To Gaze into the Abyss (Inactive)

Game Master Dreaming Warforged

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Arodus, the sixteenth day, of the Year 4713,
One Hundred and Seven Years After the Worldwound

Refused!

The words bounce and echo in your mind as you make your way among the crowd, aiming for the great spire of St-Clydwell’s Cathedral, at the foot of which lays the renowned Clydwell Plaza, where the celebrations of Armasse are to be launched.

Rejected!

Armasse, the name brings bitter-sweet memories. Yes, the week long celebration is festive and a welcome break from the drudgery and the long faces to be seen the rest of the year. Since Aroden’s death, Armasse has gradually turned from an opportunity for scholars and priests to come together to study the lessons of history from wars past, to a pure and simple all out party, and there is nothing wrong with that!

But Armasse in Kenabres is different. Armasse in Kenabres is also about training commoners in weaponry, choosing squires, and ordaining new priests. During the week are planned jousting competitions, mock duels, battle reenactments and ritual celebrations of important battles. During Armasse, Kenabreans have a good time, but keep their heads somewhat and never, never leave without their fighting kit.

For Kenabreans live on the edge of madness, a stone-throw away from the Worldwound, the world overtaken by the forces of the Abyss, the world they have vowed to retake.

Dismissed!

The flow of the crowd meanders through the sinuous streets of Old Kenabres. As you approach the Plaza, you notice the details of the cathedral, its monumental stones, pierced by stained-glass windows portraying the sacrifice of Saint Clydwell and the imprisonment of horrific demons. It’s green copper steeple pierces the blue sky like a sword thrust upward.

At the foot of the cathedral, the open plaza, shaped in a great oval, is bordered with ancient trees, providing soft shade to the people. You find a great spot, not very close to the action, but with a clear enough view. Street vendors are selling dubious meats on sticks and crusader’s brandy a cheap but potent alcohol that will turn your stomach, but your head too. A few feet away from you, a small crowd of youngsters are dancing as a minstrel accompanies himself on the luth. You recognize the catchy air of Ale for Clydwell, a funny song about a chance meeting between Cayden and Clydwell, where the Saint is ridiculed by the Lucky God.

In the Plaza, banners are flying under a clear blue sky, and the men of the most renowned orders of crusaders proudly stand. The same one who refused, rejected, dismissed and denied you entry. You recognize the Kenabres Wolves, generally known for their low character; the Shield Maiden of Caliphas, an elite order sent from the bordering realm of Ustalav; the Order of the Flaming Lance, with a reputation for being ruthless and seeking victory at all cost; the Sons of Sarkosis, exclusively composed of Kellids, and easy to spot in a crowd; the Condemned, shock-troops of expandable convicts sent to Mendev; The Hammers of Heaven, an all-dwarven mercenary company infamously known for the treason of its leader Staunton Vhale; the Kenabres’ Engineering Corps, responsible for the city’s defending structures; the Daring Dervishes, said to crave attention more than effectiveness; the Eagle Watch, a group of crusaders battling the enemy within the city; the Witch Hunters, clad in white vestments edged with orange flames, responsible for the death of many intruders and, some say, many more innocents; the Holy Order of the Aurora, perhaps the oldest order, having suffered tremendous losses during the fall of Sarkoris; the Green and the Grey, a loose group of crusaders worshipping Old Deadeye; the Order of the Sunrise Sword, singers and exorcists; The Everbright Crusaders, renowned to be the most virtuous warriors of Mendev; and more even, each flying their proud colors under a clear sky.

Denied!

A wave of hush ripples through the crowd as Hulrun, ruler of Kenabres and leader of the Witch Hunters comes out of the Cathedral, facing the crusaders and the crowd. You heart lifts at such a sight, at such a gathering of strength in the name of Good.

Hulrun lifts his sword straight up in the air, and the crowd explodes in cheers and songs while crusaders bang their weapons on their shields. The sound is deafening and you can’t hear your own voice.

Hope courses through the assembled crowd.

And then silence.

Silence and darkness. Oppressive.

And then Despair.

