The King in Yellow is the shepherd of the nihilist, the anarchist, and the decadent, herding his followers towards enigmatic goals. Whispered to be a mere aspect of something fouler and far more ancient than the gods themselves, the King in Yellow is a manipulative force that drives civilizations into chaos.
Iosif feels a sense of rivalry, distrust, and even fear at the mention of the King in Yellow, as if recalling childhood memories of bogeymen.
"I feel we shared similar goals in nihilism, but I am not an adherent of the... King in Yellow. Even saying that guy's name feels incorrect. The thing about that breed of nihilism, is that it drives civilizations into chaos. No abrupt end, nothing noble or philosophical about it, just hedonistic, decadent, and anarchistic nihilism. Whispered to be a mere aspect of something older than the gods, demi-gods, and other deities by a wide margin."
Names rush to the witch's mind. Carcosa, Alar, Ythill, Hastur, Hali. The King in Yellow is supposed to be a prisoner on his dimly lit world, but wherever the light of Carcosa's black stars shine he can appear. Those that worship the King in Yellow seek to feed the city of Carcosa fallen civilizations to fuel the metamorphosis of the avatar into something more than a mere god - a power to drag reality into insidious hedonism.
"The Tatterman... an old Sarkorian legend. A messenger from some of the darker deities that were worshipped there." Alvar smiles bitterly. "He likely fled from the Worldwound when it opened. Some academics agree with Ratch's tribe's stories, and the books here. They believe that he was a cannibal doppelgänger before he became a servant of... stranger gods. It would explain why several of the staff have turned to doppelgängers, if true."
They frown. "Speaking of the Worldwound, I suspect that something similar has happened here, albeit on a much smaller scale. I believe that a ritual has been performed that resulted in the Dimension of Dreams and the Material Plane... overlapping, for lack of a better term."
They glance up at the ratling, then at Iosif, growing more troubled. That isn't pleasing to hear. To distract themselves, if only for a moment, they search their mind for knowledge of the King in Yellow. Likely one of the gods of the Dark Tapestry that favored the Tatterman...
The King in Yellow has many monikers: the Unspeakable One, Him Who Is Not To Be Named, Unnamed Lord, the Corpse of Heaven, and Hastur. Hastur is thought to be a demigod of the Dark Tapestry, categorized by scholars as a Great Old One. However, there is fierce debate among those insane enough to attempt to have rational thought about such things. One unpopular theory is what most call Hastur is merely an aspect of the true entity, an avatar known as the King in Yellow, an amber-cloaked shepherd of nihilists, anarchists, and hedonists. This avatar can manifest on any world where the black stars of Carcosa's twilight sky shine their unlight.
The truth of Hastur is unknown, claimed to be a mere prisoner of the cannibalistic and decaying alien city of Carcosa, or being the city itself, or an eldritch truth of mortal nature feeding on the degradation of civilization. His unholy symbol, the Yellow Sign, can drive those who behold it to delusions of grander, joining the King in Yellow's herd as a cultist, and scheming to defy morality and lawfulness. The unholy text of Hastur is a play titled "The King in Yellow", and performances of this play have always ended in disproportionate disasters.
Hastur is decadence, anarchy, and nihilism. A nightmarish opponent of sanity. Any who'd serve such a thing is to be feared.
Enoch's blue eyes widen at the mentioning of the World Wound. The Tortured Crusader suppresses the guilty feelings that begin to bubble up. Instead, he busy himself with the King in Yellow dialogue....
Sounds like a tulip Deity. The yellow and all ...
Ethyl raises an eyebrow at Alvar's conclusion, "Then our immediate goal for survival is to reverse this ritual. No doubt the Apostles in Orpiment and this Tatterman will oppose us."
She turns to Ratch, "Does the Tatterman have a weakness of some kind? Perhaps if we're able to dream lucidly we can turn our dreamscape against him?"
Enoch begins to absently wonder how Pharasma feels about swearing....
"I ... " Ratch bites his lips, his black eyes darting around before he begins to ramble. "That ... might work. Yes-yes, the Every-All lives in night-thoughts. If he could be harmed-killed it would be there! Wise creature you is-is."
Ratch continues to speak till a groaning shudder shakes the compound. Not so fierce that it would knock the group off their feet, but pieces of rubble and loose items are jostled, the clattering sounding like an eerie rattle atop the deeper rumble. It lasts for a second or two, followed by a sound like a giant muffled exhale that emanates from the crack in the hole.
Ratch freezes, staring in horror at the hole he claimed to have exited from but ceasing to speak.
Ethyl considers killing Ratch now that he has provided the information but defers to the rest of the group.
"We have our work cut out for us since it seems the five of us are the only people of worth in the asylum and we are in a time crunch, shall we?"
When the others were ready she moved across the hall and made sure the door was safe before opening it.
