Urzok swings once, missing the “good” doctor entirely. He swings again and embeds his sword deep into her shoulder blade! Jevar watches as Oathsday’s angered stare deteriorates into a blank stare. Oathsday falls to the ground!
Oreb frantically darts back and forth on Jevar's chest, intermittently hopping over to lightly peck at his chin as if she can nudge him awake. Her master seems to be sweating and struggling in his unconsciousness, and his face breaks out in a light sweat...
The raven hops aside when Shakur approaches to treat his bodily damage. Jevar does eventually blink awake, seeing Shakur's healing hands retreat away.
He mutters to himself, still groggy and not entirely detached from the dream he just experienced. ”The maiden of the many colored eyes knows the way.” Where am I? These are the same alley-ways where that... thing, chased us down.
He shakes his head more vigorously, realizing where he still really is, and looks up at Shakur.
Much thanks. Is it over? Did she get away?
He sits up and scans the room. When he spots the body of the doctor he holds his gaze for a moment and then nods.
Well done everyone. Is that enough shifter bodies to drag back to those paranoid guards? If so I think we could use some longer rest without worry of their attacking us.
He gets up and begins to dust himself off. Oreb picks flecks of dirt off of his shoulder and flings them away.
A search of Dr. Oathsday’s “medical room” reveals a few objects of note. First is the key to the manacles from the previous room laying next to a hooded lantern to the south.
On the table sits an expanded healer’s kit that have had rusty scalpels and clamps added to create a makeshift set of surgery tools.
Also on the table is a sack that contains a single platinum coin, a fist-sized chunk of silver ore, a small ring made of interwoven leaves, a vial of red liquid, a vial of clear liquid, and a piece of paper ripped that looks like it was ripped from a book. Sitting by the wall is a 6-foot tall body mirror , and each of the basins hold two 10-foot poles for a total of six.
Jevar is able to eventually determine that the interwoven leaves, the red liquid, and Dr. Oathsday’s dagger are all magical.
Boodiddly and Jevar both manage to figure out that the items are a minor healing potion, a hunter’s bane, a dagger etched with a +1 weapon potency rune, and a page from a spellbook containing the magical writings for a produce flame.
The amnesiacs double back, two shifter corpses in hand, and meet back up with the captain and his fellow crossbowmen, and laying before him is the body of a familiar man with a chalk mark of a flame on his forehead, his body riddled with crossbow bolts.
The amnesiacs decide to head on back down to the furnace rooms to get the body of their first shifter and haul it back up.
As Urzok opens the door, he is met not with boiling rain, but with blasts of wind that seem to change in severity at a moment’s notice, ranging from strong enough to blow a man’s hat off his head to a literal windstorm! Not wanting to try and contest with the wind, the group makes their way quickly to the chute down to the furnace.
Urzok throws down the bodies of the three shifters before the men on the other side of the barricade and they just stare in astonishment. The crossbowmen all turn to look at the captain in curiosity.
The captain just scratches his head. ”Sh*t. I didn’t think they’d actually do it…” He shakes his head as he puts away his crossbow. He steps to the door beside him and knocks with the knuckle of one finger before immediately opening it. ”Unlock the door; we got four more.” He enters and shuts the door behind him. Not a few seconds later the audible sound of the lock of the door on the amnesiacs’ side of the barricade lightly echoes through the hallway. With little left to do, the amnesiacs enter.
The room beyond is rather strange, for it seems that this was intended to be not one room, but two, the wall between the two having collapsed, though any debris or detritus has been cleared away. The northern half seems to once have been a custodial office—mops, buckets, rags, and so forth litter the shelves and floor. The southern half seems to once have been some kind of office—a desk and a chair that appear to be little more than a staging ground for paperwork.
Two more well-built humans reside in this room, and standing below the collapsed wall is the captain of the barricade. As soon as the amnesiacs enter, one of the two humans quickly move to lock the door from which they came. The captain gives a nod to the group.
”Name’s Vaustin York, pleasure to meet ya. Before we go any further, I’m gonna need you to leave any weapons here. Now.”
----------------------------
Earlier, while looting the "Medical Room"...
Jevar turns the dagger over in his hands, admiring it. If nobody minds, this looks like a useful upgrade for my Hand of the Apprentice move. A sleeker, magical dagger flying at our enemies and then returning to my arcane hands. And this scroll...
