For the second time this evening, time seems to slow to a halt as several things happen at once. This time at least, you're pretty sure there's no magical song that's actually doing so.

The white in the tunnel above resolves itself into the twice damned spider that has been squatting in the tunnels behind the goblin village, royally pissed at the source of the light. Van Gabriel looks up just as the spider comes down, his bland, disinterested expression morphing to shock as fangs fill his vision. The blackhammer half turns at the noise, leaving him in the exact worse position to see you or bring his weapon to bear against the spider.

And you move.

Ducking around Killworthy's blind side makes his head swivel like an owl that's suddenly had a mouse pull out a longsword, but the only thing he sees in the tip of your tail as you're already past him. Van Gabriel shrieks in pain as spider fangs jut downwards. You briefly meet the spider's eyes as you leap. One fang has found Van Gabriel's left eye. The Inquisitor's shouting is cut as your jaws find his neck. Your broken winglings flutter on instinct, sending lances of fire up your spine, but the damage is done.

No cleric derived class was ever going to be particularly tough, after all.

The three of you topple to the floor as Van Gabriel's legs give out, his body fading from existence even as you fall. You feel another rush of experience as Killworthy bellows in rage. His kick lifts you from the floor and sends you skidding across the floor towards the stairwell. To add insult to injury, you hear Mhæri's voice from upstairs.

“Just toss them in the pit or something. We can rack up a sick combo if we get them all at once. Dawn, go see what's taking Brok and Orstov so long will you?”

Killworthy grins at you as he paces slowly closer, ignoring the spider that is slowly dragging the loot bag of Van Gabriel back into the ceiling.

“Not bad, little boss. Not bad at all. But you know it's hopeless, right? You should have given me what I wanted.”

He reaches you just as the druid enters the room, body shrunk back to normal, her staff slung over her back. She scans the room with a growing scowl on her face. Killworthy kicks you in the face in a shower of blood and teeth that ends all too soon as your head cracks into the wall behind you.

Dazed condition resisted

“Luke, where's Harry?” Dawnflower asks, broking no nonsense with her tone.

“Back at the Red Dragon, I imagine, cursing his luck.” the blackhammer responds easily, waving her off as he draws back his other leg. He curses and nearly loses is balance as she closes the distance and grabs his shin. He glares down at the diminutive halfling.

“What the shit girl?”

“You know what Mary said. Protect him. Keep him up. For fucks sake! Can you not follow the simplest of directions?”

“Hey! It wasn't my fault! He was the one who-” but the druid cuts him off.

“Save it man. When Mary hears you fucked up her perfect raid you know what she's gonna do.”

“Oh come on! Seriously, I didn't do anything!”

“Oh sure, that's why you're down here, alone, with the boss. I know what you're doing-”

You're not sure if your luck has turned or not. On the one hand as soon as you took down one of the adventurers another had taken his place, on the other the argument that is growing in heat around you is both giving you a minute to catch your breath, it's giving away some information.

Because just having healing available does not a perfect plan make. The only other thing that the Inquisitor had done was blast Mercy away from combat.

You smile, blood dribbling from your lips. All you need is a moment, and you're determined to get it.

You start gathering your mana for a fire breath, but instead of unleashing it, or building it up, you let it sit in your body, hot and heavy. Curdled. Then, when the argument above your head lulls while both participants draw in breath, you let out a low groan and slump to the floor, holding your breath.

There is silence, and then the druid speaks, a mote of fear in her voice.

“Oh you are in so much shit.”

Killworthy lets out a shaky laugh while bending over you.

“Nah, nah, he's fine. See!”

He extends one hand to you, gently prodding you in the shoulder. You exhale. And with it, the layered mana slowly seeps out as a billowing cloud of smoke. You're inordinately proud that that worked – it's not a spell exactly so much as a misuse of your natural fire mana. Your pride lasts a split second until the burning pain in your lungs reminds you forcefully that there is a reason that you're not meant to do this.

All three of you start coughing, but you are the best prepared. Eyes streaming, you force yourself to your feet and under the legs of the spluttering blackhammer, who makes a wild grab at your disappearing tail.

With a wrenching sensation that ricochets up your spine, you feel one of your tail-spines get torn off by the force of your own movement, and you hear Killworthy's bellow of pain cut off in an explosive coughing fit as he inhales more of the oily smoke now filling the room. The druid starts gasping out an incantation as you rush to the other side of the room, yanking on the lever that raises the portcullis to the arena.

The spell finishes with a soft whump, and the smoke filling the air drops like a rock, creating a thin film of black soot on the floor and the upper edges of everything else, like an inverted winter scene. Killworthy steps toward you, reaching for you with a hand that has a long, red, spike driven through the palm.

With a snap and a pop, you lower the lever once more, before tearing it from the wall.

Teardown! 50 Fame lost!

The portcullis begins to fall and you dive away from the irate fighter and the druid who is staring at you with calculating eyes as you seal the path between you and them, at least for a little while.

Leaving you in a sandy pit filled the the unconscious bodies of your allies, with Mhæri, Juni and Guni staring down at you. The bard turned rhythm-keeper holds up a hand, stopping the two elves from unleashing the magic that immediately springs into their hands, and regards you critically even as you back up into the centre of the arena. Towards the bodies of Mercy, Sapphire, and a pile of weakly moving kobolds and goblins. No one moves as you bend over your allies.

“Sapphire? Mercy?” you whisper, desperate for a response. Mercy twitches, a fine web of gold flaring to life around her body as she lets out a week groan. The spell remnant is already flaking away, presumably with the death of its caster, but is far from gone. Sapphire doesn't even groan, although you can see the slow rise and fall of her chest. It looks as though a single blow from Killworthy was all that was needed, judging from the large bruise that's blooming up her right hand side, under her leathers, up to her neck.

Her bare neck.

Her neck which, by all rights, should have been adorned a golden amulet, set with a sapphire.

Your eyes, alight with a cold rage, turn towards the heroes as Killworthy and Dawnflower emerge from the archway to the spring pool. You rake the blackhammer's form, but don't see her amulet on him. Hardly surprising, you reason. He has plenty of pouches on him.

Killworthy steps forwards first, perhaps seeing your gaze on him or perhaps just pissed off form the blood dripping from a stigmata-esque hole his hand.

“Should have taken my offer.” He grunts, to Mhæri's visible confusion, before he waves the others off and they begin to circle the edge of the arena. They spread out, as they go, until you can't keep your eyes on all of them at once, until you are well and truly surrounded. Only after a full revolution do any of them speak again.

“Brok, if you would?” says Mhæri, her eyes never leaving yours. Killworthy grunts, his face twisted in displeasure.

“Really Mary? We're still going through with-”

“HEY!” Mhæri cuts him off. “I'm paying you guys to do this my way, alright? I found you all for specific reasons. I told you there wouldn't be much loot here. I even went and-” her eyes flick to yours, and you can see her edit her speech even as Killworthy rolls his eyes. “I went and tributed the gods for you.”

She takes a moment to shut her eyes and take a deep breath. You nudge at Mercy with your foot, and feel her shift slightly, but don't dare turn away from Mhæri to look.

“Now then,” the calmer rhythm-keeper says, punctuating her words with a hard stare, “Brok. If you would.”

The blackhammer snorts, but hesitates for only a moment more before making a vaguely arcane gesture.

And in front of him, a shimmering black orb flashes into existence before fading, leaving behind a familiar, green skinned figure.