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To Gaze Into the Abyss - A Wrath of the Righteous PbP
Volume 1: The Worldwound Incursion

You wake slowly, with a sense of lost time. For a moment, darkness and silence surround you. The the silence is broken by a strong cough. Perhaps your own? Perhaps the cough woke you? You feel stunned, your head throbbing.

In the darkness ahead, other voices. Coughing too. And the sound of rocks clattering.

Then pain. Your whole body numb from it, slowly recuperating.

As you move your hands and feel through the darkness around you, you feel rubble, rubble and dust. Your body covered by it.

A fitting end to a pitiful excuse for a life, Eamch thinks in the darkness. I suppose I deserve it.

Choking a bit on the cascading dust, Eamch allows himself precious moments to wallow in depression and self-pity.

I had it all. I came from a good clan: wealthy, respected, powerful. We were fools, the whole caravan of us coming from Five Kings Mountains were so full of ourselves. We were sure we would have the demons driven back and slain in mere decades. We would prove how superior dwarves were to all others who had gathered to crusade.

Eamch closed his eyes, and memories flooded back. One demon. One demon that escaped the wardstones and set upon us in the night. We couldn’t even stop one rogue demon. It slayed all of us. Well, all but me. Maybe I’d be better off if I’d died too.

Eamch remembered the disease that ravaged his body, inflicted upon him by that solitary demon. For weeks struggling to recover, even after he was found. The disease that left his body scarred and discolored. Even though I recovered, I wasn’t fit for war. I tried. I went through dozens of jobs every decade; why couldn’t I last long in any one of them?

When did I give up? When did I lay in the street with a wooden bowl to collect stray coins from those who pitied my wretchedness enough to drop one? How many years did I pass that way? Until she came along. His fingers closed on the coin in his pouch. She gave me the coin, and with it hope. Why!?! Only to try again, and be rejected. Again.

The bitter sting of anger rising in him sparked courage again. Courage enough to lift his head. Courage enough to try and see what has befallen them. Courage enough to try again just one more time.

Eamch lifts his head, shaking away the tortured memories and thoughts. ”Who’s here? I could seven of us. Who knew there was a cavern this large under the plaza? Does anyone remember what happened?”

Dalmien Smith had been in a very emotional state. The inevitable rejection had stung more than it should have; Dalmien had became inoculated to humiliation - a necessity in his line of work - but Malcom "Daring" Milner's face had twitched into a cruel, sardonic smile as he pronounced the word.

"Rejected!"

He felt ashamed of himself, as though he hadn't been trying hard enough. All he wanted to do was help, try to make a difference. And honour Alena's death. She had been able to join the Dervishes with ease. Yet he had been received with mockery and disdain, for the umpteenth time.

Dalmien had spent the rest of his promenade trying to get the image out of his head, and preparing himself mentally to get back into work. The Armasse was his best week in terms of business, and though the last thing he wanted was to work right now, it would be sensible to start approaching the soldiers who were already drunk on crusader's brandy. They're in high spirits an will pay extra..., he had thought.

When Dalmien opens his eyes, and sees nothing but darkness, his mind goes blank. Slowly, he starts to feel the dull, throbbing pain coursing through his body. Then comes the realisation that he'd been holding his breath. As he inhales, he swallows a large amount of dust, leading to a violent coughing fit.

It's only when he hears the other voice that he starts to feel panic.
Dalmien reaches instinctively for his dagger as he takes a few steps back.

What!? Who's there!? Where am I?!

Rejected!

Barek Leif stirred slowly. It was always the same. No matter how much he tried to show them his talents...they simply saw his means of survival, and that meant he was part of the problem. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, as mother would say...

It was dark. He coughs for a moment or two, as he tries to wipe himself off, which only leaves him more in dust. Each move brings an ache to his bones and muscles. And then the throbbing heads to his brain, as he grimaces.

"Yeah, I'm here! Don't really remember what happened, though. Just the celebration, and then..nothing!" As he speaks, the young man immediately seeks out for his weaponry, to make sure it's all there (even the hidden blades).

