Log:Explorer's Guild: Aurea Euphoria

Explorer's Guild: Aurea Euphoria, or Death and Drama in the Time of Lava

OOC Date: April 24, 2020
Location: Eternal Forge
Participants: Explorer's Guild: Nerys Arda, Netep Muri, Grayson Oakfell, and Corr Waldin; with Special Guest Stars Iollan Canem and Barad

AUREA

The Eternal Furnace blazes with such heat that its presence can be picked up on sensors from all the way in space. On the ground, the sheer thermal energy coming off of the active lava vent of the furnace is capable of causing heat stroke within a few hours without protective equipment.

Corr is already sweating as he leads the adventurers who have arrived for their expedition inside. "So, as you may know, if you read the notice, we're here to recover a piece of glass that was dropped down inside the furnace during its finishing touches," he explains, stepping through the sliding doors flanked on either side by armed guards. A wall of even more intensely hot air washes out over them and a guide hustles over, a thin, sweaty human man in reflective gear.

"Ah, yes, the Explorers, smashing, smashing, would you follow me? We don't have much time to waste. It's already been days since Master Rindu's greatest work was dislodged from its fastenings during the last stages of the annealment process and fell into the Eternal Forge, the one place it could be destroyed... by our calculations, the unique properties of the glass will have preserved it but if we delay much longer it will begin to deform and the work will be lost. Months of shaping, wasted." He fans himself, from the heat or the humanity, it's unclear. "Now, there are a few details to make note of."

Ushering the Explorers into a room off to the side of the Furnace, he punches a button on the wall, displaying a schematic in flat green lines on a piece of glass. The shape of the furnace can clearly be seen, a giant vat of lava, and a mark for the artwork at its bottom. "This is where we believe it settled. However, the heat is too intense to dive into the lava directly. You'll need to come at it from the side," pointing at the layers of rock below the lava, "and extract it through a small, careful hole drilled in the rock. The basalt and obsidian that contain the Furnace are fragile and the slightest disturbance could collapse a whole wall, flooding the extraction tunnel with magma and killing you instantly, so use the utmost caution. But I'm sure you can handle it," he pants, wiping sweat from his brow and giving the group a smile. "You are professionals, correct?"

Nerys, who had arrived, as was her wont, a few hours earlier than the suggested meeting time, had departed her ship and wandered into the capital city, seeing the sights, such as they were before the Birena Tai took back off and deposited her in the mountains. From there, she had settled down to wait for the rest of the guild to gather, falling into step once the time had come for them to make their way into the furnace. She'd been mostly silent, certainly attentive, and now, as she listened to the elevator speech, profoundly hot. Ah well, such was the order of the day. "Of course," came that that oddly sophisticated Corellian accented voice.

Muri's lids flutter closed the moment the guide delves into the consequences of drilling too sloppy a hole and she takes a deeeeeep breath in. Behind the sealed shield of her helmet where it is slightly cooler, the suit pressed to its limits to keep her from crumpling into a heap. Muri likes it hot way more than she tolerates the snow. But. This is a /little/ warmer than that desert sun.

"We are professionals." Her lips press into a thin, firm smile. A look slips sideways to see if Canem is still sticking around to assist with this challenge or if he's skulked off to reconsider associating with the /professional/ likes of Netep Muri. She took a geology class or two in her day so...it'll be fine. Yeah? "You've got the tongs, we'll drill the hole, yea?" HER accent does not speak to stellar academia, but backwater dunes of nomadic, tribal lands. The twinkle in her eye? S'all the assurance they need.

Right.

Grayson Oakfell stands there, sweating in her armor, helmet tucked in under her right arm, glowing with the sweat beading and trickling down her skin. There is utter and complete disdainful horror written plainly upon her carefully make-up'd features, glancing between the man speaking, and the schematic. Then back again.

Then a look to Corr, then back to the schematic, Grayson possessing of a backpack which is upon her back, both straps slung securely over shoulders, CNGC Weave Armor, trimmed in a lovely grass green, protecting her body and being a catchall for the sweat. Nerys, the new lady, is then eyed, then Netep, the not so new lady, Grayson finally venturing a, "...Professional cultists? I ..did not think there was such a thing." A slow pan of her gaze to the man who is doling out this fun adventure to them, "This is a piece of glass we are risking life to give a rescue for. Not ..a rescue of a vessel. Like ..with individuals needing saving /within/ the vessel ..but a ..rescue of some glass. That could be re-breathed into form again." Free hand, the left one, lifts to cup her hand like she's indicating some small item.

