Mourning Choir howls in despair. "Redemption? Amends? Oh, if only I could be so fortunate! No, gone, gone is Sonnorae, and any hope with her, any light and music and colour! Never will her sweet words be whispered, her yearning songs raise towards the skies!"
The miserable creature slithers forth on the ground, stirring the opalescent tears into pastel rainbows, raising to face you. "I wish to cry a thousand tears and sing a hundred dirges, and yet again start anew. I cannot live, haunted by ever-burning regret, but I cannot die, and I wish I had never been born, every minute of every day. And I yearn for company, yet I can't stand the shame at being seen like this."
With a sigh, she slumps back to the ground, leaving you space to pass to the bridge. "I want you to stay and give respite to my aching heart. But you were pure or innocent enough to think I could be saved, and spoke kindly to me. Pass, if you wish. Nothing good could come to you from me, anyway. Only more suffering."
Embor looks sheepish, eyes locked on Mourning Choir, and does not move to follow you.
Edda looks oddly at Niklos, one bushy eyebrow raised in concern as she starts to move past the odd creature.
"Did we just pass a test or something?"
Niklos hurries towards the bridge, shaking his head at Edda.
"Hells if I know," he mutters. "Let's hustle before the worm changes her mind... totally off her rocker, that one."
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"Thank you for letting us past. If Desna allows, we will find a way to free you from your misery"
Marinda heads past the poor, miserable worm
"Your suffering is deep. I hope that you can find your way through it, small one." Hrain says as he passes by, raising his fist in a salute to its pain.
You leave Mourning Choir to her pain and sorrow and head through the rickety bridge towards the small island. A cold, damp wind is blowing as you walk over the haunted waters of the Demon's Fen, and you touch land again in a graveyard as flickering, colored fireflies scatter in all directions. Beyond the light undergrowth lies a maze of leaning gravestones. In the center, two white candles stand burning atop a weathered stone sarcophagus, and slumped against it you make out a humanoid figure in the chilly mist.
You feel unwelcome in this place, living creatures in a place for the dead, and Embor's words from before come to your mind. "He loves the forlorn souls of those who are forced to stay, but for those whose heart beats, his is cold iron."
Wand of Molten Orbs in hand, Edda moves outward a bit to get an angle for blasting if needed.
"What's this guys beef. I hate walking into an unknown situation."
Does Marinda have any clue what this thing is
"I don't know. May be undead of some sort"
Niklos stops and takes in the candles, the sarcophagus, and the slumped figure, trying to wrack his brain for any stray piece of folklore that might alert him to danger—and how to avoid it, if at all possible.
Edda takes a closer look...hoping to see something that will give her and her friends an advantage in this situation.
The time you take to consider your situation pays off big time, as you cross-reference the remaining cards from the deck of harrowed tales with what you know about this creature. Soon you are convinced that you are facing the Lost card, representing emptiness and internal blankness, leading to blind anger towards everything nearby.
According to Bernaditi and Mourning Choir, the Barrow Man ate Sonnorae's compassion, and according to Embor this compassion is directed towards the undead. With a shiver, you realize that the shimmering fireflies haunting the Fen are souls of the hapless adventurers who died in the Harrowed Realm, prevented from returning to their plane.
If your hunch is correct and the Barrow Man truly is acting as a caretaker of lost souls (an hypotesis suffragated by the votive candles on the sarcophagus), you may be able to prevent him from turning hostile by showing mercy and compassion to these wretched beings.
Edda starts muttering to herself suddenly, then turns to the others.
"The 'Lost' card? Mercy for these lost souls? How do we do that? Can we do that? Offer them freedom from this realm? How? We're not even sure we can find the ability to leave ourselves!"
"We could offer to take these poor souls with us on our quest for freedom. It must be better than being trapped here forever."
Niklos shrugs. "Not sure we can do much 'cept promise 'im we'll try our damndest. Show a bit of solidarity, at the very least. We're bound to be stuck here with 'em, right? Unless we succeed in gettin' out. Might as well try and see if we can't help ourselves by helpin' them..."
The scoundrel puts on a more reverent mien, moving forward whilst drawing a spiral in the Pharasmin fashion. Not quite sure about what form the Barrow Man might take, he addresses the slumped figure. "Mourners here, coming to pay our respects to the dead. May we approach?"