It was the pity that hurt the worst. They saw in me the destiny of our people if they should fail. Slowly, old Sarkoris would fade from memory and the legacy, our legacy, would die. I will never join them, I'm the death of them. Darkness closed around him again and Zoresk dreamed.

Fire, it always started with fire. The burning stench of sulphur and brimstone wafting in the air around him. Frantic terror, mind numbing and consuming, fighting with the grief that threatens to overwhelm him. Father... The chanting around him grows and he opens his eyes on a scene from hell. Cultists, faces painted and leering masking covering their mouths, surround me. Can't move, can't fight, helpless... worthless.

The sudden rush of pain as abyssal energy pours through his body, feeling like it's stripping him away layer by layer. Screaming rings through his ears though he's not sure if it's his own or not. Time seems to stretch on and on, but the pain stays constant. This is how it ends, here... now. Maybe it would have been better that I had died. But the light, comforting and warm, broke through the dark miasma of the abyssal energy. A sheltering hand in a time of destruction.

Panting, the screams of the dying all around and his bonds are cut by a haggard, careworn face. "Easy now, son, it'll be alright." The voice still echoes as it lies. No, I should have died that day. I'm worthless, rejected... I can't save my people. I couldn't save my father. I can't even save myself. But the beckoning call, like a friend greeting you turns me back. And the blade, viciously heavy blade backed by a hook, it seemed to call to him. So he took it.

All those years training, wasted. All those years learning my craft, futile. All the sacrifice, for nothing.

In darkness, Zoresk wakes from his lucid dream, panting. He listens in the darkness, reaching around for his weapon. Remember the light. It had to mean something. Remember the light. Coughing gently, he looks around as the voices start calling out. "I'm here. All I remember is the plaza and the celebration, but then nothing. Darkness. Who... who are you? Where are we? Can anyone see anything?"

Demons in the Plaza! Death from above. The dead everywhere. How could this have happened?

Kord slowly opened his eyes. Am I dead? Did the demon finally come back to finish the job? Kord thought back to that dark night of his childhood when the shadow demon had first come to him. It had been the night of the winter solstice. He survived that encounter, but his father had not. Now, the demon had finally extracted it's vengeance. Father, are you with me now?

Kord walked down the tunnel of darkness. He approached a throne of pure light. On top of the throne sat a man in gold armor. A voice boomed in his head. My way is the way of the sword. You will serve me. Go forward and banish the evil in my name. Go forward Crusader! Kord felt himself being pulled back down the tunnel...

Pain! Pure, white-hot, wracking pain! I've been resurrected ... again. I am a revenant. I am a shade. I am the walking dead. Gorum, I am not worthy. Please, let me join my father!

The booming voice echoed in his head. You will serve me...

Kord slowly opened his eyes. His sword was still in his hand. It was a good omen. Go forward ...

Kord shrugged off the rubble. "I am Kordica Carraway!"

Kord lifted to one knee. "I am a crusader!"

Kord rose to his feet. "Who is with me?"

"Rise crusaders!"

Hearing other survivors complain of the dark, Eamch reminds himself that not all are blessed as he with limited sight in the darkness. He surveys their situation, sitting up slowly as he does.

"I don't see any hostiles here. We are in a cavern, pretty large. One wall of it is mostly covered in a mound of rubble; that must be the remains of the slide or collapse that brought us down here. That rumbling sound is just little rockslides on the rubble mound."

Eamch notes that two of the people he sees have not yet responded. He'll start to carefully make his way to the nearest one to check their condition.

"Does anyone have a means for creating light?"

As he goes, he mutters to no one in particular "Not sure what could have caused this. An earthquake, maybe? A structural failure of the plaza? They must not have known this cavern was here when they built it."

Still dazed but reassured at the apparent lack of hostility from the other voices, Dalmien reaches for his backpack that he had brought with him, in order to show his eagerness. It contained flint as well as torches, if memory serves...

" I.. I'm not sure... I think? D-Dalmien's the name. Dalmien Smith "
Answering the apparently well-informed man.

" Who else is here?" This time more confident, as if the sound of his own voice had reassured him.

