The ratfolk follows Chalmers to the changing room, where he dons the clothing set out for him. He takes a few moments to make sure it drapes correctly over his tail before proceeding to his guest room. Very nice material, though I wouldn't want to wear it in the City Below...too easy to catch on rough stone.
Chalmers precedes you all through the house's slightly chilly corridors. Candles set in glass lampshades, rather than the modern alchemical lights, illuminate the silent house. Most are burning steadily, but some few have gone out, to the butler's obvious chagrin.
Not too far from the cavernous room where Mme. Dulapont had been sitting, you pass through a portrait gallery. Some of the paintings are faded or darkened with age, and you all spot more than a few strands of cobwebs.
A single portrait shows a man in the grip of middle age. Despite his expanding waistline and the strands of grey in his hair, he looks merry and vital. His military uniform may be about a decade out of date, but on him, it looks quite dapper.
"The late master," Chalmers mutters. "'Mister' Phillip. Mme. Dulapont's husband. He married into the family, rather than have the Mistress marry into his. He died during a hunting accident."
A family portrait shows a younger, more refined-looking man with the same dark eyes and merry smile as the late Master. A pale, lovely woman stands next to him, her smile easily a match for his. The little girl sitting on a chair in front of them combines the best of their features, and her face bears the stamp of joy.
"Young master Traven, his wife and daughter," Chalmers comments. "The young master still lives in the house. It was such a tragic loss... Both his wife and daughter were murdered out in the marketplace. A mugging gone wrong, or so the guard claimed."
Another single portrait hangs at the very end of the corridor, its frame painted black. In the picture, you can just vaguely make out a tall, imposing figure on horseback. Most of the image has been obscured by years of grime and soot; a single candle burns next to the picture in a wall socket. A draft coming from the room beyond occasionally causes it to waft black smoke over the already damaged painting.
"Master Étienne," Chalmers says. "The Mistress' late uncle. He simply disappeared from his bedroom one night, and has never been found or heard from since."
The butler stops you all before you can go into the room at the end of the corridor, and instead directs you to a massive stairwell, made all out of dark oak with ebony inlay.
"The anteroom," he says, his voice stiff. "Under normal circumstances, this is where we would have admitted you and bid you welcome. But as you know, the door is stuck. Follow me, please."
*
The first floor is easily as grand as the ground floor - and even cooler. Rather than paintings, the corridors here are decorated with martial mementos; suits of ancient armour, dented shields with the crests of enemy nations, battered and broken weapons. Each item has a small placard naming the item's original owner and the circumstances under which the object was acquired.
Most of these placards state that the original owner was slain by a Dulapont of yesteryear in a battle for the sake of Clearvale-by-the-Lake.
"The ladies' changing room," Chalmers announces, throwing wide a pair of double doors and exposing a room full of dresses. "Astrea, you will assist M'selle. Gentlemen, if you would follow me?"
Chalmers' intention appears to be that Astrea and Garra should stay in the ladies' changing room and fix their wardrobe.
Unless any great objections are made, he then guides the men further down the corridor to another double door, behind which lies the gentlemen's changing room.
"Please take your time selecting outfits for dinner," Chalmers says as he bows himself out of the room. "I must see to the readying of your guest chambers. An attendant will be along any minute."
*
Both changing rooms contain a wide selection noble-grade outfits for any and all the species that make Clearvale-by-the-Lake their home. The sheer number of outfits may be staggering to some of you. There are several fitting booths with little curtains to preserve the modesty of the people changing, and an impressively large mirror so you can admire yourselves in your fresh new finery.
Astrea and Garra have barely been able to look at all the dresses when there is a quiet knock on the door, and a dusky-skinned young woman in a maid's dress comes creeping into the room.
"Your pardon, miladies," she says as she spreads her skirts in a near-perfect curtsy. "Mirjam is here to help you with the dressing. If you have made a selection, I can make any alterations and do up any buttons that are needed."