"Wait, I have 'The Lost' Card. Definitely time to play that card when we approach"
Is that enough to know anything more about how to free the souls? And by "free" I almost certainly mean "send on to the appropriate afterlife"
"Oh souls that have passed, we wish to help you to move on. Please let us approach and try to help you"
The creature rises, leaning against a large greatsword. His flesh, for what you can see, is rotting, skeletal in parts, and two red lights gleam in his eyes. There is no doubt that this creature is one of the undead.
"Mourners?" croaks his raspy voice. "A surprise for sure, that some of the living would show respect for the deceased. Rarely do travelers approach these cold shores. But come, if your intentions are true. Pray to your gods, they cannot hear you from here. Here, only the dead hear. Only the dead crave."
"Do any of you have the ability to cast consecrate? If we cast that on the sarcophogus it would at least soothe their pain. :
"I do not have this ability, sorry my friend."
Niklos nods grimly, glancing sidelong at the candles on the sarcophagus. "Well, we might be joining you before long, unless we find can a way out of here. A way out for ourselves, but perhaps for these lost souls as well. Give them some peace, and maybe you too. Might we ask for your token, to pave the way? I'm sure we could exchange it for some service, if you know a way to consecrate those interred here..."
Edda frowns again and crosses her arms over her chest.
"Cursing I can do. Removing curses? I haven't learned that yet. I don't mind trying however. Consecrating? That's not in this pirate's wheelhouse."
"Is the token your objective?" growls the Barrow Man. The sockets of the wight glow of a malevole light as he drags the greatsword. "To steal my precious reminder of the day I acquired control of my own story, wrestling it from the wretched couatl? Were it not for your respectful words, I would have had you taste my steel!"
He pauses for a second, wrath fading from the raspy voice. "I do not trust the living. But I reward loyalty and respect. By my honour I swear, lay to rest these souls and I shall confer the Bard's Heart onto you."
Niklos bows deeply. "I thank you for your clemency. We shall return as soon as we have the means."
Motioning for the others to move a ways away, the rogue lets out a long breath. "Well, unless you want to risk fightin' that thing and all the spirits here, I suggest we deal with the latter. Those candles aren't for show—if he knocks them over, I think we're in for a bad time. Since we can't holy the place up ourselves, I suggest we head back to Bernie's and see if he's got some magical doodad that'll do the trick..."
"Putting the souls to rest is DEFINITELY the way to go. Please, lead on towards Bernies"
Edda looks skeptical placing both hands on her hips.
"How can Bernie help us now? We just killed his supplier! Remember?"
Niklos grins and shrugs. "He knew what he was doin' when he pointed us in the Peddler's direction. I'm sure he still has some stuff in storage, too. Not much of a businessman otherwise, is he? Don't even worry about it, cousin! Just let me do the talkin'..."
Edda rolls her eyes and stops herself before offering a rude gesture to Niklos's smug expression.
"Fine. Talk away..."
You trace back your path to the entrance to the Fen, then step into the Tangled Briar and towards the Midnight Circus. Once again you meet Algon the Ever-Seeking, and once again you spin a lie to him, sending him wandering back to his eternal quest.
You arrive in the derelict, vibrantly-coloures Circus and enter the tent, skirting the seatings that are yawning at Rogg and his bears, until you reach Bernaditi's room. Once more, the crocodile-faced rakshasa is drinking tea.
"Aaah, you are back. I assume you dealt with the Peddler, and do I smell swampwater on you? Give Mourning Choir my regards, please. But we haven't met, I think!" he addresses you, the last phrase aimed at Hrain and Marinda. "Bernaditi, circus master and Conspirator. Welcome to my demesne. So, what can I do you for?"
Edda rolls her eyes.
"Consecrate. We need a copy of that specific spell. You have one? Can you get one? Something similar?"
Marindas eyes go wide when she sees the Rakshasa from the deck talking in a civilzed fashion.
"A RAKSHASA is talking to us? OPENLY a RAKSHASA? HOW powerful is this thing to openly be a monster? Don't panic. Its talking. Be nice. Be nice. Don't panic"
"Hello there. My name is, is, I'm Marinda. I'm a newcomer to this wonderful, wonderful, magnificent. uh, wonderful realm. It is a pleasure, honour? pleasant honour? to meet you"
Edda snorts.
"No need to be polite. He's evil, a murderer, a born liar, and a thief. He'll even admit to it if he's inclined to do so today. Don't trust him. And don't let his pleasant manner fool you. Am I missing anything Berny?"