He holds up the Produce Flame scroll.
...could allow me to expand my spellbook.
He looks around at the party for any objections.
----------------------------
In the captain's office...
Hmm, with you? No, why don't we just utilize courtesy and keep them sheathed in the absence of threats in safe spaces like this.
Boodiddly wipes his eyes as he tries to drape a torn piece of cloth over Zandalus’s face. ”He never did any harm...” he says slowly as the captain explains his actions. ”But we never saw anyone else with this mark. Apostles of what? And who are you? Where is this? What’s going on with the weather? Why are there shifters and ghouls and crazy stuff everywhere?”
"Mine's bigger anyway," Urzok says with a smirk to Jevar.
He shrugs at Zandalus' corpse. "Only one real cure for madness of that sort."
After fighting for his life on multiple occasions, lugging corpses around, and scaling a literal pile of the dead, he is in no mood to argue over weapons. "This steel got me in here, it stays with me," he snaps grumpily. "There food? Something to sleep on? Been a long day of b+!+##*% and freaks."
________
York stares angrily at the amnesiacs for 10 seconds before he closes his eyes and sighs heavily.
”Fine. But if it makes one of the unstable ones snap, then we’re going to have a problem. Follow me.”
York opens the southern door, clearly ignoring Boodiddly’s questions, and beckons the amnesiacs to follow. He leads them down the hallway, which eventually turns east and ends in a haphazardly hung sheet draped across the hall like a curtain. Another of the crossbowmen sits not too far from the curtain, reading a book. He looks up briefly and makes eye contact with York. The two make a brief chin-jut and the crossbowman returns to reading his book. York turns and opens the first door on his right and walks in.
Improvised pallets are clustered beneath sculpted divinities, and cooking fires burn beneath cracked windows in this chapel. Panes of violet and blue stained glass form spiraling patterns between prisonlike bars, while dozens of candles flicker from modest alcove shrines. The shrines seem to be dedicated to various deities all throughout Golarion pantheons—Desna, Nethys, Gorum, even some small shrines to Zon-Kuthon and Asmodeus, as well as shrines to lesser-known deities like Ragathiel, Qi Zhong, and Nivi Rhombodazzle. Standing tall above all of them, though, is the statue of a intimidating woman with wild hair floating in all directions and an hourglass in her hands—the Lady of Graves herself.
Scattered throughout the chapel are numerous bedrolls, as well as a large number of creatures of several ancestries—most predominately human—all in varying states of mental stability. Several men and women in nurse’s smocks tend to the less independent among them—including human children rocking in the fetal position, muttering to themselves, a couple dwarves walking back and forth picking at the hairs of their now nonexistent beards, and a goblin in the corner caressing a log of wood with bloodied fingers.
”Winter! We got some more here!”
“What?”
A woman dressed in black stands up at York’s call and walks towards the amnesiacs with an aura of command and superiority. The dark-haired woman tops in front of the newcomers, close enough for them to see the silver necklace ending in a spiral—the holy symbol of Pharasma—a badge depicting a gothic castle surrounded by blood-red stars, and a pair of different-colored eyes—her right a deep green and her left a yellowish hazel.
The woman looks toward York, who just nods at her. She turns to the amnesiacs.
”I am Winter Klaczka. I was not aware there were more survivors. I must keep this conversation brief; there is much that I must attend to.” As if to emphasize her words, one of the humans chucks a bottle of pills across the room, nearly hitting York in the head. ”Case in point.”
Jevar notes her eyes with particular curiosity and interest. He remembers himself and tries to quickly move on. He walks with her so as to not impede her work.
No, we wouldn't think of holding you up from Pharasma's good work, but perhaps I'll walk with you for a bit and stay out of the way. Since me and my companions only recently awoke in, and subsequently escaped from, a dungeon in this fortress with little of our prior memory, I'm curious how long everybody has been holed up here? When did all of this start?
Winter looks toward York and the man shrugs. ”They took out some of the shifters.”
Winter looks Jevar in the eyes and shakes her head.
