I think that "moist secretions" is sort of poetic. 

I need to figure out a way to work that into my in-game narration.

2001!  Man, back when all of my body parts worked without hurting!

Is the sanitizer moist, though? 

My wife hates certain words.  If you say "moist" in my house, you can expect to have items thrown at you. 

I wonder if this is like that?

I bet she wouldn't like "excretions", either.

What about "moist excretions"?   OoooOOOOoOOoOOooooooo!

I thnk I used a similar line in Paranoia.

I bet that it's "excretions" that you don't like.

Oooooohhhh... EXCRETIONS.  Yummy!

This. Is. AGONIZING!!!

We are getting so close to the fecal excretions truly hitting the ventilation device... the anticipation is KILLING me!

Poetry.  Nice.

Poetry.  Nice.

...I dunno.  Kill it with fire, I'd guess?  Maybe? 

That post has been rattling around in my head for a long, long time...

The young woman cooed to the bundle on her shoulder as she rocked in a chair.  A contented smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she comforted the babe. 

Prior to the latter stages of the pregnancy and the birth, she had been widely regarded as beautiful - even stunning.  She had possessed hair the color of honeyed straw, with piercing eyes of blue, a face that could draw an observer in for hours, and a body that caused more than one chaste priest to question his vows.  She had always been friendly and open, which only served to enhance that attractiveness.

These days, though, her skin had a pallor about it, her hair seemed brittle and dull. 

Ah, yes, she was still sore, and she was so very tired.  The birth itself had been unbelievably painful, but she had been mentally prepared for that.  Her mother had made it clear that forcing a melon-sized object through an orifice designed more for the diameter of a cucumber would result in a great deal of pain and aftermath; her grandmother had lightened the moment to suggest that she should be grateful for a cucumber, and hope to not have to settle for a lifetime with an okra instead.

The time after the birth, though... the baby was extraordinarily demanding.  He seemed determined to stay awake through every night, to only sleep in odd bouts.  And his appetite had been voracious,  seemingly never satisfied in a way that no one had even mentioned might be the case.  Still, the mother did not mind.  Every waking thought seemed to have to do with the babe, with providing for his every whim.  He deserved no less, after all.

Her bundle murmured, and she moved him to the crook of her arm, released a breast to provide his sustenance.  And yet... something was wrong.  He was listless, weak, refused to latch. 

She tickled his mouth, tweaked the bottoms of his feet, tried every trick she had seen her mother and sister use.  Did everything the midwife had taught her.  Trying to control the panic, she reached to the table, grabbed a knife, and winced in pain as she opened a shallow cut below her nipple.  Even the offer of fresh blood seemed to do no good; the babe remained limp, would barely swallow.  He would not even close his little fangs down if she placed her flesh into his mouth. 

---------------------------------------------

Sobbing, the mother begged the priest for any sort of assistance, but the older man merely shook his head.  "I can do nothing," he explained.  "No prayer, no spell seems to have any positive effect.  Things that should make him stronger only seem to make it worse.  I fear that he will not survive the night."

He turned to leave, seemingly immune to her wails as she knelt in the dirt, clutching the motionless gray form to her chest.

---------------------------------------------

Weeks had passed since the death of the baby.  A great deal of the young woman's beauty had returned; every day she seemed stronger, her color better.  This evening found her in the nicest dress that she owned, with her hair perfectly coiffed, and wearing the first smile she had made since the death. 

She threw the door open and strode inside, cocking her head just so.  The priest glanced up from where he knelt in the filthy straw beside a corpse, arched an eyebrow at her entrance. 

"I'm ready to try again," she stated flatly. 

He snorted in reply.  "I rather doubt that," he responded condescendingly.  "We've been over this already.  You cannot try again."

She shook her head, blonde locks floating in the flickering light.  Her eyes flashed with anger.  "No!  You will NOT take this from me.  I am willing.  I am READY." 

She gestured with her head at the pair of undead flanking the priest, causing them to giggle in response.  "Let them take me now!" she exclaimed. The young woman hitched up her skirts, revealing a complete lack of smallclothes.  "What can we can we hurt by trying?" she implored.

The tone of the ghouls' giggling shifted noticeably, and they took steps towards her, one with a tongue wiggling obscenely in perfectly clear intentions.  "STOP," the priest intoned, and the undead halted in their tracks.

"I said no," he continued, wiping his hands upon his robe.  "Has your moon blood returned?" he asked in a disinterested tone as he returned his focus to the corpse.

The young woman dropped her skirts in frustration and stamped her foot.  "Not yet!  But that does not mean anything!  It often takes time to return after... after a baby!  Everyone knows that!" she protested.

The priest shook his head as he stood, and his tone softened as he stepped towards the woman.  "As I have explained, yours will NOT return.  The process has left you barren.  Both I and the church appreciate your willingness, but this is no longer a thing you can do."

