Chapter 2.2: The Enochian Tower

The glass mimics the sight and sounds of a whirlpool. The gate to the newly created entrance is swirling, accompanied by the deep and magical vibrations that feel like a rising storm.
“You thought that the Way of Oppression sounded better than the Blood one?” Lyssa looks at him, shaking her head in disbelief. The wavy surface of the mirror smoothens in a growing silence.
“I’m more surprised we are carrying a portable gateway for Hadriel. If I’m entirely honest… I'm curious what's on the other side.” The siren agrees with Dargothoth.
“It makes me want to sing”, she says, followed by some excessively loud scraping of her throat. Oslando makes a stern hand movement, silencing her.
“You don’t know what’s at the other side. Singing could lure something this way. I’d rather have the upper hand.” With his hands on his weapons’ hilt he takes a couple of steps towards the gateway. “Do you think it’s safe?”, he asks, looking at the little sorcerer standing next to him.
(Arcana 16)
“The magic feels stable”, Merodius speaks as he places his hand on the mirror’s surface, creating a small ripple beneath his smutched white glove. “We can step through without harm if I’m correct. Look.” He makes an almost cartoonish step forward, disturbing the glass even more as he proves his point. He looks backwards and gestures the others to follow.
“For a guy his size he has a whole lot of nerve”, Bruq says as he and Lyssa follow the others through the portal.
(Performance 27 versus persuasion 15)
“I don’t think he has any nerves at all”, she laughs and she pokes her elbow in his side> Bruq doesn't laugh. “Being a construct and such… They don’t have nerves. He doesn’t have nerves. Do I need to explain the joke? Are you going to laugh or what?” He tries to keep his face straight, but breaks into laughter as the siren starts rambling. Oslando shushes them.

The glass behind them solidifies and the dark hallway expands. The walls move back and the ceiling disappears. The sunlight seems to greet them from above. The warm light reveals a plain covered with lush grass, surrounded by an almost endless fence. As they look up to the blue and orange sky, the fence keeps going, towering far above them and making climbing over the fence impossible.
(Perception 8) (Wisdom 7) (Survival 13)
There are no clouds. The sun is setting. Water calmly runs down a stream.
"What is this place?" Lyssa whispers to not disturb the serenity of this place.
"I have no clue", Oslando answers, "but we can find out later after we know if we are safe."
This place smacks the tranquility so blatantly obvious in their faces, they would almost not hear the deep murmur coming across a small wooden bridge by the narrow river. They can’t quite distinguish if the sound is man or beast, but Bruq can't find the inner peace to wait it out. With his longbow in his hand and an arrow at the ready, he steps forwards, creating a gentle clip-clop as his hooves touch the pebbles in the high grass.
“Who goes there?”, he says, blowing any cover they might have had. “We have come to retrieve the crystal.”
Mero runs up to him. “Bruq, what are you doing?”, he asks with a nervous vibrato in his voice. “I know you like to go head first into an encounter, but this is just stupid.”
The satyr shakes his head and looks down at the sorcerer. A shadow falls over his face, matching his blackening eyes and fitting the lugubrious demeanor of his partially corroded face. “Something doesn’t feel right. The fence, the grass, the trees; they all feel out of place. It gives me the creeps, Mero, and you should feel it too.
(Arcana 14)
“Now that you mention it, I still feel the same magic as inside the room with the mirror. Maybe it’s an illusion?” Illusion or not, the sound that triggered the hunter grows louder, accompanied by boorish sounding footsteps. It takes just a few seconds to see what creatures walk towards them, revealing themselves from behind the big trees at the other side of the river.
"Show yourself", Bruq repeats.
Two dull orange skinned, hulking figures, both ten feet tall, slowly stomp their way towards the bridge.
“Me and mama Korga goes here”, the one of them says. It’s an ugly man with only a ragged loincloth around his waist, showing off his fat belly and the superficial thick veins that crawl over his chest and arms. He holds a wooden club, the head covered with metal spikes. Fresh blood is dripping off the tips.
“Look, Gruukh! Talking food!” The voice of the woman creaks as an old door with weary hinges. She has the same fat belly as the other monster, but she lacks the muscles. She is almost as bald as the one she called Gruukh, only having a couple of straw-like strands of grey hair to spare. She put down a big leather sack behind her and leans forward on a javelin, swaying her saggy breasts as her body shows the tremors of old age. “You kill. I cook. We feast!” And the male ogre starts running.