I wasn't sure if this was some kind of puzzle or just the kind of nonsense inscription people put on things in crypts to make it look like a puzzle and annoy anyone taking a look round the place. Certainly this crypt had been pretty light on treasure so far, all I'd found was the funny liquid in that cask which may or may not be an elixir of accuracy. Now this statue was going on about a throne which in itself seemed a little suspicious as it was a pretty small village up above, certainly not the kind of place one would epxect to have it's own royal family.

Still, this crypt seemed pretty expansive and anyone who could have afforded to build all these traps and stock the place with lethal spiders must have had a fair bit of cash and in my experience, those kinds of people prefer to bury their wealth rather than pass it on to future generations.

My own parents had been the same. Whilst my mother doted on me, my father had been a hard man and theirs was a marriage of convenience rather than love. Mother's family had owned a vast tract of woodland in the West March and father's family were the last in a long line of loggers (An unpopular profession at best in elven society but one that paid well as a result) so they had been married to unite the clans and reduce the subcontractor costs for both parties. At first their relationship was amicable enough but after a few years, mother tired of the constant shouts of "Tree murderer" from her previous friends and I suspect that father had more than one dalliance with the half-orc house maid (I could see an uncanny resemblance between myself and her son Urrk-shaq the Effeminate) and they grew distant.

Father had always hoped I would continue the family business but of course, I had bigger and better plans. When I announced my wish to enrol in the Arcane University to study magic, he simply shrugged and the next day I found my meager possesions bundled up on the steps of our house and that my key no longer fit the lock.

Mother simply wilted after I left and it was no more than a year later that she killed herself, hurling herself from the top floor window. Father carried on regardless until the accident. Some folk say that celebrating the death of my mother a year later was thoughtless and it being the dry season and given the size of the fireworks he was using, it was perhaps not the wizest move he ever made. Still, I had inherited one of the largest patches of burnt scrubland in the realm, the sale of which had just about put me through college. I was still no nearer to mastering the arts of ressurection though and my mother was still dead. One day though, I would obtain the powers I needed and we would be reunited!

I snapped out of my daydream. Without realising, I had hopped up onto the large central statue and now lay across the shoulder blades of the lion. I shifted to a sitting position and spent a few minutes pretending to ride the beast, imagining myself riding across the savanna, the wind in my hair, the snarls of my mount and the terror in the eyes of those I passed along the way.

I sighed, I had always wanted a pet.

The lion, being only a hollow ceramic sculpture in the first place, promptly cracks apart under Bob's weight. The wrestling figure is quite unable to support its own weight without the lion to lean upon, and promptly collapses to the floor in an explosion of shattered clay as well.

Once Bob dusts himself off and returns to his feet, he finds a hide-bound heavy shield lying in the heap of statue fragments. Presumably it was hidden in the interior of one of the statues.

http://www.saxypunch.com/missile/direbeastshield.png

The dwarf wandered into the room, quickly snatching up the shield from the feet of the befuddled elf. What is an elf going to do with a heavy shield anyway?

He thought about it a moment and then tossed his old shield at the feet of his wizard companion and donned this new one. It had a head on it. Nifty.

The ugly dwarf grabbed the shield which was a shame as I'm sure I could have got quite a few gold for it in the shops back in town.

I checked the room for secret doors, just in case.

Bob searches for secret doors, yeah

doesn't find jack

There being no other ways out of the room that I could find, I went to rejoin the others. I noticed that the pile of belongings was still where I'd left it and was surprised that nobody seemed interested in any of it. I would have thought that the new guy at least might have been interested in the magic armour she'd been wearing and that given the complete lack of any ranged weapons our party had, someone might have taken her crossbow.

I shrugged, assuming that everyone was happy with the gear they already had and picked up the chainmail, stowing it in my pack. I'd never wear it of course but should be able to sell it for some beer money once we got back to town.

The Horde appeared to be engaging in one of their favourite non-battle activities, standing around looking confused. I had searched pretty much everywhere for treasure and secret doors and there seemed only one obvious way forward, the door to the north of the cask room. I checked it for traps and then opened it.

Bob peers suspiciously at the door, and finds nothing amiss. He turns the handle and then pushes the door away with the tip of his staff, ever watchful.

The elf creeps into the next room, the newcomers close behind him. Why, this room is lined with trunks and chests of all descriptions! Some of the boxes look battered and filthy, others nearly rotted apart. A uniquely splendid iron chest sits alone against the south wall, bound with heavy chains and padlocks. In the northeast corner stands an armoire.

Bob's sharp elven eyes immediately spot that the flooring along the room's north wall is slightly raised, and an array of little holes in the side of the armoire clues him in to why. Pressure plates!

A door leads out from the northwest corner of the room, slightly ajar. A spattering of fresh-looking blood lies under the doorway.

The dwarf wandered into the room, stretching slightly as he shook his head. He was glad the cleric's god had taken her body when her spirit went, but still he felt the sting of her loss. He'd gone back to retrieve his throwing hammer and then moved onwards. He bumped past the wizard and the new guy, his hand resting on his axe hilt as he looked around. He didn't have the elves eyes, but he could smell the blood in the room.

