Who Mimics the Mimics? (2/2)

“Oh well I chose it because I wanted to make the kids laugh, sir,” the Mousewife said, climbing up onto the biggest of the chairs she'd seized as a minion, and having it reverse so that the back was between her and oncoming trouble. “The children do love it when their toys come to life and play with them!”

“We should keep moving,” Graves recommended, shifting his all dark-oak set of minions up to occupy the intersection. “Our goal hasn't changed. We need to find the others. So...” he looked down the cross corridors. “We've got something that's full of steam and thumping noises, or down into a cave. Which one, do you think?”

With a start, Threadbare realized that his companions were looking at him to make the choice. For a second, that old feeling of wrongness rose up in him. That feeling he'd gotten a few months ago, when he realized that he was much more comfortable following someone and lifting them up, than leading people who were trying to lift himup.

He thought he'd left that feeling behind forever when he'd abdicated his seat on the council. And though that hadn't been the main reason he stepped down, it was definitely quite a bit off pressure off his shoulders, after it was officially done.

So Threadbare studied the two passages, and recalled what he knew of dungeonlore. “I don't know how our enemy set this one up, but we need to rescue people before we do anything else. We should probably check to make sure nobody's in danger on this level before we go down to the next one.”

With that in mind, he took the lead and started into the steamy tunnel.

Threadbare regretted it after the first fifty feet or so. His fur got all soggy and he felt the water start to soak into his stuffing. Still, he'd been through worse, so he focused on trying to peer through the steam. Behind him his collection of minions clattered along, blending with Graves and the Mousewife's herd to fill the passage with an assembly of animated furniture that mimicked mimics.

It really wasn't how he'd planned the day to go, and he was starting to think that he might not make it home in time for dinner if this kept up.

The steam got thicker the further they went, and it became more and more difficult to see through it.

“Threadbare,” Graves called. “Shift a few of your animi ahead. We might as well get some use from them before they get pounded into splinters.”

“Not a bad idea,” Threadbare agreed, as he reshuffled the marching order. “Do you have anything to see through this mess?”

“Not much, but... hm. Detect Magic. Now I can at least see magical trouble coming. Hopefully.”

“Keen Eye,” Threadbare dutifully recited, recalling his Scout training.

Your Keen eye skill is now level 13!

That particular skill enhanced his perception. Of course, it occurred to him, perception covered more than just sight. So he fell back on one of his bear necessities.

“Scents and Sensibility.”

Immediately the world expanded. The steamy air took on nuances that told their own stories. Everything from the sweaty skin of Mr. Graves behind him, to the way the stone smelled as the air heated it painted a picture that needed no sight to perceive.

It really had been too long since he'd done this last. When was the last time he'd drawn a breath for any other purpose except talking? He really had to get back into the habit.

And that enhanced sense of smell was what saved him from a horrible fate, as the texture of the air shifted, the motions spreading out in a way that suggested more space opening up abruptly.

And stone. Very, very hot, burning stone.

“Stop!” Threadbare called, just as wood clattered ahead, and there came a splash from ahead. Ahead and below. One of his animi vanished from his party screen, and his nose filled with the brief scent of woodsmoke.

Unknown_Chair 1 has left the party.

“There's a trap door or pit up ahead that leads down to the lava room,” Threadbare decided. “We must have come up a rise and doubled back.”

“Let me test a theory,” Graves said. “Force Bolt.”

The simplest of Wizard spells, it hurled a blue bolt of energy down the hall, disappearing into the mist and cracking against distant stone.

“I saw the impact. It looks like the corridor ends up ahead,” Graves said. “There's probably nothing on the other side of the pit. That's how I'd set this trap up if I were our unseen enemy.”

“How horrible!” the Mousewife squeaked. “Also there are doors opening in the walls near me and I'm very scared!”

Threadbare charged before she completed the sentence, running back to protect her. Midway through he felt himself pulled through the air at an astonishing speed, as a ten-foot long metal sword intersected him, and knocked him to the ground. Looking up, he had a brief view of a red '41' floating up into the air, before he got his feet under him. The Mousewife ran past him, screaming, and a metal shape easily ten times his height loomed out of the fog.

Your Bodyguard skill is now level 19!

“Don't run too far! Get to Graves!” Threadbare called out, then shuffled aside as the sword descended again, gouging the stone inches from him.

“Steam Knights!” Graves shouted. “This calls for armor-piercing magic. Force Bolt!”

The steam around them cleared, and abruptly Threadbare saw three of his borrowed animi fall away from his party status.

Unknown_Chair 2 has left the party.

Unknown_Chair 3 has left the party.

That_One_looks_Cute_Remember_To_Bring_It_Home_And_Show_Celia has left the party.

Threadbare winced at that last one. It had been a nice rug, and it matched their dining room. He had thought it would really tie the room together.

Gone now. But why?

“The floor's opening up back here!” The Mousewife screeched behind him.

But Threadbare was too busy dodging, as a series of crossbow bolts the size of a man's arm came flying out of the mist.

That armament, he thought. A sword and autobow. I know who these foes are.

“Reason!” shouted Graves, as the steam cleared enough to see the ten-foot-tall suits of mechanical armor chugging forward, one with a sword and the other with a crossbow rigged with gears and wire mechanisms. “They've turned Reason against us!”