ORIGIN - [Quest] The Training Dungeon

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Zephiran stumbled, the wolf didn't pay any attention to where he was going. Slipped and scraped a bit off his arm. Not bad, but it tugged in pain. But he shook it off.

"I'm alright." Zephiran grunted, pulling himself up to stand with the younger dog. With the weight of the other pulling, he was able to put weight under his paws. "Thank you!"

Now hopefully Zephiran would pay more attention to his surroundings. A smaller hushed voice, as he would deem to follow the dog and the other creature. "I'm Zephiran! I appreciate your help."

"Speaking"

( @Genghis )

Fascinating, Halcyon observed as more explorers gradually joined them in venturing through the tunnel, the group's ranks seeming to swell with every few steps taken. Most had come prepared for the journey ahead, each wielding a different source of light. Despite everyone's efforts, however, the path that lay in front of all remained a near impenetrable black wall. Neither fire, nor bioluminescence, nor concentrated magic revealed much more than just beyond the tip of one's snout. Such forethought this crew exhibited, yet combined it proved minimally helpful at best. Whoever was responsible for designing this passage had done their task well. Almost admirable if the sinister purpose behind the expert concealment wasn't acknowledged.

And it was quite difficult to ignore that promised danger when it ground so suddenly beneath feet. Apparently, dark surroundings had rendered them more shortsighted than usual, and what they'd assumed to be a cautious tread turned out to be not nearly enough of one. A metallic screech sounded from the ceiling. Instinct swept their unburdened arm up to protectively shield their head. They would've sprinted forward in a race of time against whatever swiftly descended upon them; instead a nip and insistent yank at the Drone's ankle dropped them to all fours. Quick thinking saved their staff's abandonment during this abrupt switch in stance, jaws replacing a hand upon its length before forelimbs smacked the floor. In cooperation with the mysterious biter's tugging, they skittered backwards, stone audibly scraping under hurried claws.

Dark steel glinted prior to jarring impact, a glimpse at the trap that would've collided with them had another not intervened. The split second view gave them the impression puncture wounds riddled soft scales in an alternate timeline, a shameful mark for poor awareness on their part. Adrenaline faded in the wake of this revelation, and the staff was removed from their mouth. Their breaths as they spoke next lacked any telltale quaver from the experience of moments ago.

"My foot, if you please." The request was bland, no indignation or embarrassment present in their tone to be remarked upon. Calmly, they turned their head to better regard their unexpected savior and noted the burning glow emanating from multiple features of her ridged face. "Thank you. You've better eyes than mine."

Though her appearance drew heavy suspicion, it'd not be ideal to spurn valiant behavior.

@V-Chaos-Eleven (for visibility)

A rumbling. Her foot sank. A clunk. Fleas looked down, confused, fearful, but already having hit the acceptance stage. She knew this would be bad somehow. The dungeon answered yes with the groan and screech of the unseen contraption above her, rapidly growing louder. She looked up, and was met with the unwelcome sight of rusted spikes rapidly descending. Fleas froze in fear, awaiting the pain of death by spikes. She hadn't expected the feel of teeth in her scruff, nor being flung out of danger. She shot up, eyes darting about before locking on Spark. Her eyes were just as wide, and she visibly shook.

"YEAH." She said around her torch, the crack of her voice still audible. She laughed, high pitched. She had been about to die again there. She was sure of it. "T-Thanks." She wobbled woodenly after Spark, her limbs still stiff with terror.

@Spark

There's nothing inscribed on the walls after all, because instead there is a different trope afoot. It's beneath his stumbling, clumsy feet, even: Oh no, I didn't even think of traps.. ! "ACK!"

... would have made a poor choice of last word, had it been as much. The doom-bringing spikes hardly fit the name, but they do smart against his scales and pinch into the divots between them, if they don't get splinters caught in his mane; making him wince and huff as he drags his utterly squashed form out from beneath them and finds himself the only one actually facing such an anticlimactically low-stakes trap.

At least everyone else is all right, yes? No sense in being visibly embarrassed about his own misfortune and drawing attention to himself.

Menkheperre draws himself back to his feet, much more careful now about his footing, and merely plods forward with the rest of the pack— albeit uncertain about the dark passage ahead, and attempting to forge a light of his own again.

