"All action and no talk, boss?" Montjoy said sweetly, his hoarse, rasping voice sounding amused. "Fine. By. Me."
"If we get out of here, I'll pay for your meals for a week." Theo muttered, starting to desperately regret that he'd showed much interest in where Michael was going. This had all gotten too terrifying, too unnatural, all too quickly. "What do... nevermind, just do it. We'll talk la-- what the hell is that?!?"
Theo half-screamed the last words, and pointed upwards, into the darkness. For something was flowing out of the one open door, a rotted figure clad in rags and tatters. It was hard to make out in the darkness anything more than some great, black, shape, flowing down the side of the pit. Every so often, Michael would catch a glimpse of some corpse-grey arm or foot.
"Is that your final answer, boss?" Royston Montjoy said as he reached the floor of the elevator shaft. The corpse-monster drew itself up to full height, a dead thing clad in a tatterdemalion collection of costumes and fabric, looking like some demented harlequin. The face was hidden, wrapped in folds of cloth and concealed beneath the mask of Comedy. "Lay on, Macduff, And Damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"
There was a soft hiss, and Michael caught the glimpse of light from a blade. A sword.
Roll Initiative. If you equal or exceed 12, you may move. Montjoy has Defense 4 and no armor.