Pick shifts his weight uneasily foot-to-foot as they look into the room of the stained-glass windows. If he had any hair on his head, it would be standing on end. His instincts tell him that he is in the lair of the enemy and should attack, now, but Hammer's orders state otherwise. And she is an elder, and therefore sees and knows things that he does not.
He doesn't speak, but sidles forward to the next doors, trying to keep himself between Not-A'letta and Kyra, as a good guardian would. He listens hard for any sound of trouble that might spring on them before the doors are opened.
The other pair of double doors are also open, though they swing on badly rusted hinges, grating the teeth of whomever opens them.
A stone fireplace sits in the northwestern portion of the chamber beyond. Paintings hang on the walls to the north and south, each covered over with a thick sheet of dusty cobwebs that obscures its subject from view. Each painting is accompanied by a small plaque, though reading the plaques from the door is impossible.
On the other side of the room is another double door.
For just a moment after the door swings open, Pick notices his breath poof out in mist ahead of him. But only for one breath.
"Disease?" Kyra asks curiously as they continue to the opposite set of double doors. "How does that work, then?"
A'letta stands up a little straighter and points out her chin. "If His Lordship deems you worthy (and I'm sure he will deem you, of all people, worthy) then he bites or scratches you, and you wait a few days."
"One goes to sleep, and when they wake they are greater than they ever were before, in life."
Pick's brows furrow a little at the slight exhalation of his own breath in the air before him. "...cold?" he asks uncertainly, of nobody in particular. He squints around the room with its once-fine, now-ruined furniture-- at the cobweb-shrouded paintings, the small plaques.
It's possibly the desire to be away from A'letta as much as anything else that prompts him to step through the doors, his eyes scanning restlessly for any sign of what made his breath hang so in the air.
RHanloi thinks about what magic, necromantic and other, could cause Pick's breath to be seen. He also thinks about undead creatures and if their presence causes a chilling effect, also...
It's certainly possible that some sort of cold spell is the progenitor of whatever small cold Pick must have felt. It may even be likely, because it's not actually cold here. It doesn't match up with Rhanloi's knowledge of any applicable magic he's heard of, though.
The room is pretty unremarkable on the inside, though. It's certainly not very cold. A few steps closer, Pick can see that all of the plaques (that are on the paintings) read "Foxglove" (plus a first name, of course). Seems that this is the family portrait room.
Khalbar listens to the crazy talk coming from A'letta and is more and more sure she is lost to them. He keeps an eye on the rear making sure this 'Lordship' doesn't turn up behind them. He glances into the room and grimaces. Portraits are against the Shoanti way, as the tribe fear the pictures will steal part of the soul.
"Careful here" he growls lowly in his throat.
A'letta walks into the room, looking at the portraits. She approaches the portrait marked ALDERN FOXGLOVE, son of Traver Foxglove. She wipes away some of the dust and gazes upon the portrait, one of a very handsome but young (couldn't be older than ten years old) Aldern Foxglove. "This must be the house's gallery. It has images of all of the members of the family all the way back to Vorel. What a storied family."
She turns to the group. "I've never been in here, though I've lived in the Manor for...awhile. His Lordship keeps us all below most of the time."
Kyra shrugs at Flibble as A'letta walks up to the portrait. "Having seen what has become of A'letta, I'd rather not rule it out." She responds quietly. "Besides, there's only one more door here, may as well check it out. Who knows what we might find."
Turning towards A'letta, Kyra begins to inquire about the family's history - being from a storied family herself - but stop short. "What is below?" she asks, her blood beginning to run cold.
A'letta's eyes flash. "Caves, and servants of His Lordship. His Lordship is preparing a grand feast in your honor, he's been so nervous about what you might think!" She smiles. "It's been very cute watching him stress about you."
She walks to the other double-door. "After you, then."
Pick says sourly, " 'Lord Ship keeps below.' Like how man keep dogs?"
Pick has apparently been topside long enough to attempt his very first smarmy insult. He continues to try and keep himself between A'letta and Hammer, protectively, as he warily circles the room. He grabs the portrait of the young Aldern off the wall, as if suspecting it harbored some vile secret, and inspects it grimly before pointedly discarding it, and moving to the double-doors where A'letta stands.
At the doors, he spends a moment looking them over, not trusting the dead thing at his side as far as he could bodily throw her.
()
Behind the portrait that Pick removes from the wall is another portrait, exactly identical, though there can't have been space in there for it. The one in his hands quickly rots and molders, rotting away to dust and scattering until nothing visible is left.
A'letta matter-of-factly answers Pick's insult, crossing her arms and saying, "Like how a man lives with friends, Pick."
The double door into the next room does not seem trapped or locked.
Kyra frowns at the exchange between Pick and A'letta, but remains silent. As Pick fails to destroy the painting, her eyes widen. "Lord and Lady, what is this place?" she curses quietly.
As A'letta and Pick move towards the next door, she shakes her head subtly at Flibble, wishing not for the first time that she had learned their secret hand signals. She understood his concern, but there was more information to be gained. The place reeked of a trap enough as it was without making things worse.
She frowns, wondering how she can make this clear. "Big place." She remarks lamely to A'letta. "His Lordship has done well for himself. It reminds me of home - all these spacious rooms dedicated to our ancestors." She pauses, considering. "It would be nice to take the time to explore it properly. How much of it have you seen in your time here?"
She walks up behind Pick as he checks the door for traps and eventually opens it. She wants to say that she's certain any traps they come across won't be of that type, but worries over A'letta's attitude towards them souring.
