Markas takes you through the arrows on hand--which do indeed include blunt arrows, as well as flight arrows and whistling arrows, alongside the more mundane sort.
I can make others, Markas explains, but there's not much call for them here.
Markas listens patiently to Theron's request for arrows made from exotic materials.
We do have some alchemical silver--fifty of those would only be four and a half crowns, and I could have them ready by tomorrow. We'd have to order in adamantine or cold iron, though--the adamantine arrows would cost just over sixty crowns and the cold iron ones more like five crowns. I could probably have the cold iron ones done for you in around five days, or the adamantine arrows in say, ten days?
Theron seems pleased as he listens to Markas go over his catalog of arrows. "I'm glad that I've found someone who knows this craft so well," He says as he begins calculating just what he would be able to afford. Adamantine seemed out of the question for the moment, and was going to arrive too late in any case. "I'll go ahead and take a quiver of your blunt arrows, and I'll put in an order for a quiver of cold iron arrows as well." The inquisitor quickly suppresses a twinge of guilt about the alchemical silver arrows that he 'acquired' the other day.
It's not long before everyone is once again ensconced within the Lorrimor house for dinner. Kendra and Flori have put together a real feast, with more food than the ten of you could possibly eat. Still, the conversation, while it starts out lighthearted, soon turns to darker subjects.
So, Kendra begins. Dragomir told me a little about what you had to deal with. Do you think you'll be going back in tomrorow?
I'm okay with that. Also, you can buy the arrows in whatever size set you like--you are commissioning them, after all. Chalk that one up to lack of GM sleep. ; )
Theron: 2gp for the 20 cold iron arrows and 2gp for the 20 blunt arrows, so 4gp altogether.
Plot train is coming. Whoo whoo! : )
Raj considers the question. "The job ain't done yet and we're not much closer to figurin' out what they were doing at the prison. I think we have to head back in there - when everyone is ready."
...So as you can see, the benevolent shade I saw in Harrowstone was none other than Mrs. Hawkran. I don't know what she was doing in the prison at the time of the riot, or what significance her choker has with her state of unlife, but I thought you should know. Dragomir, how do you fare?
I... have a lot to think about Padre, less than his normal confident self.
I seem to have a connection to spirits that I never guessed at... I could hear the spirits screaming when I opened the gates of that place and then, of course Mrs. Hawkran... and then there is well... more personal things I saw.
He goes back to quietly eating, a bit distracted.
"There's no question that we have to go back," Theron says after finishing his first plate of food. "Too much evidence is pointing towards the possibility that the spirits of Harrowstone are breaking loose because of what the Way did there, and I shudder at the thought of what will happen to this town if they aren't stopped."
"If we fail, then the only other person in the town who might stand a chance would be Father Grimburrow, but even if he's a powerful cleric I'm not sure his body is up to the task." The inquisitor pours himself some alcohol as he speaks. "If I try to contact my order for backup through unsecured methods then there is a chance that the Way will learn that we are on their trail. I'd like to delay that for as long as possible... so for now it is up to us."
Bluff:
A slight hesitation in his voice and his sudden interest in alcohol seem to suggest that Theron isn't quite as eager to deal with Harrowstone as he was this morning, despite his words.
Raj nods, "Doc always worried about cabals. If these boys are as well-set and well-heeled as Doc seemed to think... they could have penetrated most any organization. And the prudent thing for them to do would be to get spies into groups that might hunt them down." There's almost an unspoken that's how I'd do it in his tone. "We need to keep this knowledge tight, for the moment, no matter how much outside help would be a blessing."
The remainder of dinner passes with relatively little conversation. Kendra seems to be trying desperately to get Harrowstone off her mind, and Flori is unusually introspective.
Everyone pitches in to wash the dishes--which makes for a few moments of comedy in Kendra's overcrowded kitchen--but when that's over, everyone looks at each other as if to say what now?
Flori leaves to go on the first watch with Trestleblade, one of Sheriff Caeller's deputies, and the rest of you while away the evening before turning in early. Sleep comes easily--but unfortunately, sleep can be a fickle companion...
Get up.
You open your eyes slowly. A pair of boots stands before you. Beyond them, a few gravestones in the background. Wait…where are you?