"And ..the walls of this place we are willingly going into is very fragile and could kill us all." Oh Corr. The sidelong glance she's givin' ya, "For some blowing glass." That might end up being used as a bong by some rich folk. Grayson has regrets. A heavy sigh, another language murmured in as her helmet is raised up and over her sweaty braided back hair, thing secured and a slow shake of her head given as she latches it and speaks freely out of hearing for all before her. Ya'll nuts.

Hanging toward the back of the small procession, one tawny detective keeps a faint, easy smile on his attentive face as he listens. A hand on his belt, the other resting casually on the grip of his blaster, he's a picture of nonchallance: minus the sweat. He'd been sweating since they stepped in, truly, and clearly that was not about to let up. Not one of the guild, not even a usual associate, it might have begged some speculation as to why he was here if he wasn't stood close to one Netep Muri. In kind, a fleeting wink angles her way in reply to the glance.

They /are/ all professionals, yes. It just happens that this isn't his profession.

Still, beyond nodding once to the helpful patron in front of them, Lan keeps his opinions to himself. Helmet couched under his arm, he eventually peels attention away from the mission briefing in front of them to skim around the room, nosy for the simple sake of it. They'll get to the dangerous parts soon enough, no doubt, and then he'll have something to say.

Barad nods. Barad is, indeed, a professional -- a professional Medic. In other words, that last - ditch emergency backstop against final utter catastrophe should things turn sour. But they won't will they? Still, it's better to have such "insurance" than to be without it, is it not? And, who knows? His skills and talents might -not- be needed, right? And wouldn't -that- be a good thing, in the end? It would indeed be a -different- and -unusual- thing, at least compared to the last few missions . . . some of which have seen him frantically rushing amongst dozens of casualties just to keep every one of them alive. At least he's among familiar company. Barad's big ole' floopy ears lean back against the side of his head as he waves a cheery "Hello!" with a large meaty paw to Netep, Io, Nerys . . . Good to see good people here. Baran nods, and concentrates on the green outlines of the display. . . . Hmmmm . . .

"We are professional professionals," Corr replies brightly, mopping sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve and glancing towards Grayson, meeting her look of disbelief with a grin and a big thumbs-up of pride and excitement. "You got nothin' to worry about, this is like my second time being this close to lava so, safe to say Muri and I got the basic mistakes worked out that time around." He pats the canteen on his belt and the extra rubber band securing it to him with satisfaction.

"Smashing, smashing," the thin man says again with a wane smile, looking sort of like a prune or a dried date. It's hot, y'all. "Follow me; the tunneler lies below."

The ride down the rickety old lift does not inspire confidence, and despite the lowering down into the depths, the heat does not abate, but at least it doesn't grow any more intense either. When it comes to a halt, the crew are presented with the view of their equipment. It's an battered Imperial-era combination mechanical/plasma boring drill, about four feet in diameter, large enough to drive a shaft into the rock that humanoids can fit into. "Perfect," Corr announces, stepping boldly over to the device and staring down at it. "...how does it work?"

"That's what we hired you for?" the pruny man replies with obvious concern, stepping back onto the lift. "Push some buttons, I'm sure you can figure it out, and if you can't, well, I won't be the one Master Rindu blames anymore." And he's on his way up.

Corr glances around at the party, then back down at the borer. There's a control panel with some buttons, what looks like a throttle lever, and a black and yellow-striped switch. "Someone get this thing going and uh. Some of us will have to guide it, make sure it stays on course. And doesn't jiggle too much."

Although it was not entirely possible to see the full scope of Nerys' expression behind her helmet, there was a sense of energy in the way she held herself, the arch of her back perhaps or the angle of her shoulders. She returned greetings as they were offered, dubious glances skittering off of her like water off of a duck-like animal's back. And, once assurances had been given, and their guide seemed to be well on his way to, well, trying to be rid of them so he could escape the heat, she was off, falling into line with the rest. One she gets a gander at the drill though, she was off, making a slow circuit of the machine as she tried to get a handle on how it was meant to work.

