By the flickering torch light, Dopey sees some dubious Hobgoblin scrawl, and some rather obscene looking sketches--apparently the gateman was wont to doodle while he waited. His spectacles--dainty, gold rimmed things--are fortunately unharmed. Unlike his shirt and waistcoat, which are unspeakably soiled with spattered brain and black-gore. Dopey notes, as he purloins the hobgoblin eye-wear, the buckles on the fellow's black shoes were rather nicely polished.
Meanwhile The Herald, Fried and Wetzel move quickly to the steel grate; which turns out to be a floor-to-ceiling iron gate rather than a portcullis. It looks simply enough to unlatch--an iron pin is lifted, freeing up the portal-door to swing inward. On the inside of the gate there is a double-fist sized bell hanging on the wall. A wire runs down the wall, and along the floor to a pedal at the foot of the gateman's desk...
Through the foot-wide gaps between the bars our company can see long shadows jumping intermittently of the curved passage wall, and hear echoes of rough laughing or shouting at a distance. More torches illuminate the passage...
Meanwhile The Herald, Fried and Wetzel move quickly to the steel grate; which turns out to be a floor-to-ceiling iron gate rather than a portcullis. It looks simply enough to unlatch--an iron pin is lifted, freeing up the portal-door to swing inward. On the inside of the gate there is a double-fist sized bell hanging on the wall. A wire runs down the wall, and along the floor to a pedal at the foot of the gateman's desk...
Through the foot-wide gaps between the bars our company can see long shadows jumping intermittently of the curved passage wall, and hear echoes of rough laughing or shouting at a distance. More torches illuminate the passage...
