked on impassively, his dark eyes chips of obsidian as he cleaned the head of his spear, his visage unreadable. The others might be feeling pangs of unheeded conscience that struggled vainly against cowardice, but my minion’s likely only regret was that prime slaves were being put to waste.  As for myself, I looked forward to the transformation in store for my erstwhile clear-eyed noble friend. No longer would he view himself as the protector of the weak, some carefree primitive spirit, not after this killing spree.

Soon enough, the noises stopped, and Birgir came trudging back up the passage, his axe dragging behind from a limp hand, his eyes dazed and blank.  He was soaked in gore, an avatar of wanton slaughter. The others greeted him with silence and would not meet his eyes. He shook himself like a dog caught in the rain, and fumbled with his off-hand at his face, clearing the blood from his eyes. He ran his hand through his beard, coming away with something he held in his hand and considered with disbelieving eyes full of sudden sorrow. The finger of a child lay in his palm. He cast it away with a moan, and shambled over to the wall, sliding down it until he sat with his head bowed. The others looked away, afraid to bear witness to his agony.

I must admit, I looked on smugly as he wrestled with the dawning of this unwelcome knowledge.  It is not every day one witnesses the warping of a man's soul when he is confronted by the proof of a ravening beast within. As all men must eventually, he had looked into the void and found a monster staring back. 

-- Bytorr the Necromancer, the Warlord's Palace

Last edited by Hackhamster (4/21/2020 6:02 pm)