"I wouldn't use that word," Muri mutters inside her helmet as they jiggle down inside the lift. Smashing, smashing...

She looks a touch wilted by the time they are shown to their new best friend but immediately reaches out to give it a friendly pat on the oversized drill bit. "Right then," Netep circles the unit counter to Nerys, touch touch touching as she goes. Lightly. Wouldn't wanna...

"Huh." That grunt could mean a lot of things coming from her, but there's a quirk of a surprised smile. "Well, reckon this here's what'll wake her up." And it does, one forefinger flick later sending the black and yellow switch into an upright, alert position. Dumb luck or educated guess? Either way, the control platform kicks to life and emits a low vibration. Muri remains frozen there, staring. Unsure. "Who else would like to have a go?"

Grayson Oakfell shares the obvious concern with the man, but she has to support the love of her life, which means she's along for this adventure despite any misgivings she may have. She did say she was open to a life of adventure and culting. She just didn't realize, when she made that committment, that it meant near death, or actual death, every time.

"Corr, I am loving you, but ..." A soft sigh escapes the helmet along with her words, backpack unslung from one shoulder so she can swing it around to her front, holding it so she can unzip it and dig out her datapad and a long cord which is neatly packed away in a nice little roll of cable, "Heaven is forbidding of us disappointing Maser Rindu ..." Grayson murmurs as Muri manages to get the thing up and going, the good(?) doctor striding forwards as she continues to sweat buckets, visor taking in the machinery as it vibrates softly before them, her cord plugged in to a port and her datapad logged into and utilized with a few swipes of her thumbs. Very slowly the machine begins to rumble forwards.

"I need you all to grab hold of this machinery to help in guiding it where we are needing for it to go ..I can make it go faster, but it requires manual pervasiveness to turn." A step forwards before she stops the machinery in it's tracks, helmeted head lifting and turning to the left and to the right to take in the group, "Now, if you are of the pleasure to do so. Hyperthermia is nothing to be dancing with, and this machine is going to add more heating to us all just by pushing it forwards. So let us be quick." Her heavily accented voice gives this information with frank and cold delivery, a professional simply warning of the facts. You will die if you get too hot!

On the way down into the lift, Lan takes his moment to affix the helmet of his suit on properly, though not before carding a hand through that fall of blonde to keep it as slicked back as possible. The sweat helps. Gross. But, there's little time for preening or otherwise when they come up to the task they're all getting paid for; a critical look skims the machinery from a few paces back, but the detective makes not move to take charge of that whole issue.

"If it's gonna be a question of manhandling it once we get the thing running..." A broad shoulder tips a shrug as the comment trails off. He's a big guy; two plus two. A little huff catches inside his helmet while the girls work, who are obviously more adept at the whole thing, and within a moment Grayson is announcing that yes, it is time for some manual labour. Forging his idle stance, Iollan steps up to set hands on the drill in the most appropriate looking area, ready to push as directed.

Barad steps back and keeps his paws carefully folded behind his own back. Of all those assembled, he's more or less determined to -not- 'have a go' at remotely piloting a drilling machine into the heart of a mountain filled with lava. One might presume it to be analogous to endoscopic surgery. If the patient were a mountain. But he's in no rush to find out, frankly, if surgical skills would translate at all. Nope. That belongs in the "last resort" type category. Barad instead busies himself with studying the structure and chemical composition of the minerals and rocks nature to this strange volcano. As he tries to understand precisely what kind of "glass" could possibly survive such pressures and such temperatures for such an extended period of time. Hmmmmmm . . . might it possibly be related to the "glass" of the "Fountain of the Ancients" back on Klatooine? What a strange coincidenc THAT would be. But, as of yet, he has not other hypothesis that would seem to be even -remotely- likely. Barad thinks. (This takes some time.)

The drill comes to life with a soft rumble, building up steam as the big bit at the front begins to spin. "Stay clear of that," Corr recommends as he too finds a spot on the drill to start pushing away. "You ladies, uh, work together to like, keep the thing calibrated, somehow," he suggests, "or help push, it's me and... this guy," he states, realizing he doesn't know Iollan's name. Always reassuring in a life or death situation.

