Moe Lane

Trying my best to reel this one in.

The Monsignor pursed his lips, looking backward himself. After a moment, he shrugged. “There may be something back there, yes. As I have said, the spellcraft is weaker here than it should be. Perhaps some spirit has taken hold of frayed magic, and reweaved it into a form more pleasing to it.” He shrugged. “No matter, as long as it contents itself with easy prey.”

The Monsignor turned … only to find Maddox’s arm blocking his way. “Unholy Toledo had a name for showing contempt for the wits of others. Which is why there’s an army at its walls.” The Monsignor’s nostrils flared at the accurate accusation. “We may be underground even now, but I am no fungus, to be kept in the dark, and fed shit. What can we expect from the rest of these miserable chambers? For clearly you know.”“Oh, I do! My circle” — Nat’s eyes narrowed, for that was not a word one liked to hear a mage use to describe his associates — “long had the task of preserving these pleasure chambers. Ha!” he went on, seeing Maddox start slightly. “Not all tastes are as coarse as yours, fighting-man. Those of us with more rarified psyches require subtler delights. But it is fair that you know what you face.”

Getting there!

Nat discovered the reason for those hose-mouths soon enough. “Damn!” he shouted as a stream of gray filth splattered across his shield, befouling it with a quickly-hardening slime. He smashed the shield in the foul attacker’s face, wincing at the fresh screeching. “Don’t let it get on your skin, right?”

“As little as possible!” yelled the Monsignor, his face a snarl of hate as the tip of his staff glittered an evil green. It trailed a brief green mist, too; but when the mist met flesh, the flesh bubbled. “They overwhelm their victims, trapping them in… their spray…”

He stopped in surprise, and perhaps mild dismay. Maddox and Nat had paired up, back to back, and around them was now piled a heap of stinking spider-things. Even as he watched, one monster spouted at Maddox’s head, only to have it intercepted by Nat’s now-encrusted shield. One quick stab later, and it was shuddering in death on the floor.

Nat fumbled with his shield. “Disgusting!” he rasped, and looked wildly for the doors. “We must move. Do these things ‘know their place,’ too?” he asked the Monsignor.

“They do,” the Monsignor admitted. “And they are deadlier than this. I wonder if the spells are failing.”“Maybe they are, maybe they’re not,” Maddox spit. His face and beard had streaks of the spider-thing’s spew smeared across it; but if they hurt, he showed no sign of it. “Either way, run!”