Kord casts light on his sword tip. He surveys the area:

Perception:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (8) + 6 = 14

"Dalmien, is it? Are you wounded? How about the rest of you? I'm a healer. Let me help you. But let us be quick - the battle may not be over. "

"Battle? Maybe it was a battle. I just don't recall. It was bright daylight and cheering crowds, and then I was here. I think I was unconscious. Maybe we were teleported by magic?"

Can Eamch make it over to the two that aren't speaking? Are they alive?

As Kord raises his sword, light washes in all directions, revealing you a large underground cavern, one wall of which is an enormous mound of rubble.

Three other forms can be seen. One is on all four, searching left and right. The other is slowly stirring and coughing, while the third is sitting straight, stunned.

"*cough!* What in Calistria's name just happened! What *cough!* happened! Where are we!? *cough!*" says a burly man covered in dust. He tries to get to his feet and faints back on his ass. "I- I can't- Help! Somebody help me!"

The kneeling man is an elf. He raises his head as he hears voices. You can tell he's been savagely injured to the head, as it is covered in blood: "You're right, the demons have broken in. They swarmed the Plaza..."

He moves a hand and mutters an incantation and produces a coin. The copper glows red then emits a warm light: "What? I- Can't see?"

He raises a hand to touch his face and his shoulders slump.

"*cough! cough!* You're Aravashnial, right? Sorry to say, but you look like hell... I'm stuck. Something fell on my leg. Can you help me?" says a young woman wearing leather armour and a boyish haircut.

"From what I've *cough!* seen, things are not going well for us up there. It's like you said. We should try to join the battle. Who are y- Is that you Horgus?! Well I'll be damned!"

"Horg- Just great... Better and better..." says the elf, now sitting.

"I'm afraid all is lost. I saw the Storm King itself!'

"Aravashnial! You scum! Looks like you *cough!* got what you deserve!"

"Ok, people, one at a time!" Barek grips the sides of his head as he speaks loudly, remembering the one time he got into a drinking contest with a troupe of dwarven "crusade recruits", and how the morning after was not much different than this current feeling.

Getting up slowly, Barek checks himself for any apparent injuries as he looks about, now that there's a bit more light about.

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (11) + 4 = 15

"Someone care to explain what's going on before whatever caused this mess decides to realize we're not dead yet and finish the job?"

Bluff To Get People Into Responding to His Attempt to Grab Control of the Situation: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 24

Coughing to clear his throat, Zoresk shields his eyes against the sudden bright light. Groaning, he stands and takes a look around the room. Where are we? Half-distracted by the back and forth tirade between the others, he tries to gather his wits. A battle? So the demons are the city... Troubled, he casts around, looking for his blade and listening to the ongoing conversation.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (7) + 5 = 12

Dalmien attempts to get up to help the young woman by moving the rubble on her leg...Something familiar about her?

Kord will help clear rubble off of everyone.
"All, remain calm and do not panic. It appears that we're safe for the moment, but that may not last. Please gather on me."

Glowing blue energy spreads from Kord's outstretched hands.

Channel energy:1d6 ⇒ 2
Channel energy:1d6 ⇒ 1
Channel energy:1d6 ⇒ 6

Kord ensures the NPCs are covered.

Kord has to move near the young woman, as she is still caught under the rubbles. The taste of iron fills your mouth, but your small cuts and bruises mend.

Kord clears the remaining rubble from the woman. "Anevia, correct? As I said, I'm Kord - tavern guard and aspiring crusader. I think you're out of the fight for now. Let's see if we can get you out."

He lays his sword down and attempts to move whatever is pinning Anevia down.

Strength check:1d20 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

"She's stuck. Can someone help me?"

Barek sighs and heads towards this woman that Kord is trying to free. "Hold on. We'll get her free..."

Yet another day of having to save someone from something that they did to get themselves into that mess...And likely no reward for it...

Once he gets to the rubble pinning the woman down, he too attempts to lift the rubble.