For now, the drill seems content to behave and allow itself to be pushed, not going on a runaway lava-egg-cracking spree just yet. A small grill in the control panel crackles and spits, and the voice of the thin man comes out. "We are *brrrzt* monitoring your approach through seismic *bzzzt* imaging, I will notify you when you have reached the artwork, or if I believe you are in *buzzzz*-anger."

Planting his feet, Corr nods to Iollan and anyone else who wants to help push. "Take it easy, take it slow, and uh, let's try to stay synced up." Then he PUSHES, and the thing grinds forward a bit faster, the drill bit's tip making contact with the rock wall, plasma veins heating up to soften the rock. "This is way hotter than I thought it was gonna be."

Nerys took her time examining the controls and construction of the vehicle, crouching down to see just how poorly its gears and control arms might have survived all the time that it's been moldering under intense heat. It was likely for the best that it really wasn't possible to see her face, as she returned to her feet, stepping away from the machine so as not to crowd the rest of the party. That the machine powered on was a good sign, if not entirely hopeful. But thankfully, the task of getting the machine up and running was taken out of her hands and she simply stepped to move forward to find a place to set her hands, adding what suit-augmented strength she might have to the guiding and directing of the machine. But, as the machine began to move, Nerys's helmet turned to the look in the direction they were going and she stepped away from where she had been trying to push, adding just a little burden (sorry about it!) to the work being done to push the drill as she added her slight weight to the mix, settling into the seat to operate the physical controls in tandem with the work being done to control the drill's computer systems.

"Pushing, right!" Netep slips out from behind the panel, around Grayson, and sizes up the thing for any decent handholds. Like, the kind that the factory put there - those would be good. She finds a corroded stub of one.

It's better than nothing. Her gloved hand is small, it wedges up against the tetanus trap. Her other hand and forearm lie flat against the drive hub. "Yeah, you la--" huff, puff, "ladies just keep her motor purrin, eh? We..."

SO HOT

"Got this." Maybe. She heeeeaves forward, boots scrape-scrabbling over the gritty floor while she works to gain momentum and move and inch. A rhythm. She leans her weight into her leading shoulder and somehow, all five foot-four of Muri manages to lend some muscle to this task. It's one for the record books.

Grayson Oakfell doesn't do manual labor. Or hasn't. Yet. So as everyone else gears up to push the thing forwards Grayson holds her datapad in between her hands and ever so slowly walks to follow it as they push it along. Monitoring the systems readout on said datapad she keeps her head tilted down to eye it, "You are all doing a very fine job." Except Iollan, but group effort, right? Right.

Stepping each foot in front of the other in her slow roll, hips swish to and fro, "The machine is doing a good purring, Netep, not unlike your spouse as he robbed me." She bitter? Yeah, she's still bitter about that, fingertip pressing to the screen of her datapad, hand sweeping down to her side to gently rub fingertips on her hip beneath her belt, ridding them of the sweat to continue her managerial role within the group, "Good working all of you." Yes, she's nailing her role.

A simple nod flicks over to Corr as instructions are passed around. Introductions can be done later -- as of now the pressing issue of getting the job done far dissaudes any cordial chatter. It's just too hot. So, once it's judged everyone is mostly in place, the detective leans in to put a shoulder to the buzzing device, one gloved hand tightly gripping a protruding edge to keep steady, and gives it a heave.

And slips. Whatever traction was on the floor clearly isn't doing what he was expecting and, undignified as ever, Iollan's helmet thuds loudly off the very edge he was grabbing. By luck of stupid fate the visor doesn't crack, but he's left a little stunned for just a second. Dammit. These aren't even his boots. Worse still is the sudden shift in the drill from the rest of his considerable weight slamming into the side of it, throwing things off; something catches on the front end as it angels unintentionally and with a terrible grating noise the rocks around the party jump in angry vibration; oh, that's not good.

"Kriffing great--" Scrambling just a bit, Lan finds his footing in a quick two-step fall, catching and righting himself enough to at least not cause more damage. Gloved hands find the stupidly hot metal again as if nothing happened.

