Work Text:
You find among the ruins a large, strongly built trapdoor, built into the stone floor of the town's arena.
"What in gods' purpose is this for?" Rurik growled, squatting to grasp the solid-looking ring handle-
Roll - Athletics: Success!
And heaving the whole thing open, in a single fluid pull-and-stand motion. The party crowded around.
"Well, if there's one place we haven't checked..." Borrib said, and dropped his torch in, without further ado. Rurik watched it fall neatly through the middle of a long, narrow tunnel, then strike the bottom- without illuminating the sides. Interesting. The goblin laughed and began to pull from his pack a length of climbing twine. "Safe enough, aye?"
"For you three, may-be so. I will not fit down this." Rurik rumbled, paying no mind to Sarkiss saying- something. He supposes it's hard to understand when one makes an effort not to listen. Certainly, it was of derogatory nature.
Ach, don't worry, we'll carve a path for yah!" Borrib chuckled, tying a knot around himself, a difficult task to do with a gnarled staff in the other hand.
With what, a pickaxe? he thought, then limited himself to acting as the rope's anchor, frustrated.
---
Borrib went with the tiefling- Rykard? Camelot? Carmyne, that's it. (He's at least half-sure, and historically bad at names. Really not his fault.) Meaning he's stuck with Sarkiss, who kept watch right at the edge of his vision, atop a standing stone, probably a former support pillar for a warlord or warlady's grand seat, in the times before King Nicholas I.
"This is lunacy." She declared, to nobody in particular, maybe seeing something he didn't. "We're all going to die doing this."
Rurik, unknowing on whether she meant adventuring or going down narrow tunnels in the middle of ancient ruins, defaulted to speaking the truth. "You always say that."
Their resident warlock gave him a glare she must have believed to be utterly scathing. "Because I'm always right about it."
He exhaled a little more forcefully than would be charitable. "I hear that very often too, from you."
Sarkiss' reply was cut short by the rope, which jerked in Rurik's hand, very nearly hauling him wholly off his feet.
Saving throw - Strength: Success!
He dug his heels into the loose stones, however, and put one foot in front of the other, threw his upper body weight backwards, clenched his fists 'til they were vice grips, and grit his teeth 'til they protested audibly, like the arena's own stonework must've, when the first crusaders came and made them the gravel under his feet. Said gravel gave, slowly churning and furrowing under his boots, right up until the sole met the ever-so-slightly elevated lip of the pit.
Somebody yelled out at the bottom. Sarkiss had the presence of mind to grab the loose end of the rope. "That cannot have been good."
Rurik would tell her to shut up, but every muscle from the chin down was pulled taut, as something pulled at the other end, stronger than he was. "Just pull!" Is all he got out, words only barely escaping from their enamel enclosure. Fortunately, this is one of those moments where she listens.
Roll - Athletics: Critical success!
Roll - Athletics: Failure
He doesn't register whatever it is Sarkiss does, because he was far too busy squeezing out whatever ounce of might he had to win this desperate, ludicrous tug-of-war match. Rurik got one foot back. Another. And stopped gaining ground when something gave behind him (oh, for fuck's sake, lady. Really?) and he slid back toward the hole, quicker than the first time, a mad snarl escaping as he strained, like one of the King's war hounds on its chain, utterly determined to--
A howl, ear-peircing and ungodly, emanated from the pit. He nearly stumbled at the lack of resistance, but ended up nearly running in reverse until his compatriots were extracted.
They were both caked in blood, and Borrib's end of the rope was looped around his ankle. Breathing hard, probably from both exertion and terror. Sarkiss had cut her hand, bandaging it on reflex. Rurik fell flat to his knees, suddenly exhausted, and resolved to to say nothing to her, solely for the sake of not having to be called an idiot for the umpteenth time.
"Oh gods." Carmyne gasped, and put a hand over his heart. "Never again."