The Winding Way spat the group out of its tunnels and into a cavern that made all of them suddenly reconsider the appeal of a quiet life in mushroom farming. It wasn’t just vast; it was a whole subterranean dimension of full-on hellscape. The sight that greeted them didn’t so much whisper “turn back” as scream, “GET OUT NOW!”—and added a kick up the arse for good measure.
Zorrobar, who had spent most of the journey trying to mentally map out every possible escape route, felt like they’d been unceremoniously dumped into the mouth of some very large, very pissed-off creature. He’d once managed to reach one of the latter levels of Doom and was rather wishing he didn’t have that context right now. And what was worse, the stench of methane was so strong, he still couldn't risk channelling any of his fire spells. This felt disproportionately debilitating since he had lived his entire adult life - until the last few days - without magic. But confronted by the swirling, shimmering, bloody mess before him, he was in full appreciation for the value of a fireball or two.
The ceiling soared above him, lost in a darkness so complete it felt as if the shadows were less an absence of light and more an actively malign presence—a monstrous grin watching them, waiting. Jagged stalactites dangled precariously, sharp and foreboding, and the walls—slick with dripping blood—glistened and bubbled, as if the cave itself was a living organism, exhaling some foul, viscous breath.
“Fuck, this is grim,” Zorrobar whispered, suddenly acutely aware of just how underpowered they all were in the face of this nightmare. His voice barely carried beyond his own lips, swallowed by the atmosphere that seemed to weigh down on them all, turning their thoughts sluggish and heavy. He glanced to his right and saw that Steffan’s eyes were unfocused, clearly lost in consultation with his Guide. The Necromancer’s brow was furrowed in concentration, muttering to himself as he read, the words tumbling out like a man trying to remind the universe of its own rules. “This must be the heart of the cavern. My Guide says the Amulet of Drayton lies here, guarded by the Cursed Knight."
Ent let out a low, rumbling grunt—an ambiguous noise that could have meant anything from “this sounds dangerous” to “I’m really craving some bark right now.” As it... spoke, yes, let’s go with that, it adjusted Lorelei so that she was slumped over his shoulder like an overstuffed sack of potatoes. Her face was ashen, looking to all the world as if she was clinging on to the last vestiges of life. Chrissy was periodically casting a heal spell on her, but the debuff was clearly not responding to anything so mundane as her spells.
Whatever was going down here, Fortuna’s Herald was obviously not going to be playing an active part. Zorrobar grimaced at that. In every important confrontation the group had had since the Botanical Gardens—especially at the Botanical Gardens!—it had been Lorelei that had played the decisive role in pulling their arses out of the fire. And that was without taking him and Kris off the table too. Pete and Hild were game, Michael and Michelle were... fucking creepy but brought the damage, and Steffan and Chrissy had great utility, but it still felt like they were bringing a knife to a nuclear war.
“The Cursed Knight,” Hild said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Guarding the amulet with a sense of duty so fierce, it’s lasted through the ages. I almost feel bad about what we’re about to do.”
Zorrobar loved that confidence and almost felt his own morale rise. But then he remembered the Valkyrie had great armour and a solid self-heal. Her belligerence reminded him of the old joke, “I don’t need to run faster than the lion, I only need to run faster than you.” As a heavy guy in flowing robes, he was a bit worried that if and when the fleeing started, he was going to see a lot of allies becoming safe little dots in the distance.
Kris hid a grin as he tugged on Zorrobar’s growing nervousness for what was to come. He still was not wholly sure how his Skills worked, but he sensed he was inflaming that man’s worry a touch and feeding on the result. That didn’t feel ideal—morality-wise—but the truth was, his sanity was fraying at the edges slightly. His way of looking at the world was darkening, like someone had dropped ink into the water of his perception. Basically, everything felt a bit tainted. And not just by consuming the fears of others; it was something fiercer, something that had been awakened within him when he’d siphoned the Wraith’s power. In the face of that, he was finding it hard to give a fuck that he was making the fat mage’s heart quiver a bit.
Even without Kris playing silly buggers with their minds, the heart of the cavern—a vast, circular chamber that defied all logic, physics, and possibly the very fabric of reality—was not giving off positive vibes. None of the group could shake the feeling that this was precisely the kind of place where evil would set up shop, stick a discount on all villainy, and look to undercut the competition.