”Several of these ladies and gentlemen are not very…put together, shall we say. My own presence and the current circumstances are likely already putting them on edge, add in a group of strange individuals that they do not recognize and they very well may hole up both mentally and physically, which does no one any good. I still have tasks that if I do not begin immediately then I will be working through the night. But if you capable-looking young men were to assist then I’m sure we could finish in just a few hours or less.”
I supposed we have a few hours left in us. I fear we will need rest too shortly, but what can we do in the meantime?
Boodiddly chases down the thrown bottle and hands it to the woman. ”Of course we can help!” he agrees happily with Jevar. ”But if you don’t mind me asking, what is a Royal Accuser doing here?”
How do I even know what a Royal Accuser is? Or do I only know that she is one? Why do I remember that instead of something useful like why we’re here?
Winter briefly glances at the badge at her breast before grabbing the medication bottle from Boodiddly and turning around. ”Naysa!” She tosses it to a woman next to the man who originally threw the bottle. She turns back to the amnesiacs.
”As you can see, Loic over there is refusing to take his medication. Airwynn and Bates by the statue of the Lady of Graves are currently suffering from injuries that need to be attended to. We are also having difficulty with meals for everyone; out of everyone here there isn’t a single cook. She motions to the several small fires set up around the chapel with cooking implements, collected water, and basic foodstuffs. ”We’re also running low on firewood and someone is supposed to be chopping up the splintered furniture!” Winter makes a point to raise her voice and make eye contact with the guard sitting by the curtain reading a book, who responds by giving her a rude gesture.
Winter rolls her multicolored eyes. ”I’ll get on his case personally. Nevertheless, there’s broken furniture in the corner there that we managed to salvage from the office over there where Tolman is teaching two of the children some kind of Tian paper-folding thing that I don’t quite understand. There’s also another, smaller shrine to Pharasma just next door to that room—there’s a cabinet behind some locked bars that we haven’t been able to open that probably contains old paperwork that we could use for kindling.” Winter steals a glance at the goblin with the log of wood in the corner. ”I wouldn’t even try getting that from Levallee for spare firewood—he refuses to part with it. Vaustin—“
“Yeah yeah. Guard duty. I know, Winter. I’m getting back to it.”
York turns tail and returns to his post at the barricade.
”Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to other situations that need my attention.” She looks down at Boodiddly. ”And for the record, I’m not a Royal Accuser.” Winter then turns and begins the arduous task of attending to various needs within the chapel.
Boodiddly brightens at the mention of cooking. ”I can take a crack at it!” he replies with a grin. ”Let me wash my hands and I’ll see what I can do!”
Boodiddly hums to himself as he works. I guess I like cooking - but that makes sense. Put everything in it’s right place and it’ll all turn out fine... Now what’s this? Hmm, smells like parsnip. Mostly. In the pot you go!
As he makes his rounds with bowls of soup, Boodiddly pauses next to the book-reading guard. ”I’ve got some soup for you! And should I bring over another bowl? I heard someone crying over here earlier.”
The man glances at the curtain for just long enough for it to be uncomfortable before he accepts Boodiddly’s bowl of soup.
And should I bring over another bowl?
”No.”
The man half-heartedly begins consuming his bowl of soup, but when he consumes his first spoonful his eyes go wide. With newfound fervor he devours the meal as quickly as the hot soup will allow him.
In fact, that seems to be the general consensus with regards to Boodiddly’s cooking—many of the chapel denizens say that it’s some of the best they’ve had all week, making the gnome into something of a local celebrity to those in the chapel.
Work, work, and more work. Murder shifters! Cook our food! Chop our wood! Feed me! Bathe me! Urzok grumbles loudly but offers no real protest as he clutches the meager hatchet in one thick hand and begins chopping the furniture to pieces. Despite his efforts, his thoughts distract him quite a bit from the task at hand... "Need a bigger axe, the hell am I going to to with this nail-clipper?" he complains loudly.
Bullying his way into an extra bowl of soup, he guzzles them down, heat be damned, before returning to work. "I like you, Gnome," he admits to Boodiddly, over his shoulder.
________
While the gnome gets to work cooking, and the half-orc begins to chop wood, Jevar decides to try to get Loic to calm down and stop being so troublesome to Naysa.
Hey there bud, everybody is a friend here. Could you do us a favor and just take these? We can all struggle against each other, or work together in here.