Barad is impressed. No really. The machine starts to lag a bit, and he hurries forward from his examination of the crystals on the lava tube walls to maybe lend a hand, or paw, or shoulder, but then who should step up and lean into it and get it moving back on track but . . . Netep Muri. Yup, that's impressive. After a brief glance confirms Iollan isn't injured at all, Barad relaxes and resumes his place at the back of the pack. A soft brown paw traces crystal viens running through the walls. Hm. Could that be . . . Wintrium? Barad stops for a closer look . . .

"WHAT'S *BRRZT* -OING ON?!" the thin man demands through the speaker. "I can see the *bbzz* disturbance from here! Do you want to lose the artwork? AND DIE? Another move like that will dislodge the glass or crack the forge and you won't be around to regret your mistake!"

"Is there a way you can turn that down?" Corr requests of Grayson, his shoulder lodged against the backside of the drill and pushing the chunk of machinery forward deeper into the shaft they've channeled into the rock. The whole drill is maybe four feet in diameter, with everything packed behind the bit in the same size and shape so that the entirety of the device goes into the tunnel it creates.

That means it's pretty packed quarters in the tunnel, and everyone is piled in on top of each other, shoulder to shoulder, really, to move the thing forward and get at the controls.

Nerys cursed, thankfully to herself, as she felt the machine buck and swerve from whatever it was that just hit the back of it. She assumed the thing wasn't on fire, yet, because no one was yelling. But then, if a scream fell in the--nevermind, that was a bad reference. She simply tried to adjust the machinery as best she could to get the thing back on course and away from the stress point it had inadvertently created. Somehow, just barely, she managed to keep the thing moving, and at the least, that horrible screaming the rock was making eased and what the hell was going on back there? And now Nerys had to know, and her voice came out across the speaker of her helmet, "What the **** is going on back there?"

"He's not my sp-p-p" the vibration is killer, yo, teeth chattering inside her helmet which is now dripping with condensation on the outside. "OOOUSE" There, she said it. Maybe a little louder and with more vehemence than necessary. Absolution. If Netep's going to die in a hole of fire, she's not gonna do it married to Ryo Odessa. "It was ONE night, he and Yan and me, some...some substances...look, details are still a bit hazy, but next morning 'Captain' Yan was under the impression he married us and I thought.." oh, too much talky. She takes a brief breather to pant and try (to no avail) to see what or whom caused the lurch that almost cost her her own footing. "I thought it was FUNNY..." it was a little bit.

She is super ignoring the skinny, sweaty voice of chastisement on the intercom. But Nerys she will answer!

"I don't--Iollan!?!"

Snigger. Snnkt. No, Grayson. Don't do it. Don't. A slow, calming breath is taken in, Gray closing her eyes as she tries to find her center before a loud SNKKT escapes out from within her helmet as she lets out a deeply amused laugh which trickles up from the bottom of her throat, "That /is/ very funny. And very fitting with how I view you, Netep Muri."

More laughter, the lithe woman's whole body shaking as she walks in behind the group, still eyeing the datapad as she turns down the volume on the speaker waaaaay down, but enough to be heard if people stop panting with effort and from trying to not die from the heat, "I would say we have perhaps an hour more before we all succumb to the heat, if any of you start to have cramping, or reverse peristalsis --" Far too cozy with everyone here, as much as she tries to stay behind them, the cramped quarters are beginning to be a little much, Gray forced closer and closer in with the folks and Muri's backside.

"-- Please say something. Corr has water." Like his whiskey, she'll sell him out.

<<"You got married?">> It crackles over the comms, incredulous surprise strongly colouring the detectives smokey voice. This isn't the time. But he's looking right at her though, from their cramped space, as much as the angle and the helmets will allow, and doesn't stop there. <<"Yan was there? What -- how fraking long ago was this, Muri?"

A silent beat and it occurs to him that he's stopped pushing. It's the shock. It's also the faint headache mounting over every inch of this sweaty, loud, gyrating scenario scenario. Why the hell was he here again? Fuelled perhaps by frustration, and more likely by simply gunning ahead, Lan throws a heavy shoulder into the drill instead of saying anything else.

Annnd there it goes; far too much mustard. In the other direction this time, just after they'd gotten it straightened out, the same horrific screaming and vibrating rocks the party at large as one certain PI makes the works of a rock and a hard place.