Your limbs seem encased in molasses as you force yourself to a sitting position, and then haul yourself up. You are in the Restlands, and all around you are shadowy figures. You look up.
Standing before you, towering over you, is Father Grimburrow.
He smiles. It is unpleasant. You are mine now, he says, and turns his back. Come.
Your legs seem to move of their own accord as you drag yourself sleepily after the old man. The figures around you begin to move as well and—oh sweet Desna protect you, they are all zombies.
Which is when you stumble, and look down at your own pale limbs—and in an open wound on your right hand, maggots writhe as they feast on your dead flesh.
You try to scream, but your consciousness is sucked in and down as you awaken with a start back at Kendra’s house—your body slicked with sweat.
Somewhere, someone is screaming.
Something just as cold slides silently in between your ribs.
Shaking, the ale forgotten, you turn around in agony to see Kendra, smiling in satisfaction as she holds up a slender stiletto—now covered in your blood. Foamy bubbles gurgle in the back of your throat; she has punctured a lung.
Why? you manage to croak as you feel the chill beginning in your hands and feet.
Kendra laughs, and tosses her hair in the way you always found so beguiling. Come on, she says. Did you seriously think that you, and me...? She giggles. No, I just needed to bide my time, remain hidden. But now the time is finally right.
You try to speak, but all you can manage is a hacking wet cough that sends stabbing pains radiating throughout your chest and neck. Red foamy spittle dribbles over your chin.
For what? Kendra poses your unspoken question herself. For immortality, my dear. I will transcend this mortal form soon. She looks down at you as your limbs begin to quiver. The cold has reached your intestines now. I suppose I should go see to little Walter now, she says, as she turns and walks away, the stiletto held with menacing purpose—just the way you taught her.
With one last monumental effort, you manage to reach a hand out. The last rays of the sun glint off the wedding ring on your finger. You only have time for one last thought before the darkness claims you.
No...not...our son...
Suddenly, you are back on the couch at Kendra’s house; you begin coughing uncontrollably, struggling to breathe as you feel like the air has turned to liquid. After maybe twenty seconds, the coughing subsides and you realise that somewhere, someone is screaming.
Who is Ramoska Arkminos? What could the Professor have wanted to do with him? And what does that suggest about your nature?
You pick up a bowl of the lamb stew that you didn’t have the stomach to eat earlier, with so many doubts and questions roiling around your mind. But as soon as you put a spoonful in your mouth, you double over in pain, vomiting all over the books that the Professor held so dear. The acrid taste of bile fills your mouth, and the smell burns your nose as you bend over and throw up again and again.
It takes you a good couple of minutes to recover. Amongst the gulped breaths and the tears that have been squeezed from your eyes by the exertion, you notice a smell.
Garlic.
You bat the remains of the stew away with a hiss, and make your way quickly to the dressing table in the corner. You stare into the mirror—but there’s no reflection.
The door behind you bursts open. Standing framed in the doorway is the Professor, looking hale and hearty as though he hadn’t aged a day since your first encounter with him. Several figures stand behind him.
Chunhua, he says, using your real name. It’s time to end your reign of terror on this town. He steps back and the men rush into the room. You try to fight your way out, but there are too many of them, and you are weakened from your exposure to the garlic. You flail about, trying to bite one of the hands that holds you down, bent back over the dressing table. The men redouble their efforts, and your head smashes into the mirror. A thousand tiny shards of reflected light scatter around you, twinkling. Defiant, you try to force your way free, but the men hold you fast.
The Professor approaches you slowly.
I tried, Chunhua. But you couldn’t be saved. Your soul was tainted before you were bitten. How can I redeem someone who simply doesn’t want to be saved? Your spirit was evil before you were bitten, and so I only have one recourse.
The Professor withdraws a wooden stake from his pocket and hefts it high.
Goodbye, Chunhua.
The stake slams into your chest—you think you’re screaming, but everything goes black—and then you startle yourself awake, clutching at your breast, your heart beating so hard you fear it will crack your ribs. An ache settles into your muscles as the adrenaline rush ends. You are back in the Lorrimor house, in your bed, the books still strewn around you. You must have fallen asleep while reading.
