Ah, but there is no time to dwell upon what might have been. The heat from the molten pool of former Iron Circle troops radiates up from the area before the dais where what once was Lord Vhennik bellows a challenging roar to us.
I think back for just a moment to the tales of dragons told to me by the dwarves in Hammerfast; their powerful jaws and terrifying magical abilities. This creature seems much, much worse.
“Any bright ideas, lads?” Gimil has to shout to be heard. “…anything other than runnin’ for the stairs?”
“I would advise against that,” an oddly calm voice comes from Dr. Wizardopolis’ position. “The beast is likely to give chase if we break and run…and I have my doubts that these walls would do much to hold it back.”
“Right,” says Kron. “So we wait for him to come and make this hallway a brick oven. Good plan.”
The thought does not appeal to me as I listen to the stone blocks pop and split from the heat of the melted soldiers. “Very good point, Kron. In here we have no room to maneuver. Should he charge us, we have nowhere to go and would be cooked alive…”
“Then you have a better plan, priest?” Ryltar’s voice is like ice on the back of my neck. “There is nowhere to go but back, unless you desire to join Vhennik’s minions.”
As he gestures before us my mind races through our very short list of options, but something about the drow’s voice sticks…his tone…like ice. The scepter of the Winter King? Without an affinity for matters arcane I cannot be sure…
“Likely I do not,” I say to the party. “But I need you mages to tell me if the thought I do have has any merit.”