There is no quick chastisement from the speaker this time, but the intercepted sounds of a frantic conversation instead. "*bbzzzt* falling, I can't *brrrrt* gods help them, there's *beeee*"

Corr has stopped pushing, listening intently to the humming of the drill, the snippets of... whatever that transmission can be characterized as, and the quiet, ominous silence of the thousands of tons of rock and lava looming over them.

The sound starts small, like the cracking of an egg, and then slowly begins to build in volume and lower in pitch. Up ahead the drill no longer meets rock, churning in lava instead that begins to bubble back over the rivulets of plasma towards the Explorers, intensely hot and inexorable in its slow approach.

"GET OUT OF THE TUNNEL!" Corr shouts, flattening himself against the wall to make room for the others to escape, an arm snaking out towards Grayson to push at the woman. IT IS TIGHT QUARTERS, and will be difficult for them all to exit at once.

Barad is Klatooinian, and Klatooine is quite famous for its vast and rocky deserts. Well, that is, if it's famous for anything -- not too many people know about Klatooine. Searing daytime temperatures, and bitter cold -- below freezing -- nights. So Barad is pretty used to those two extremes of temperatures, and the heat has not discomfited him all that particularly greatly -- at least not - to - date . . . Presumably the discomfort would increase, just a bit, should he find himself bathing in liquid rock. And, quite likely, that would mean a lot of medical work would need to be done. Having just completed a whole series of all - night rotations caring for Twi'leks after the massacre on Ryloth, Barad isn't really looking forward to patching up a whole lot of very bad burns. Accordingly, he's been carrying a Cryo globule at - the - ready, just in case the walls -do- crack. "Minus 452 degrees" of freeze -y should give them some "breathing room," . . . but . . . will it be enough? "CLEAR FOR CRYO!" Barad shouts, priming the globe and preparing to chuck it into the lava to freeze it. Barad was, after all, the "failsafe option" and it looks as if it juuuust might be time . . .

Damnit. Nerys did not need the sound of the client's voice on the comms to see what was happening. Being in the driver's seat meant she had a front row seat to the sight of the lava coming in their direction, and now was the time to try to scramble out of control chair of the drill to try to clean the machinery. And what the hell was that in the Klatooinian's hand? "Are you insane? Get the hell back and out of the tunnel!" And that, as she simply moved, at speed, climbing to get back to the back and hopefully make it out alive.

For a moment there, Muri is laughing right along with Grayson in spite of herself and their 'frenemy' relationship. Tears seep at the corners of her eyes, the wheezy cackle good and long like she means it. The heat might be getting to her already, guys. Gasp. Gasp. AhahahaaaaaaaaaaA--

Iollan's blurt over coms jars her out of it real quick and she twists around in her own skin almost to strain a wide-eyed look back at him. The kind that silently proclaims innocence. <<NO! No, it was a--nothing /happened/ we aren't-->> Okay, the laughter's well out of her system and in it's place is a queasy sensation that's got her sweatin harder. <<"I dunno, was uh...>> shove, shove, shove that drill. <<Some...months...back. Threeee?>> She looks like she honestly isn't sure. <<Are you ma-->> ad? Muri doesn't get to finish her question because she's suddenly knocked off her feet by the grace of that charging bull. Not knocked far, mind you, there's a toasty tunnel wall to catch her and she narrowly evades a crushed arm. Squeak of alarm audible.

And that was before the real problem oozes out. So about that time in the lava tube with Waldin and crew...she hasn't forgotten the sensation of searing heat melting suit into skin. She doesn't feel the need for a refresher. <<Exiting Tunnel!!!!!>> as she fumbles into whatever body is ahead of hers and movemovemoves. The shout of CRYO only spurs her faster on.

Grayson Oakfell feels a hand on her shoulder, pressing her to back out of that tunnel, but instead of sweeping out all willy nilly with no regard for anyone else her corresponding hand snaps out and she grabs Corr by his forearm, visor'd gaze set on him as she shakes her head, "You do /not/ get to leave this world without me."

This is a very dangerous situation. VERY. When the first crack sounded she froze, datapad lowered down as she turned into the wall, cocking her head to listen -- as it grew in intensity the same naseous feeling broiling in the belly of her frenemy was also echoing in her own, lips parting as wide eyes turned first to Corr just as he planted his hand on her shoulder, everything beginning to move way too quickly. It's then that she snapped her hand up to grab Corr by the forearm, fingers gripping tightly and the woman turning her head to look back out beyond the drill and to the tunnel they bored, yanking him along with her when Barad announces his bid to maybe kill them all if they're not fast enough.

