Your trek across the green sheep-speckled hills of Graenirvellir is the stuff of idylls, and the glittering aurora shines almost every night, its lambent glow rivaling the moon in its brilliance.
As you move away from the coast, the mists fade and vanish. Clouds are few and far between, and the faint traces of frost that lick the grass each morning have dissolved by the time you break camp. As you travel down the road, you notice it is fairly free of grass and weeds, indicating regular traffic.
On the fifth day, you reach your destination. The hamlet of Wunirö is home to some three hundred souls, and the monastery on the hill above town houses another thirty more, give or take. According to what you’ve been told by the Aurali, the monks trade wine from their vineyard for supplies from town, but otherwise keep their distance unless someone is gravely ill, or in need of burial.
You walk up to the tavern you were apprised of by Othek, the Stone Hook, and walk in. The first thing you notice, after the bulette head mounted on the wall over the fireplace, is that half the room is seemingly built for children, despite the full-grown clientele.
When the door to the kitchen swings open and the proprietor strides into view, the mystery is solved, for this establishment is owned by a gnome, his otherworldly heritage betrayed by his bright green hair.
”Greetings and salutations,” says the gnome, his chins jiggling. ”I am Zebulon Monardo, and I welcome you to my establishment. Would your party like a lunch? Or perhaps a drink? We have ice.”
He turns around and points to a bucket on the bar. Noticing that it is full of nothing but water, he frowns. ”Blast. One moment.”
He points his finger at the bucket and fires a thin beam of cold blue light that strikes the metal with a soft clink, causing the contents to begin icing over. He turns back to you and inquires conversationally, ”What brings you here, if I may ask? Perhaps I can direct you to an appropriate vendor.”
Upon spying Kork, his eyes widen for a moment, but he says nothing.
Okoteck gives Nirri a slight bow at the end of the ritual. "I thank you for both the knowledge and the spell," he says to her. "While I had studied what I could of such magic before, I had never thought I myself would enter such a pact. Add to that the secrecy many who have hold to in the lands I came from, and..."
He shrugs. "It is better to have a reliable guide."
He slides his gaze over to Hyggiandi. "And I imagine that was much more pleasant for you than drinking soggy ashes," he says, humor in his eyes. The humor quickly fades. "I hope you know, I would never force you to do so, if you wished not to."
**************************
Okoteck notes the look Zebulon gives Kork with curiosity. Given how most of those he's seen here are human, perhaps this is another shipwreck survivor?
He doesn't voice his suspicions aloud. Instead he says, "We have a delivery to make to the abbey is all. Is there anything unique here in Wunirö you would recommend while we are here?"
A gnome woman opens and steps through the bottom half of the horizontally-split kitchen door just as Okoteck asks his question.
"Why, nothing but the best codfish and potato cakes this side of the Elfgate!"
Zebulon grins and pats his wife's shoulder. "My lady Elysia is right about that! Though I'm biased, of course."
He turns back to Okoteck. "I can't say there's anything unique. Apart from the monastery, there only interesting thing about this place is the stoat farm half-a-mile south of town run by old Karl Eberhard. The wily old gnome grows the best pelts in the realm; the hirdmen pay dearly for ermine."
His curiosity overcomes him and he asks carefully, "You lot aren't from around here, are you?"
"Which one made you come to that conclusion? The talking bird or the little green-skinned thing that's even smaller than me?" his wife asks him incredulously.
"The goblin, obviously. The talking bird is obviously a man who crossed a witch or fey creature of some sort," replies the innkeeper staidly. "The forest west of here is lousy with such beings this time of year."
"Actually, it would be more accurate to say my ancestors crossed the Lord of Air," Okoteck states, humor glinting in his eyes again. "Where we come from, we tengu are known across many lands, though we are not so numerous as many other types of people."
He pauses, then adds, "I suppose you could say my feathers are white because of a fey being of a sort. Or perhaps you were referring to my friend Hyggiandi here?" He gestures at the raven on his shoulder.