Pick is further weirded out by the portrait dissolving to nothingness in his hand, to the point where he can't even summon a response to A'letta. He stares a moment down at his hands, wipes them off on a bit of dusty old furniture, then edges towards the door. With a glance to the others, especially Hammer, to see if she objects, he... opens the next door.
"We should not delay much longer, or we risk making the Lord of this manor impatient," the half-elf urges...
Khalbar wards the evil eye as the painting disintegrates. He already has a bad feeling about this place without strangeness like that happening.
"I am ready to meet master," he says hefting his axe menacingly. "Find lady first though." He steps into the next room beside Pick.
The door opens into a large bedroom. The furniture inside, while dusty and unkempt, doesn't show any signs of water of mold damage. The one exception is a dark stain on the desk near the northern window. A silver handled dagger sits on the desk near the stain, its stained blade extending over the edge of the desk.
If you fail, you feel an incredible sense of despair and loneliness, as well as the knowledge that soon, your body will not be your own. You are compelled to approach the desk and slit your throat with the dagger (coup de gracing yourself). If somebody tries to stop you, you must attack them, scoring an automatic critical hit with the dagger.
Pick turns to look half-curiously at Flibble. His fingers sketch out quickly: Why?
Rhanloi detects magic to see if Flibble's announcement had any magical cause...
Rhanloi feels magic and darkness overwhelm him as he casts his divination. For just a few moments, he blacks out, his body hitting the ground as he loses consciousness. The auras of necromantic magic and evil surrounding the house are powerful, especially while they're inside.
Barely 20 seconds later, Rhanloi regains consciousness.
"Ugghhh..." he groans. "Guess I should have known this place was so overpowering with necromantic magic. Just give me a moment to clear my head..."
Khalbar rushes to his fallen friends side, lifting him off the floor and onto the bed in the room. "What happened?' he asks the elven wizard as he, thankfully, recovers from his fainting spell.
Pick looks uneasy when Ran-loy just drops to the ground-- Flibble's silent-speech explanation makes him all but twitch to attack somebody, if only the threat would reveal itself. He glares at A'letta, and at the dagger.
"What. Is. Knife?" he growls at the undead woman.
A'letta peers at the knife, and she answers, "I honestly have no idea. I've never been up here. That looks like an expensive hunting knife, though, and I think this is Traver Foxglove's room. He was the hunter of the family - the manticore down there was his."
"Do not touch anything..." Rhanloi manages to get out. "This place is an overpowering combination of necromantic magic and evil...that's why I blacked out. The sooner we are done here the better."
Kyra watches as Rhanloi drops to the floor, imperceptibly lowering herself into a fighting stance. As he regains consciousness, she breathes a sigh, but doesn't relax her body. She turns from his position on the bed to see what has Pick worked up, and sees him eyeing a knife with distrust near a very pale looking Flibble. Letting out a low growl, Kyra whirls back towards the door. "I've had it with this place. I'm about to start smashing things."
Pick gives the knife a wide, wary berth, but scurries after Hammer, as he cannot let the elder go into danger without him.
Kyra stalks out, alone, towards one of the unopened doors. She opens it to reveal a small guest bedroom, the walls of which are caked with a thick, spongy layer of dark green, blue and black mold. There isn't anything in the room other than a bed and the fireplace area.
Either way, make a as you feel your face erupt in blisters and boils. If you fail, you claw desperately at your face and take damage.
You feel the boils but recognize them as illusionary if you succeed at the Will save, and either way you stagger out of the room in 1 round, avoiding more than one iteration of damage.
Sucks to be me!! ;-)
Rhanloi enters the room and looks towards the bed, motioning for his companions to be silent. As he takes another step closer, intently listening, his face erupts in blisters and boils! He claws desperately at his face and staggers out of the room...
None of Rhanloi's friends see any of the blisters or boils, but they do see him suddenly begin to scratch and claw at his face with desperate vigor as he walks into the room.
He staggers back, his face ragged and bloody, bits of skin stuck underneath his nails.
Pick snarls as something goes very wrong with the drow-cousin. He leaps towards him, looking around wildly for any sign of a threat. Seeing no cause for the elf's behavior he instead tries to grab Ran-loy's slender wrists to keep him from further damaging himself.
Flibble feels an overpowering sense of strong magic surrounding him. Necromancy, evil, undeath...everywhere. The detection spell overwhelms his senses and he passes out for a moment.
Khalbar also moves to hold back Rhanloi from doing more damage to himself by grabbing him.
"Bad magic here. Best to leave." says the stoic barbarian to Hammer, but when he sees how driven she is to find answers, he backs away, determined to not let his friends do this alone.
Pick squints as Flibble repeats something similar to what drow-cousin had done... and promptly falls over, just like he had.
"Maybe stop doing that spell," he suggests drily, before nodding at the Big Man as they try to hold drow-cousin.
Just like with Rhanloi, Flibble wakes up within 30 seconds. And Rhanloi himself stops feeling the compulsion only a few seconds after he began to claw his face.
Weakly, the hald-elf mutters "I am beginning to really dislike this place...let's get this over with before something really goes wrong..."
A'letta kneels at Flibble's side. "You're the second person to pass out. Perhaps mortals such as you shouldn't traverse this house - I can show you out if you're done, and you can camp outside. I can go to speak with His Lordship and ferry messages between you. Perhaps I could convince him to speak to you."
Pick bares his teeth a little at A'letta from under the darkness of his hood, hovering next to Flibble in case her solicitousness is merely prelude to a strike. He grunts, almost disappointed, when she merely speaks instead. The dwarf offers the gnome a grubby hand to get to his feet.
His fingers of his other hand twitch a bit.