[PFS PbP] 0-06 Black Waters (Inactive)

Game Master Deane Beman

Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng, a stout and hardy Taldan with thin, graying hair and a thick, bushy mustache, unfurls a map on his butcher-block table and places a meaty finger on the parchment. “The abandoned district of Beldrin’s Bluff was once the gem of Absalom’s Precipice District—now it is but a weathered crag of broken rock at the edge of the roiling sea."

"When the great quake hit ten years ago, entire blocks of the Bluff sheared from the mainland. Cliffside tearooms and exclusive estates fell into the waves and carried hundreds of nobles to a watery grave. An elite academy, called the Tri-Towers Yard, remained on the mainland, but sank wholesale into the earth. Children unfortunate enough to survive the quake lay pinned under debris as sewer water slowly rose from the ground and drowned them. Nearly every student perished."

“Today, crumbled stone walls and weed-filled lots sprawl where gentlemen’s clubs once filled with pipe smoke and hobnobbing lords. The Drownyard—er, that’s what the illmannered call the school these days—lies behind a fence of black iron pikes, constructed by the families of the dead to discourage morbid trespassers."

“Even respected archaeological groups have been denied official access. Our own Society has itched to explore the site ever since the quake—that is, ever since we discovered that the school fell through the roof of a lost necropolis. Unfortunately, the emotional trauma attached to the school has remained fresh. But finally, after ten years of mourning, the politically-connected families of dead students have sanctioned our delve request.”

With a toothy smile and a clap, Dreng says, “I’m pleased to announce that I’ve selected your team for the delve. I want you to find a way into the necropolis, document your findings with professional detail, and recover artifacts of historical significance. The Society is interested in one artifact in particular—a two-finger ring topped with a ruby salamander.”

Heh..."Drownyards"...dat's pretty good dere. I'll 'elp fin a way t'yer lizzerd ring an bring it back. Any dat stands in me way'll feel me fist. Dat'll lern em...

Sounds simple enough, smash and grab job. Did you say necropolis? I get the feeling I should grab a few holy waters before we head out...

Cyrus' imagination begins to run a bit thinking about the seemingly inevitable undead they are sure to face, which brings to mind the two most recent lovely ladies that have captured his awkward attention.

Note to self, perfect place to bring Clair to if I ever get another chance to ask her on a date... He muses as he remembers the lovely, albeit odd, Cleric of Urguthoa.

My name is Cyrus. My friends from the desert bazaars used to call me the flea. Something about leaping tall buildings in a single bound... Cyrus dips his head in an ever so slight bow.

"The Dawnflower has mourned with the families as have I. I will help find this ring if you covet though I myself go to bring the Dawnflower's cleansing light to the undead that no down mock the site."

The towering half-orc indelicately sidesteps towards Cyrus and elbows his arm while leaning toward him...

Oi...wots a necri-poliss?

"It's a city of the dead. They sometimes start as holy sites of mass burial but foul powers sometimes corrupt the purity that once stood there."

Ah...err...tanks. So youse is tinkin' mebbe we might bash some skelingtons an zomboys and stuff? Cause I'm all fer double-killin' tings...

At the prospect of possible violence Marug seems to cheer up immensely.

Whatcha say dere Vencha-Cap'n? Youse tink we's gonna fin' us some 'res'liss dead' ta smash down dere?

Unconsciously, Marug rubs his scarred and craggy knuckles.

"It would not surprise me if we find some of these abominations waiting for us."

Good...good! Dat's real nice...All dis talk got me hun'gry...an' thirsty! I's all fer 'eadin' down dere inna mornin'...jus' need one night ter feast a lil and drink more! Oh an mebbe we kin fin' a few more t'come 'long too! Dis'll be real fun eh? Eh?

Marug is practically dancing with glee as he sidles up to Cyrus, energetically elbowing his arm.

The old man rubs his jaw briefly before lifting the brim of his leather hat and wiping away a few beads of sweat.

"The name's Ibid," begins the old man, shifting the longbow slung over his shoulder so as to gain access to his satchel. "I've been doing this sort of thing for a long time, but I don't know if I've ever felt as confident at the outset of a mission as I do now."

The old man motions toward the others gathered Venture-Capatain Dreng. "With as strong a group as I see gathered here, I'm starting to like our chances," Ibid says with a grin.