Zebulon regards Okoteck with newfound curiosity. "Kassassi, I know. Tengu? Never heard of them. You must have come from far away."
His wife eyes Okoteck, then Jaym'row. "A cat and a bird getting along? Wherever you folks came from must be a mighty strange place."
When Irila speaks her tale, Kork listens intently. His expressions vary - amusement, tension, satisfaction, and more showing in various degrees, but he does not utter a sound, taking in the details like a hungry wolf devouring a lamb. When she is done, Kork claps. "Nice story. Kork will remember." He then walks off, pondering the implications of the closing paragraph.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
During the trip to Wunirö, Kork seems jolly and prances around the grasslands like a little girl heading to pick meadow flowers for her grandmother. He hides behind bushes, chases sheep around, and rolls down grassy hills. When entering civilisation, his demeanour changes slightly, and it seems he is wary of something, although still generally cheerful.
Sitting down in Stone Hook, he pulls up a chair comfortable for his size, and waits. When Zebulon makes weird eyes in his direction, he grins back. It could be playful smile or one forced in irritation. Who knows? When the second gnome comes around with even more attitude, Kork shows signs of irritation for a hot second, before returning to his usual polite self. Within reason.
Kork looks around the room, seeing three others sitting there. "Business good enough to send clients away?" he tilts his head at the gnomes, and reaches to pick up his backpack.
"Now, now," he admonishes her, kindly but firmly, "let's not bother them too much."
He turns to Kork and says quickly, "I apologize for her rudeness. We're a small village, so even seeing a dwarf is unusual, let alone a goblin."
He gives Kork an apologetic smile before continuing.
"I’m afraid the monastery isn’t accepting any pilgrims, and certainly wouldn’t offer boarding to someone not affiliated with the kirche. But if you’re headed there on business, take the west fork in the road right past the constabulary." He turns and points at the door behind him to the left. ”In addition to fine food and drink, we also have rooms available for rent upstairs. The sun won’t set till eleven o’clock, so you’ll want one with nice curtains.”
He begins pouring ice out of the bucket and into a jug of lager.
”There’s a general store run by old man Higgins two doors down on the left, and if you need arrows or bolts there’s a fletcher five doors down near the edge of the village.”
Kork puts his backpack on the floor again, and nods at Zebulon. "Kork accept apology. And is hungry. Food, please!" he smiles at the gnome pair, and looks at the people around the table. "Kork pay today." He pulls out his pouch and slides two gold coins towards the gnomes.
When the gnomes skitter off, he ponders something, then speaks up. "Need rooms? Maybe visit monastery first." he shrugs.
Jaym'row travels in fine spirits, enjoying everything about the countryside and the people inhabiting it. At times, she is silent while she retells Irilia's story in her head to memorize the important details. At other time, she uses her musical accompaniment spell to provide pleasant marching music. At night, she spends some time enjoying the light show put on by the sky, thinking of tales of Pulura she has heard.
At the inn, her ears perk at the mention of codfish. She politely looks forward to the meal and thinks about playing some music if no one minds later.
To the innkeepers' curiosity about the nonhumans in the group, she says, "Golarion is home to many different types of people. Most of them don't get to travel to these parts due to the dangers. I can tell you tales of some of them if you like later."
"Likely we'll want to visit the monastery first, then return here for the night," Okoteck suggests. "Though a meal first would be welcome, yes. I supsect, Kork, that you're overpaying."
Kork tilts turns his head towards Okoteck, and does a little shrug. "Good food and drink for five, mule outside, and good manners. Kork not see manners on menu, so was not sure how much."
The goblin looks at the gnomes. It's not exactly a scolding look, but not far off.
"If manners good enough, Kork could come back for night. If not..." he pats his backpack. "Bedroll cozy and night warm."
The gnome nods. "No need to pay us for professionalism, it should come with the territory," he says reassuringly. "Lunches for the five of you comes to one silver and five copper." The gnome hands back eighteen silver and five copper in change.
