"It could be the sheriff just has other priorities on his mind. After all, we all know the Professor's penchant for nosing around places that others leave well enough alone. Er...knew...that is..."
The elf trails off, realizing he may have touched on a sore point for his companions.
He then cocks his head, trying to pick up the sound the others have heard.
"Hmm - do you suppose the sheriff is incompetent, dominated, or in league? Rather important for poor Riff here, as if it is either of the latter two he's likely to be murdered on his return." He looks over at the young man "Riff - you've known the sheriff a long time. Would you trust him with your life? Has there been any sudden changes in personality or habits in the last few days?"
Dashil shakes her head. "No idea. Could just be that he's doing a thankless job in a godforsaken place and it's a daily struggle just for him to keep caring." Her tone is bitter, her head too full of bad memories. She does her best to bring her mind back to the present.
As Radag starts to move towards the entrance of the prison, the wind suddenly shifts, swinging from the west to a chill, stiff breeze out of the north.*
The young deputy scowls at Aduard. "Now just a cotton-pickin' minute there, stranger. Sheriff Caeller is one of the finest men in these parts. I don't like your insinuation there, Mister. There's no way he'd be mixed up in anything untoward."
Looking around at the group, he coninues:"I think I'd better stick around. Otherwise, who knows what kind of trouble you lot are likely to stir up."
Dashil hears the sound of the chains repeat. It's not coming from the entrance, but further west into the prison grounds.
Radag takes notice of the shifting winds and while studying it, laughs at the deputy's scowling behavior.
Dashil matches the deputy, scowl for scowl.
"If you've quite finished, maybe we could go see what that clanking noise is, hmm? Now, you-" she points at the deputy -"seem like a hothead and you-" she points at Aduard "aren't dressed for a fight, so stay out of trouble at the back, OK? C'mon Radag, Brogol - let's see what's making that noise."
Assuming that they accompany her, Dashil will head towards the noise of the chains.
"What? What noise? All I hear is everyone's babbling." Radag says as he listens again, but doesn't protest as long as it draws the party towards the inside of the prison.
Brogol draws his falchion and moves near to Dashil. "Aye'm afraid Aye don't hear chains either, but if yer say they're here..."
Brogol tails off, listening intently as he pulls his hood down, revealing a bald head and oversized, batlike ears which swivel on their own, much like an alert watchdog's.
Aduard acquiesces to the request for silence - rolling his eyes at the frustration of not responding the deputy's naivety.
He takes up the indicated position - in his favoured spot anyway - and proceeds to follow.
As the group rounds the corner of the building, they spot a set of stairs that lead up to a stone balcony on the west side of the building. When he realizes where you are going, Riff suddenly blanches, losing all trace of the bravado he was displaying before.
"Hold on, your not going over there, are you? That's the balcony where they used to hold all the executions. They say the headsman haunts that area to this day!"
The whole group then hears a sudden WHOOSH, followed shortly by a soft thud.
"A headsman you say? Well then... is there a better way in you suppose then Riff?"
Brogol runs towards the steps, looking for body, his falchion at the ready. "Yer hear tha'? A body somwhere..."
Dashil raises an eyebrow. "They 'say'? Don't you want to find out for sure? And don't waste time looking for a body, kid - what you see, or hear in this case, isn't always what you get." She gives a grim half-smile. "Like me, for instance."
"like the sound of chains too?"
"Though I heard the sound of a beheading, or something similar to it ."
"Who has those Haunt Siphons?" It's not fear in Aduard's voice per se, simply caution.
"Well, Clete, my brother-in-law's sister's kid, says he's seen the scythe choppin' off the heads o' spirits in the moonlight, and I've got no cause to doubt him. The front door's probably the easiest way in, but it's best if we don't go in there at all. Come on, let's head back. I've shown you where we found the Perfessor. Now we should go."
Riff gets very fidgety when you talk about trying to enter the prison itself.
Brogol, never the one to make decisions for others, fidgits uncomfortably. "Aye think Dashil's got the siphons. And sorry Riff, but Aye suppose wer ta go in. Up tha steps or through tha front door?"
Hoping for some direction, Brogol sheaths his falchion and looks at each of his companions.
