Med painstakingly explains to Pral how the spell will work, repeating details and answering questions. Yes, Pral really needs to take his boots off. Yes, he needs to put his weapons away now; his hands will be too sticky to let them go later. No, it won’t actually turn him into a spider. Yes, he probably will look kind of silly up there.
After all this lead up, the actual spell seems rather anticlimactic. Med makes the gestures and speaks the strange syllables. Pral spends an awkward moment getting used to the very strange feeling of having his hands and feet stick to everything. And then, as if he did it every day, Pral simply crawls up the wall and over the railing. Med grins and Brother Landrau furrows his brow. Talia and Elendil cover his ascent with sling and bow.
Pral looks back down, laughing like a little kid. “OK, I’ll pass you a...”, he trails off. “Wait. We still don’t have any rope, do we?”
He looks around sheepishly. He is in a ten foot wide corridor leading from east to west. A forty foot section of the southern wall is open, forming the balcony over the room below.. To the west, the passage stretches off into the gloom. To the east, just twenty feet away, the passage turns north and becomes a downward staircase.
“Hey guys,” he calls out pointing to the east. There’s stairs over, thAAGGHGH!”
The other three watch as Pral leaps backwards and draws his sword. He swings it at something low to the floor and out of view from below. [d20: 14+2=16, 2d8: 9+3=12]. He seems pleased with himself, but even as he straightens up, a dark shape about the size of a loaf of bread falls from the ceiling and lands on his shoulder. Pral shouts in pain and, panicking, knocks it off with his free hand.
“Guys! There’s...”, he seems to be having trouble speaking. “‘Dares ooge sp... spi...”. He falls to his knees with a clatter and can no longer be seen from below.
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