[IRP] Return to the Dread Isle

[Andy]

"Call it a knack that magic-users pick up after a while," Renault said, smiling paternally to the group. "It helps that I've seen a few of your kind, so I knew what to look for." The bishop looked pensive for a moment, before ceding that, "Perhaps it is time that I left Valor again. In any case, I intend to help you find your ways off this island. Allow me a few minutes, if you would." The bishop proceeded to clear the table of the remains of the food (not that there was much) and tossed it down the hill outside, then took the plates that had already been emptied and set them in a washbasin, before heading into the second room of the small cabin. He emerged a few minutes later wearing his full cassock and robe, cloak, and carrying a staff and some tomes. The staff glowed for a second, and Tiras felt refreshed. His wounds were gone.

"Let us go, then, to the Dragon's Gate," the bishop said, solemnly.

#

The group regathered their weapons and headed in the direction of the enormous structure. Despite the size, they weren't within sight of an entrance for at least two hours of walking. At least they had been fed and healed beforehand. Tiras found much of his former grouchiness relieved for those two things. He was even feeling a bit hopeful. The end of this ridiculous journey was at last in sight. It nearly put a spring in his step. All he and the rest of them had to do was kill a few things that should not be, and look around. Easy peasy.

Renault, Tiras noticed, was looking grim. His face appeared much more gaunt than earlier, and his eyes... He knew those eyes. A veteran, lost in the battles he'd fought however many years ago. Seeing the faces of the dead.

Tiras shook himself, looking away. The group approached the massive stone structure, opened by a hundred-foot archway.

The complex was eerily deserted, like an abandoned mausoleum. Tiras turned, his mail aventail skittering across his gorget and pauldrons. Where is everyone? Those morphs promised us a fight. But each and every hall turned out empty. There were signs of life, in stages it looked. Tables and chairs, the occasional empty and broken chest and bookshelf. Everything covered in a layer of dust.

At last, beyond a throne and a bunch of broken weapons, an entrance that was not lit by day. There was dimness within, and braziers burning a magic, blue flame.

"Brace yourselves," Tiras warned, lowering his visor. He readied his halberd and entered the ruins.

Ahead of them were twelve morphs in a grand hall. Six doorless rooms to either side.

"So you've come to die," a thirteenth morph, the one from before, warped in, its face a scowl. "We collected some of our one-note brethren. They missed you last night, so we brought them here, so they wouldn't miss their chance."

"This is every remaining morph on the isle, then?" Renault piped up.

"... Yes."

"Excellent," Renault.

"Then we can kill you all right here," Tiras grinned under his helm, "And not have to worry that we missed any of you."

"Good luck," the speaking morph retorted, before warping back to his brethren.