Dmitri frowns and shifts the grip on his weapon, uncomfortable with all the strange happenings. "Let's jus' get movin'," he requests with a frown.
"If there is a wraithly headsman, I see little point in antagonising it."
Brogol shakes his head in assent and heads towards the front of the prison. It was usual that the Doctor would make a decision, and then Brogol would carry out the action. The young man saw no reason to change anything at this point, when much older, smarter folk were around.
Squatting at the front door, the appentice eyes it carefully, looking for anything amiss - runes, traps, signs of tampering or recent trespass.
Turning back towards the others, Brogol clears his throat, suddenly quite nervous, and pushes the door inward. "Well then, no headsman this way, Aye suppose..."
"If there is a wraithly headsman, I see little point in antagonising it."
Dashil shakes her head, disbelievingly. "You sound like me - and Goddess, I sound like a f*@£ing paladin, striding off to confront whatever's out there..."
She falls silent, awash with suddenly-woken painful memories.
Quietly, she takes up position alongside Brogol, keeping a wary eye out for trouble.
Radag follows in after Brogol and Dashil, "I would hate to see you get hurt Riff."
This was once a wide hall flanked by a pair of waiting rooms, but the foyer to Harrowstone now lies in ruins. With little left to hold up the ceiling, the wooden beams above sag dramatically. The wall to the north contains a large pair of oaken doors.
Wakati follows close on the heels of the rest of the group. As he crosses the threshold of the prison foyer, he suddenly doubles over, as if in excruciating pain. A nimbus of red energy surrounds the elf, weaving in and out of his body. After a moment of struggle, the seizure passes. However, when the elf looks up at the rest of the party, the group can see that his eyes have gone completely white.
Wakati rubs his eyes and ponders for a moment. ”Oh, no. This place has apparently stirred him up in some manner. He’s taken my sight. What sight I had left….” He pauses for a moment to reflect on the situation. ”I do not believe it would be safe for me to continue on. The best course of action would be to return to Miss Lorrimer’s and attempt to recover from this setback. Of course, I don’t think I can find my way on my own. Riff, would you be willing to assist?”
The young deputy stood by with his mouth agape during Wakati’s ordeal. Being directly addressed by the elf seems to snap him out of his shocked state. ”Oh, uh, sure. I can do that.” He seems relieved to have found a legitimate excuse for leaving the prison grounds. ”The rest of you should come back to town as well. I told you this place is haunted and poking around will only lead to trouble.”
Just before they leave the grounds, Wakati turns back to the party with some last words. ”Be careful my friends. Riff here is right. This place is haunted, and the spirits are angry. I would hate to hear that any of you had joined the Professor in Pharasma’s boneyard.” He then turns and stumbles away, hanging heavily on the deputy’s arm.
"Probably for the better. I mean, if there is a cultist plot at play here, combat is no place for the blind. Take care of him Riff. I don't think I need to state what will happen should you fail in that." Radag says as he begins poking around, searching the foyer.
Brogol goes to the fallen elf and drops to his knees, trying to figure out what has happened to Wakati. "Who? Who took yer eyes?"
An ominous turn of events. Wakati's wisdom will be missed... Helping the elf to his feet, Brogol sighs, a long frustrated exhalation. "Be safe, Master Nahoda. We'll see you soon."
Aduard nods to Wakati "Of course. I'd like to enquire further at a more propitious juncture."
"Riff. Given your belief in the sheriff, can I ask you to report what we've found immediately."
Once the duo are gone he turns back to his friends
"I suspect we have alienated the sheriff by continuing on without his watchdog. Let us hope we can find something to ameliorate his displeasure."
With the deputy and the elf on their way back to town, the group is able to return their attention to the prison.
Aside from the fact that the doors are solid and in good condition, Brogol finds nothing out of the ordinary about them. He cautiously opens them, and the group makes its way into the inner foyer.
Streaks of mold stain the walls of this foyer, and the floor below is a thick, gray carpet of fungal growth. Sturdy wooden doors beckon from every wall.
There are double doors in the north and east walls, and single doors in the west and east walls.
"Then why did you tell him to report on us? I thought you were supposed to be smart." Radag says without looking back.
"Barely enough room to swing a blade in 'ere." Radag enters the inner foyer scanning for trouble. "Right or left?"
