>>5465430>>5465487>>5465579>>5465652>>5465966>>5466080>>5466116Thinking on your feet, you grip the hilt of the Dark Fantasy and coax forth its tenebrous magics, shrouding yourself in shadow. Kneeling to lower your profile, you hold your breath and hope that the patrolling orcs to pass you by. The rhythmic tromping of boots crescendos until the bulky frame of a warrior clad in patchwork hides somehow meant to qualify as 'armor' comes into view. Squeezing the haft of his axe, he squints in your direction. 'This is it,' you think, resigning yourself to a fight in unfavorable conditions.
Yet, it would seem that you are mistaken. Draped in the Dark Fantasy's black veil, you are well-hidden from the casual observer. Grunting to himself, the orc moves on, as do his fellows. Withholding a sigh of relief, you remain still until the march of the orcs is no longer audible. Certain that you have evaded danger this time, you enter the cellar at untroubled, the creaking floor beneath your feet unable to betray your presence to any.
The rank odor of dried blood and rotting entrails assaults your nostrils as you enter a cramped space of broken furnishings and dead humans. Illuminated by scattered candles which burn eternally with a cold purple flame, the centerpiece of this room is a broken altar draped in an indigo cloth. Like refuse meant for the pile, a skull with three crowns affixed to it has been battered and carelessly cast aside, a tribute to a god now defiled.
It would seem that the followers of Cyric made a place for themselves here, like rats inhabiting a world just out of sight of their betters. You reckon that the orcs must have happened upon this place and slaughtered them much the same as they did everyone else. Their prayers to the Mad God did not save the Cyricists, evidently; or perhaps their deaths were simply in accordance to whatever deranged plan he had in place for them.
Diligently, you comb the cellar for anything that could be of use to you. Everything of value has already been pillaged by the thralls of Gruumsh, and among the dead there is not even a single strand of silver hair to be found. The investigation is not in vain, however. Flipping over the corpse of a Cyricist dressed as any other commoner, you find a letter in his hands, which he pressed desperately against his chest before blood loss took him. Eager to see the message that this man defended until his dying breath, you tear it from his cold, dead hands, and rip it open to feast your eyes on its contents.
Gibberish. Word salad. A coded message, or a madman's ravings? It is of no immediate use, but someone with the right talent could decipher this.
What now?
>I already smell awful. I may as well comb through the body pile next.>The temple is where I shall go. This place is awash with unholiness.>[Intellect] If I am quick, I can trail those orcs. They must be going somewhere. 