From within the small bag, hanging diagonally across his body, in the same manner as the longbow, Ibid pulls his journal and scratches a few notes onto the open page. The aged bard writes and underlines the words... holy water.

I think the kid is right, for once, Ibid thinks, shifting his gaze to Cyrus. Best not to tell him though, it might go to his head.

At the sound of the ancient crackling voice, Marug spins around, fists raised! Seeing the Bard, Marug heaves a great sigh of relief, but his eyes narrow in anger at being so easily caught off-guard.

Youse looks like yer jes came up outta dat neckry-palace, why'dja wanna go back in dere, fossil? Missin' yer brudder and sister skelingtons den?

Cyrus' small frame is easily jostled by the muscular half-orc.

Necro- ha - violence! Yes! We get to bash some skulls! Cyrus spits out in between elbows to the ribs, grateful the exotic paladin answered for him.

Literally bash some skulls... that reminds me, I should pick up something other than this sickle, if I have learned anything its that bones don't cut easy...

Cyrus lets a guffaw escape at the fossil jab, but quickly replaces it with a little scowl. Hey now, Ibid might look like death warmed over, but he is a crack shot with that bow of his. Cyrus shoots his elbow at the ribs of the half-orc, only to hit one of them square on the funny bone. He winces, then hides the look, non-chalantly rubbing his tingling arm.

I hope I don't have to defend Ibid like that too often, he might think I look up to him, and that would definitely go to his head...

Seeing the bard taking notes again, Cyrus is reminded for the third time that he should probably jot a few things down. He secretly reaches for his pack, and draws his journal and writing utensil out.

Sleight of Hand: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 28

Now youse is speakin' mah langy-age dere Shy-russ!

Marug places a friendly chunk on Cyrus' shoulder while flashing him a toothsome grin

But I'll be more 'jen-riss' 'bout dis'n once I see 'im trow back a pint. 'Least dat ways I'll know 'es 'live Directing his attention to Ibid Whatcha say 'bout dat gran'dad...care t' quaff a pint an some chips?

Without waiting for a reply he off-handedly addresses Nadra Yer'n vited too dere knight...if'n yer gots da stomach fer it! At this last he gives her a wink and a smile.

Ibid laughs aloud as the boisterous half-orc verbally jabs and pokes fun at his age. I like him, this will make things a bit more interesting when we're crawling through the dark, dank ruins of the academy. At least this half-orc will keep the mood light.

"If there is the possibility we might die together," begins the old bard. "Then I'd be honored if we could dine together. I just have one question for the venture-captain before we depart."

Ibid turns to Venture-Captain Dreng, "The Pathfinder Society's main objective for us is the recovery of a two-finger ring topped with a ruby salamander. This seems like a fairly small artifact to be found in the ruins of the entire Tri-Towers Yard. Is there any historical information regarding what section of the academy this ring was housed in? Or, maybe, who was the keeper of this ring was before the event?"

Ibid prepares to write any final notes in his journal, if the Venture-Captain has any additional information to add. While waiting he looks at the untidy scrawl already on the page:

Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng (Taldan)
-Academy: Tri-Towers Yardords, a.k.a. the Drownyard
-Fallen through a lost necropolis
-Enter the necropolis, document findings, recover specific artifact: two-finger ring topped w/ ruby salamander
-holy water

I'd be up for a drink! Cyrus says, a little too eagerly.

ok, you don't get these chances everyday, don't screw it up. Just don't talk about your height, she doesn't care...

so, Nadra, is it? You come to this necropolis often?

what? Why would I ask that? He just said it's been 10 years!

can I buy you a drink? I bet you could bless the ale and we could take it in with us. A little holy ale?

that might top them all... Did you just ask her about holy ale?

you and I should flank together some time, you would be surprised how well short guys like me can flank...

speechless...

Cyrus' face flushes a deep red at his amazing ineptitude at dealing with women, and pretends to continue writing in his journal.

Ibid shakes his head, grinding his teeth at the awkward, excitable youth. The bard quickly scrawls a few notes on a new page of his journal, and then steps to Cyrus. Holding out the open page, the old man reveals the notes written to Cyrus.

Leaning in close to the rogue, Ibid attempts to block the other's sight of the page while letting Cyrus read the words:

She's nearly an angel, kid. Slow down, take a breath, and relax a bit.

