11 March, 103 CY
The adventurers awoke in the secret chamber after several hours of uninterrupted sleep. Aramis immediately fished around in his pack for another sunrod to light the pitch dark room. When he sparked it, the handheld alchemical sliver of the sun ignited in the small room, to reveal Owen already training in the small room. Murmuring something under his breath, he began inspecting everyone’s wounds, concerned about the filth fever. Fortunately, his efforts seemed to have been sufficient and the disease had not persisted in any of them. After the cleric finished examining Owen went back to practicing stances, making repetitive thrusts, slashes, parries, and blocks with sword and shield.
“I’d like to get a better look at that dragon head – an uninterrupted look,” Aramis said to Azal as she checked her gear and began preparing herself.
She nodded and said, “I agree. Let’s head back that way. Hopefully no more rats will come to bother us.” Owen simply nodded and smiled sweetly at the pair. Thinking back to the look on his face during his apparent battle frenzy the day before, it seemed impossible that this ruddy-cheeked young man could have worn such a horrifying visage. He sheathed his blade and opened the door, leading the others back into the tower.