Suddenly, it was as if the air escaped the young woman, and tears began to flow in earnest.  "Is there nothing you can do for me, father?  No healing you can offer?" she implored. 

He shook his head.  "I am sorry, my child. It is beyond my ability to restore."

Heartbroken, she gave in to the sobs and collapsed into the holy man's arms.  "But I was to... to... to be the mother of a GOD!"

Absently, he stroked the young woman's beautiful hair.  "Yes, child.  I know, I know..." he murmured softly while the ghouls seemed to respectfully giggle barely any at all.

I have a silver screem in the works, myself.  This may be the final one of the game.

Gore wise?  It's pretty light.  Creep-wise?  Yeah.  I'm really sorry.

... I literally just sent that in a PM.

A rope or handle would have worked.  The enchantment on the door only fires when living flesh comes into contact with it. 

I added more fantasy-style cid names, and enabled them in the back end.  You can pick them now, but only realistic surnames work.  The fantasy ones just yield given names only.  Hrm.

Nice try, but nope.  No secret cold resistence.

lol @ spray bottle. 

In case it is not clear, Aranwen has also taken minor damage from the cold of the door.

"The priests led us to believe that the undead would be present here, along with others of their order," the blonde woman replied, ”They gave no details of defenses, nor did they mention passwords or keys."  Her tone shifted ever so slightly towards ice as she continued.  "Had they done so, we certainly would not have failed to mention it."

“You failed to mention any of it when first we met,” Ch’dau chuffed flatly from his place at the back of the line, “Forgive us for verifying before we blindly trust.”

Trying to salvage the situation, Aranwen interjects.  "We are quite close to Sendria, dear friend," Aranwen pointed out, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice at speaking the name of that cursed land, "Just as our experiences have led to us at times being wary of what we share openly, I know that the same is true of them," she observed, looking directly at Davena with softness about her eyes, "We are not enemies here."

The slight shift in Davena's tone grows far more pronounced as she responds to Ch'dau..  "Would you have blathered details of a death cult to strangers at an Inn?  Is that what you are honestly claiming that we should have done, cat man?"  Her eyes flash with fire that contrasts with the ice in her voice.  "Or perhaps we should have tarried when saving your lives to explain what brought us to this wood?  You would have survived, I think, had we taken the time to explain.  Perhaps the little mage, as well.  I believe you'd have lost companions had we chosen to talk instead of slay the undead, however."

She snorts derisively.  "I know not what passes for gratitude among your furred folk, but in human lands, this conduct is beyond rude.  We have answered every query you have levied.  We have shared information that you lacked.  And again, we saved your very lives when we had no obligation to do so.  Trust, indeed."

The awkward silence that follows is broken up by Kithran attempting to find some use for her skull medallion on the doors. However, there appears to be no way that the medallion can interface with either door.

After discussion, the Bladesinger takes a deep breath and grabs the door handle.

Much like Kithran experienced, a horrible cold radiates from the door and into Aranwen's body.  However, she bears more of it with her firm grasp than the rogue did with her glancing contact. 

As she grits her teeth and pulls the door hard, the grave reaches out to grab at Aranwen's very heart.  She feels the despair, feels the fear... but is able to push it aside, to resist the influence.  Soon, the feeling is gone.   After gathering for a moment, the Bladesinger leads the party into the gates of the death cult's temple.

A small, dark hallway gives way to an antechamber.  A pair of sconces sit on opposite walls; each sconce burns with a greenish flame.  The effect is weird, unnatural, otherworldly, and leaves deep shadows in the corners... however, there is enough light to see and move.

The antechabber itself is bare, with walls of stone and a floor to match.  A doorway in the north wall leads to a larger, more open chamber - which appears to have more of the green light within.  A wooden door sits closed at the northwest corner. 

Everything is quiet and empty.

Sounds cool, and no worries.

That defintiely works!

I do think that a few of the "Realistic" ones can be broken into two work parts so as to provide more possible outcomes.

I need to add the choice for realistic/fantasy to the halfling page, like we have for dwarves.  If we don't tell it that fantasy are okay, it looks for realistic only... and there are none.

I saw some errors in another test.  Let me look at what may be going on.

Haha.  Nice question.

Daviena?

Bromern isn't going to be able to post for a few days.  Raven usually posts once a week. 

Frankly, there isn't much for the clerics to do right now.  So we may as well bump things, I'm thinking, and let their posts cover the entrance and what lies beyond... as oposed to forcing them to make a fluff post, then turn around and post again.

I see no reason to give several days for Eol and Raven to respond that they do not, in fact, have such a spell.

Midge could technically cast a Knock spell... but he doesn't know it.  And it would only help overcome a wizard locking, not a defensive enchantment like this.

So shall I go ahead and post?

It's been asked of me if we want to provide realistic or fantasy type surnames for halflings.  I say that - much like we do with khords (dwarves), we need both.