And then you realise that somewhere, someone is screaming.
It takes you some time, but eventually, you realise that this is a recreation of your room at Havenguard. Except for the furniture, it is identical in every detail—save that it is white, and somehow, comforting.
You don’t know how many micro-dreams you’ve had, or how long you’ve been in the room, when a figure slowly coalesces—as if it were being constructed out of clouds. The figure who is finally revealed is an older man, a little thick in the middle, with a thick, drooping moustache.
He is wearing Marvo Bresrin’s uncle’s coat.
Your coat.
Hello Walter, he says. And everything slides into place; he is Marvo Bresrin’s uncle. What was his name? Elias?
Don’t worry, you are safe here, the man says. You can relax. But your friends...most of them haven’t been so lucky. You’re going to have to go soon. But here. Take this. He removes his coat, and gives it to you. It remains somewhat insubstantial in your hands, feeling a little bit like you’re trying to hold onto water. You slide it on, and a sense of warmth and calm envelopes you. Perhaps this is what a mother’s embrace feels like.
Good luck, the old man says, as he slowly fades away, as a brisk wind disperses smoke. You’re going to need it.
You awaken back at Kendra’s house. Somewhere, someone is screaming.
You take a moment to explore your surroundings, but beyond the obvious there is little to find. Of course, there’s always the question of how you ended up in this carriage in the first place, rather than in your bed at the Lorrimor house. You are not afforded much time for contemplation, however, as the carriage stops, the door opens, and a gauntleted hand reaches in to haul you out by the collar, dumping you on your back on the hard ground. There are a few laughs and jeers.
Blinking in the bright light, your vision takes a moment to adjust as you prop yourself up on one elbow, careful not to move too quickly in case your captors mistake your movements for an escape attempt. Plenty of time for that later; first, you need to work out what’s going on.
You’re in a dusty, cobbled square. There is a crowd. Immediately in your vicinity are a good dozen or so guardsmen. And then, with a sinking feeling, you recognise the guardsmen’s uniforms, along with a couple of buildings.
You’re in Tamrivena.
So good of you to join us.
Wait, that voice sounds familiar. From your prone position, you half-roll to look the other direction. It’s Theron. He is resplendent in a chased mithral breastplate, Iomedae’s sword symbol prominent on the chest. He also wears a cape and a circlet on his head. His bow is slung over his shoulder. The inquisitor looks bored as he signs a document handed to him by an aide.
Karrik. It’s been a while.
Confusion prevents you from making a rejoinder.
Did you really think I wouldn’t catch up with you? Theron says as he makes his way toward you. As he reaches your side, he happens to step into a position where the sun is behind his head. It looks like he has a halo. You stole, Karrik. You stole from the Professor. I’ve waited, all these years, for you to present yourself for judgement. But you haven’t. So now, here we are. I’ve had to take matters into my own hands. I’m sorry, Karrik. May the Lady of Graves have mercy on your soul.
Theron walks away as the guardsmen haul you up, and towards the centre of the square, where a Punishing Man awaits.
Wait…is Theron actually intending to burn you alive, just for stealing a book from the Professor more than thirty years ago? You struggle against the guardsmen, only realising now that your fate is so close, but it seems like your legs have turned to lead and your arms to water. You splutter and curse, but nothing intelligible comes out of your mouth, and you offer little resistance as the guards throw you roughly inside the Punishing Man, and then shackle you to the cut timbers that make up the inside of its chest cavity. Then, the guards finally retreat. You see Theron, at the base of the massive effigy, holding a torch.
I do this with a heavy heart, Karrik, he says. We were friends, once.
With that, he throws the torch onto the pyre and turns to walk away. The flames race up the oiled legs of the Punishing Man and begin to lick around your boots. The pain begins. You clamp your jaw shut, uncertain why this is happening, but determined not to give your oppressors the satisfaction of hearing your scream—
—when you wake up with a start, back in the Lorrimor house.
For a moment, all you can hear is your own breathing, your body slicked with what feels like gallons of sweat. Then, after a few seconds, you realise that somewhere, someone is screaming.
Watching…and waiting.