Strength Check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

Nodding, Zoresk makes his way over to assist in freeing the woman named Anevia. "Here, I can help. My name's Zoresk. Does anyone... remember how we got down here? All I remember is celebration and then darkness." Finding a position in which he can help, he starts clearing out the rubble trapping the woman.

Strength Check(aid another): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

" Let's get this rubble off of you. "

Strength Check to help clear the rubble off Anevia: 1d20 ⇒ 15

"This is a bizarre situation indeed. It appears some of us know each other. Perhaps proper introductions are in order, before seeing what information we can recollect, and we try to figure out what the next step is. "

Diplomacy check to get everyone to introduce themselves and expose what they know: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 28

As the rubbles are clear, the young woman winces when she clears her leg: "Yup! It's as I feared. It's broken. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone this dance." she says with a smile.

"I am Anevia. I remember you Kord. Still cleaning tables?"

Kord shakes his head at Anevia. "No, I think I'm done cleaning tables. Listen, my healing is not powerful enough to fix your leg. We'll have to get you to the temple. I can carry you."

Kord points to Horgus and Aravishinal,"Anevia, do you know these two?"

Kord looks around at the others, "Can the rest of you walk? I suggest we try to find our way out of here."

Kord looks for any way of climbing out of the cave.

Perception:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (6) + 6 = 12

After Anevia has spoken, the blind elf follows, his voice filled with scorn: "You should give the man a break Anevia. After all, you're as useless as I am, and they could just leave you here to rot..."

Remaining sitting, he rips a piece of his sleeve and wraps it as a makeshift bandage. "I am Aravashnial. I am afraid I have nothing but bad news..."

As Aravashnial speaks, hard memories flood your brain, as the elf's account unlocks them from the deep place your mind has buried them.

Hulrun cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun’s shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral’s facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through the air and earth, along with a violent tremor.

To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of Kenabres’s wardstone—had vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.

A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—Kenabres’s greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev. Most likely, he had been attending the ceremony disguised as a human.

Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any
man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound.

As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The balor cut deep into Terendelev’s body as it charged. The titanic duo spiraled downward and smashed into the facade of the Cathedral, with the balor on top.

At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza and opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.

Even as you fell, the dragon noticed you. Despite looming death standing over her, she decided to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon, slowing your plummet into the darkness.

"Saint Lymirin Protect Us! All is lost..." is all Horgus can say, as he looks to his hands and weeps.

Dalmien is stunned at first, but quickly shakes it off, and walks over to Horgus, and puts his arm around the man.

"If all is lost, then perhaps there is nothing better to do than slit our own throats. But come now. All we can do is our best. Do you think the legendary Terendelev's gesture was empty? We must make sure that it wasn't. Let's gather our thoughts. Does anyone remember seeing what happened to Hulrun after the disaster stroke?"

"I'm Eamch Stone. I can certainly walk." He casts around for for his missing bundle. He looks up suddenly at Dalmien's comment. His voice is full of awe when he continues "Terendelev. That's right. I never imagined I would see her, much less be touched by - saved by - her grace." He sits back down on the rubble a moment before adding "We can't let that go to waste. We cannot. It would be tantamount to sacrilege. We have to get out of here."

You all managed to hold on to your kit.

"Sacrilege is pretty common to these crusades, isn't it? I mean, a battle that destroys a cathedral? Sounds pretty crazy to me. The name's Barek Leif."

He just shakes his head in disgust at the whimpering Horgus. "Really? Gesture or not, you're acting like a pansy. Is that the kind of thing that got you decently known? Or are you actually capable of manning up?"

He looks upwards, shaking his head and flexing to feel the hidden blades on his body. "We're quite the sundry group, but I think we can all agree, if Terendelev decided to save us all...well, I don't really feel like dying yet and finding out what happens if that wasn't Terendelev's plan, would you all?"