"Then why did you tell him to report on us? I thought you were supposed to be smart." Radag says without looking back.
"Either there are still cultists in town, or not. Either the sheriff is in league or not."
"If the sheriff is in league, Riff would give us away anyway. At least this way we preserve the illusion we trust the sheriff.""If there are cultists and the sheriff is not in league, then the faster we disseminate the information the less danger we'll be in."
"Contrarily, If there are no cultists, then by sending Riff back we don't appear as if we're sneaking in and can claim we thought we had permissions."
"Sheriff's a good man, he'll find room in his heart to forgive us regardless of all that stuff your sayin. Caeller said we could come up here as long as Riff came with. Riff did as he was told, and now he has left, no harm done. No one said anything about Riff having to stay with us. Even if they had, that Riff boy was nothing more than a liability with us anyway... the less of those we have the better; isn't that right Dashil?"
Radag waves Brogol in and motions to the single door on the right. "We might want to cut the chatter a bit from here, cultists or not it might not be wise to announce our presence as we approach."
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Brogol grunts as he stoops to examine the door to the right. "Hnng. That kid were a guilty conscience waiting ta happen. Best he's back a home wit his parents."
"that Riff boy was nothing more than a liability with us anyway... the less of those we have the better; isn't that right Dashil?"
Dashil scowls. "Alright, so you saved my life - can you let it go already? I mean it was what, 20 years ago, and anyway how was I supposed to know she was the shapeshifter Petros was after; they're not exactly common in Magnimar..."
Realising that he's managed to put her on the defensive - again - and that there are too many prying ears around that haven't heard the story, she shuts up. With a whirl of her frayed cloak, she stalks away. "Don't develop a conscience, kid. Damn thing'll be the death of you."
"That's good advice, Stockl. Start developing a conscience and all the terrible things you've done will haunt you, until you end up old and alone, lost in drink, waiting for death yet terrified of what comes after." Aduard's voice gets more bitter as he speaks.
He looks up at Radag, and sees something in his face "Yes yes Mr Irefist. I will stop speaking now."
Brogol smiles, eyes never leaving his task. The truth was, Brogol wasn't worried about himself being the one to develop a conscience. Inspection done the apprentice straightened up to his full height, and brushed a little dirt from his pant legs.
"Thank yer for tha advice. Aye'll take it ta heart."
Radag looks a little dumbstruck at Dashil's response, standing there with his mouth hanging open.
Wha? That's not what I meant... wait twenty years ago? It couldn't have been that long ago.
Then just as he was going to protest, Aduard said something that distracted him and then made Radag chuckle, forcing him to wipe the side of his mouth, where part of his scar was, on his bracer to catch a bit of drool.
Perception:
Initiative:
Again, Brogol finds nothing out of place on the door, except for the fact that it is in extraordinarily good condition.
Radag takes the lead in entering the room. This area is a small stage that is walled off from the rest of the room by iron bars. Several rows of wooden benches, all spotted with mold and sagging with neglect, face the stage.
As Dmitri enters the hallway, everyone except Aduard (who, once again is oblivious to the world around him), sees the door start to close on its own.
"Tha door! Tha door!" Brogol squeezes past Dmitri and slides his falchion between the door and jamb...
Radag stiff-arms Dmitri in the chest to move him out of the way and in a single motion draws his greatsword and swings it at the door trying to cleave it in two.
"Wha....?" Bookman is slow to react, too caught up in his own thoughts to notice what has happened.
As the door swings shut, Brogol manages to put his falchion between the door and the jamb. Radag draws his sword and swings at it, liberating a big chunk of wood.
All of a sudden, the badly-burnt faces of shrieking criminals rush out of the door, and fly around the foyer. They pass through each of the doors in turn, slamming them shut.
WHAM...WHAM...WHAM...
The slamming door traps Brogol's falchion, holding it fast.
As soon as the doors slam, two skulls rise up from the floor of the ruined prison. The one in the hallway turns to towards Dmitri, and opens its mouth wide. A bright ray of bluish light springs from its mouth, catching the priest in the chest. He then collapses to the floor.
The second skull rises from near the entrance steps. Its mouth opens, and it lets forth a piercing shriek.