"One silver for mule. Could eat Kork if hungry. Kork green, just like grass." he counts two silver from the pile, and slides it over to Zebulon. "One more because Kork feel generous."
He pockets the rest of the change with a... satisfied (?) smile.
The gnome thanks you for your generosity.
You tie up the mule to a post out front and return inside to sample his wife's codfish and potato cakes, which are as delicious as promised. Then you set out for the monastery.
As you head up the forest path, you come to the edge of the woods after about twenty minutes of walking. At the base of a small hill you find a clearing a hundred yards on a side bedecked with rows of grapevines, and at the summit of the hill is the monastery. A one-story building of gray limestone blocks weathered by rain and snow, the monastery has been around long enough for decades of tramping feet to wear a small divot in the stairway leading to the entrance.
As you pass the vineyard and approach the base of the hill, a monk in simple but clean attire hails you. ”Greetings, travelers! I am Brother Darnö. What brings you to the monastery?”
Okoteck gives the monk a slight bow. "Greetings, and thank you for the welcome. We have been tasked to deliver a message to Wurl--directly into his hands. Might we see him?"
If the monk is nonplussed by the unusual adventurers before him, he has the good grace not to show it, merely asking to see the letter.
Upon inspecting it, he nods. ”This seems genuine.”
The man sighs. ”Wurl has so little time for learning after his duties to our god and our lord are discharged, it’s amazing he’s mastered anything at all. Serving two sovereigns is a hard path indeed."
He looks up from the letter and back to you. "He is not here at the moment; unless I miss my guess he is performing his rounds and consecrating the various small cemeteries scattered about the county and will be back this evening for compline. If your liege has asked you to hand-deliver it, I suppose you will have to wait.”
He hands the letter back. ”Will that be all? If so, I can find you a place inside to sit.”
Jaym'row continues to enjoy the activities of this day, having a nice meal and now a chat near a vineyard. She wondered why people would choose to live in a monetary. If her understanding was correct, such people gave up a good many of the pleasures of life for ... She wasn't sure what the goal was.
She did not ask Brother Darnö, since it did not see the time or place, but her curiosity was stimulated and that usually meant she would have to try to find the answers.
Okoteck's familiar hops from one foot to the next on the magus's shoulder. "We'd also like an audience with anyone who knew the old abbot of Nortkirche Abbey," he says, surprising even himself.
The monk laughs, taken aback only slightly by the talking bird. "The only one here that old is the current abbot, Hødír, and he is a rather busy man." The monk gives the rest of the party questioning looks. ”What business does this concern?”
Okoteck gives Hyggiandi a slight nod before returning his gaze to the monk. "We have, if a shared vision is to be believed, been called to put to rest his spirit and cleanse the ruined abbey," he states, simply, "And knowing that will be a difficult task, we had hoped to gather any information we could that might assist us in accomplishing this."
Syper's ears prick up at something Brother Darnö says.
"Your god and your lord? The two ask you to act at cross purposes?"
The monk glances at Okoteck and nods reverently. ”If you truly believe you can set things right and put the abbey’s ghosts to rest, you would do us a great service indeed. The abbot should be finished with nones shortly.” He motions toward the entrance. ”Come, I will let you in. You can tie up your pack horse in the stable. In the meantime, perhaps the library might have some of the information you require.”
At Syper's question, he replies off-handedly, "While lay worshipers and itinerant priests of Morghast are not so constrained, clerics sworn to our monastic order are forbidden to bring death to those whose time has not yet come, while most lords demand their strongest servants do battle frequently. While it is possible for a rare few to square this circle, or else perform only peaceful duties, one cannot be in two places at once, and our religious rites are quite extensive. Furthermore, the abbot and his priests are bound by ecclesiastical law, not the law of the jarl or his hird, so whatever your letter might contain, it is merely a request and not an order. And if it conflicts with his duties to Morghast, Brother Wurl must reject it."