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However, rather than confronting the expected Big Bad and its enthusiastic minions, in the centre of the chamber stood a solitary figure, encased in armour that looked as though it had seen better millennia. It didn’t need an act of astonishing deductive reasoning to realise that this was probably the Cursed Knight. He was sporting a patchwork of rusted metal and decaying leather, held together by what they could only assume was pure cussedness. His helmet—a visorless piece of work—was turned toward them, though how the Knight could see them without eyeholes was a mystery none of them was particularly eager to solve. They’d all seen Pan’s Labyrinth and didn’t want to give the System ideas.
For a moment, the entire group stood frozen, the weight of the Cursed Knight’s presence pressing down on them like the weightiest of weighted blankets. They could almost feel the crush of centuries bearing down on their shoulders, a heavy reminder that they were mere mortals in a place where mortality was nothing more than a distant memory. The fact that this was probably how Lorelei was feeling with her current debuff running was an irony lost on none of them.
Apparently, the System was big on the shared experiences right now.
Steffan cleared his throat and glanced at the others, who shrugged back. He had been their nominal leader—although he had preferred to think of himself as their ‘Speaker’—and felt, with Lorelei out for the count, he was going to need to take charge. He stepped forward, his shoulders squared in an effort to look more confident than he felt. Chrissy gave him a little pat on his arse as he went, which certainly put a bit more of a spring in his step. “We seek the Amulet of Drayton,” he announced grandly, but his voice vanished into the cavernous space. He tried again, adding a bit more force. “The Amulet of Drayton. We know it lies within this chamber, and we have come to claim it.”
The Cursed Knight’s helm titled ever so slightly as though considering Steffan’s words—or perhaps wondering if “heroic speeches” were still in fashion these days. The Necromancer was just about to speak again when the Knight’s voice emerged from the walls around them, a sound that was painfully dry, suggesting the speaker hadn’t used their vocal cords in a very, very long time.
“To claim the Amulet,” the Knight intoned, each word dragging itself out with the enthusiasm of a lethargic traffic warden, “one must answer the riddle of the Cursed Knight. Fail, and you shall join me in my eternal vigil.”
Kris felt a cold shiver run down his spine, though whether it was from the Knight’s words or the increased activity of the whispers within him, he couldn’t say. The power he’d drained from the Wraith was no longer a distant hum at the back of his mind; it was a full-blown roar, urging him to take control, to seize the power that was so tantalizingly close. He didn’t know who the ‘I’ in him was anymore. Was it him? Or was the power he had drained from the Wraith developing its own personality? By far his least favourite Marvel character was Venom, and he really did not want to become Eddie Brock in this post-integration world.
The Knight stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like a glacier that had been granted a temporary reprieve from its aeons-long nap. “The riddle,” the Knight began, his voice scraping like metal on stone, “is thus: I am taken from a mine and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every person. What am I?”
His words hung in the air, the minds of each member of the party going completely blank. The cavern seemed to hold its breath as they stood there, the riddle spinning in their minds. Even Ent looked baffled, which was quite an achievement from a creature made from vegetation.
“Pencil lead,” Kris suddenly said, the words tumbling out before the swirling chaos within him could make him second-guess himself. The words echoed in the cavern, far louder than the words the Charm Leech had spoken, bouncing off the blood-covered walls and reverberating back to him, as if the cavern itself was considering the answer. He said it again. “You’re talking about pencil lead.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened, and the Cursed Knight remained motionless. Then, slowly, it lowered its sword, the metal exploding sparks from the stone floor as it touched it. “You have answered correctly,” the Knight intoned, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been approval or just a weary resignation. “The Amulet of Drayton is yours to claim. But be warned—the power it holds is not easily controlled. Choose wisely, or you may find yourself cursed as I am, bound to protect it for all eternity.”
With those words, the Knight put a hand to his chest plate and wrenched it free, revealing a small, intricately carved shelf in the centre of his body. On it, presumably, rested the Amulet of Drayton, a small, unassuming object that looked about as threatening as a mildly irritated hedgehog. It was delicate, almost fragile in appearance, but each of them could feel the power radiating from it—a power that called to the darkness within Kris like an old friend beckoning him closer.