"Make your feet a slippery!" Yelled out, presumably to Corr, silent prayers to Gods and Goddesses she doesn't believe in that the lava doesn't get them at the quick.

Screw this. Every bit of this. He's stumbling again, sort of, as the drill jerks and bucks against his formidable shoulder drive, all with Muri stuttering excuses into the comms. He could be drinking imported whiskey on a private observation deck right now, but somehow this was happening instead.

<<'You can be married by a ship captain,'>> snaps over the comms. They shouldn't be having this argument. Another heady vibration shakes the whole area around the party as things turn for the worst. His gloved hand comes up, finger pointing at the blue-haired menace next to him. <<'Why was Yan eve--'>>

Oh, right. There's the sudden rising glow of lava, the mounting temperature, and people screaming to run. A quick one-two look around them all spurs Iollan into motion, heavy boots driving into the rocks as he pivots with the group to fumble towards the exit. He's not dying in a volcano. <<'I'm not dying in a kirffing volcano.'>> With sweat quite literally dripping in his helmet, vision blurred slightly, a gloved hand grabs the first thing to his left as he scrambles his bulk through the confined spaces -- which happens to be Barad. A too firm grip on the back of his jumpsuit hauls the Klatoonian along as best he can, willing or not. Screw this.

Barad's shouted "CLEAR!" echoes madly off of the rock walls, as he waits for everyone else to get well clear of the radius. Twelve feet has never seemed like such a vast distance. And it -does- take quite a bit longer, perhaps, to get everyone clear, than it would have under "ideal circumstances." Of course, being trapped underground in a lava tube full of highly pressurized "! liquified . . . planet !" isn't really an "ideal circumstance" for . . . well, for much of anything, really. Excepting, perhaps, the ideal response of GTFO -ing, ASAP. Barad waits, while everyone else does so. Fractional seconds tick by, in agonizingly slothly precision. Barad waits, and waits, and waits, counting people: One. Two. Three. Four. Fiiiiive. . . That's everyone else! And, oh wait, the last of the "everyone elses" (Thanks Iollan!) is now dragging Barad along for the ride. Fair enough! It's . . . time to Go! Barad chucks the grenade, now that everyone's Clear, right in front of the SMOKING HOT RIVER OF DEATHROCK, all the while being dragged pell - mell. Barad closes his eyes and flails his arm up to shield his face when it goes poof. Fire: meet "Un-Fire!" But . . . is it enough?

After the others have started to run, Corr was planning to follow, but instead he immediately slips in the slurry from the drill and lands flat on his face in the scree. Grayson's svelte but strong fingers tug him upwards, though, and the man manages to regain his footing for a few steps, toss forward, and then do the whole thing again a few times over until he scrabbles out on his hands and knees.

As the Explorers come crawling, falling, and spilling out of the tunnel like mice running from a snake, the rickety lift descends slowly towards them, creaking on its hinges, while the cryo grenade goes BOOF back in the neighborhood of the drill. This time, there are two thin pruney men, the OP (original prune) and a new one. Behind them on the lift are a few body bags and a bag of concrete mix. "Oh, they're alive," OP says to the other man with a wilting sigh. "Smashing, smashing. You've really done it, you really have. The artwork was dislodged and we're no longer able to detect it with the seismic imaging. It is LOST, a priceless masterpiece years in the making! Oh, foul! Oh, feck!"

Corr, just now pulling himself off of his hands, looks less than impressed with the show of distress. "Yeah, maybe this'll be a lesson to invest in some better equipment, here," he retorts, dusting himself off a little. "Last time I was around lava we had a- a SKIMMER that hovered over the surface! It was nice! Not like this!" He gestures at the tunnel where the lava is beginning to bubble again already. It's like throwing an ice cube in a giant cauldron of lava, because... it's exactly like that.

"We're leaving, and uh, I want a discount at the gift shop for all my people, since I know we aren't getting paid."

Another job... not done! But a DISCOUNT! On GLASS SOUVENIRS! Worth the risk.