Next, while still leaning in close to the rogue, Ibid whispers, "You're mighty awkward when you get excitable, and that seems to be the majority of the time."

Pointing with his finger to the open journal, shared between them (hoping to make their conversation less obvious to the group), he continues, "You're not going to win her over with talk like that. It's too damn awkward. I know it's probably too old fashioned for the youths these days, but maybe you can wait a little while and then simply pay her a compliment."

"See, now, Fluffy, I told you it was this way..."

A gnome, just shy of three and a half feet tall, with light brown skin, green eyes, and straw-colored hair enters the room. He looks at the others and pauses briefly, disconcerted by the Venture-Captain's looks of annoyance. "Sorry I'm late. I insisted we were meeting in this wing, but Fluffy here wouldn't hear it, would you Fluffy? Fluffy?"

He looks behind him, then out the door to the left, then sighs and steps out of the room. After a moment, he returns, leading a large white tiger behind him. Smiling, he introduces himself, "My name's Grimbli Fizzwhizzle, and this is my companion, Fluffy. That's not his real name, of course, but I call them like I see them, and he certainly is. Fluffy, that is. Plus, he'll answer to the name, so I think it'll do for now." His smile fades briefly, but returns in full force as he continues. "I'm terribly excited to join you all on this little venture...or, rather, I'm sure I will be, once I know what it is?" He looks to the others hopefully.

Coooorrrrrr....dat right dere is a mighty beast indeed! Youse gotta have sum mighty magiks t'tame such a cree-cha! Roit den. 'ere's da job. We's goin down inna necky-palace. We's gonna grabs a lizzerd ring wot fits on two fin'gers, den whatever elsen we like, den we come back an get paid fer it. While we's on dat sub'jeck, wots da goin rate onna job like dis Mista Vencha' Cap'n?

Marug puffs out his chest at this last question. Cryrus is pretty sure he can hear a couple of faint pops as Marug's ribs threaten to burst loose from his skin...

She cocks an eyebrow and she stares queerly at the Cyrus. "I... thank you for your offer but I must decline. A paladin of the Dawnflower cannot afford to have their minds dulled by any means." she said sternly.

The party members arise in the morning and muster out in front of the Grand Lodge. You find a note and an iron key waiting for you in a basket by the door. “I leave you with the key to the Drownyard gate. Remember, the Drownyard is a deeply personal site for many powerful Inner Sea families. You will tread upon the graves of their children. Be sure to give the site the respect it deserves.”

The day is gray, dreary, and there is a fine misty rain blowing in from the south. As your group embarks on the mission, you head southeast, skirting the boundary between the Coins and the Eastgate Districts before cutting through the Docks and entering the Precipice Quarter. In a short time you come to your destination. Beldrin’s Bluff is a rotting ghost town at the edge of a hungry sea. Throughout the derelict landscape, seagulls perched on splintered timbers reflect your passage in their glassy black eyes. Overhead, dark clouds move ashore with the promise of a storm. Once you reach the west side of Beldrin's Bluff, the Drownyard comes into view. A fence of black iron pikes surrounds a block-wide yard. Dead tree branches reach out from the fence like the arms of emaciated prisoners desperate to escape. A man is on the inside, cutting the trees down. Some of the dismembered branches remain, stuck in place by knotty elbows swollen around the iron. As your party appraoches, the man looks up from his sawing and watches you approach. His thinning hair is matted and sweaty. The old man stares, silent and suspicious. Behind the man you see partially collapsed buildings and three whitewashed towers lean in a lake-filled yard.

Cyrus mulls over the words of the aged bard as they make their way through the dreary weather and landscape, on the way to the fabled drownyards.

After some time, he begins to speak, but stops short.

I hate to admit that the old man is right. Maybe if I just started with a compliment, there wouldn't be so many chances to stick my foot in my mouth... I suppose he can't be all that bad, trying to help me and all.

I can still jump better than him though... He says quietly, not realizing his internal thoughts became audible.

Lets start slow... apologize for being so... weird... earlier.

Sorry for asking you to get a drink earlier, Nadra. I should know better that a paladin shouldn't drink. Cyrus says, somewhat quietly, staring at the ground.

Wow... that was hard... and weird... His heart races a bit faster.

I was serious about the flanking though... not in a weird way... He tries to say, matter-of-factly.