"Oh finally. Some sane people. And some people of well refined tastes." Shakur quickly takes a bowl of Boodiddly's soup for himself, and another for the bloody goblin. He offers to gently wrap up the goblins hands so they don't get any worse. "Anybody else in need of some assistance?" Finally. Useful.
Urzok inexpertly chops up the furniture into pieces in about twice the time, but manages to scrounge up some extra firewood to make it through the night.
Shakur tends to the wounds of a number of the chapel denizens, who thank the Pharasmin wholeheartedly.
Loic, clearly not entirely there mentally, listens to Jevar’s words and very slowly reaches out for the bottle and takes his medication.
As the minutes turn to hours, the amnesiacs assist where they can around the chapel, the denizens beginning to soften toward the newcomers more and more.
Night begins to fall and the chapel’s denizens gather around the statue of the Lady of Graves, clustered around small fires throughout the chapel for warmth as they lay their bedrolls.
The amnesiacs gather around a similar small fire in the chapel, exhausted from the work of the past few hours, so much so that they barely notice Winter approaching them. The woman places a bowl of watery broth and dried venison in front of each of them.
”You all have been very helpful, I appreciate what you’ve done. Please, eat.”
Winter looks askance, her multicolored eyes filled with something between deep thought and sorrow. ”I apologize if we got off on the wrong foot; the current circumstances has put everyone on edge, and I wasn’t sure what to think of you all, but now I do. I hope you will forgive my rudeness earlier.”
Urzok grabs the food between his paws and gulps the soup down. He quickly chews the dried venison down, stopping only once to burp. "Food makes a good apology, you were rude, but we've no issues now," he explains.
He lies back down on his makeshift bedroll, one leg resting on the other's knee. "What happens tomorrow?"
Winter looks toward the towering statue of Pharasma, her face deep with contemplation. ”I don’t know.”
Shakur begins gnawing on the venison before asking, simply, "What circumstances, if I may ask. We woke up, fought some things, don't have a lot of knowledge about what's going on."
“It’s as if the outside world has turned against us. I don’t know if it’s just Briarstone Isle, or if it’s the whole world, but the hospice is surrounded by some repulsive vapor. Worse, the weather beyond is like nothing I’ve ever seen—thunder like laughter, rain like blood—“
As if on cue, a deafening roar of thunder reverberates throughout the chapel, causing many within to jump in fright—some of the less sane individuals start rocking back and forth and muttering to themselves.
”And that’s to say nothing of the shapes that scamper and flap within, vague forms that know when we sleep. Things are terrible here, but at least here we can see doom coming.”
After the aid is rendered, Jevar finds a corner to sit down with his spellbook and the newly acquired scroll...
After an hour and less materials than he expected, the new spell is transcribed into his book.
Later on, speaking with Winter...
What's the furthest distance anybody has ventured out and returned? Or have any returned?
He thinks some more and then asks a more pointed question directly at Winter. More importantly, how are you holding up, taking care of so many for so long? This has to be wearing on you.
Winter looks at Jevar with a dagger-like glare.
”With the doppelgangers, ghouls, and fanatics about I would not dare to send anyone out! We barely got here with our lives!” Her gaze softens as she once more stares at the statue, its own inquisitive gaze seeming to pierce through one’s soul. ”The old texts say that Pharasma is the oldest being in existence, having outlived a previous iteration of the Great Beyond. Such texts thus refer to Her as ‘The Survivor.’ She watches over us, and I dare not let one of these survivors leave Her sight. Someone must step up to the task of leadership, and right now that someone must be me, but that does not mean the week has been easy.”
Better?
”Well, perhaps something caused this whole sticky situation,” Boodiddly offers. ”When did all this start? Did anything happen right before? What was it like - did you just wake up to fog and screams one day, or did they descend like a thunderclap from the heavens?”
After chewing his jerky for a moment, the gnome continues. ”You’ve got your hands full here with keeping everyone alive and stable. What if the four of us see what we can find out there? Maybe there’s a way to turn this all off, or rescue other survivors and evacuate the premises!” He waves a short arm at the entrance to the chapel.
Winter looks you all over with a look of confusion on her face.
”You...honestly don’t know...do you? Well, you wouldn’t be the first ones to lose a piece of themselves here. This is Briarstone Asylum for the Mentally Ill. It’s a hospice stuck on a rock sitting in the Danver River—a convenient place to forget inconvenient people.”