"Oh, aye. This is going to end well."

He experimentally toed at one of the boxes on the near wall to open it, keeping his distance in case poison gas exploded out or something.

I left the dwarf to check the broken chests and went to look at the big, impressive looking one. Not wanting to get too close, I tried to sense if there was anything magic about it at all.

Leaving the locks to someone who might be better at opening these kind of things, I turned my attention to the obvious trap on the north wall. Standing well clear and waiting until nobody was in the potential line of fire from what might come out of the small holes, I picked up the nearest of the elderly looking chests and tossed it onto a pressure plate.

Frowning at the blood trail leading out of the room, Gabriel risks kicking open one of the battered chests. The lid flies up without resistance, and it's... it's full of coins!

Copper coins.

Gabriel frowns in the reflexive expression of anyone encountering small change in a professional capacity.

About 3 GP in there... in pennies, ha ha

Bob examines the fancy chest cautiously, examining it for any signs of arcane trickery. Nothing about the chest seems magical, but as Bob approaches he begins to detect a strong odor of copper, or maybe iron. Perhaps it's just the coins the dwarf just kicked all over the floor.

Shrugging, the elf hefts one of the battered trunks (empty, this one), and tosses it onto the obvious trap. The box explodes into splinters, and a dozen razor-sharp darts fly from the holes in the side of the armoire and embed themselves in the northwest door.

Although there was nothing obviously magical about the big chest, the smell was odd. I studied the lock and chains more carefully, weighing up my chances of either picking it or breaking it with the help of the others.

Motsognir strolled into the room and saw all the chests. Good thing these silly people have me along he thought, taking out the group's only Thieve's Kit and handing it to whoever was best at that sort of thing.

The chainmail it seemed was a bit too heavy for me so I reluctantly dumped it on the floor, thinking someone else might pick it up and we could share the cash later.

Looking around the group it seemed as though my companions were primarily built for smashing things up rather than intricate lock picking so I took the proffered thieves kit from the dwarf and thanked him with a warm smile. Not only was he clearly the brains of the operation here, he was also resourceful.

I set to work trying to pick the lock.

Motsognir stood at her side, giving advice as she worked, like any man would for his woman.

Argumentus joins the dapper duo in the chest room after an unusually long absence. He wipes away what appears to be red jelly from the corner of his mouth...

The dwarf wandered around, emptying chests and taking anything valuable. Like Zelda in your house looking for rupees.

Thievery check + Thieves Tools + Aid Other = 15

The locks are not as intimidating as they appeared, and with a little coaching from Soggy the chains are loosed in a matter of minutes. In the meanwhile Argumentus meanders back from what appears to be a suspicious meal, while Garrmondo thoughtfully picks up after the random crap Bob leaves lying on the floor. Gabriel busies himself collecting such loot as is available in the shoddy chests; coppers, coppers, more coppers, the alchemical formula for the creation of alchemist's fire, more coppers — wait a minute, what?

Found copper coins equivalent to 15 GP (that is to say, 1500 of them) and a Formula of Alchemist's Fire

Picking the last of the padlocks, Bob triumphantly flips open the lid of the ornate chest. It's filled to the brim with some kind of translucent red jelly. Little bones float here and there in the viscous goop. A gleaming shortsword is faintly visible on the bottom of the chest.

Motsognir closed the fucking chest.

My plucky dwarven friend seemed reluctant to delve into the mysteries of the chest! I reopened it, ruffling his hair in what I hoped was a reassuring fashion.

My limited experience of slime suggested that plunging my hand in would be foolish at best. I was tempted to simply tip the chest up but instead, took a few steps back and used my mage hand spell to retrieve the sword.

Bob's Mage Hand slowly sinks into the blood-red goo, grasping the shortsword and gradually pulling it free. Leaving the blade to dangle in the air for a few moments so the slimy residue can drip away, Bob examines it with skepticism. The very hilt of the sword was covered in dozens of sharp little barbs, needles and spines. Bob's interest in swordsmanship was limited at best but he can't quite see the use in a weapon that stabs you instead of the enemy.

I was never much of a swordsman and this particular sword looked pretty unpleasant. I offered it to the new guy who was so kindly holding the chainmail for me, thinking that he might be grateful for some magic gear, even if it was likely to kill him. If he didn't want it I'd add it to my collection of things to flog back in town.

I closed the treasure chest, not wishing to discover by accident exactly what the slime did to people who touched it, and turned my attention to disabling the trap in the far corner, looking to see if the pressure plates could be stepped over or if we'd have to smash the thing up.

Bob hands the nasty-looking weapon to the newcomer and takes a close look at the trap, hoping to find a way to bypass it without going to the dangerous work of disassembly. While normally it would be possible to get past this sort of thing easily with a good running jump, things are complicated by the plates running from one corner of the room to the other. Bob was no slouch when it came to agility but a 90 degree turn in midair to get through the doorway was likely outside of his particular capabilities. Either the plates or the armoire would have to be taken out of commission; or both.