That is still awkward... better say something else His heart races a little faster.

I could flank with Marug here too! Or you with Marug... He sputters.

Weeeeeeaaaahhhh Crash and burn! Last chance to save it... His heart races still yet faster.

I mean, I fight better that way... Makes it easier to hit the sweet spot, if you know what I mean.

I like your boots.

Cyrus spends the rest of the walk in silence.

Cyrus looks up for probably the first time since he last spoke to see the somber looking man on the other side of the fence. He waits for a few seconds, trying to read his face.

Pardon me, are you the groundskeeper here? We don't mean to disturb, we are with the Pathfinder society, commissioned by the nobles of Absalom to retrieve some items of interest, and prepare a way for the victims of this unspeakable tragedy to finally have rest. Would you by chance know the best way in?

Dipolomacy: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 = 25

"Ahoy!" The man shouts as he makes to open the gate. A look of confusion comes over his face at Cyrus's words. "Tragedy? Of what do you speak?"

Cyrus stops short, unsure what to say next. His look of confusion likely matches the man's face...

Does he not know what happened here? Perhaps it was so long ago that he doesn't realize what I am speaking about...

The children who passed away here... This was a school once, right? He says as he makes his way to the gate the man is about to open..

Ibis steps in at the question, tipping his hat at the ground keeper, with a cunning smile.

"Have you by chance ever heard of the Tr-Towers Yard? It was an elite academy here, and was ruined during an earthquake about ten years ago. Nearly every student was lost during this tragedy," the old bard explains.

"If I am wrong, by all means, please correct me", says the old man. "We wouldn't want to accidentally give to closure to an unsuspecting family, now would we?"

The bard tilts his head back and laughs, attempting a joke to loosen the tongue of the man.

diplomacy: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (11) + 3 = 14

The old man looks even more confused. "Children passed away...who do you mean? Are you talking about the Necropolis? I don’t know anything about that. Mrs. Heracks was down there the longest though. Perhaps she can help. Come on, I’ll introduce you. She’s in Headmistress Kiwu’s old office now." With that he begins to head off in the blowing mist, motioning to the party to follow.

Ibis looks incredulously at the rest of the group, a dull countenance spreading across his face. His facial expression seemingly asking, "Should we go with him and see what this Mrs. Heracks has to say?

While one raised eyebrow and mouth curling upward in an uncomfortable grin, seems to warn the others, "Be ready for anything...."

Can our intel be that incorrect? the old bard thinks to himself, preparing to follow the groundskeeper.

Something isn't right here, Ibid thinks before crossing the threshold of the fence, and entering the most. The old bard takes a few steps back, and waits for the group.

A loud clanging sound can be heard far off as a heavily-armored dwarf runs up to catch the others. From far away it seems as though a badger accompanies him, but upon closer inspection it is a skunk with an usually thick hide.

Dreng told us you would be here. I am Magrim, and this is Hrothgar. We do not fear the spirits of the dead--I think we can help you.

Sure ting gramps, jes lets me go in dere foist...no knowin' what may jump up at'cher... at the sound of Magrim's approach Oi! wot's dat? Rest'a y'ns ok fer lettin a dorf come 'long? Cause I ghashKhan ich'vae...err...I's aint got no uhhh...wot's dat word...aint got no fight wit im...

Leaning in closer to Ibid, Marug stage-whispers Ole granny what's-er-name jes might be a demon-fiend...or she might offer yer some Vudran tea...no knowin!

Marug pats Ibid on the shoulder as he passes by

After warmly patting the half-orc on the back as well, Ibid nods in deference to Marug.

"Thank you, my friend. For leading the way," says Ibid as the half-orc passes by. "I think it is best to be careful and remain on our guard until we understand why the situation has become so convoluted... That, and I'll admit, I've never been a fan of Vudran tea."

"Though, I'm not sure I caught all of what you said, a moment ago," the old man admits. "But I am very grateful to have someone as capable as you leading the way. With your might, Cyrus' agility, Nadra's devout faith, Grimbli's arcane mastery, and Magrim's... ermm... ahh... skunk, there should be no problems we cannot overcome."

As Ibid mentions the members of their group, one at a time, he turns to each and smiles.

"Hell, I'm the only one here who's expendable," the old bard laughs as he takes his place at the rear of the column.

