Spectrum had just about the worst bedside manor ever, but that didn't mean he didn't care. He just didn't know how to act when other people were suffering or in shock.
He knelt next to the wounded, terrified survivors and said "This is Glimmer. She will stay with you. We are going to check the house for more ghouls. Stay here." then he stood and walked away before receiving an answer.
Hi! I'm Glimmer. That's Spectrum. He's nicer than he seems. And that's Mr. Wyam. He's exactly as nice as he seems. Oh, and the big bird is Esme. She's nice too, but it's hard to tell because she doesn't have facial expressions or telepathic emotional transmission, or anything like that. You're safe now and everything is going to be alright.
Array, scout the house for us.
Array took to wing and did a circuit of the farmhouse, looking in all the windows. Then he got impulsive and looked for a chimney to climb down.
Luckily, the survivors are unconscious and sleeping, and are denied the horror of Spectrum's bedside manner.
Searching through the house, Array fails to find anything of import.
"They're just unconscious right now. Although I'm not sure how their mental state is. Perhaps we should bring them back to town. I can hitch them to Fearghus."
"That would delay us," Isme points out. "One of you should have smelling salts and we can using that to rouse them. They may also have useful information."
Spectrum opened the pouch containing his smaller alchemical supplies and retrieved a vial of the pungent crystals. he started moving toward the unconscious people, then thought the better of it and handed the vial to Wyam.
Wyam awakes the sleeping souls. After much startlement and horror, they identify themselves as Horran and Lettie Guffmin, dragged off last night by horrible creatures. They seem to know nothing.
"Where were you dragged from?" Isme asks. "And can you take care of yourselves from here and send word of what has happened?"
She turns to her companions. "Whoever is doing this must have expected us to come this way."
Their house is one farm over, and they have been significantly drained by ghoul fever; though not yet to the point of death. You will need to tell someone on your way back to go and take care of them.
"I suggest we head to the manor unless either of you have another plan. As for the Guffmins, we can simply find someone or drop by the nearest town to send a message."
Spectrum nodded. "Let us check the farmhouse before we leave."
"Agreed, we will head to the manor. This has to stop."
A quick search of the farmhouse turns up nothing more than living-mess of a group of ghouls and their food. Some bones will need to be buried, some under headstones, but there is little else.
"Let's go."
First finding some other farmers, Wyam quickly directs them to help their hurt brethren and send for Foxglove. Then, the party heads for Misgivings. The route leading out to Foxglove Manor is a three-mile hike along a narrow path that follows the Foxglove river from the covered bridge where it flows under the Lost Coast Road to the dark sea cliffs overlooking the Varisian Gulf. Here, wild sea birds call out to a roaring ocean that churns hundreds of feet below. As the PCs near Foxglove Manor, it almost seems as if nature herself becomes sick and twisted. Nettles and thorns grow more prominent, trees are leafless and bent, and the wind seems unnaturally cold and shrill as it whistles through the cliffside crags. The path slowly rises, turns a steep corner in the cliffs, and then Foxglove Manor looms at the edge of the world.
The strangely cold sea wind rises to a keening shriek as Foxglove Manor comes into view. The place has earned its local nickname of the “Misgivings” well, for it almost appears to loathe its perch high above the ocean, as if the entire house were poised for a suicide leap. The roof sags in many places, and mold and mildew cake the crumbling walls. Vines of diseased-looking gray wisteria strangle the structure in several places, hanging down over the precipitous cliff edge almost like tangled braids of hair. The house is crooked, its gables angling sharply and breached in at least three places, hastily repaired by planks of sodden wood. Chimneys rise from various points among the rooftops, leaning like old men in a storm, and grinning gargoyle faces leer from under the eaves. That the manor clings to the cliff is remarkable, as the whole far side is nothing more than a sheer drop down to the ocean below, a fall of over three hundred feet. Out front, the foundation stones of a long-burnt outbuilding stand sentinel astride the weed-choked approach; a low stone well squats morosely amid these ruins.
Wyam rides forth astride Fearghus. He looks to the others with him as they surveyed the decrepit landscape. "This place is unpleasant, lets hope Aldern Foxglove is here and not a Ghoul."
"Another derelict on the edge of a cliffside. Our foes are uncreative in the selection of their sinister bases. I suppose all the mountain fortresses and labyrinthine mausoleums were already taken."
"This place doesn't look safe in the least," Isme says, "and it's not because of its potential inhabitants. Shall we scout first?"
"I can't help but feel as though everything was leading to us coming here. It would seem strange to place traps and guardians outside, but then we would be foolish to ignore such possibilities. Yes, Isme, you and Spectrums familiars should move ahead."