Down goes the traps, and Angel jumps in shock, tail rattling as they wheel on their foot to stare back at the danger. It's almost a danger, enough of a danger, but everyone's more spooked than anything else.

Sobering up from their fright, Angel blinks and stands up a little straighter. "Alright?" Their voice rasps out as they stare to their group. Nobody's really hurt, so it's fine to move on. With a huff, Angel waits by the next room in silent caution, checking to see that everyone's still moving forward before heading deeper into the ruins with them.

Ah, curses, they'd all brought light. And so much of it. To his inverted eyesight, it was like they were being cast in just a tinge of strange, otherwordly shadow... and to be quite frank with you, it pissed him off a little bit. It's like they were doing it on purpose. To spite him! Which is almost certainly not what was going on, but the ire remained, hidden poorly as a lump under a blanket. He sweared to himself that the next light anyone tried to spark up he'd make a point to snuff out.

It was that thinly blanketed ire that inspired a dry, wheezy cough of a laugh from his jaws when he spotted Menkheperre utterly fail to strike his match and, as a direct result, get smacked up and down by that old, rusty, obvious trap in the ceiling. "HHHA HA! Did anybody else see that?!" To Menkhe's great misfortune, Audland was possessed of a pretty booming voice when he wanted to be. Oh, and he would be pointing, too. Fan-flipping-tastic!

But could you really blame him for laughing? It was like a mini episode of Wipe Out, complete with Menkheperre's ridonkulous chicken squawk of surprise. Audland's laughter would simmer down into a low, rolling chuckle up until the point when Menkheperre would make the mistake of trying for yet another light. In an instant, it was like Audland's blood temperature shot up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and the fever caused his spells to reach out before him.

The shriveled claws of Audland's magic would reach for Menkheperre and snatch up his head and the area surrounding in their blackening grasp. Audland would follow into the bubble of darkness soon after, although Menkheperre might not be able to see it. Menkheperre would likely hear the other valkhound first: the low, rumbling chuckle that turned into a snide and threatening remark. "...heheheh. Cut that out, would ya sweetheart?" Nevermind that the other valkhound was... many cycles older than him. "I'll tell ya where yer goin'." The noodley valkhound would then likely feel Audland's meaty paws attempting to rummage around in his lovely little saddle-messenger bag.

If Audland was able to grasp one of Menkheperre's coloring books, Audland would audibly say: "The hell is THIS thing for?" while flipping through the delicate pages.

If not, Audland would simply ask (in a form more suited to a declaration): "The hell is in that thing?" while pointing one shiny blue claw at the bag, with all the social aptitude of a toddler at a fancy dinner.

(OOC: Audland is bullying Menkhe / snuffing out the orb he worked so hard for :,3 sory Menkhe i love you)

@Menkheperre

The harsh grinding of stone makes her freeze fawn-like in her tracks, her gaze darting across the room as she searched for the source. A handful of gembound had the misfortune of stepping on trapped tiles. Mai had already crossed the danger zone at this point, so luckily none of the spikes hit her even as she remained stock-still. In fact, it seemed like nearly everyone had managed to escape the danger unscathed [rip Menkheperre]

She finally shakes off the terror and continues to the next room. She had been wary before, but that was now increased tenfold after actually encountering a trap, despite how anti-climatic it had actually been. Her ears twitched this way and that, tail remaining upright and alert as she cautiously treaded forward.

It was more everyone else's reaction that gave her warning. She dove, cursing, and rolled; when she came upright, it was to sit for a moment and glance sharply around. Others had helped one another, and only the big dragon-looking thing had actually gotten hurt. She pushed up, intending to go offer a hand, and ask if he was okay. She didn't know Menkheperre's name--but she started to introduce herself nonetheless.

"Hey, you okay? I'm Thalia, I can't-" ...She fell silent. She'd been about to say she couldn't do much in the way of healing or bandaging, but she could look at any injuries anyway. Just in case. But Audland was... there.

Audland was definitely present. And in a way, too, that was impossible to ignore. The physical size was one thing, but with her own (admittedly very dim) glow she could see that he'd also added "no sense of personal boundaries" to that, along with "very very loud voice." She winced, and hesitated, before delicately trying to play some form of vague peacekeeper for both strangers.