The skunk seems unconcerned with the tiger in their midst, but bristles noticeably at the sight of the half-orc.

Magrim pats him, trying to soothe the creature.

Don"t mind Hrothgar--the enmity between our people is well-known, and he has a long memory. I can put aside these feelings for the good of the Society.

Then he turns to the aged human: Yours is a race of fleeting lifespan, it's true. I assure you, if you expire here I will see to it that your soul doesn't linger, but finds it way to the Boneyard. As to the matter at hand--I find it strange that the groundskeeper has no knowledge of the tragedy that befell the students here.

Hhhrrrmm...not sure wot an "em-ity" is er why it's 'tween us'n. Is it somefink yer eats? Jes so long as dat striped rat don spray me I's happy...I 'gree bout dat gouns'keepa...why don't 'e know bout dis ere his'try? Mebbe itsa trap or somefink

Marug follows the old man into the mist, watching for an ambush.

Youse needa stay close, we don' wanna get split up inna fog

Grimbli, seeing the battle skunk approach, leans over and pats Fluffy on the neck. "Don't you worry, Fluffy - I'm sure it won't spray us if we don't give it cause." He leans in closer and whispers into Fluffy's ear, "I can't say the same for Marug, however."

Still, happy to have the additional help, he greets the dwarf amiably. "Hail and well met, Magrim. Your assistance will be most appreciated, I am sure." With that, he directs his attention to the exchange with the old man.

Concerned about the old man's apparent lack of knowledge, Grimbli tries to discern what motives the man might have for being there - a groundskeeper, as Cyrus suggested, or an elaborate lure, meant to lead them all to certain doom?

Sense Motive: 1d20 ⇒ 12

Grimbli, seeing the battle skunk approach, leans over and pats Fluffy on the neck. "Don't you worry, Fluffy - I'm sure it won't spray us if we don't give it cause." He leans in closer and whispers into Fluffy's ear, "I can't say the same for Marug, however."

Still, happy to have the additional help, he greets the dwarf amiably. "Hail and well met, Magrim. Your assistance will be most appreciated, I am sure." With that, he directs his attention to the exchange with the old man.

[dice=Sense Motive]1d20

Yes, likewise, the dwarf says matter-of-factly.

Marug follows the old man into the mist, watching for an ambush.

Youse needa stay close, we don' wanna get split up inna fog

Agreed, let's stay together in case something is amiss.

Following the group at the rear of the column, and hearing Marug's call to stay close in the blowing mist, Ibid steps quickly to keep from getting left behind. The old bard scans the terrain around them as best he can through the white, misty screen which presses in close around the party.

perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

Finding it difficult to see anything out of ordinary, but still feeling a heavy sense of foreboding, Ibid speaks in reply to Magrim, "Thanks for offer, Margrim... just be sure to put me down if I turn undead."

The old man tries to chuckle, but finds his laughter fading almost immediately to silence.

Are we allowing ourselves to walk knowingly into a trap? the bard thinks, shaking his head. Hell, we are Pathfinders, aren't we? I suppose this is what we do best.

The group follows the old man along the ruined paths of the Tri-Towers Yard that wind their way around black ponds and gray, shattered buildings. Powerful fragrances precede one roofless hall where a thin path meanders through an abundance of flower arrangements in wild bloom. These are the original funerary flowers from 10 years ago, unnaturally preserved by the magic of the necropolis and growing into a small flower garden. The man looks over his shoulder and motions again with his left hand. "Come along, we are almost there. Name's Deris by the way." The man seems almost cheerful as the misting rain mats his hair down and water runs down his arm, while the flashes of lightning are reflected off of his now wet, pruning saw hanging in his right hand. Just off this path, Deris pauses one last time to make sure the party is following and with a grin, ducks into a small doorway.

Oi! Deris, why aint you knowin' 'bout da Necro-palace? Youse da groun's-keepa roit? So why aint you keepin' no groun's in da Necro-palace? If'n youse is leadin' us ter'n ambush you'll feel da back o' me 'and...

Intimidate: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

"Ambush? Don't be silly! This is a school. Unless you're afraid of a bunch of children? Come along now!"

The party follows Deris into the doorway. Inside they find a small classroom with ten students dressed in checkered uniforms sitting stiffly at wooden desks, staring straight ahead. No one moves. At the front of the class, a conservatively dressed woman leans against the wall. You see Deris stride forward to lady and begin conversing with her in hushed tones, their heads together. Occasionally Deris looks back at the group or point at you with his thumb.

