He was trapped.
As dirt worked its way into his nose and ears, and tried to do the same with his closed mouth and eyes, Morne forcibly suppressed a flash of panic. If he wanted to get out of here, he knew he'd need a level head.
This was easier said than done, however, especially when he was slowly losing oxygen and he had to experience the extremely unpleasant sensation of earth worming its way into his nostrils and ears. If he wasn't so securely immobilized, he would've shivered at the horrible feeling.
'Think,' Morne told himself.
How would he get out of this?
There was definitely a way out. He knew practically nothing about the ancient Nasnami, but Geleb did. Geleb had said this was a trial, and since he was clearly experienced in this, Morne decided to trust his judgment.
A trial could be difficult, but if it was impossible, then it wouldn't be a trial at all.
And it obviously wasn't a trap. Why would the ancient Nasnami waste all this effort for such a thing? They had magic that could reshape this temple as they wished.
If they really wanted intruders dead, they could've sealed said intruders in the entrance hall and starved them out, or just killed them from the get-go with this tactic. There was simply no need to go to such lengths.
No, this was indeed a trial. Of that, Morne was certain.
So the question was… how did he go about passing it?
His immediate thought was that the answer was a Spell of some sort. But what kind? And how could he be sure he had the one he needed in the first place?
His thoughts flashed back to the room with the two statues, and how he had been able to pour his life force into what should have been an unliving flame. Was he required to do something similar here?
As his thoughts became harder to form and his lungs started to scream for air, he had to concentrate to prevent himself from trying to take in a breath. Breathing dirt would only exacerbate the issue.
But despite his best efforts, he wasn't some monk with perfect mastery of his instincts, and a trickle of dirt rushed into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to gag and choke.
By a stroke of luck, the nature of the ground, hard and rigid as it was, meant only crumbs broke off and invaded his airways, but it was still more dirt than was comfortable.
As he coughed up the dirt that had made its way partially down his throat, losing precious air in the process and inviting even more dirt in, it pooled in his mouth and under his tongue.
He was about to spit it out when he felt a tingle.
Managing to suppress another ill-fated breath, he moved his tongue around in his mouth and prodded the dirt with the appendage.
He thought he had imagined it, but there really was a tingle, like tiny bugs tickling his tongue. And come to think of it, this sensation was present everywhere the earth touched his body.
He was too worried about the weight pressing against him, the earth filling his nose and ears, and oxygen deprivation before to realize it, but now that he had picked it out with his tongue, he could feel it with his less sensitive skin.
Morne frowned. It was almost as if the ground was alive.
The solution struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Instantly, he turned his attention inward and reached for his Chimh. With his mouth full of earth, he wouldn't be able to speak his incantation, and he wasn't willing to expend the oxygen regardless.
With agonizing slowness, he guided the Chimh out of his Chimh Well and into his Tower, funneling it all into the Mark for Withering Touch.
The twenty-two seconds of casting time, reduced as it was by his mastery of the Spell to Eme, felt like it stretched on for hours. His coughing fit earlier had expended most of the oxygen he had, and he was losing what little was left with every passing moment.
Finally, with a satisfying surge of Chimh, Withering Touch activated.
Dark energy spilled forth from his hands, and instantly he felt life force being torn from the tiny organisms in the dirt around him and being fed into him.
In seconds, the earth had become mud through unknown means and allowed him to move his hands through it like it was molasses. In seconds more they could move through the earth as if it was water.
He swished his hands this way and that, weakening the restraints around his body until he could swim upwards.
The first thing he did when he breached the surface was take a large gulp of air. So desperate was he to do so that his concertation had been disrupted and his Spell had stopped, but by now the dirt around him was already mud.
The second thing he did was cough violently as he had swallowed some of the dirt still in his mouth and nose.
After freeing his lungs of the brown menace, he took several more deep breaths. When he reached a state of calm, he opened his eyes and rubbed the debris away with a hand.
As he was doing so, his gaze fell on the spot Geleb had been standing before all of this happened. Steeling himself, he recast Withering Touch and dove back in for the noble.
He was smart enough to know he'd likely need Geleb's translation and mapmaking skills again.
Several seconds later, he resurfaced with an arm around the nobleman, who coughed and sputtered as violently as Morne had, only to befall the same fate.
When he had managed to clear his airways, Geleb wheezed a "thanks."
"Think you can stay up on your own?" Morne asked.
A nod. "Get Earl, please," Geleb rasped. "I'd be remiss to leave him down there. Plus, he might prove himself useful later."
Morne returned the nod and released the noble, taking a deep breath and casting Withering Touch a third time.
With a small splash, he plunged back into the brown sludge.