"You're a smart one! Curiosity's the mark of the smart," she observed, nodding wisely. It wasn't that she was being condescending. She just wasn't, ironically--given her profession and her talents--great with words. But she managed something relatively believable nonetheless: "You also look, uhh, imposing? Maybe you could go first? And beat up anything that might get in our way?" she suggested, smiling uncertainly.

Though at least, with the new near-darkness, her uncertainty wouldn't be quite so visible.

Either way she herself had to push on, now: she stepped carefully (grimacing) around pressure plates, pointing them out to others, as she made her way to the far door--and its unknown beyond.

@Audland (addressed!) and @Menkheperre (also addressed! not stamped!)

The trap had been sprung; now the room lay dormant. Well, almost dormant. A few more pressure plates still remained untouched, and might throw old spikes at the unwary. But beyond that, a doorway: one with another rusted iron door, one that creaked open at the touch of whoever got to it first.

The next room was well-lit, at least in the center: its ceiling was partially collapsed, a gap in the stone reaching high above to let shafts of light illuminate a thin pool in the middle. The outer edges of the room, and its walls, were much darker--but still visible. The entirety was old sandstone bricks, well-worn but still fitted together despite the long passage of time: the architecture had been built to last for centuries. Winding vines had sprawled into the areas lit by light, some of the leaves gradually dying and regrowing to leave a carpet of detritus on the floor. Water dripped here and there, the decay of stone accelerated where it did.

But the three pressure plates on the walls--one in front of them, one to the left and one right--were still intact. They were bricks, extruded somewhat from the stone, carved deeply with different sigils.

The frontmost sigil had a simple keyhole.
The right-side wall's sigil had a symbol: a clawed fist.
The left-side wall's sigil had another symbol, in fact a trinity of them: a curling flame, a drop of water, and--scrawled belatedly, seemingly by another hand--a single word, badly written and underlined twice: MAgiC!!!

Characters should roll to attempt to solve this room's puzzle. They may use whichever rolls they deem relevant for each sigil; Other rolls may be used to either attempt to find a key somewhere in the room, or if the character has a relevant ability, to use something makeshift in its place.

The next post will take place in four days, on June 15th, afternoon/evening GMT.

@Genghis @Halcyon @Spark @V-Chaos-Eleven @Fleas @Callista @Angel @Yew @Menkheperre @Mai @Audland @Thalia @Zephiran

Of course, there's a bully in the midst; and Menkheperre truly means to just ignore him and not give him any attention while he's doing it, but— Poof! His light's snuffed out like the candle on his birthday cake, and there's no choice but to wheel his head around and face the dimly-lit mug poking into the darkness and palming goods that just aren't his. He could stand to ask!

"Don't touch that," Menkheperre whinges, then tries to offer in aside a greeting to the "Thalia" that he can't really see. He means to say more, but the affect falls flat when Thalia steps in for him, and Audland gets close to figuring out the buttons on his bags.

It isn't that he wouldn't want to share his pages with the stranger, but his magic reeks of the same wrongness that'd killed Pollen once, and his head is fuzzy with the unnatural shadows clinging to it. Audland seems the type to start tearing it apart given a chance.

Equally as frail magic-spinning fingers reach for the other Valkhound, and Menkheperre snipes back at his confusion with a sharp, "Ask more nicely next time!" before (despite Thalia's admittedly very good suggestion for redirecting that bullying energy) sending him to the back of the lineup while he's distracted.

Or so he wishes that it would have. It would've been easier for that to have worked than to have to stand his own ground and flaunt his physical muscle; shouldering Audland and his ill-gotten gains aside and huffing with gritted teeth in too-small of a voice for his size, "I'm not telling you until you ask me nicely."

Whether or not Audland keeps pestering him, he has to keep moving on. He's the bigger Valkhound here (both in age and form), and he can just keep giving him a lack of attention until he gets bored. There's other objectives to pursue, and thankfully the black smog keeping him from seeing further than two inches in front of his own snout clears by the time they approach the next, equally as trope-filled chamber.

Spying writing on the third plate, Menkheperre trots (carefully, in case of more spike traps!) forth to offer one single contribution: "Along with the images, this reads, 'Magic!'" He frowns, then. "In terrible penmanship..."

@Audland @Thalia (For visibility!)
+1 Corruption, also. Thanks.

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