You come to a timber footbridge across a ravine, its timbers warped and bleached from decades of exposure to the elements. You eye it uncertainly. Just as you are about to place your foot on it and begin to cross, a bass voice from behind you startles you.
I’d suggest finding another way round, if I were you.
You whirl to confront the owner of the voice—and your jaw drops when you see it’s an enormous golden dragon, twined around one of the trees. It makes its way sinuously down to the ground.
There are forces hereabouts that seek your corruption, the dragon says. You would do well to remember that.
It cocks its head, reminding you of a cat.
You do remember who I am, do you not?
A memory flashes through your mind—a passage in the Acts of Iomedae that refers to a gold dragon as a servant of Iomedae. Its name is…
The dragon sighs. Peace Through Vigilance. What are they teaching you? The dragon walks in a circle as it stretches its left wing out, examining the scales critically.
Anyway, as I was saying, there are forces at play here that would see you fall. I would rather you do not. Try to keep that in mind.
With that, the dragon rears up and beats its powerful wings, lifting ponderously from the ground. You have to shield your eyes against the dust and debris, as well as brace yourself against the sudden wind.
Good luck, inquisitor, the dragon calls as it wheels away over the trees. And try to remember my name, for next time.
You are left alone in the forest, wondering what to do about crossing the ravine behind you, when—
—you slowly surface from sleep, like a diver coming up for air.
You only blink a couple of times before you realise that somewhere, someone is screaming.
There is a crowd of people. They all seem to be looking at you—with smiles on many of their faces.
A middle-aged man comes toward you. He says something about being thankful. He shakes your gauntleted hand. You recognise a mayoral chain of office on his shoulders. For some reason, the details of the scene are hazy—but it seems that you’re receiving some sort of reward from the town? For saving them from something, perhaps?
The haziness is explained when the whole scene whirls away like it’s going down a drainpipe.
Iona stands before you. You are in a place that is entirely white—there is no horizon, no shadows—just you and Iona.
Hello, Dragomir, she says. You notice she is not wearing the robes of an initiate—indeed, she is wearing a long skirt and blouse that you might see on any woman of the middle class.
Sometimes, we face a fork in the road. A choice. I am facing one right now and am too blind to see it. She indicates her clothing. But, even if I recognised it, I don’t know if I would have the courage to take it.
She walks up to you, and reaches up to place a hand on your arm. You notice you are no longer wearing the armour from the earlier part of your dream—it has been replaced with ordinary clothing.
I may spend years in misery before I make my choice—or maybe I will wake up tomorrow and simply choose. You have a clearer, simpler choice before you—and I envy you for that.
There is a growling from behind you. You turn, and reach for your sword—but it is not there. Indistinct shadowy creatures are loping toward you. They are some distance off yet, but without your sword you will have to fight them hand-to-muzzle—and that doesn’t sound like a great option.
Iona laughs. It’s an odd sound, the first time you’ve heard real mirth from the woman. That won’t help you here. Go, she says, pointing in the opposite direction. I will take care of them.
With that, she steps in front of you, and begins an incantation.
She notices you still standing there, and turns her head, nodding in the direction she pointed earlier.
You start a loping run.
When you look back, after several dozen yards, you see the creatures have almost reached Iona—but she gestures, and scores of ebony tentacles erupt from the ground, grabbing the shadow creatures and tossing them around like ragdolls.
Iona looks over at you and smiles. The dream dissolves—
—and you are back in your bed at the Lorrimor house, perplexed, but still well.
And that’s when you notice that somewhere, someone is screaming.
A male voice comes from the doorway.
Working late, I see?
It’s the Professor—as you remember him, a younger version of the man who passed away so recently.
The Professor comes into the lab and claps you on the shoulder. You know, one of the things I’ve noticed about you is that you seem to only have two speeds: too fast, and stationary. He takes his hand off your shoulder and picks up a beaker of viscous blue fluid. He holds it up to the light to examine it.
You need to find something other than your work to guide you, Septimus. If you continue to throw yourself into your endeavours in this way, you will miss out on actually living your life. He puts the beaker down and turns to face you. Take it from someone who knows.
The Professor sighs. You become aware of a tapping at the window wells. You look and see indistinct dark shapes. They seem to be trying to get in. While your work can protect you—as it is in this case—you will eventually discover that it can also be your downfall.