Looking at the children, you realize that they and the teacher are only phantasms. They are spirits—wispy, see-through haunts attached to their former classroom.

"Erm...I don't suppose any of you want to break the news to him?"

With a deep breath, Grimbli steps forward. "Much as we might wish it otherwise, sir, these children and their teacher are but phantasms. Spirits, doomed to haunt these rooms and halls until such time as they can be put to rest. Surely, you've noticed that they've not aged in the past ten years or so? Never moved on, grown up - or out, for that matter, which, of course, we're all more or less wont to do as we get older, wouldn't you say? Why, there was one of the elders in my old village..." He pauses briefly, lost in thought, then remembers his original point. "Anyway, my point is that they're not actually alive, and putting their spirits to rest is something that we might be able to do while we're here, so anything you could do to help us in that regard would be terribly, well, helpful."

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23

Nadra looked at the spirits uneasy. Among the Cult of the Dawnflower, she was specially trained in combating undead as they were a frequent problem in Osirion. She was taught that there was no such thing as a "good undead." She never meet one, that much was for certain. Yet seeing these students and their teacher forever chained to their classroom, caused Nadra to doubt her teachings, ever so slightly.

When she finally spoke, she seemed to struggle at first as if her words were lost in her throat. "Y-yes. Yes, we should do our best to put them to rest."

"Nonsense...are you mad? These children are as alive as you or I! Mrs. Heracks...have you ever heard such rubbish?" The teacher, presumably Mrs. Heracks, smiles slightly and shakes her head as if to indicate she hasn't. The movements are very choppy...almost like a projected image. She returns to instructing the children as if you've never entered the room.

Upon seeing the spectral children, Ibid's heart plummets. He had prepared himself mentally for an ambush, or an attack by an evil, terrible undead creature. He had thought he was prepared for the worst... but he was not prepared for this.

"I'm with you, Grimbli and Nadra," the old bard says in dark tone, the sight of the doomed children weighing heavily on his heart. Ibid steps closer to Grimbli and Nadra, then continues, "This is far too cruel a fate for these children and their teacher. But how best to put them to rest?"

"I do fear the more we push them, the more upset they will become..."

knowledge(religion): 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (2) + 0 = 2

And I roll a gentleman's 2. That's not going to help us figure this part of the adventure out :)

Magrim closes his eyes, seeking advice from his ancestors as to what tethers these spirits to this realm.

Knowledge Religion: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (6) + 4 = 10

So is dey's ghostests roit? But dey's also pups?

Marug will move to the nearest child phantasm and slowly pass his beefy paw through the specter's head. Prolly gonna get myself killed doing this lol

How's I s'pposed to bash dis lot? Mebbe if dey's 'ad a bit of flesh an' bone I could smash dat but dey cants be tetched!

Incredulous and stunned at the developments so far, Cyrus has been speechless. Suddenly, an idea pops into his mind.

Mr. Deris, is the headmaster in by chance? We were sent by some parents of these children to collect a few things, without disturbing them, and I am afraid we have done that far too much already. We appreciate you showing us the classrooms. Could you show us around a bit more?

Ruh?

Marug cocks his head slightly left quizzically.

Deris look to the group. " Where are my manners? There is Mistress Kiwu's old office." He points to a small room devoid of anything save a single desk. "Mrs. Heracks knows the way to the necropolis and would be happy to show it to you when you're ready." The children continue to nod in silence as Mrs. Herack teaches.

Yes, please Mrs. Heracks, show us the way.

Did the 10 knowledge result let me know anything?

Nothing on the K: Religion roll…

As you study the scene further you begin to realize that the teacher and students have no real effect on the world; in fact Magrim discovers that Deris seems to be able to manipulate them with prestidigitation…perhaps unknowingly. As the teacher silently gestures that she'll return in a moment, the students nod and silently whisper to one another. As Deris moves down the hallway Mrs. Heracks follows in short, jerking steps leading you to a large, partially submerged door…the entrance to the Necropolis.

Nadra inhales deeply before following the specter, knowing that what might lie in wait beyond the door. Her years of training were to make her ready for this moment, to combat and halt the undead as they attempted to claw their way back into our realm.