Empirical Gnollage: Installment 59 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment059.png]
The den felt temporarily safe, but it wasn't Gruntle's den. The den's owner towered over him. She was at least twice his bulk, her teeth hard and unblemished, and her very presence a supernatural force like the most dangerous of any shaman. She wore nothing but a face-trophy very much like the one Aunt Melissa had. There was no defying her. Gruntle rolled onto his side, submitting to this incomparably dominant gnoll.
The gnollish language is a simple thing made from complex bestial noises. They were especially menacing coming from her as she spoke to him.
"Your clan is outside."
Gruntle turned his head to look out through the den's entrance. There was an endless wasteland of rocks and dead trees. Varied creatures of sharp teeth and long claws stalked through it, hunting each other, and fighting to see which would eat and prolong their existence, and which would die and be eaten. Some of them were gnolls.
It felt wrong. He could not bear to meet her eyes, but Gruntle managed a small defiant huff.
"My clan still fights. I fight. Where is my clan?"
She huffed back at him, like a puff of volcanic gasses threatening imminent eruption. She kicked him, triggering a sharp pain in his side and sending him rolling a few feet towards the den's entrance.
"Your clan is out there."
"No. Give my clan back."
The den was getting brighter.
Gruntle looked away but was unable to move, as she crouched and leaned in. Her jaws brushed against Gruntle's throat.
"My clan. Where?" Gruntle repeated in quiet defiance, and waited for the feeling of teeth on his throat.
It was too bright to see now. She huffed again, her hot breath smelling of fresh blood and torn flesh.
"Go away." she commanded, and then there was nothing but the blinding light.
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Her last foe forgotten as Wikwocket ran to Gruntle's body, Bote obliged by calling for divine judgement against the bug still gnawing at the ineffable plans, and the searing light that answered crisped the last of the threat. Al limped on his bleeding foot to join Wikwocket next to Gruntle's mangled remains as quickly as he could manage.
"Thou hast done well...," the ghost of Aemilia began to say, but Al cut her off without thinking.
"Not now!"
A glimmer of hope cut through Al's angry despair as a single raspy gasp for air proved that some small bit of life had not yet finished draining out of Gruntle through the deep, ragged wounds in his sides, and he still fought desperately for life. Al reached into his robe's inside pockets and dug frantically for one of the remaining healing potions as Bote arrived to request a miracle.
"Its kind hath been a bloody plague on the lands. Would it not be better that it perish?" the elvish specter dispassionately suggested as she watched.
"No!" Al answered angrily without looking back. "Gruntle's not an it. He's ours."
Divinity responded favorably to Bote's plea to preserve Gruntle's part in the ineffable plans, and divine light flashed through the gnoll's body. Pale hairless skin stretched across the broad slashes in his torso and he gasped again. His eyes opened and he rolled onto his side, scanning the room fearfully and ignoring the gnome who knelt down and wrapped her arms around his neck.
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He growled a gnollish question, then as awareness of his surroundings returned, he repeated in a language his clanmates would understand.
"Where is she?" he snarled.
"Who?" Al asked him, but the memory was gone now.
"Don't know."
He pressed a hand to the closed wound on his right side as he sat up with the gnome still dangling from his neck. Al insistently held a bottle of the healing potion in front of Gruntle's face.
"Thou carest for a simple violent beast?" Aemilia's ghost asked.
"He's our simple violent beast. He protects us, we protect him," Al replied, not bothering to look at her. He watched Gruntle pry the stopper out of the bottle and drink. Then he sat down heavily as the burning pain in his ankle flared up. The leather of his boot had been partly eaten away where the larval thing's mandibles had closed on it and cut through, and blood seeped from the ragged gash in his skin. Reluctantly, he got out of his pack and reached in for another of the healing potions. He didn't like how quickly they were going through them, but the time and amount of likely additional pain required for more conventional treatment seemed too much. The yogurt-like healing drink spread warmth through his body and made the pain of the injury subside and the flesh knitted itself back together.
"Thy blood is hot, but thy heart, good," Aemilia decided aloud. "Thy task is nigh unto complete."
"What do you mean, nigh unto?" Al exclaimed and stood back up carefully. "Are there more of them?"
Alarmed, Al took his mace back up and moved to look behind the sarcophagus, where he found the source of the fresh-mud smell - a hole had been burrowed up through the floor, breaking the stone apart and scattering mud.
Bote joined Al and peered down into the dark hole.
"That is certainly not a pleasant sight," Bote said of whatever their dwarven eyes could see within.
Behind them, Wikwocket's voice - muffled by Gruntle's neck - said "You wait here, we'll take care of it this time," and Al heard her drop to the floor and walk up behind them. Al stepped cautiously forward and held the torch closer. The glimpse of the pulsating wet, silky mass of bubbles was disgusting. Each bubble contained a tiny version of the creatures they'd just fought. Al looked thoughtfully at his fingers.
"If you're about to tell me again that I should know how to shoot magical fire from my fingers," Al said, turning to address Wikwocket, "You win. I agree. Were you crying?"
Wikwocket was grinning widely, but there were obvious tear-tracks making damp lines down her face.
"Why were you not? This was a perfect opportunity for it!" she asked Al in return.
Al had to admit that under the circumstances, it was a valid question.
"Too angry," he answered.
Wikwocket clapped her hands together and gave a vigorous nod of approval. "Oh! Perfect! It's not often you get a chance to have such an emotional experience! The death of their beloved companion inspires lamentation and vengeance!"
"Beloved might be taking it a bit too far," Al objected, turning away to look back down into the burrow at the egg sac. He reached for the crossbow bolt he'd tucked in his belt, with the ampoule of ultraphlogisticated oil tied to it.
"You're glad he's not dead, right?" Wikwocket persisted.
"Yes."
"That's close enough."
Al untied the alchemical oil from the crossbow bolt, and threw it at the base of the egg sac. It splatted into the mud, denying him the dramatically-timed explosion of fire he had wanted. He sighed and began heaving broken pieces of stone floor at it until one finally broke the glass open and the fire engulfed the mass of unhatched monsters. The unpleasant smoke smelled a bit like burning hair.
"That is sufficient," Aemilia announced as the living people in the room moved to get away from the smoke. "Mayest thou show to me that which for Darius thou hast brought?"
It took Al a moment to interpret the archaic speech, but Bote took off their pack and reached in to retrieve the bundle of flowers, holding them up for the ghost to inspect. Aemilia's stern expression relaxed into a soft, sad smile.
"The way now is opened unto you. Thou art likely the last who shall visit this place," the ghost said quietly, "and may I soon be re-united with Darius. Before the end, one gift I would bestow upon you. Lift the lid from my place of rest."
Wikwocket watched as Gruntle, Bote, and Al grabbed three of the four corners of the sarcophagus lid and lifted it up enough to remove it. Aemilia's desiccated remains lay peacefully inside, in the same pose depicted on the lid.
"The amulet around my neck I give unto thee. Its purpose is the protection of the protector, and of no more use here will it be."
Al respectfully unclasped the amulet's chain and lifted it from the sarcophagus.
"Why do you think we'll be the last ones to visit here?" Al asked the spirit.
"The flowers say so. Our own long duty shall be complete, and we will rest together. Go. Deliver thy message to my Darius."
The ghost of Aemilia stepped down out of the air into the sarcophagus, and faded from view as she lay down in her corpse. Al got Bote and Gruntle to help replace the lid.
"It sounds like we're nearly done. Let's check on Haunch and take a break to rest for a few minutes before we press on. If there's anything terrible at the end, we should probably be as prepared as possible."