Winter continues. ”I am a sister of Maiden’s Choir Cathedral in Caliphas. My associates and I were helping a Royal Accuser investigate strangeness in Thrushmoor when we were sent here. It all happened about a week ago; I’m not sure what happened precisely, but a patient led an uprising. It wasn’t like any riot I’ve ever heard of, though. It was more like a religious movement. Most of the northern halls are now held by robed patients with flame-shaped chalk marks on their foreheads who call themselves Apostles in Orpiment. Those we’ve encountered are fanatically devoted to a patient named Ulver Zandalus. We tried to escape, but we found the outside was covered in this yellow fog.”
Winter beckons toward the stained glass window behind the statue of Pharasma. Barely visible beyond its spiral-shaped image is a sickly yellow mist on the other side, obscuring any sight beyond.
”All things considered, you seem able enough. If you can find some way for us to escape, some route that doesn’t lead straight into that terrible fog, I’ll see that the Royal Accusers reward you well. Please, you have to help us.”
"Religious fanatics and an...asylum. Wonder what I did to end up here. Well, anyway, I seem to have a problem. Haven't been feeling very physically well, either. Mind helping me out, one Pharasman to another?"
”What? Please, lay down.”
Winter quickly a set of medical tools from her belt as she begins examining Shakur, conversing with the amnesiacs all the while.
”I unfortunately can’t be of much help determining who you are or why you’re at Briarstone, but if you were patients then there must be some record of you being committed and for what reason. Of course, you could also have been staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies—but considering Vaustin nor any of the other staff among the survivors recognized you, I feel that that is unlikely. You could also be in the same situation as myself: an outside visitor who happened to be at the asylum when everything, if you’ll forgive my implied vulgarity, hit the fan.” The woman looks up with slight embarrassment in her eyes. ”Apologies, I was mostly thinking out loud there; it helps me concentrate.”
Winter looks down at her fellow Pharasmin. ”You seem to have come down with something; it is minor for now, but it is there. Tell me, have you been bitten by any rodents, trekked through sewage, or had extended contact with decomposing bodies?”
Winter reads the look on the warpriest’s face and sighs.
”That’s what I thought. Unfortunately, this is beyond the power gifted to me by the Lady of Graves. Fortunately, it may simply clear up overnight. Talk to me again in the morning and we’ll see what to do from there.”
Jevar shakes his head defiantly. No, I wouldn't have been committed here. I can't imagine working here either, though. There's been some mistake...
He begins to scope out a place to rest for the night.
Winter glances at the searching Jevar and gives a slight ”Hmph,” just enough to grab the human’s attention.
”I would not wander too far from here if I were you; I was not being completely metaphorical when I said I dare not let these survivors leave Her sight. Some who have fallen asleep outside the chapel have also woken screaming. I don’t know what it all means, but here in the chapel," She looks up to the statue with reverence, her hand glancing the silver spiral around her neck. "The goddess tends our dreams.”
Yeah, I wasn't planning on leaving. Just looking for a clear patch here in the chapel.
Jevar moves to sleep as soon as possible. I'd be okay with no dreams after last time...
”HA! Me? A patient at a loony bin? Yeah right,” Urzok says dismissively, briefly cutting Winter off. That would explain that damn dream though... s@%@... Must have been a mistake and some black magic at work, those vapors are literally outside the window.
”Religious freaks? It’s all a sham, my day will be well spent running them through!” he practically cheers. ”We met one of them, going on and on about praise and Zandalus. No other words, especially after your mates feathered him. I won’t speak for anyone else, but I’m hunting me some fanatics in the morning. Better than freaks, I’d wager.”
”As long as her dream tending doesn’t come with strings attached, I’ll sleep in here. Otherwise I’ll risk it somewhere else.” He shoots the statue a suspicious look before finding a place to sleep himself.
________
An eerie silence falls upon the semi-nondenominational chapel as it is quickly noticed that the eyes of every single survivor lands on the half-orc—even the gaze of the statue seems to look upon him with inquisitive sternness. Even the sanity-broken survivors who were mumbling to themselves previously have become silent as the half-orc practically yells his words, which echo about the chapel walls.