Bluff Into Action: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (15) + 8 = 23

Zoresk's face grows grim as the tale begins to unfold, both aloud and in his mind. Gods I was worthless. Terendelev was the one doing the fighting... I just looked on. Clenching his fists, Zoresk looks down at his feet, ashamed by his weakness. As the story draws to a close, Zoresk looks up in surprise as he recalls the dragon's actions. We... we were saved? But why? If she thought me worthy of saving... perhaps I still have something I need to do? Feeling the despair again averted, Zoresk clears his throat and says, "No Barek, I don't want to die yet. If we're alive, we must have a purpose. Let's get out of here, as Eamch said." Looking around, Zoresk scratches at his beard, "Doesn't look like we're going to be easily able to get out through all that rubble. Let's have a look around for another way out." Recovering his fauchard, he takes heart in the familiar heft of the blade.

Looking around in the sphere of light that I can see. If the others agree, Zoresk will join someone bearing magical light that takes the lead. If no one volunteers, he'll light a torch and start working his way around the room.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10

Dalmien is quick to agree with Zoresk.

"Yes, the able-bodied should go and explore. We need as many as possible; there's not telling what we'll find around here, after the attack."

Eamch will start to move around the edge of the cavern, looking for ways out.

"We all need to stay together. If there is an exit, we leave together. Someone will have to lead Aravashnial. I will carry Anevia. Horgus, can you walk on your own?"

Barek seems successful in steering the group into action. Horgus gets to his feet and Aravashnial gets ready by casting a hand in his darkness to see if someone would lead him. Horgus sees the gesture and stays well clear of it, shrugging.

Anevia gestures at her leg: "I can't move! And you can't just carry me with my bone dangling around in my flesh. Are you sure you're a priest Kord? I need some kind of cast..."

"Hmm... May be we should split? We could leave a few behind. We'll come back later to rescue them..?"

While Anevia points to her limitation, Kordica has found a sort of tunnel in the shadows of the cavern. It seems large enough for you to go through, one at a time. He gestures for you to follow him.

But Zoresk raises a hand to draw your attention. His own search has led him to another area. He motions you over and points at the floor. Scattered are large flakes of silver, glistening in the light of Kordica's sword.

In response to Horgus, Eamch says "We shouldn't split up. We don't know if this cavern is stable, and it may not be safe for anyone to stay in."

Eamch will move over to the tunnel that was found, using his darkvision to inspect it. He doesn't enter, though. He waits for the others to investigate the silver and get ready to travel.

Curious, Zoresk kneels and moves his torch closer to the silver, inspecting it. "Any idea what this is? I'm giving it some thought, but nothing springs to mind immediately."

Knowledge(History, Planes or Religion) if one is appropriate: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (8) + 6 = 14
Craft(Weaponsmith) is this actually silver metal: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11

"LADY, you don't seem to be understanding the issue here. We leave you down here, and everything could collapse and then you'd be stuck here and then you WOULD die. To me, that doesn't seem like the way anybody would want to end. I mean, that's a pretty awful epitaph, aye?"

He continues walking along, shaking his head. "Here lies, Anevia. Carried with a bone hanging out was too much for her poor ego to bear."

Barek is trying to distract her from the likely intense pain and get her into fighting spirits.
Bluff: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25

As they continue along, his attempts at distracting her are interrupted by the silver dust. He tries to think on whether these silver flakes are anything familiar to the local culture. He also crouches down to take a closer look, balanced on the balls of his feet, just in case he needs to quickly get up.

Knowledge (Local): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

"Perhaps it is best to take her with us, but the wound looks painful indeed. It'd slow us down for sure. Eamch forgive me, I may be making unfair assumptions, but being a dwarf, do you know anything about the structure caves? Does the one we're in seem stable to you? If it were, perhaps we'd be justified in leaving them here until we find something to make a cast..."

Dalmien walks over to the silver flakes, intrigued. He tries to remember if they mean anything to him.

Knowledge (Arcana)/Spellcraft: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11

"Hey! Believe me, I don't want to stay here and I can still fight, but my leg needs to be set first, or else I might lose it!"

As you pick one up, about the size of your palm, feel its metallic weight and hardness, and notice dried blood, it dawns on you: these are Terendelev's scales!

Upon recognition, Dalmien takes one scale and stares at it for a moment, before stuffing it in a secured pocket of his outfit. This has meaning. A token of destiny perhaps. Something he'd been looking for.