"I'm also a swindler, a cheat at cards, a hopeless romantic and a talented bassoon player." chuckles Bernaditi. "But it's not a good reason not to be polite. Have I been less than helpful to you?"
He leaves his cup on a small and aptly-named cupboard before producing a thick binder from a drawer and rustling through cracked old parchments. "Let's see, chord of shards, commune with birds, compulsive liar, ah, consecrate. I have a scroll, just one, a wand with some charges left, and there's also grave salt, if you want something easier to use. Pricier, of course."
Sighing yet again, Edda replies and glances at Niklos.
"Excellent. I'll let our swindl...I mean negotiator discuss the price. Please no souls or priceless artifacts? We are on a budget here and no time for dilly-dallys."
Niklos immediately makes himself at home, slumping into a pile of pillows near Bernaditi and reaching for a beverage. He produces his dwindling pouch of tobacco and some rolling paper, all the while nodding along with Edda's curt words. There's a wide grin on his face, as always.
"Why," he laughs. "You're already hagglin', cousin. It's in our blood, innit? Don't let me slow you down..."
With another chuckle, he lights and takes a long drag off his newly rolled cigarette. "You still take gold, my scaly friend? Run-o'-the-mill spell like this shouldn't be too expensive... honestly, methinks you should throw in somethin' extra for our continued custom. Not much traffic around 'ere, is there?"
"they're negotiating with a Rakshasa. This place is SO strange. I'm just going to not say anything and observe"
"I think I will keep quiet, Niklos seems to be quick with his words and I do not want to blunder anything up."
"If we're talking money, it's 150 for the scroll, ten times that for the wand, and five times that for the grave salt. Five times the scroll, I mean. Otherwise I'll sell the scroll for three embarrassingly secret, the wand for a riddle I can't crack in three attempts, and the salt for one tragic memory from each of you."
"Tragic memories? How does that work. In a life my long, I have many tragic memories"
Although she tries to hide it, a brief shadow crosses over her face at her words
Edda sneers.
"Add voyeur to your list of attributes Berny. I can give up a memory if it comes down to it. Plenty of painful ones from a pirate's daughter. That's cheap coinage from my perspective too. You all agree? None of us are riding high on cash from my perspective."
"You can't just whisper it to me. And it's not for my enjoyment, dear. It's currency of a sort. I make no guarantees as to who will learn of it."
Niklos' smile falters for just a moment. "Well, I... yeah. Sure, let's go for it. What's a lil' tragedy between friends, eh?"
"I am... well acquainted with tragedy. I will share this thing."
"Speak ahead, then. Looks like you have a consensus."
Edda shrugs and steps up, a small sneer on her face.
"I'm the daughter of an Ulfen Ex-Pirate Captain and a Varisian Sorceress. They met and married...under bad circumstances. They managed to make it work, and they raised me together, but it was obvious they never truly loved each other in the end. Respect for each other? Yes. Both them loved me in the end however, but this is NOT the story I'm here to tell. The truly horrific story is something of a more recent nature. My mother's family has always had a link to the Harrow. For generations. Heck, I may be distantly related to Sonnorae herself! However, I digress. My mother read the cards daily: Looking for signs and portents, watching for a future that she knew eventfully would come. One day she was laying out her cards and stood straight up from her chair in our modest cabin. I new something was wrong instantly. My mother never did anything without full thought or at least some planning ahead of time, so I know such behavior was out of synch with her normal actions. She then told me to find my father and gather the village's protectors as soon as I could, then have them come find her. She then left, barreling out into a near-blizzard with only her magic and ancient Harrow cards in hand to protect her. When my father and I finally found her..."
Edda shudders as she remembers the scene in her mind's eye.
"Her...remains...were scattered over a clearing not a mile from our home, with only her frozen blood and a few scattered fires were left guttering. Around her scattered the remains of a dozen Ice Trolls who had obviously been trying to sneak up on our forest village during the worst of the storm. Some of the trolls were already trying to get up, but the men fell upon who moved, chopping them up and setting them alight with fire any who had managed to escape my mother's wrath. She ahd seen it coming. Maybe not the enemy itself, but the attack. She KNEW and she still went. She didn't even say goodbye. I gathered her Harrow cards and cleaned them carefully of the blood, snow, and troll icor, leaving my father and his men to clear the field. At the end of it all, my father didn't weep. He merely looked me in the eye and said sadly. 'Good lass she was. Ne'er I thought more of her than now, nor have I ever met her better! You remind me of her. But get you hence. Leave! This will always be your home, but I want you gone. Find the life you deserve, before you end up with the life you get! Like her. That's an order.' I went home and packed immediately. I walked the next day to the nearest fishing village and bought passage to Varisia, intent on finding my mother's family...and here a I am."