With the command from Wyam, the two dragons took off, one low and one high, their tails sparking with held energy.
Isme flies upward with an ominous caw and circles above, observing the manor below.
Flying unseen over the house, the airborne spies observe a few sickly-looking ravens perched atop the ruined walls out front; many windows, all with curtains drawn behind them and two upper floors. Isme's keen eyes spot an ancient well in the middle of the ruined walls with a deep hundred-foot drop to some water. From her angle and with her keen eyes, she spots some anomaly in the wall just above the water deep below- but nothing more.
Isme flies down to the others and informs them of what she saw before suggesting they head in.
Spectrum nods and noves to the front door with Wyam, a trio of colored orbs bobbing in front of him to light their way.
He tested the doorknob.
The dragons returned, landing on each of Spectrum's shoulders, their barbed tails sparking still, held high and threatening.
The doorknob is locked; a hole suggests that taken from Rogors Craesby. The key is duly entered, the door opened
The sound of the house straining and creaking gives this long, high-ceilinged room an additional sense of age and decay. The place smells damp, the unpleasant tinge of mold lacing the air as surely as it stains the wooden floor, walls, and furniture in pallid patches. A curving flight of stairs to the south winds up to the upper floor, while a pair of large stone fireplaces brood to the north and south. Heavy dark-blue curtains hang over the windows, and the frames above each of the two doors are carved with dancing gargoyles and skeletons. Trophies hang on the wall to the northeast: a boar, a bear, a firepelt cougar, and a stag, their glassy eyes staring from fur crusted with mold and cobwebs, yet they pale in comparison to the monster on display in the center of the room. Here crouches a twelve-foot-long creature with the body of a lion, a scorpion’s tail fitted with dozens of razor barbs, huge bat-like wings, and a deformed humanoid face. The stuffed beast’s poorly maintained fur has fallen away in places, allowing the sawdust filling it to sift out into tiny mounds on the platform below.
As he enters, Spectrum catches a momentary whiff of burning hair and flesh, before the smell vanishes as if it was never there.
Spectrum sniffed the air for a moment. "Something living was burning here..."
There's a voice up the stairs. They're crying.
"I hear it as well," Isme says quietly. "It may be a trap."
Manticore.
"I suppose we'll have to look," Isme says. "Would you care to go first, Wyam? I'll keep an eye out for any traps."
"Then we'll have to investigate further."
Wyam nodded to Isme and started heading upstairs.
Venturing further into the corridor, you come across something rather vile. A rather gruesome antique—what appears to be a mummified monkey head—hangs on the northern wall here. A bellpull extends from the monkey’s gaping mouth. A ratty throw rug partially obscures a foul stain of dark-colored mold on the floor.
Opening the necessary door, you head your way one by one up the stairs. As you climb, you hear what seems like the sound of your own footsteps reverberating back at you, before eventually you find yourself in an upstairs corridor.
Wyam stopped and tried to listen for the sounds of sobbing to figure out which way to go.
The sounds faded away as quickly as they came.
Wyam looked from right to left as he scanned the hallway.
"Alright, looks like we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way. We'll go room by room." Drawing his long sword, he moved ahead to the first door he could see.
This bedroom features a child-sized bed, a chair next to a toy box, and a looming stone fireplace big enough for a child to get lost in.
Isme and the psueododragons hear the faint sound of a child sobbing emmanating from the fireplace, and they feel an impeding feeling of danger.
There Glimmer's mind voice said as she arched her back like a scared cat, flaring her wings to make herself larger. Her head pointed straight to the fire place.
Array launched himself into the air, flapping to hover, looking like a bird of prey waiting to dive.
Wyam followed the gaze of the two Pseudo-dragons and glared down at the fireplace. He moved forward, shield at the ready.
Wyam suddenly feels his personality, his thoughts, his mind washed away by a tide of awful, cold, primal fear. Base emotions, feeling, images fill him. His parents are fighting, trying to kill eachother, and he's next- he feels an overwhelming urge to hide and run. He sees images- his mother wielding a torch, grappling with his tumor-ridden father holding a long knife. As soon as it comes the fear washes away, though its remnants stick with him.
"I hear a child sobbing in the fireplace," Isme says. "But there's a sense of danger here. You might want to try calling out first."
Wyam's eyes widen and his breathing rapidly becomes strained and uneven as he stares into his darkened memory.
"No! I won't go back." he says stepping back while gritting his teeth.
"Are you alright?" Spectrum said calm but concerned. "Whatever is happening to you, we cannot see it."
"A haunt, I believe. I have to try and neutralize it."