The inside of the tower was eerily quiet. Faces of anguish on frozen statues greeted us as we walked inside.
Beyond them, a pair of creatures turned toward us. They looked like someone had forcibly melded a dragonborn and a crossbow. Their gaping maws held giant crossbow bolts, and they kept them pointed at us while we step inside.
A pair of braziers suddenly alighted on either side, and a circle inscribed on the floor of a podium at the end of the hallway glowed green. In a puff of smoke a satyr appeared.
“Is the master expecting you?” it asked.
“Who are you?” T.I.M. asked.
“I am Innslow, farrier of the master of this tower. Whom may I say is calling?”
T.I.M. and I glanced at each other, both of us blurting out different, random answers. The satyr paused curiously, the disappeared back into the circle.
Moments later, it returned. “The master has need of you,” it nodded to T.I.M., “but not at this moment.” The little goat-man suddenly looked around and addressed the whole room. “Gentleman these guests will be staying awhile until the master can decide what to do with them. Please make them comfortable.”
We heard a few metallic creaks and whispering groans as the statues around us lurched to life, the nearest one bashing me across the head as I narrowly avoided its grasp. Half a dozen statues lumbered toward us as the bolters began to fire.
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