Marinda's face goes blank as she stares off into the distance for a minute.
"My story is a simple one. No blood shed. No murder. But it has death. Yes, it has death. Three deaths.
It was autumn when the caravan set out from Janderhoff heading to Korvosa where it intended to spend the winter. There should have been plenty of time to reach Korvosa before the winter snows came and closed the mountain passes. Weeks at least.
The storm came out of nowhere and hit the caravan. Through blinding snow the caravan proceeded, trying to make for a sheltered place where they could rest and wait out the storm. In those conditions, it is not surprising that one of the wagons slipped, a wheel broke, a caravan fell, and a young woman was injured.
The caravan could not stop or all would perish, it had to continue. But the young woman needed help.
An old fool of a woman heard the cries for help. She forgot that her TRUE duty was not to some worthless girl not of her blood, not even a Varisian, but a Chelish wench who had married into The People. Her TRUE duty was to her young daughter, pregnant, and to her granddaughter. She should have stayed with her family and left the Chelish chit to whatever fate it pleased Desna to send her.
But no, she chose instead to be the hero, to be the saviour. She left her caravan to travel with the stranger, to help the stranger.
And help the stranger she did. She survived the injuries she'd sustained.
But, alas, at what cost? In the night, somehow, somewhere, in the blinding snow, the other wagon, HER wagon, got separated. It never reached shelter.
It was four days until the storm subsided, four days until they could look for the lost wagon. They found it. Inside, huddled together, her daughter and two grandchildren, one yet unborn. Quiet as the grave. As the grave"
Marinda's words stop and she stares off into space, tears streaming down her face unnoticed.
"Ah, yes, these are valuable ones." Bernaditi does not seem moved by the tales, but slightly intrigued. "What are you two going to tell me?"
Niklos listens to Edda and Marinda's stories, looking increasingly more uncomfortable in his seat. Finally, he seems to drop his usual bravado, his grin replaced by an a look of utmost seriousness. The expression does sit well on his face. For one who wears so many masks, the contrast is quite shocking: each line and scar tells a tale of desperation and hardship, and the utter weight of sin in his gaze darkens their usual gleam. He seems decades older.
"My sister is dead," he states flatly. "Kornelia was 'er name, though I used to call 'er Kora. She called me Niko. I loved 'er. She was the only person in this rotten world who's ever meant anythin' to me. Did everythin' together, always. Shared all our burdens. We were twins, joined from the start, so I guess I figured we'd go at the same time, or not at all. Perhaps it would've been for the best..."
Niklos shakes his head. "We were lured in by the promise of wealth. F*ckin' obvious, ain't it? Amateur, textbook! Greed. So easy to manipulate someone who's blinded by the gleam o' gold. She was killed by assassins from Daggermark. Honestly, I haven't the faintest clue who sent them, but there they were when we went to collect. We'd crossed a lot of folks along the way from Brevoy, so it could've been anyone. Doesn't really matter though, does it? She's dead, and I'm stuck here without 'er. Wasn't even there to hold 'er when she went. I ran as fast as I could the moment they were on 'er..."
"You know what the biggest joke is?" he scoffs, growing ever more exasperated. "Just before that we'd been to a Reader. Drunk off our asses, naturally, and makin' fun of it all. The old hag warned us 'bout goin', but we laughed in 'er face. Tried to spook us with talk 'bout destiny, and whatnot. I s'pose it was to teach us humility. F*ck that! F*ck fate, f*ck the gods, and f*ck those hellspawned cards for makin' us think we have any damn say in anythin' we do! Now I'm stuck here in this madhouse, questionin' whether or not I've died after all, and finally been thrown in the Pit for all the sh*t I've done..."
Finally, the scoundrel slumps into his pillows, seething. His cigarette has almost burnt to ash, singeing his white-clenched knuckles, but he does not seem to notice. "That good enough, ya pompous newt?!"