The young maid is undeniably pretty, in a doe-eyed, desert maiden sort of way. Her dark hair is braided, her maid's uniform is crisp and clean, and she smells faintly of perfumed soap. The rusty slave collar around her neck rather detracts from the whole image of well-groomed efficiency.
*
You have sufficient time to look the outfits over before there comes a timid scratch at the door. One of the portals opens a crack, admitting the skinny hunchback you saw in the servants' kitchen.
Up close, Wells looks no better than he did while he was tending the beef. The man has what appears to be a permanent tic under one eye, and the spotless condition of his servant's livery only serves to enhance the decrepitude of the rest of him.
"Begging your pardon for my lateness, good masters," Wells wheezes, his voice high-pitched and creaky. "Begging your pardon. There was the food to be set to simmer - Forgive me, good masters, forgive me, my dawdling is all my fault, my fault."
From one of his pockets, Wells pulls out a tape measure and a small sewing kit, his hands moving quickly enough for all their gnarled and crooked condition.
"If the masters have made a selection from the House's supply, I'm here to make any alterations that need doing. Please forgive my tardiness, good masters, please forgive."
|
Athalaric makes a mental note to check out the anteroom later if the chance should arise. When the butler leads them into the dressing room, the young wizard is simply amazed. Such a fine array of clothes he had only seen before through large windows of "Wanda's Vestments" in the merchant's district. But although he rarely spends the (meagre) pay he earns at the Bookwyrm, he would have had to save a long time to afford such silks.
Being inexperienced with the finer points of noble attire, he forlornly pokes through some of the robes and finally haphazardly picks a blue tunic and a black doublet with silver embroidery. The tunic is incredibly less scratchy than his normal robes and the doublet looks as if it is worth more than half the Bookwyrm. Uneasily, Athalaric examines his outfit in one of the mirrors.
"So, what do you think, does this look alright?"
Garra makes a note of the painting and the axe, making a note to mention the latter if something is made of her behavior.
Those thoughts are almost forgotten when she sees the number and complexity of the garments laid out for her to chose from. Her stomach reminds her of the fact she had next to nothing to eat for nearly two days.
"What do I have to do to get something to eat?"
She leans against a wall that isn't covered in dresses. Frustration lines her face as she looks that the clothes then down at her stout frame.
"Are any of those going to even fit?"
Alfred picks out something...well...black to wear.
Being inexperienced with the finer points of noble attire, he forlornly pokes through some of the robes and finally haphazardly picks a blue tunic and a black doublet with silver embroidery. The tunic is incredibly less scratchy than his normal robes and the doublet looks as if it is worth more than half the Bookwyrm. Uneasily, Athalaric examines his outfit in one of the mirrors.
"So, what do you think, does this look alright?"
The hunchback sidles over and walks around and around Athalaric, muttering under his breath.
"It does bring out milord's shoulders very nicely, milord," he finally says, nodding.
*
"What do I have to do to get something to eat?"
She leans against a wall that isn't covered in dresses. Frustration lines her face as she looks that the clothes then down at her stout frame.
"Are any of those going to even fit?"
"The meal for the family and the honoured guests is being served in the red dining room, milady," Mirjam says. "As soon as the honoured guests are dressed and ready, the feasts will be available."
The maid glides forward and makes a quick selection from among the dresses.
"I believe this should suit you quite nicely, milady, if you will allow me to make a small alteration. Do you approve?"
The dress Mirjam holds out to Garra is made of thick, burgundy velvet, lined with lynx fur. Thread of gold and thread of silver pick out images of wolves, charging down the sleeves.
Do I approve? That thing's gonna be so tight I can barely fi--
Stupid girl! You're going to dining with the lady of the house, not fighting.
Garra looks at it, and the girl noticing the collar for the first time, another thing to remind them of if they start looking down on me. Her eyes finally settle on the wolves, tracing the lines as their echoing howls sound in her head as she remembers the hunts she saw on the windswept steppes.
"I believe that will be perfect for me."
"Then if milady will allow me...?"
Mirjam hangs the dress back, then moves around Garra with a tape measure before performing a few quick, sure-handed actions and handing Garra the dress.
