Into the valley of the not quite alive


So, we had just left the centaur camp when we ambushed by bunch of pit spiders. After taking care of them and making sure the horses survived, we continued on our way. We came to a fence of sorts made from skulls. Pleasant. Figuring we were in the right place, we kept going. We passed several large stone markers on which were written the names of some long dead tribe in a language no one recognized (but was reminiscent of giant but much, much older).
We camped for the night near the mountain outcrop.

That night, we were attacked by some sort of dark-cloud-spirit thing. With claws of course. It wreaked our camp and ripped most of our tents to shreds.
After we had defeated it, Graeme and I realized it was probably that dark forboding we had felt the past few days.
The feeling lingered but we were able to get back to sleep.

The next morning, we followed the stone stairs we found and encountered several giant zombie sentinels. Several party members bemoaned the lack of a cleric in our midst but somehow we survived the inconvenience.
At the top of the stairs, we found a waterfall of nasty looking black water. In the middle of the stream was a small island with a large stone pillar. We crossed over to check it out, with our handy dandy moonlit bridge (suck on that, clerics) when we were attacked by wyverns. Much grappling later, we kicked their scaly butts and found a neat sword and an ominous entrance to the underground. And I started hovering 6 inches off the ground.


toastmantom tubabenji

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