Winter Klaczka rises to her feet with surprising calm. The pale woman turns to the rest of the survivors and calls with a commanding voice.
”It is growing late; finish up your meals and get ready for bed. Lights out in twenty minutes.” She rotates her head to the side to view the amnesiacs, a look of resentment spelled out across her face. ”May I speak to you all somewhere more private?” She quickly moves to the chapel doors, making it clear that she was not giving the amnesiacs a choice. She leads then across the hall into the next room over, the one adjacent to the room with the cabinet behind locked bars.
A nest of cushions and linens squeezes between this room’s rear wall and a battered desk covered in folded paper animals. A sculpted emblem of a spiraling comet overlooks the otherwise ransacked room. Winter directs the amnesiacs into the room and shuts the door behind them once they are all inside. She looks them all over in turn before her gaze finally falls upon Urzok. The woman closes her eyes and inhales a deep breath, slowly letting the air out of her lungs in a process that takes several seconds. Her eyes snap back open, her face painted with an expression that would make “unhappy” seem like mildly annoyed.
”First,” She snaps at Urzok, her voice disturbingly unwavering. ”This is an asylum for the mentally ill. Those ‘freaks,’ as you so elegantly put it, are troubled individuals suffering from an affliction of the mind that has made them unstable and a mere wrong word or action away from snapping. We narrowly escaped to the chapel with our lives and it is here that we found respite, even if it is a facsimile therein; whether you truly believe it was by the gods that we made it here or not, the truth is that that is what they believe. I have seen the ‘freaks’ in that chapel on their knees, begging whatever god will listen that they will make it out of here alive—especially the children. I do not care what your position is on worship of the gods—everyone is entitled to their own religious standing—but faith is all these people have left. And if you are going to continue to speak ill against the gods among these ‘freaks,’ then you have no place among them and can sleep outside the gaze of the Survivor—I’d rather condemn an individual to madness than have him disrupt what little hope these men, women, and children have left.”
A massive roar of thunder shakes the room, but Winter’s gaze never breaks from the half-orc’s. Her words never falter or waver as she speaks.
”Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”
”Oh, so we’re on an island in the river next to the capital city? Maybe we were just passing through from Caliphas at the wrong time.” Boodiddly ponders, head resting on his chin as he also looks at the statue thoughtfully. ”Maybe there’s a record somewhere of patients and visitors to the hospice we could check?”
——————————————
Inside Winter’s “office”, Boodiddly stands discreetly behind Jevar’s taller form to better avoid drawing the priestess’s ire. That’s not how I would have brought up the topic, but he also wasn’t insulting me and Winter’s been through a lot more - or at least she remembers having been through more, so I can’t really blame her. Maybe I can help him understand tomorrow... The gnome watches the half-orc’s reaction carefully.
Shakur just looks at the orc with shock, all the way from the statue to the chapel. His mouth finally closes as Winter punctuates her words.
After Urzok responds, Shakur also pulls the half-orc aside. In a quiet but rushed tone, Shakur tells the orc, "You really need to learn when to NOT speak. Here? In safety? Surrounded by things that aren't pointing crossbows at us or shifting into images of people they aren't? This is the time to not have a strange outburst rejecting even the Lady of Graves herself. You may say you have no need for gods, but do it somewhere a bit more, shall we say, private."
”Ugh,” Urzok groans and rolls his eyes as Winter escorts them to another room.
He expected an ass-chewing, but he didn’t expect to actually care. Winter’s words smack the attitude right off of his face and for the briefest moment, with the stroke of lightning, something close to fear flashes across his face before he manages to summon his poker face back. ”Fine. You’re in charge. Are we done here?” Guess I won’t talk at all then. They can have their beliefs but I can’t have mine. Assuming nobody stops him, he storms out and tries to find somewhere to sleep as far from anyone else as he can.
When Shakur finds him, he groans as he rolls over to face him. ”It’s fine, I’m already not talking anymore, it’s clear you all only want to be around other sheep. I’ll shut my mouth and kill whatever anybody wants, all I’m good for anyways.” Nobody would last a minute in the Cinderlands here. Killing the ‘mentally ill’ was a mercy, it’d take much longer for the same result when they got caught in a firestorm. Could never find them but the screaming only stopped when they finally died. The damn gods were always used as a tool to oppress my tribe, not my fault these people would rather fall in line than keep a hold on their own traditions. Not like they ever bothered to save someone from suffering, they just want more worshippers.