You turn back to the Professor—and are horrified to see that he has gashes across his body, and his face is cracked and broken with his jaw hanging distended from his skull.
It was my downfall, the Professor manages through his mangled mouth, before—
—you wake up, sweating profusely. You rub your hands over your eyes, desperately trying to drive the image of the Professor’s ruined face from your mind, as you realise that somewhere, someone is screaming.
For more explanation of what just happened, check the discussion thread. : )
Have at it boys and girls. I will be back in around six or seven hours to make followup posts. : )
Raj shoots off the couch - disoriented - knife instinctively coming into his hand. His other hand clamps down on the (hopefully) non-wound between his ribs. He hunts bleary-eyed for his target for a moment as the scream registers.
Slowly, recalling his actual time and place, he launches up the stairs - recognizing the source of the scream. He curses himself as he barrels into the bedroom door, not waiting for a by-your-leave from the screaming occupant. Dumb and slow, Raj. Dumb and slow.
Even through he's disorientated, Theron immediately realizes where the screaming is coming from. With a grunt he leans over and grabs his longsword's scabbard, and rushes over to Kendra's room. He draws his sword as he runs.
"Kendra! Are you alright!" He calls out as he tries to open the door.
After what he's been through during the last day he doesn't settle for subtly: if the door is locked and he has no reason to believe Kendra isn't in danger, he's knocking the door down.
The scream tore through Dragomir's confusing dream like talon through a childs flesh. Its presence almost a violation of the vision he was having... and demanding all his focus.
Kendra!
He grabbed at his huge fighting knife next to his pillow and drove out into the corridor and nearly collided with Theron.
Together they both tear down the corridor to Kendra's door and he adds his strength to that of Theron in getting the door down.
The corriodor is narrow and his efforts to get to the door hindered by Therons attempts.
Lem sits upright, memories of the terrible dream lingering upon waking. He immediately looks to his hand and, seeing no damage there , leaps to his feet and bounds up the stairs, three at a time.
Miss Lorrimor! Are you well?
He saw his companions waking loudly in various states of dress, and mental anguish, knowing his dream was no accident.
Desna did not take kindly to me lying about a portentous dream, so she punished us all with dark visions of what may come to pass. Forgive me Great Dreamer, my transgression was for the good of the town. Guide me, that I don't stray when the path forks off into the darkness...
The priest finishes his prayer quietly as he approaches Kendra's door, his keen senses adjusting to the darkness.
Between the adrenaline, the fatigue, the fading sleep, and the unshakable fear, Karrik struggles mightily to come to his senses. The scream shatters the layers, though, and Karrik's instincts carry him to the door before he's really thought about it.
The door to the small room at the top of the stairs crashes open just as Rajuna, Dragomir, and Theron rush past. Karrik -- black eyes dilated in fear and thick, gray, tattoo'd body thick with sweat -- steps out of the pitch-black room in only a pair of those fancy silk underpants that cost as much as a good pair of boots.
Even robed in fear, Karrik's mind is able to put the pieces together. The scream must have been Kendra! He barrels after them, all but naked. the half-orc slams into the solid door only a second behind Dragomir, a heavy grunt accompanying the shuddering impact of thick skin on thicker wood.
Theron notices Karrik's reaction to him, but is too busy worrying about Kendra to give him more than the briefest look of confusion. Huh?
Rose awakens from the nightmare and attempts to gain her bearings. As the realization dawns upon her that the scream she heard in her dream is not her home, she quickly jumps up, slinging her belt and spellpouch over her shoulder while drawing her longsword. She moves to the door, stopping a moment as she realizes just how shaky she isl. "Calm down, calm. It was just a dream."
Though still not quite convinced, she throws open the doorway, turning to see the commotion in front of Kendra's room. She moves towards it, looking over her shoulder as she does as though fearing an attack from what should be a safe haven. Her eyes seem to focus on a portrait of the late professor. "What's going on?" She asks as she nears, the question hanging for anyone to answer.
As the door splinters, Raj realises that he's got a blade in hand in a tight space with a lot of milling bodies - a dangerous mix. Having no place to put it on his person, Raj flicks the fang blade-first into a ceiling beam, getting it safely out of the way.
