Why does the dungeon always collapse

lightofcania

He'd meant to quit this whole 'adventuring' business, hadn't he. Messy, confusing, dirty business, filled with far too many bad smells and far too little comfortable places to sleep. If he'd ever had any fantasies for the profession, they have long since been burned away. He wants peace, damn it, is that so hard? It shouldn't be. Why doesn't the world respect his decisions? Veron Chandler, completely ordinary citizen of Neverwinter, no reason at all for anyone to look twice at him; that was precisely what the plan had been.

The last time he'd tried this, the plan had been to be 'Veron Chandler, completely ordinary citizen of Waterdeep,' and look how that went. Conned into going after some idiots that didn't understand the concept of 'waiting,' conscripted to join a war in a place so foreign he didn't feel safe to drink at the local tavern, condemned to the eighth level of Hell itself as someone else's patsy. Hadn't that been fun. He had thought he'd learned his lesson about doing nice things for nice people; sure, everyone thanks you, but no one's there for you when you later have reoccurring nightmares of dracoliches. It's safe to say that he's done his time in the world saving business, he can let the world handle itself for a little while.

Except here he is again, investigating weird shit because a nice person asked him to. Did he say, 'Go ask someone else'? Or perhaps, 'Sorry, I can't help you,' or even, 'Why don't you just move somewhere safer instead of parking near the haunted catacombs of your ancestors'? He did not. He did not say any of those things. Instead he said, 'I'll give it a look,' and now here he is, tromping his way to some haunted catacombs, like he has any business poking at the dead. Ugh. His bleeding heart is going to be the death of him, one day. Possibly today. It could always be today.

"If I meet another kid," he mutters to himself as he stomps through the underbrush, swatting at a mosquito on his neck, "that looks up at me with big earnest eyes and says, 'I want to be an adventurer like you when I grow up!' I am going to tell him the story about the mindflayers." This is a lie. He would never tell any child any stories about mindflayers. He doesn't want to give kids nightmares. But saying this sort of thing makes him feel better, and there's no one here to hear him, so he doesn't feel bad about it.

Stomp, stomp, stomp - oh look, weird magic bullshit, he's so surprised. Guarded by skeletons, how novel. He neither is surprised, nor finds it novel. He decides that he doesn't want to deal with these reanimated cadavers any longer than he has to. He should just start off by shadowstepping to the far skeleton archer, then tripping up the warrior as it runs... but what if someone actually has a legitimate reason to have these corpses animated? He doesn't know the local culture, it could be a thing. Use the ethically sourced dead to work in the fields for the living, or something. There is nothing stopping a necromancer from being good, in theory. Not that he's met one.

Oh blessed Tymora he's going to reveal himself and attempt to communicate out of principle, isn't he. Damn it. That's going to get him killed, too.

"Excuse me!" he calls. "Is there a spellcaster or restless ghost that maybe wants to explain what's going on?"

"Ah!" says an echoing voice through the trees. "An intruder! More materials for my experiments! Slay him, my minions!"

Veron indulges in a sigh. Yeah, that was what he was afraid it would be. This is what happens when you give people the benefit of the doubt. People trying to kill you.

The skeletons are a breeze, the later zombies a cakewalk, and the horrific sewn together monstrosity, ten feet tall and no doubt a treasured favorite of the necromancer, a brief distraction. Very brief.

"So is it the standard 'the fools cast me out and I'll show them all' backstory, or...?" says Veron, when he has the necromancer cornered.

"You think you've won! But I'll show you, you won't be so smart then, will you, think you can kill me -"

"Listen, mate. I don't want to kill you. I wanted to say hello. What's your story, what got you to run off to the woods to play with dead things -"

"Insufferable fool! I'll show you -" the necromancer raises his hand to point a finger at Veron.

The world turns a familiar grey as Veron slides into the in-between of Toril and the Plane of Shadow. The necromancer freezes, his hand nearly extended. Time's not actually frozen, per se, Veron's just moving and perceiving the world fast enough that everything looks still. He can't keep this up forever, not if he wants to avoid getting shunted unpleasantly to the Plane of Shadow, but he can keep it up long enough to slip behind the necromancer before his perception of time rights itself and the world's color returns.

His knife, quite casually, is at the necromancer's throat.

"Pass. Listen, I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but you're making it real hard."

The necromancer splutters, and his spell fizzles harmlessly. "W-what?! What, you - you -"

"Yeah. Me. Say one complete sentence that isn't evil, please, I'm begging you here."

"You'll get no simpering from me, fool!!"

Well. Lost cause, he's wasted more than enough effort on this waste of a person. It's obvious he's not going to change his mind, or stop sewing corpses together, and it's obvious he'll graduate to kidnapping people and experimenting on them soon. Can't just leave him alone, and it's not like he has some place to hold him. The Plane of Shadow, maybe, but he's not putting anyone there if he can at all help it. He has a brief debate over if he can get this guy to some place that'll try to reform him, decides that any place that could hold a wizard wouldn't make them very inclined to reform, and promptly slits the guy's throat.

