Onward
we pressed. Missenbar set off a pit trap and only just flung himself
clear, and in the very next room a piercer dropped from the ceiling
square onto Horton's head, much to his disgust. A dead elven woman
lying in a corridor proved to be a kinder encounter for us as she
carried a bag that held far more than any bag ought. From its depths
came a hundred and forty-seven gold, a diamond, a little porcelain
hippo, a clutch of dead geese, and a morningstar that hummed cold in
the hand, hungry for the restless dead. I tried on her studded
leather armour, bruised and battered as I was, and felt it shift and
settle slowly until it fit me like it had been cut for me. Horton
claimed the morningstar and we carried on.
A guard room with two sleeping goblins was cleared quietly enough. And just past a portcullis lay a bunk room full of sleeping shapes. The true danger however was in the floor: a stone that gave a soft click underfoot and dropped a person into slumber so deep they could not be woken. Missenbar found it the hard way and folded to the ground like a lead weight. Horton hauled him out by a rope, heaved the portcullis up, and we carefully picked our way around the treacherous stone and on into the dark.
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