"I believe it should fit you admirably now, milady."
If Garra tries the dress, she discovers that it does, indeed, fit her much better than she had expected. The dress feels good and warm; despite its appearance, it is a respectable item of clothing, made from good, strong fabric.
The ratfolk looks around timidly in quick, jerky motions, clearly overawed by the size of the mansion. By the First Vault, you could fit entire warrens into a single floor of this place! What a waste. And look at that painting! But his real interest is piqued by something else. He sniffs at the air, muzzle held high, then tugs at Garra's sleeve. "Do you smell anything? Anything odd?"
When shown the panoply of clothing, he looks for something similar to the hooded robe he currently wears over his armor, preferably with brocaded sleeves and embroidered collar. "Wells. Too much of this is too big. Find something small. Like me."
Sir Gavin pities the state of the manor and is alternately fascinated and repulsed by the portraits.
At the sight of the family portrait, Sir Gavin asks casually; "I don't suppose young Sir Traven will be joining us this evening Chalmers?"
It will be the greatest of luck if he doesn't remember our little duel over that girl, even if it was twelve years ago. He thought to himself worriedly.
Sir Gavin stops suddenly at a suit of plate armor, engraved coincidentally with the same coats of arms as Gavin himself.
"By the gods..." He mutters, astonished. "I had no idea."
He turns to the others.
"It seems our families are tied together by more than friendship. This is the armor worn by one of my great-great-uncles, lost in a duel with 'Etienne Dulapont." He admires the work of his ancestors, and wonders idly if he could fit in it before moving on.
In the changing room, Sir Gavin will ask for his personal formal wear from his saddlebags, but won't delay if informed they were "lost". He will doff his armor and under padding, and take the proffered formal wear. He will keep only his sword.
"Wells. Too much of this is too big. Find something small. Like me."
"Nah, nah, s'alright," Wells wheezes.
The hunchback starts pulling at clothing racks, revealing the fact that they can be moved on rails that hang from the ceiling, and so exposes racks of clothing for smaller figures.
"Some of these should fit, uh, milord," Wells says. "There's stuff for Ratfolk, Gnomes, Halflings. We've even had Goblins through here once."
|
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Athalaric still wonders what that comment about his shoulders was supposed to mean when Wells speaks to Tik. He raises an eyebrow at the mention of Goblins.
"Goblins? Well, in that case you're lucky that the manor still stands! I mean ... I've never seen one, actually. But I've read that they are mean little creatures with a particular fascination of flames... Anyway, I'm ready for dinner."
With that he grabs the wrapped-up book from the side table where he had left it and looks at the others expectantly.
"Yes, milord," Wells says. "Times were, they were the best customers for naphtha and fire-oil, milord."
"Besides soot, mold, and decay? Not really, but then again I've been that great of a hunter, and I just assumed that was part of the city."
Garra begins changing without worrying with one of the dressing rooms. She is still fairly young, but still has some of the scars that her people prided themselves on. Most are small, thin lines, but two rather impressive ones angle down her back.
Surprised at how well it fits, and how study it seems, she takes a look in the mirror.
"Volk med ovce ..."
"Well, it seems we only need to find something for Astrea here."
"Thank you. Not surprising." R!Kktik chooses something that looks valuable, assuming that "more valuable" equated to "more appropriate."
With all of you dressed, Wells limps ahead of you. Mirjam the maid stays behind in the ladies' dressing room, bowing formally as the women depart.
As the hunchbacked servant leads you down the corridors to another stairwell, a harried-looking young woman dressed in less well-kept livery comes running up, struggling to contain her blonde hair under a kerchief. She stops dead when she sees you all, and her eyes alight especially on Garra and Astrea.
"Eh? I thought I was s'poseta..."
The girl's pale face goes bright red as she realizes she has spoken out of turn. She bows very deeply, then goes haring off back down the stairs, her shoes drumming a loud rhythm against the wooden steps.
"Please pay her no mind," Wells wheezes. "Daisy works the stables, usually. Or she used to. Anyway, please follow me, kind guests..."