"What a waste," he sighs, at the corpse.

And then, in typical adventurer tradition, he immediately begins raiding the necromancer's stuff.

Halfway through that, as he's sorting through the potion rack, there's a cracking sound from behind him. He whirls around just in time to see the final shards of a crystal ball fall to the ground. He swears just in time to properly express his dismay at the glowing and buildup to exploding that is happening around the enchanted glass shards. On instinct, he shifts to the in-between, planning to dash to the exit before he can get caught in whatever bizarre blast is no doubt about to occur.

Veron Chandler is very fast, but he shifted as the explosion began, not before. It is a very rapid explosion, once it gets going. He is not quite fast enough to escape it.

He starts going through his checklist before he even opens his eyes. Anything injured, if so, how bad? Does he have his pack, where are his weapons, is anyone immediately trying to kill him, does he have anyone else he needs to look out for, does he need to move right now or die.

Not injured, not unless it's bad enough that he doesn't feel it. Pack's there, so are his weapons.

He sits up with a groan, and opens his eyes to see about anyone trying to kill him.

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lightofcania

Oh, this is pretty. And wonderfully dark, that's nice. He had to deal with so much bright stuff while fighting that deity. It sucked. He still hurts, but noticeably less. Thank you, Ring of Regeneration. He mumbles the command word for the ring that does the minor healing, and another bit of pain fades away.

He glances at the food. He considers how long he must have been sleeping if the minor healing ring worked, and dutifully drags himself out of bed with a low groan of displeasure to eat. Eating's important, he needs the food right now.

The food is still warm! Crumbly pie thing.

lightofcania

He'd suspect he'd died in his sleep and gone to a cushy afterlife, if he didn't still hurt. But he does still hurt, so he's probably not dead. Probably. He finishes the crumbly pie thing, then begins going over the traditional post battle assessment of how busted his stuff got in that fight.

Answer: pretty damn broken, really. His Boots of Haste are singed. This annoys him way more than it should. Oh, and also his armor's a half melted disaster, but he was expecting that. It's probably not a total write off. It can probably be salvaged. He always vaguely expects his armor to take a horrific beating. But his Boots of Haste are singed, and he is upset about this.

He changes out of the half melted disaster and into another set of clothes and armor. ... Er. Scratch that. Is there a place he can bathe to get the, uh. Copious blood and burned flesh off. Because that might be step one.

The guest room, while very pretty, does not seem to have an attached bathroom. The door opens on a hallway; Elves are passing through.

lightofcania

"Excuse me," says Veron, politely, to the first Elf that doesn't look very busy. "Is there a place I could wash myself off and change into something less, uh." He looks down at his poor, poor armor. "Melted."

" - the river? This way. And there should be clothes in your room."

lightofcania

"Oh? Uh. Okay, thank you."

What do the provided clothes look like. Are they terrible?

They are very pretty. And very Elfy.

lightofcania

... Eh, sure, why not. He can wear Elfy clothing. He is secure enough in masculinity for this.

To the river with his Elfy clothes! He must wash off the painful results of a failure to dodge.

He soon becomes clean and dressed like an Elf, and begins looking around. He thinks he likes Doriath, it's so dark and quiet and pretty. Good for his eyes.

Some Elves are also bathing, unselfconsciously. There is a separate stream for laundry and some people are doing laundry. Upstream you can draw off water. The flowers are everywhere, despite the fact this light should really be too dim for them. The Elves are singing.

lightofcania

He studiously does not look at naked bathing Elves because no.

Everything else that's pretty is fine, though. He looks at pretty things, and listens to singing. It's nice, all of it. He could stay here for a while, easily. If the world would let him, anyway.

Probably he should let someone know he's awake. If they don't already know, which they probably do. Is there an Elf that's probably assigned to watching him, or should he try to find his way on his own?

There is definitely an Elf who is watching him! Not, like, staring, but like someone sent him to make sure the visitor did not drown or start stabbing people or die in his sleep.

lightofcania

Cool! Now that he is fed and cleansed and clothed he can walk up to that Elf and say:

"Hello, I'm awake and now able to think helpful tactical thoughts for the safety of the world, is there someone I can speak to about that?"

"I can take you to Melian but she might be occupied presently, are they time-sensitive?"

lightofcania

"Mostly not, though I'd like to send a message that is a bit more time sensitive. And uh, maybe ask permission to unroll my portable hole here so I can continue what I'd been doing when Gorthaur interrupted me."

"I'd be happy to convey a message and ask about the portable hole. If Gorthaur interrupted you is there any chance he tampered with its contents?"

lightofcania

"... He might have. Uh. I'm going to want Melian to look it over, then. When she has time. Uh, message to - I don't actually know the name of the city, this one," he sends the visual of the city with Huan in it, "has a large friendly dog in it that would appreciate knowing I'm okay. And also the situation."