Volidrian closes his eyes and breaths deeply for a moment to collect himself.
"While the healing thus far has been excellent, indeed I would have fallen unconscious halfway through the fight without it, thus far it is not sufficient to return me to peak condition. However, if such resources are running low I do have a few potions on my person which could be used to effect that result."
"Save your potions, friend, Tybalt and I are not yet spent."
The ponderous desk is strewn haphazardly with papers, books, and correspondence. In contrast to the neglected state of the rest of the sitting room, the desk seems to see frequent use, as attested by scuff marks on the floor from a chair frequently being moved and worn indentations on the desk’s writing surface.
Roughly scrawled ledgers and correspondence from suppliers yield nothing of great interest. In fact, the toymaker’s financial situation appears to have been quite stable – a result of the considerable markup on his finished products and the high esteem in which they are held by the fashionable upper class of Port d’Elhour.
However, the documents of a more personal nature depict a very troubled man. Letters from relatives and old friends lie apparently unanswered. Their contents reveal increasing concern over Monsieur de Monte’s withdrawal from his relations and acquaintances. Often, the only response these entreaties received were polite refusals – if Monsieur de Monte replied to them at all.
A battered journal, bound in frayed ribbon, provides a great deal of context for the man’s troubled past. Early entries suggest a man with a happy life. His devotion to his wife Liliane practically pours off the page. His joy over the birth of their daughter Isabelle seemed to motivate him to create and sell ever more delightful creations to provide for his young family.
Monsieur de Monte’s joy turned to grief when the little girl Isabelle was taken by fever at the age of six. Indeed, it is difficult to endure the passages of the once joyous toymaker sunken into despair and torment. A cryptic message mentions of young Isabelle: “I could not bear to be parted from her. Liliane would not approve of what I have done, so I thought it best that she not know.”
The entries become increasingly manic. “I hear Isabelle - not just in my dreaming, but in my waking. The whispers tell me she will be with me again. As a doll, she can be young forever, and never again leave my side. I must create the perfect vessel.”
Optimism and disappointment combine in his subsequent entries. The dolls take on some semblance of life, but they are not Isabelle. The entries become more and more unhinged as time goes on. The death of his wife Liliane barely elicits a mention. Monsieur de Monte frantically tries to please the “whispers” and hangs onto an unrealistic belief that his creations will somehow reconnect him with his lost daughter.
Only occasionally – and recently - do you spot a glimpse of concern from the toymaker. “My creations look upon me not with the love of a child but the hunger of a beast.” And one recent entry ends with, “Must the road to good intentions be paved in blood?”
"That is a tragic tale," the sorcerer thinks aloud.
"Sad, yes, but it teaches us about dealing with powers beyond our means to control. I suppose we should find the end of the story." Leandro looks to the remaining stairway. "I wonder where Isabelle is."
Leandro motions to Volidrian to follow and heads up the stairs, sword at the ready.
"Isabelle?" he calls softly, "Are you there?"
Leandro hears no reply to his inquiry.
Up the worn stairs is a dining room, dusty with disuse. Old, cracked china reposes on sagging shelves, and a cluttered table sags in the middle of the floor. A stale smell wafts from a doorway leading to a kitchen area. A soiled cooking pot commemorates the toymaker's last lonely meal. The cupboards contain little more than stables - enough to prepare the simplest of dishes. A corridor bypasses the kitchen, and leads to another half-stair leading up to the garret floor.
Tybalt looks around slightly paranoid as he follows Leandro, with a shrug to Anuqa. His hand gently strokes the frills of his owl, as an act of reassurance.
Volidrian follows, now being extra wary of seemingly inanimate objects.
in a low voice Volidrian relates, "More blood and scrapes on the floor. Looks like it's going up the stairs."
Leandro speaks quietly as well. "Hold a moment, friend." The paladin pauses a moment in prayer, then lays a hand on Volidrian's shoulder. A glowing shimmer briefly limns the half-orc.
"That will help protect you. As for me..." He touches his own armor. The metal seems to shimmer slightly, as if something settles into it, then it glows in the dull room. "My lady will aid in my defense."
"I am ready, if you are, to meet whatever lies ahead."
Tybalt sings a little nursey rhyme to himself, a soft creepy little song that flows lyrically from his lips, as he looks around the shadows.
Anuqa raises an eyebrow at Tybalt's shrug and follows him. He stands in the back of the group, readying for the next animated monstrosity to rear its head (or chest of drawers).
Leandro is ready move up the stairs. He'll head straight up and and open the door. There's not much point in stealth now. Surely anything in there has heard the battles below, if it has ears.
The worn stairs lead up to a wide corridor on the top floor which divides two bedchambers. The doors to each chamber stand open.
To your left, a spacious chamber contains aged but sturdy furnishings. A large tired bedframe sags beneath a lumpy mattress. The battered armoire and faded carpet show signs of neglect.
To you right, a smaller bedchamber features child's bed. A mobile of once-beautiful figures hangs askew from the ceiling above an array of moth-eaten plush toys. Threadbare yellow curtains hang limply from a rod above the gable window, faded from years under the hot Souragne sun.
As you approach from the corridor, you hear a moan and the sound of a man sobbing from the child's bedchamber. The sultry air of the city turns sharply cold as you approach.