*
The dining room is cozy, rather than grand. The walls are of some gold-coloured stone with pale white veins. The floor and roof are of oak, waxed and polished so many times that the material has taken on a fine sheen. A fire set in the grate is doing good work in dispelling the chill and dank that are so common to Clearvale-by-the-Lake.
And oh, the food.
Waiting for you all on the table is an exquisite venison roast, tureens of soup both spicy and sweet, bowls of potatoes and fresh greens, and many other fine foods. By the standards of the nobility, such a meal might be considered unrefined, but by anyone else's standards, the food is lavish and plenty.
Mme. Dulapont, who is already seated at the head of the dining table when you enter, smiles faintly. "I beg your pardon if this meal seems... other than what most noble houses would serve. My stomach is weak, and I have trouble with the finer sauces. I sincerely hope you do not object."
Despite the lady's words, you can see sauces and gravies aplenty, as well as platters of smoked and grilled fish, bowls of peas and fruits, little sweetmeats wrapped in dough, a sideboard groaning under bottles ancient and new, as well as a small beerkeg...
It is a feast, plain and simple.
"Please," Mme. Dulapont says, gesturing towards the chairs. "Be seated, and mister Wells and my loyal Chalmers will serve us. Should anyone like to lead us in pra..."
The lady's words are interrupted by a voice, heard through the dining room's door. Even so muffled, it is a powerful, angry voice.
"I don't care what you think you're doing, cooped up in that cobweb-and-dust-festooned tomb you call a room! Mother says she wants us both there for dinner, so we are going...!"
The doors are thrown open, and in the distance, you hear the rumble of thunder.
Two very different men stand in the door opening. Very different, but also clearly related to one another and the lady of the house.
The older man looks very old. His shoulders are slumped, his head is bowed, his hair is prematurely grey, and his noble finery looks as if it has not been ironed or hung out to air in far too long.
The younger man at his side is dark of hair and eye, his skin ruddy with the healthy flush of youth. His clothes - reminiscent of a junior officer's uniform, though clearly noble garb - are spotless.
The younger man's eyes sweep the room and an expression of chagrin passes over his face when he realizes you all must have heard him shout. His eyes pass over Gavin -- then shoot back and widen incredulously before narrowing to venomous slits.
"D'Monteforte," the younger man says as he pushes the older a step away from him. "How nice. I see you've tired of life and came to see me so I can end it."
Garra comes to sudden halt in the doorway as she spies the food.
This wasn't a meal, this was a feast fit for kings. Her stomach rudely reminds her of the fact that food was food, no matter the quantity. She hardly hears Mme. Dulapont apologize, but she does manage to reply.
"Not at all."
Lady I will scrub your stables for you if you're letting me eat at this table.
When the two men appear, she bears it, but her temper is starting to fray. Her eyes narrow into dangerous slits when the younger man starts to needle Gavin. Her voice comes out more as a low growl than anything else.
"Pomagaj mi da bom koga poškodoval, če so začeli to gor."
Gavin ignored the servants and their little mannerisms, as a well brought up member of the Gentry ought to.
At the Dining Room, he takes a moment to admire the pleasant setting and the offerings of food therein.
He bows over Mme. Dulapont's hand again.
"Nonsense Madame! This is truly a feast fit for Royalty! And I am honored to be allowed at your table."
Once seated, Sir Gavin winced at the appearance of his old dueling opponent and sighed just a little. Apparently Sir Jeremy had not shaken the hotheadedness that had gotten them into their fateful engagement in the first place. He poured himself some very nice wine and took a drink. Very nice indeed. He thought.
"Was that you bellowing a minute ago Sir Jeremy? Come, come! Sit and enjoy this magnificent feast Mme. Dulapont has prepared for us all!"
Noticing Garra growling as if she were about to attack, he leans over to pour some wine in her glass and whisper to her quietly.
"There is no need to attack him, I think. It is an old issue between us."
He leans back, takes another drink, then swirls it around while looking through the glass at it.