________
Spoiler noted! What was the d6 you rolled?
“Good. Thank you.”
Before Urzok can leave, Winter grabs his attention.
”I think I know where to start looking… but I don’t think you’ll like it. That thing growing at the end of the hall…well, there was a door there once. If you dispose of what’s there now, the asylum’s entry hall is just beyond. I will see to it that you all have time to dispose of it in the morning without having it disturb the other survivors. We need to find a way out as soon as possible; I only estimate that we’ll survive here another week...”
"It!? That's the pronoun we're going with? Alright. Umm... We'll take care of IT I guess."
Winter shudders.
“I…I don’t know what it is. We’ve left it alone and it hasn’t bothered us. Don’t tell the others about it, though. I don’t what to upset the children or any of our more delicate souls. Things are bad enough without that.”
Jevar taps his chin with one finger, thinking of ways to dispose of "IT".
Hmm, I suppose I could pummel it with acid until it dissolves away? In any case it's time to rest and we'll consider ways to try dealing with it in the morning.
”I…I do not care what methods you use, as long as it is taken care of and you find a way out. You are free to sleep within the Survivor’s gaze for the time being,” Winter shoots Urzok a glare. ”Assuming you behave yourselves. Please, rest up for the night.”
*
The amnesiacs plus Winter make their way back into the chapel and are met with worried glances and awkward silence, but no one dare speak of the metaphorical elephant in the room.
The amnesiacs lay down uncomfortably on their bedrolls upon the ground alongside the twenty-some-odd other survivors—Winter herself sleeps directly below the statue of Pharasma. The amnesiacs drift to sleep within the statue’s stern, inquisitive gaze, but you nonetheless feel safe. You drift into unconsciousness and, despite not even remembering such, feel that they have the best night’s sleep in quite a while.
*
*
The amnesiacs are awoken by Winter softly shaking them each in turn. She is accompanied by Vaustin York and a few of the other chapel guards; the other survivors seem to have not woken up yet.
”Gather your things quickly and follow me.”
Winter leads the group once more to her “office” just next door. She motions them all inside but foes not enter herself, merely staying at the door.
”Take whatever preparations you need in here. Vaustin and the other guards are going to be assisting me in making sure people don’t leave the chapel before you all are finished. When it’s done, tell the guard stationed at the barricade; he knows how to tell us that the coast is clear. May the Lady be with you all.”
Winter quickly shuts the door and quickly makes her way back into the chapel as the group proceeds with their daily preparations.
Jevar is quickly able to determine that the two rods the amnesiacs found are a pair of sunrods, while the vial of clear liquid is a lesser cognative mutagen.
heals 10 hp
heals 10 hp
heals 10 hp
After just over two hours, the amnesiacs finally find themselves ready. They exit Winter’s “office” and find the hallway bare, the only person within is a single chapel guard that stands at the barricade. With little way to go, the amnesiacs draw their weapons and approach the curtain. The sound of faint sobbing fills the air as the amnesiacs move next to the curtain. With a nod towards one another, Urzok slips his blade around the side of the curtain, and uses the flat of the sword to draw the curtain open.
The hall ends just beyond the dingy curtain, but the wall here suffers some sort of otherworldly parasitism. A mass of stringy, yellow fungus stretches across the stone blocks. At its heart bulges and blinks a watery eye the size of a wagon wheel.
Failure
Critical Failure
Critical Failure
Critical Failure
The massive eye blinks at the amnesiacs, not seeming to do anything.
”Oh!” Boodiddly exclaims, pausing only for a second before examining the eye carefully. ”You were what I heard crying yesterday! Can you hear me? Can you speak? I don’t see a mouth anywhere, but I heard something yesterday, so you must be able to make sound somehow...”
Can that thing see us? Even worse, is it seeing for someone else...
Weeeiird! Can you imagine how big the forehead is? Where's the puddle of giant tears on the ground.
The raven hops off her master's shoulder and over near the eye to look for a puddle of salty discharge.
Jevar frowns at his bird and shakes his head.
What does that matter? Stay focused, bird-brain.