You behold the visage of Monsieur de Monte, spectral and transparent, weeping over the child's empty bed. The apparition wears a tired dressing gown, stained for eternity by the spray of blood descending from the slit across his throat. His eyes widen slightly as he looks upon all of you. "You are too late to help anyone," the toymaker says in a hollow voice. "Leave now and save yourselves. Leave me to my misery." He turns away, as if he cannot bear to look upon the living.
responding to Leandro:
Volidrian gives a toothy smile, "Thank you friend, I am ready, let us end the evil that infests this place"
to Monsieur de Monte, peaking out from behind Leandro:
"Where it simply leaving a sad man to the situation which he has wrought then yes, we could leave. But what has been unleashed here has consequences beyond this miserable hovel, consequences which we cannot ignore."
"We cannot leave you to your misery, but perhaps we can end it. It is no threat, Monsieur, it is a blessing." Leandro hefts his silver longsword and moves into the room.
”Would that you could kill me and end this torment,” the apparition says. ”Alas, I have already died, and yet here I stand.”
"Why do you not rest, Monsieur. What remains undone or unforgiven, holding you here? It is past time you found peace."
Dr Tovanarish warns the others
“Do not try and attack this spectre. It will avail us and him naught. He will just reform after”
He faces the ghost
“We would give thee ease, if it is within our power, spirit. What ties thou here? What weighs upon thy soul?”
Res follows the others up the stairs. He readies his greatsword and follows Leandro into the room intent on putting Monsieur de Monte out of his misery. However, Dr. Tovanarish's warning stays his swing. He waits for the ghost to answer.
"A base vermin am I," says the apparition. "I deserve neither rest nor redemption."
His ghostly eyes rest upon the door to a large closet on the western wall. "What will become of me, I do not know. But let my daughter to rest." He moans pitifully. "She was innocent in this world. Set her free. Seek her out in the attic and behold my sin."
Leandro strides straight to the door and throws it open, barging through if nothing happens.
The closet is full of faded and dusty things once belonging to a child. Behind the moth-eaten garments is a small door, raised a few feet off the ground.
The door does not appear to be locked or trapped. However, you hear a sound beyond it that sounds like faint, rapid whispering. You cannot discern words.
"Tybalt! Bring your sharp eyes here and see if anything looks amiss. I see no child here."
Leandro steps back from the closet to give Tybalt access.
“Something lies beyond that tiny door. I hear voices. Look. There is blood sign. I think we have tracked the unholy poppets to their lair”
"A Blood Sign? Interesting...." Tybalt says looking sadly at the closet and the ghost.
Yes, the door is large enough for any of you. The blood spatter shows no indication of deliberate design.
The attic space beyond the door is dark, the gable windows boarded over. The whispers turn to faint, childlike sobbing within.
Leandro makes arcane gestures with his free hand and whispers an odd phrase, very unlike his usual divine prayers. Lights spring into being, floating in midair, and he sends them into the attic space with a flick of his finger.
The lights cast their glow, illuminating much of the dusty attic. Old crates and broken furniture gather dust amidst old tattered fabrics and traces of rat excrement. Thin boards are nailed in place to block the light from the one window you can see. The pungent smell of death mixes with odors of old wood in the stale air, which feels unnaturally cold despite the sultry weather outside.
Upon the floor, not far from the door, lies the body of the toymaker, savagely slashed across the throat. A smear of blood leads from the door to the place where he now lies.
The far side of the attic room is shrouded in darkness which even Leandro's enchanted lights cannot dispel. It is as if the darkness hungers and devours the light, making it impossible to see what is on that side of the room from where you are.
Leandro shakes his head -- either sadly at the body or in disgust at the odor, it is hard to tell -- and clambers into the attic room.
"Some other who can make light should do so. My little trick will not last long," he remarks, waiting for others to enter before pursuing the darkness.
Dr Tovanarish nods and gestures with one hand. He utters a quick phrase
FIAT LUX!
A magical light blossoms in the space
Volidrian enters after Leandro sword and buckler at the ready.
Dr. Tovanarish's light illuminates much of the attic, but not the portion consumed with unnatural darkness. As you enter, you notice the childlike sobbing and the incoherent whispering are overlapping, as if coming from two sources within the darkness.
As you move into the space, you see a small figure step out of the darkness - the figure of a young child, clothed in cobwebs, with a large rodent-like skull where the head should be. The figure continues its sobbing, while the babbling whispers continue to emanate from the darkness.
The presence of an attic whisperer does not explain the babbling whispers coming from the darkness. Something else is in there.
Pushed against the far wall, you also see a small coffin, sized for a young child. The lid is closed.
"Isabelle?" the paladin asks softly, disgust twisting his face but his sword held ready.
Dr. Tovanarish calls out
“An attic whisperer! They can steal your very breath and their sobs can cause despair, but they are corporeal!”
He shouts out
“Pharasma! Protect thy servant!”
He waves his hand and a spectral mace appears and flies at the small creature
Tybalt lets out a small gasp as he enters the attic and is confronted with the horrific vista.
"Watch out, there is some other creature lurking in the shadows."
The sound of the child's sobbing and babbling whispers coming from the darkness grow more intense.