"As much as I would enjoy humiliating you in front of a crowd, again that is, I am unfortunately otherwise engaged at the moment. You will simply have to wait."
Observing the older man with some curiosity, he holds up the bottle as an offering.
"More wine anyone?"
"My last meal was over two days ago. My patience is a little thin for this."
She does, however take the wine (holding the glass work as well.) She sniffs it before taking a sip.
It's not mead, but it should do.
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Athalaric sits down next to Tik and takes in the regal feast prepared for them. As for him, his master could send him on errands like this more often. This was definitely better than the pale green stew that was served in the Unfeathered Arrow where he normally dined. Just as he wonders which soup to taste first, a commotion outside can be heard and the door bursts open as the two men make their dramatic entry.
By the gods, is that Traven Dulapont? I would never have imagined him to be so old. He looks so frail. Might be he does not even have interest in talking to me at all... And the other one. Must be this Master Jeremy that the servant at the gate was talking about.
Quietly Athalaric watches the exchange between Sir Gavin and Master Traven.
Oh well, this is going to be an interesting dinner. If they keep this pace, one of them will end with a knife in his back...
The ratfolk pays only limited attention to the byplay between Jeremy and Gavin, focusing more on his hostess, the other guests, and the food in front of him. Hmph. Humans.
Black walks into the room and his stomach rumbles a bit at the sights and smells. He takes a seat close to the head of the table, and waits while the ladies present are seated. How did he know that was proper?
As the feud escalates, he makes sure that his pistol is clear, and ready to be drawn. I hope I don't have to make any new holes in anybody today.
Once Garra is seated, she looks at the plate and silverware arrayed before her.
Suddenly, she becomes very aware of how she normally eats, and doesn't think that using her fingers would be looked on with much favor, or be wise in the case of some of the dishes.
Desna, why do you toy with me so?
Mme. Dulapont reaches out, fumbles around a abit and finally locates the silver salt bowl -- which she bangs on the table twice, a stern look on her face.
"I would appreciate it, young sir D'Monteforte, if you refrained from humiliating my son in his own home," the Lady says, her voice not cold, but a little less warm than before.
She turns her blind eyes on Jeremy, and her voice rings with command.
"And I would appreciate it if you refrained from picking fights with our guests. Please. Be seated."
Chalmers takes a step forward and bows.
"Dinner is served," he says, his voice smooth. "As this is an informal occasion, my services to fill plates and glasses are available, should you wish them."
Jeremy hesitates, but then goes to sit down. He pauses when he notices Traven, still standing by the door and apparently admiring the wallpaper. He goes over and pulls the older man along, settling him down at the table to his mother's left, while he settles on her right.
Jeremy's face is a painting of frustration and forced self-restraint. He keeps his silence, apart from a curt command for Chalmers to serve him, his mother and brother.
*
The meal commences and proceeds in good order after this. Even Garra, who has to struggle a bit with the unfamiliar cutlery, finds that she can please her taste buds and fill her stomach at the same time.
Yes, everything is going well...
And then, just after a delectable pudding has been served you hear a series of dull scraping and thudding sounds from somewhere above you.
Chalmers, who was just filling Alfred's glass with red wine, lets the karaffe's silver lip chatter against the crystal for a moment before he snatches it back, a small frown on his face.
The Dulapontes -- Jeremy, Traven and their mother -- all freeze at the same moment, Jeremy frowning, his mother turning pale. Traven resumes eating after the moment of hesitation, his eyes fixed on his plate.
"Well," Mme. Dulapont says, her voice somehow brittle. "I suppose that brings us to the point of our little gathering, doesn't it?"
"I suppose it does. What was that? Sounded like a herd moving through."
"I would appreciate it, young sir D'Monteforte, if you refrained from humiliating my son in his own home," the Lady says, her voice not cold, but a little less warm than before.
Sir Gavin's face flushes with some embarrassment. Here in service to the crown and still Sir Jeremy could provoke him.