You tie up Sleipnir and climb the steps to the monastery door. Brother Darnö opens it and ushers you inside, whereupon you enter the nave. The apse is decorated with stained glass windows depicting Morghast and his exarchs, Doom and Fate, in various liturgical scenes, and from what little you can see of the altar behind the chancel it appears to be made of fine marble.
Darnö leads you out of the nave through a door in the left aisle, where you enter an arcade surrounding a tiny walled garden featuring benches and a water well. Across the arcade you spot several monks trickling out of a doorway and walking clockwise toward what you assume is the right-side entrance to the nave.
Darnö nods at the other monks. ”They’ll be getting ready for nones. I’ll have to join them soon.”
The monk opens the first door on the left and waves you inside.
You enter the library, a silent and high-ceilinged chamber redolent of pine glue and old parchment. Eight tall shelves hold hundreds of books of all sizes and lengths, from thick codices to tiny folios.
He holds out his hands, gesturing proudly at the assemblage of tomes. ”These are the works of our own hands. When a man or woman of renown dies, we write their chronicle and place it in our records, for the deeds of the dead are instrumental to their judgment by our Master and our prayers on their behalf. In addition to these biographies, we have made copies of many works regarding the nature of dæmons and the undead, that we may combat them appropriately.”
He points to the right and adds, ”The door to your right is the reading room, if you wish to peruse a volume in more detail.”
He turns to face you and clasps his hands together with an air of finality. ”I must go pray the nones with the congregation. Our hymns are essential to guide the dead on their journey through Shamshath , and ward off the dæmons who seek to waylay them. When we are finished, I will inform the abbot of your arrival.”
While Okoteck's expressions may be hard for those not blessed with beaks to understand, there's no missing the barely-restrained eagerness in his eyes as soon as the word 'library' is spoken. The whole time Brother Darnö is speaking, his eyes are fixed on the books, and as soon as the monk finishes, Okoteck gives him a perfunctory bow.
"Thank you, I'm sure I'll be able to use my time here well..." he murmurs...
And with that he's in front of the shelves, browsing the volumes. For the time being he focuses on the matter at hand, looking for anything that seems likely to cover the fall of Nortkirche Abbey, as well as looking at the tomes about undead for anything that sounds like what he and the others saw in their vision. Once he's selected a few volumes, he takes them to the reading room, laying out one for himself and one for Hyggiandi, and starts to study them.
Okoteck finds a volume dealing with the incorporeal undead and sets about reading.
"Incorporeal undead are difficult to harm, save with magical force, spiritual power, or the energy of life itself. Certain weapons can be imbued with the power to harm such ghostly creatures directly, and magical weapons in general harm them more forcefully than mundane ones, which often have little or no effect.
When fighting an undead shadow, magical illumination causes all within its light to overcome the shade’s resistance to harm as if they themselves were magical. Beware, as the grasp of a shade can steal the shadow from a living being and turn it against them."
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Some time later, an old man, at least threescore years and ten and wearing a dark hooded robe, steps through the reading room door, followed by Brother Darnö. He shuffles silently to a chair, pulls it back, takes a seat, and steeples his fingers on the table, only then deigning to speak.
”I am Hødír, the abbot of this monastery,” he announces in a thin, reedy voice. ”Brother Darnö tells me you plan to lay the shade of Nortkirche Abbey to rest, and seek knowledge of the abbot who ran it all those years ago to aid you in this task.”
He leans back in the chair, which creaks at the shift in weight. ”I suppose it is best to start at the beginning. Do take care not to interrupt me; there will be time for questions when I am through.” He pauses, his mind rifling through old memories like pages of a book worn by time until they became almost too thin to touch.
”The abbot, Penga, was a man of surpassing intellect and drive, and possessed of… perhaps not faith, given what came after, but a certainty, and one that conquered all obstacles. He had even mastered the power of the resurrection.”