Walter sat up calmly from his bed. That was nice, he thought, and put on his greatcoat absent-mindedly. He noted, distracted, that Kendra was screaming. Oh.
Oh.
He was out of the bedroom and into the tumble of people shouting in a split second. It had stopped resembling a home and had started to become a marketplace, judging by the yelling, jostling and dim light. The moment was punctuated by Rajuna imbedding a dagger in the ceiling.
He stood at the rear, behind everyone,waiting to see what would happen.
The scene inside Kendra's room is chaotic. Books have tumbled from shelves to lie strewn all across the floor in careless heaps. The diaphanous curtains heave inward as the chill night air pushes its way in through the open window on the other side of the room, the cold air pooling around your ankles and causing the skin of those of you with limited clothing to prickle in response.
Kendra herself is seated bolt upright in the middle of her bed, staring at the window, and shivering.
She does not look well--but there is no obvious threat in the room.
Your initial attempts to rouse Kendra are ineffective--eventually, Dragomir takes it upon himself to place one of his large hands on either shoulder and give her a short, sharp shake.
She blinks several times, and only then does she seem to comprehend the ordeal she has been through.
She breaks down and cries.
As the big man rouses Kendra with a shake, Karrik tentatively skirts the edge of the bedroom. The moonlight flowing in through the open window reveals more of the half-orc's tattoos. What you've only seen to decorate his scalp and neck you see now to flow climb onto his torso. The intertwined arcane weavings, symbols, and odd animal wrap around his chest and stomach as well as snaking down and around his arms and legs.
He seems as unaware of the tattoos as he does of his near nakedness as he reaches the window, but he seems acutely aware of his own sweat-soaked skin. And every breath bears the ragged edge of lingering fear. With furtive movements, he leans on the sill, leaning out into the cold night to look down at the grounds below, then to his right and left -- hanging partially out the window to do so.
Septimus wakes in a cold sweat, his hair matted to his forehead. Horrified, he touches his hands to his face, as if it might be somehow disfigured. Breathing an audible sigh of relief when he finds his craggy features still intact, Septimus throws the coverlet off.
One half ounce clubroot dissolved in 6% common acid, titrated into a flask of some size...
Someone is screaming.
Flush with concentrated oxygen; add six drops prepared solution; stir briskly...
Someone is screaming. The scream appears to be that of a human female.
Imbibe with great vigor, ensuring maximum surface area contact for increased absorption...
Someone is screaming. The scream appears to be that of a human female. The scream appears to emanate from the room in which Kendra Lorrimor is sleeping.
Hurriedly, Septimus bounds out of bed, his ragged nightrobe trailing behind him. As he joins the crowd in the hallway, Septimus tries to quiet the half of his brain that seems to always be going full speed.
He peers in at Kendra. She is not screaming now. She is crying. He should probably say something comforting. He should probably not resort to cruel wit or a cutting remark.
Not trusting himself, Septimus does the hardest thing he's had to do in years: he says nothing.
After seeing that Kendra isn't in immediate danger, Theron sheathes his sword and quickly takes a look out the window. He decides that it would be best to let the others tend to Kendra.
As things began to calm down, Theron's thoughts drifted to the dream that he had just woken from. He was unused to having such vivid dreams, and the subject of this one had been interesting to say the least.
His first instinct was to just let himself forget about the dream just like any other... but the fact that one of Iomedae's primary servants had been in it made that seem disrespectful. Still, he didn't like some of the dream's implications. If I had met that dragon in real life, would I have stumbled over his name? ...would he have deemed it necessary to give me that warning?
Suddenly, Theron found himself wishing that he carried a copy of the Acts of Iomedae with him during his travels.
Despite being distracted by his investigation and his pondering, Theron can't help but notice that many of his companions seem to be in sorry states, as if they've been disturbed or frightened by something. What in the Iomedae's name is going on? "Is everyone alright? Kendra doesn't seem to be the only one who has been... disturbed by something."