"Of course Your Ladyship, no offense is meant."**************************
At sound of the thudding, Sir Gavin turns and looks up from the fabulous pudding with a frown. At Mme. Dulapont's words, he straightens up and listens attentively.
Alfred serves himself, then eats with one hand below the table. Pistol firmly gripped. He glances up for a moment at the sound, but doesn't seem surprised to hear it. He waits for the explanation continuing to enjoy the delicious food.
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Jeremy hesitates, but then goes to sit down. He pauses when he notices Traven, still standing by the door and apparently admiring the wallpaper. He goes over and pulls the older man along, settling him down at the table to his mother's left, while he settles on her right.
On seeing the older man's behavior, Athalaric cannot help but shiver. Could it be that Traven Dulapont had gone mad? That would certainly explain something. For the remainder of the dinner, Athalaric keeps a keen eye on the old man, trying to pick up clues as to Traven's sanity.
*
As the strange noises begin, Athalaric involuntarily straightens in his chair. The time had come to discuss the reason for their gathering? Well, at least now he would hear what all this was about... If only he did not have the feeling that he might be drawn into events that he would rather have no part in...
R!Kktik studiously pays no attention to the byplay between the nobles throughout the dinner. At the sound, though, the ratfolk looks up, startled (if the way his ears and whiskers twitch is any indication). When their hostess has finished, he replies, "Madam Dulapont. Speak on."
Mme. Dulaponte looks down at her hands -- or at least she aims her sightless orbs at them.
"It started a while ago," she says, her voice soft and with just a hint of fear. "Our family plot in the Garden of Bones was ransacked, defiled. The bodies of our ancestors were taken, and no one could tell who had done it or where our relatives' remains had gone.
That was bad enough, but a while after that... There are not many of us in this house anymore. We do not need all the rooms, so many have been locked, the furniture covered with dust sheets. Only we'd hear... noises in rooms that should be empty. Footsteps. Things being moved. And once we got the doors open, the furniture would be moved, the dust sheets removed.
We set guards in one of the rooms where objects were being moved in the dead of night. They went in, they locked the doors behind them, and..."
Mme. Dulaponte's voice falters, and she wrings her hands, clearly upset.
"They were murdered," Jeremy says, his voice hard and flat.
The younger son's expression is dark and thunderous. He is gripping a wine glass as if he wants to strangle someone.
"Loyal servants of the house, of the Dulaponte family," he continues. "Their families had been with us for generations. They were murdered in silence, and we found their bodies when we opened the doors the next day. We never even heard them fighting for their lives."
"After that... Well," Mme. Dulaponte says, and she sighs. "After the pudding, Chalmers will show you what happened after that. You will see."
The lady visibly has to screw up her courage before she says: "Locked rooms, and the poor souls who died inside had their hair turn white with terror... The graves of my ancestors defiled... I think our poor House is haunted. I admit that we have made enemies over the generations, but I never thought that there were enough of a grudge that someone's restless spirit would attack us in our own House."
"Then they were cowards. Anyone worth their hide would have faced you openly if they had a grudge that deep."
Garra folds her arms over her chest. Her eyes gleam in the light of the room.
"It is no mere spirit that can murder a fully grown retainer, even the silence can be explained. This surely is the hand of man; and a man can be discovered and beaten."
"Really now," Jeremy growls. "The doors were locked. The window covers were locked and barred on the inside. If you can find a way for intruders to have gotten into those rooms and murder my f... our family retainers, then good for you."
"If what you say is true, then we need to put aside our differences. If we do not stand together, then we die horribly."
Garra's eyes move from Gavin to Jeremy as she speaks.
"Then I propose you put ME into one such room. Surely they would not fail to reveal themselves to a potential victim."
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Athalaric clears his throat if only to keep the two men from getting at each other's throats again.
"Surely, the solution to this ... mystery cannot be deduced from this table. Hence, I propose that the matter should be investigated there and then. It is reasonably late now. Why don't we just go and have a look..."
Even while he speaks the words, the young wizard muses if it is wise to prevent bloodshed here only to put them all in a potentially more dangerous situation. But a proper mystery was always enough to let him throw caution to the wind...