”He became abbot of Nortkirche at the unprecedented age of thirty two. This was some fifty-odd years ago, give or take, before Thegnheim seceded or the Deadlands were formed. He married Svantja, a warrior of surpassing purity and strength, and she gave birth to a son.”
“One day, a dark wizard named Scaíthr conjured a foul jackal-headed dæmon and warned the thegns that unless they made him king of all Graenirvellir he would release it to bring famine and death upon the land. Svantja and her brave companions slew the wizard and banished the dæmon, but not before the creature laid her low with a powerful blight.”
”When they brought Svantja to the abbey, all our prayers were for naught, for the dæmon’s curse was insidious.” As he says this, a twinge of unexpected emotion twists his features in grief and causes his throat to catch momentarily before he is able to continue.
”At the end, it was only Penga and I, his most promising acolyte, alone with her in the small hours. She went peacefully, for our arts could at least give her that much.”
Suddenly and incongruously, he smiles. ”Thus only I and Penga saw what happened next.”
He leans forward in the chair, a bittersweet joy in his eyes at the memory. ”Her soul rose up, a newborn val’kyr gleaming with inner light. She stepped to the open window, smiled at us over her shoulder to let us know all was right, spread her wings, and flew to Heaven wreathed in glory.”
The joy fades from his eyes, shading into resignation. ”Penga howled and chased after her, and it was only my strong young arms that kept him from throwing himself out the window after his wife’s risen soul.” He glances down at his withered frame with a sardonic smile.
He regards each of you in turn. ”Much of what I am about to tell you is speculation based on his effects at the time of his death. Nevertheless, I believe it to be the truth, though I knew none of it and suspected little until the very, very end.”
”The abbot was broken that night, though he did not show it. His efforts to raise his wife from the dead were for naught, as she had been chosen by Morghast to shepherd the souls of other great warriors to their eternal reward. So he turned to darker powers.”
”Her soul was beyond him, but, by taking his knowledge of necromancy and turning it to ends that went against all of his training, he bound her spirit to her armor with a dark dweomer that kept her flesh from rotting, though she did not eat, breathe, drink, or sleep, and was as cold to the touch as her polished breastplate. Thought and memory returned, but not the feelings in her heart.”
”She resumed her duties as a shield maiden, but the deception could not fool her erstwhile companions, and after a few months they could no longer deny that the cruel being with whom they sojourned was a stranger in her flesh. When they shared their suspicions with me, I knew what had happened, though it would take more proof than strictly necessary before I could believe it in my heart.”
He continues, a touch of anger creeping into his voice as his tale takes another turn. ”When I confronted Penga, he was indignant, telling me that the gods had as much need of Svantja here on Zoralon as they did in the heavens above, and if what he had done was so wrong, they would have kept her from rising again.”
He grits his teeth and clenches a withered fist, then relaxes again.
”I argued with him, telling him that that thing was not Svantja and that if he had even a trace of love left in his heart for her he would destroy the creature wearing her flesh. He told me he was on the verge of ‘correcting his mistake’ and screamed at me to let him alone or be expelled from the abbey, and not to bother with telling the other monks for they knew of and agreed with his teachings.”
”That night, after compline, I squatted beside his door and peered through the keyhole, hoping to discover what he had meant. He had not been lying about his support, for four other monks stood vigil with him in his room that night. At midnight, I beheld them pull out a black leather grimoire, and I almost betrayed myself with a gasp, for it was the very book of black magic which the evil wizard Scaíthr had used to conjure the fiend that had slain Penga’s wife.”
The abbot shakes his head at the memory.
”I then watched them light candles of corpse tallow and draw a circle of salt on the floor, conjuring up a tiny red ball of flesh that was all teeth and eyes. Penga held congress with the beast for some time, and it promised to restore passion, warmth, and feeling to Svantja if the abbot would bring the creature with him on his rounds of the dying, so that the beast could float invisibly above them as they perished and feast on their souls as they passed to the next world.”