Initiative:
1st: Skull 1, Skull 2
2nd: Brogol, Radag, Aduard, Dashil
Trapped! Fear rises in young Stockl as the door slams shut on his falchion. Forcing the panic down, Brogol lets go of the falchion and steps forward, drawing his greataxe. The Doctor always preached the use of knowledge, but when stuck, he stressed the need to solve problems with a fist, without hesitation and with great force. Brogol brought his greataxe up and around towards the skull. He'd worry about everything else later.
Radag grits his teeth as he prepares to take another swing at the door, but then cathes a glimpse of Dimitri falling to the ground. Radag pauses a moment, as if to peer behind himself, before turning and in a single stride swings at the skull that appeared in the room with him.
Aduard seems unfazed by the ear-piercing screech. Desperately he dashes to the downed Dmitri, covering the cleric with his body and wildly flinging a splash of acid at the skull.
Radag swings his greatsword at the skull near him. He connects and the skull shatters into a cloud of bone dust.
On the other side of the door, both Brogol's and Aduard's attacks go wide, missing the floating head. Neither one is particularly bothered by the shriek.
Initiative:
1st: Skull 2
2nd: Brogol, Radag, Aduard, Dashil
Dashil is unfazed by the skulls; she has experienced far worse than that. Gritting her teeth against the noise, she swings her scimitar at the remaining floating head.
As she does so, she tries to remember what she can of the undead.
"I've seen these before. Restless spirits - they slam, lock, and hold fast doors. More of a nuisance than any real danger; and - thank the goddess - confined to a single area. We can destroy them by sprinkling a vial of holy water in and around the infested area. Hang in there, kid. This your first encounter with the undead?" This last is addressed to Brogol.
Dashil steps forward and swings at the skull. It shatters into pieces and clatters against the prison wall as it falls to the ground.
The door dividing the group remains stubbornly shut for about a minute. Eventually the door releases, and Brogol's falchion falls to the ground.
Despite the groups best efforts, they are unable to revive the priest.
"Two down...four to go? Radag says looking up from the fallen Dimitri.
There are no curses in the tongues of angels or men to let Dashil vent her feelings right now. "He should never have got into this."
She is silent for a moment or two. "May the Lady of Graves judge you well," she murmurs after an awkward pause.
Then: "I'm going to check to see whether he was carrying any holy water. I'm fresh out. If that offends anyone, too bad - just stay out my way while I get on, OK? "
Dashil's question was directed at him, Brogol realizes, as he stares down at Dmitri's lifeless body.
Memories. The house on 3 Baker Street. Its sloped and elegant gables, the stained glass windows, the grey slate roof, glistening and slick in the perpetual spring Caliphas drizzle. The peeling paint, sloping chimneys, and twisted ironwork fence, falling down on itself, slowly rusting into nothing.
And with it, other memories, best left buried. The widow's corpse, still twisting in the noose where she had died a second time, the Doctor having shot her as she clawed at him, all unnatural hatred and anger. And the boy, the laborer's son, and his damnable worn and forlorn shoes, pointed up at the sky, as his head lay twisted to face the earth, the first and only victim of the widow of 3 Baker Street's life after death.
A short undeath, to be sure. Three. The number of days that Brogol passed by the house and saw the shape twisting behind the transom glass. Three days after the widow's suicide and her subsequent rising had she hung and twisted behind that transom, before anyone came calling. Three days the apprentice had to trust his instincts and tell the Doctor that something was horribly wrong at 3 Baker Street. At any time before the laborer's son came with his weekly delivery, and the boy would still be alive.
Brogol blinked. Back to reality. A dead man on the floor of Harrowstone. A dead friend on the floor of Harrowstone. No, it wasn't Brogol's first brush with undeath. Again, his lessons had failed him. Another shame to carry with him until he met Pharasma's judgement. The boy wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, a sudden shudder creeping up his spine.
"It dunna offend me. Better it gets used, if Master Zorya wer carrying some."
"We should bury him. But not here. Yer never know wha makes them come back, but Aye'm sure its more likely ta happen here."
"What? Bury him?!" Radag barks in anger as he kneels to check for signs of life on Dimitri. "He better not be dead... You hear me in there, you better not be dead or else."