R!Kktik hops to his feet. "I agree. With the wizard. And the knight. And Garra. Let's go take a look. Madame Dulapont. Thank you for a fine meal."
"As do I". "I do not fear death or undeath". "Let's be done with these murderers and thieves".
The pudding comes and goes, and Mme. Dulapont rises from her chair and gestures to Chalmers. "Please bring our guests back here after they have seen it," she tells him. Her blind gaze passes over the rest of you. "Look at it and draw your own conclysions," she says.
Chalmers bows to you all, picks up a small candelabrum from one of the sideboards, and precedes you to the door.
"Honoured guests," he says in a smooth voice. "If you will follow me to the anteroom?"
The butler precedes you all to the anteroom, where an odd sight greets your eyes.
It is not the barred door.
The large, framed painting that dominates the wall is also not it, although it is striking: it is a picture of a pale and lovely woman, her features strong and her blue eyes commanding. Instead of reclining on a bench, being fanned by servants, as is the common style for such large paintings, the red-dressed woman appears to be standing on a battlefield, her pale hair fluttering in the wind. Stormclouds in the background make a startling contrast to her pale skin.
Judging by the buildings on the horizon, this painting was drawn sometime around the city's founding.
What strikes you all as odd, is the message painted across the painting and the wall behind it, in letters of sparkling gold that seem to have been burned right into the stone without damaging the rest of the painting:
EVERY NIGHT, THE GREAT AND ANCIENT HOUSE OF DULAPONT SHALL BEAR THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE DEAD.
EVERY NIGHT, THE WOUNDED AND BLEEDING HOUSE OF DULAPONT BEARS THE VOICES OF THE DEAD.
EVERY NIGHT, THE HOUSE OF DULAPONT SHIFTS AND SHUDDERS IN THE GRIP OF THE DEAD.
WHO WILL REACH OUT THEIR HAND?
WHO WILL TAKE THE HAND OF THE HOUSE?
WHO WILL SOOTHE ITS FEARS AND LEAD IT OUT OF THE NIGHT?
IF NONE DO, THE HOUSE SHALL HEED.
THE HOUSE SHALL BLEED.
THE HOUSE SHALL FALL.
AND THE DEAD SHALL RISE.
"It is not paint," Chalmers says. "Nor is it actual gold. We have had an alchemist in to analyze the material, but it does not chip or melt, and it keeps the painting of Mme. Hilda, the family's founding mother, pinned to the wall."
"So the family was founded by one of the Jadwiga?"
Garra barely manages to keep the edge of fear out of her voice. One thing she did learn in her time in her icy home was that the magic of the winter witches was to be respected, and feared.
R!Kktik gives a sort of snort or sneeze. "Hmph. Gold? I'll be the judge. Of that." He leans closer to the letters and examines them carefully.
Sir Gavin simply goggles at the sight.
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Athalaric frowns at the sight of the writing. "With your approval, I would like to see if this ... manifestation is of a magical nature." Without really waiting for Chalmers consent, he casts detect megic. The young wizard's eyes begin to glow in a pale white as he examines the painting and the wall for magical auras.
At the same time, he searches his memory for some relation to magical, natural or other-worldly effects that he may have read about.
The ratfolk makes quiet chittering sounds as he examines the writing. "The other alchemist was right. Very odd. Garra, that word. Jadwiga. Means?"
"They're witches, daughters of Baba Yaga. They rule Irrisen in a cold iron fist and would as gladly enslave my people as encase them in ice."
Garra's voice grows soft and cold.
"They are what we fear."
Right on the word 'fear', there comes a thunderous knocking at the front door.
Chalmers actually jumps an inch into the air, then contrives to look as if he had not. "There appears to be someone at the door," he says in a measured tone of voice, and starts to reach for the door handle.
Black stands at the intrusion, his hand hovering near his pea shooter.
"Careful, men killed by cursed things have a nasty habit of not staying dead."
Garra tells Chamlers as he leaves for the door.