He shudders with revulsion at the thought.
”I went and told Svantja’s companions all I had seen, and they resolved to slay the abbot. I agreed, though reluctantly, for he had been my friend for long and long. We stormed into the nave right as they were about to begin terce. Svantja and her baby were in the front row, along with the four monks who had assisted in his dark magics the night before. Baldrin, the longest-serving of her companions, accused the abbot of heresy before the entire congregation and raised his holy symbol, sending a bolt of light from Creation’s Forge right at Svantja. Rather than bathe her in healing warmth, it burned her, and she growled and dropped her child to free up her sword hand.”
From the expression on Hødír’s face, this display of casual cruelty to a child by the thing that was once the boy’s own mother still haunts the man after all these years.
”I grabbed the boy and retreated from the room as the companions set upon the abbot and his fallen brethren. Those junior acolytes who deigned not to side with the abbot also fled.”
”The companions fought bravely, slaying the abbot, his disciples, and the thing that was Svantja. They buried the men in the graveyard, and they buried her at a crossroads to stifle the magic bound to her armor that would have caused her to rise once more at the next new moon.”
”But as to the abbey, it was no use. Penga had removed the consecration and invited dark powers into the sanctuary. Ninety-nine days after his death, his shade rose from the grave and began to plague the abbey, leaving Brother Fulrich dead on the floor one night after matins. All the most powerful monks had been turned to evil, so only acolytes such as myself remained. We abandoned the abbey and moved here. I became abbot, raised Penga’s son Hermas as my own, and watched him go off to war and became a knight under the thegn Kinnear, third-ranked man in the Jarl’s court. Then I grew old, as men are wont to do when left to their own devices.”
He chuckles. ”And here we are. Back in the present.”
He casts his gaze about, glancing at each party member in turn. ”If you’re wondering what happened to the grimoire, it is secret. It is safe. And that is all you need to know.”
Brother Darnö, silent this whole time, finally speaks. ”Forgive me, Father, but his shade is but a shadow of what he was in life. You long ago gained the strength to destroy such as him; why did you never return to the abbey and cleanse—”
The abbot holds up a hand, struggling to contain himself.
”Out. Now.”
The monk obeys without question, leaving the abbot at the table to brood.
Okoteck looks up from his reading as the Abbot comes in, dark eyes framed with white feathers fixed on him, considering, listening. He is a little surprised when Abbot Hødír reveals the grimoire was not destroyed--people are always thinking destroying such things will prevent such knowledge from spreading, when the truth is that ignorance is no defense. Perhaps the people of Graenirvellir were wiser in that regard... or perhaps the grimoire was simply enchanted to be difficult to destroy.
Best not to show interest in it, though.
Okoteck sighs slightly. "Thus can obssession destroy even the greatest," the learning-obssessed tengu says. "Thank you, Father Hødír, for sharing the tale. It cannot have been easy to recollect."
He pauses a moment to consider questions. "I have been reading about undead shadows, based on what we knew of the remnants of Penga had become. Is that a correct categorization of what we will face? Did it display any unusual powers beyond what is normal for such creatures?"
The abbot grunts. "Yes, Penga is a shadow now, and a particularly cunning one. He can channel the void to harm the living and bolster his congregation of lost souls."
Jaym'row lays a sympathetic hand on the abbot's shoulder and sighs, reflecting and allowing him a moment with his thoughts and feelings. "Such a sad tale. It must have been very hard to recall all that. We're sorry to have laid that burden on you. I am a collector and teller of such tales to entertain and educate others as to the perils of dealing with the dark entities of the shadows. There are so many tales of people trying to bring a loved one back and instead provoking even more suffering. It is a hard lesson to learn, I fear."
The abbot nods absently. "That it is," he says, leveling a vacant gaze at the far wall.