It is with a mixture of hope and dread that Raj enters the bedroom. He pulls the hand from his side and is relieved to see no smear of arterial blood decorating it. Still, he can't shake the lingering doubts - it was a hell of a dream. His concern for Kendra is checked by caution. As the others try to rouse her, the thief looks to her hands and examines the splayed bedsheets for the subtle outline of a blade.
Seeing none, he catfoots around the far side of the bed and sits down behind her, sliding a hand beneath her pillow. I told her to keep it close all the time... His hand touches something cold, familiar, and uncompromising.
Good girl! The irony strikes him like a slap, he's both proud and dismayed that she's proved such an apt pupil. He makes a show of straightening her linens while he slides the blade from beneath the pillow and drops it between her bed and nightstand, covering the thunk of the blade sticking into the floor with an 'accidental' clumsy kick into the nightstand.
Only afterwards, seeing the discerning gaze of the inquisitor, does it hit Raj that he made no attempt to cover his emotions. He had circled the bed like Kendra was some form of viper.
Dumb and slow. It's a wonder I'm not bleeding out on that couch for true.
After shaking Kendra awake and seeing her weep Dragomir backs out of the room sheepishly, allowing others to help her.
On return to his room, he takes up his copy of the copy of The Bones Land in a Spiral and runs his hands over the rich leather and silver of the frontispiece.
He sits quietly, trying to allow order to come to the household and begins to recite the 'Prayer of Understanding the Way of Prophecy'... seldom used but for some reason on of his mothers favorites.
Karrik: the book dream-Theron mentioned was the one you yourself told real-Theron about in this post.
Kendra continues weeping as you all mill around her room.
###
Karrik & Theron: you don't spot anyone or anything untoward outside. You can't imagine why Kendra would sleep with a window open when it's so cold, but if someone else opened it, there is no sign of them.
###
Theron: your search of the room for clues nets nothing of import, although as you move amongst the displaced books, you bump one with your foot--which turns out to be The Acts of Iomedae.
Frustrated at having found nothing mundane, you cast detect magic and scan the room. There is a magical aura suffusing everyone--yourself included.
The aura resolves itself to a swirling violet colour--the colour of the arcane school of Illusion.
As Raj slides the knife out from under Kendra's pillow, she seems to register his presence for the first time, sitting beside her at the edge of the bed.
She reaches for him--but just as it looks like she is about to put her arms around him for an embrace, her hands instead grip his arms, just above the elbow.
Help me, she says in a quavering voice, through the tears. Please.
Her skin is freezing cold, as though she were not living flesh and blood at all.
Rajuna isn't sure what is most disturbing about this scene and his skin positively crawls. "I'll help. I'll help. It was a dream. You've got to wake up, Kendra. Whatever you saw, it wasn't real." He bundles her up in the blankets and starts rubbing her vigorously, hoping the contact, the buffeting, and the heat helps. He looks at the others. "She's cold as ice. Flori, put a kettle on. What the hell is going on here?"
Theron suddenly curses loudly soon after casting his detect magic spell. "We've all been affected by an illusion!" He warns, and then a fearful look appears over his face. The inquisitor moves over to Kendra and gently puts a hand on her shoulder while checking her with his detect magic spell...
Theron: Kendra remains solid. She is not an illusion--the aura is indeed dim, indicating the spell (or whatever it was) has ended. Presuming the phenomenon occurred around the time of the nightmare, the original effect has to have been Strong, to use a game-rule term.
"I'm not sure what the illusion was, but the spell seems to have ended. I'm just detecting traces of its aura." He clarifies as he pulls his hand back. "My guess is that whatever this illusion did, it is what scared Kendra so much." Theron looks directly at Raj and Kendra as he says this so he can make sure that both of them hear. Even if Kendra was too frightened to understand, Raj would, and that would help him with her attempts to calm her.
After thinking for a few moments, Theron speaks up to the group again, but a bit further away from Kendra this time to avoid upsetting her any more. "Whatever this spell was and whoever cast it, it seems to have affected all of us. Did anyone see anything strange before running up here to check on Kendra?" He had a feeling that the answer to this was "Yes" for at least some of them. Several of them seemed almost as bad off as Kendra.
Theron ponders his own question, and realizes that something strange did happen to him right before he heard Kendra's screaming, "...for example, did anyone have any particularly vivid dreams?"