Noticing the abott's inner conflict, Jade struggles to find the words. "You seem like you're holding something back, like you are ashamed of something." She pauses, unsure of herself. "Let me tell you a story of ours, though I'm no great storyteller. While we were off on an assignment, the cooper back at our camp was afflicted by the tuunbakuit. He killed our compatriots, consumed some of their flesh, set our ship ablaze, and we returned only just in time to watch him soar into the sky, his feet ablaze, as he was carried off by the tuunbaq. We are capable warriors. If we had only hurried a little bit faster, we could have noticed his growing madness and subdued him before he had a chance to kill anyone and burn our way back home. We might have found a way to cleanse him of the influence of the tuunbaq..." Her voice breaks. "Please, whatever you might have done, if you're responsible at all--we're not here to judge. But if we're going to purge Penga's shade, we need to know everything. Don't let us wander in blind."
Syper shakes his head. "You think you know a person, and still, that pain they can bring rests inside you."
He gestures faintly towards his eyepatch. "I was raised in the swamp, but the medicine woman who took me in? She said she never was my real mother. My real mother was... somewhere further along, someone out to sea."
He looks outward and downward, as if viewing a river's lazy course. "I used to imagine my real mother sang to me at night, let her voice bubble up through the bog, let her touch be carried on the water. But really, in the end, it was Hettie, the medicine woman, Mad Old Hettie as everyone called her, who did the actual raising. She treated me as her own flesh and blood. Stood up for me when others recoiled in fear."
He turns to the abbot. "Those people who take responsibility for a child's life? They're the true heroes of this world. They're the ones who create a better life for those they can, for those who can't fend for themselves. Thank you, Abbot. Thank you for your sacrifice for Hermas."
There's my attempt to make an impression.
Okoteck scratches out some notes with a quill while the others talk with the Abbot, making sure to record everything he'd learned about shadows and outlining the general history of Penga for future reference.
At Syper's words, the abbot smiles, and his vacant stare snaps into focus as he turns to regard the party.
"Perhaps it is best if I do tell you everything," he says, taking in your expectant looks.
Prodded appropriately, he opens up, his shame tinged with odd relief as he proceeds to unburden himself.
”I could not destroy Penga then, now, or at any time, for I—” he swallows. ”—I caused Svantja’s death.”
He sobs once, wiping traces of moisture from the corners of his eyes before continuing.
”I was young. So was she. And she was so, so lonely. Penga was a decent man at first, but as time went by, he came to care only for his work. And she was so kind and beautiful and brave…”
He stumbles over his words. ”If she’d been pure, if she’d kept all of her vows rather than all but one, she might have remained too holy for the dæmon’s curse to snuff her out.”
He sniffs, wiping his nose with his sleeve. ”I know Oldfather Morghast forgave her, or he would never have made her a val’kyr. But for her son, who might be mine for all I know, to grow up without a mother, at least in part because of me…”
After a moment of melancholy, he rises to his feet, shuffles over to a shelf in the corner and pulls out an aged and well-worn book. On its spine is written, in a spidery hand, the words The Chronicle of Svantja Gorlauchsdottir. He gingerly cracks it open and begins to read aloud.
”These are the days of Svantja the Brave.” He smiles, then struggles to keep his old back straight as a sob threatens to escape. He turns halfway through the book, to where the pages become blank, and weaves a mystical gesture. Hidden writings, in a different and much finer hand than the rest, appear.
”This is her diary, written by her own hand. It holds the proof of what I say. If might and magic fail to dispel the darkness, perhaps the light of truth will succeed.”
The sad old man wrinkles his nose in disgust. ”The fact that Penga never even noticed that her diary went missing speaks volumes, does it not? I believe she came to hate him at the end.”
Replacing the diary in Penga's study after destroying him will exorcise the abbey and restore its consecration to Morghast, dispelling all haunts, repelling the undead, and preventing Penga from rising again. Displaying it grants an automatic critical success on checks to Exploit Vulnerability via Penga's personal antithesis, as well as the ghost touch property for your attacks against him.