Alvar scowls. "The King in Yellow." Their voice is vitriolic. "A creature of decadence, nihilism, anarchy. A being with many names. A demigod, perhaps, of the Dark Tapestry. A Great Old One, as some scholars name it. An enemy of all sanity." They repress a shiver. "We must be cautious. Anything that would knowingly serve such a being is going to be dangerous, if only because they are unpredictable... and I suspect the Tatterman is not merely unpredictable."
They take a quiet breath before nodding at Ethyl's conclusion. "Yes, reversing the ritual is the ideal outcome. I am... uncertain how much power that would require, but learning more will no doubt aid us." They gesture vaguely in the direction of the library. "There might be useful information back there, or in the the administrator's office."
They eye the ratling, not trusting his word. "I'm not certain that a lucid dream alone would be enough to face a creature such as the Tatterman." They confess. "But absent more information - both about the reasons for this... overlapping, the Tatterman's nature, and the goals of these Cultists in Orpiment, I don't have any better suggestions."
The sylph watches the rat-like creature in the room almost soil itself once the tremors start. She looks at the hole herself, pondering something.
"Hmm..." she supports her chin with her fingers. "Makes you wonder whether this is a regular occurrence. Does that happen often?", she scans the rating like a hawk, seemingly the first time ever. Up until now, she's been watching something in the hallway. But she's now focused on Ratch.
Not like she's good at reading people or anything...
"Ratch. I know you're trying to save yourself with your words past this point. Mind telling me what's below, at least, that has you so horrified?"
Ratch looked up at Iosif, turning his bullet wound away from the gunslinger. "I ... I don't ... know-know ... exactly?" His voice squeaked softly, ashamed to admit his ignorance. "It is big-huge, old-ancient, and so terribly strong. My great-great-great-great-great-great ... ancestor is said to have seen-witnessed it. So big he thought-said it was as big as this isle. It is why we built nests just below-neath this fort-prison rather than further safely down."
Ratch glanced at Nyarai. "No-no. Not often. Think thing woke-dreamed, caused earthshake, and now sleeps fitful. Maybe Shredman haunting its dreams too-too."
Ethyl checks the door, a brass label hanging by the left nail reading "Staff Lounge", and finds it closed but unlocked and untrapped. The lounge's ceiling has collapsed, crushing a table and well-worn couch beneath the rubble. A handful of books and papers stick out from around the table's corpse, ruined by the damage.
Shaking his tussled head from his nightmarish thoughts of the King in Yellow and it's portents, the Paladin hurries to catch up to Ethyl.
Apologies for my tardiness. These nightmarish personalities are a bit troublesome.
Enoch holds his battered longsword ready, as the Alchemist opens the Staff Lounge.
Fresh coffee would be a pleasant surprise.
Enoch's blue eyes roam the trashed room with concern on his face.
Please let the coffee supply survive....
Obviously he has his priorities....
Enoch carefully enters the Lounge....
We're on an island? If they'd already been told that, Alvar has since forgotten, but then the rest of their wits catch up with them. Something big enough to be an island, whose motions cause earthquakes? Something powerful and underground? There are too many possibilities. But if Tatterman threatens to wake it up... that couldn't be good for anyone still living here.
They are about to speak when they notice that two of their compatriots are missing. "Wait, where's - dammit." They stick their head out the door just in time to see Enoch pass obliviously into the next room. Taking a deep breath, they look to the two remaining. "Please hold here for a moment unless you hear fighting."
With that they stride out of the door, casting a quick gaze over the lounge. Noticing nothing, they turn to Enoch. "Dammit, man! I swear by all that is unholy if you don't stop wandering into areas that haven't been scouted carefully, I will see to it that you are tied up whenever we're not in combat and dragged along! Your recklessness is going to get you, and more importantly to me, the rest of us killed! Possibly even today, if you don't wise up." As they come to a close they stop, staring at the rubble. "There's a hand there." They hiss. "Possibly another undead one. Be careful."
Ethyl regards the hand suspiciously, "if you were thinking about excavating the body I'd recommend against it. If it's undead it is trapped currently and we don't have a lot of time."
She gives Alvar a withering look as they complain about Enoch's reckless attitude. But she doesn't comment further.
She maneuvered to the next door again making sure there was no one on the other side or any other nasty surprises.
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The pathetic Aasimir looks a bit taken back by the Wizard's words of reprimand.
Thought I was scouting...
His blue eyes seem to purposely not land of the aforementioned buried hand....
Enoch then shrugs and the Paladin follows Ethyl. He seems anxious to continue....
Iosif sees the hand, and points his ornate musket at the thing. "I'm with the tiefling here."
The door Ethyl has proceeded to is one of the two others that have that mucus trail. This door is ajar, and within is a trashed office with just enough room for two desks amidst all the cabinets and shelves. Two bodies lay slumped over the desks, both wearing doctors coats. The mucus leads up to their chairs and up their coats and then back out into the hallway to lead to the last western door.
Ratch remains on the desk as the group leaves one by one. As eyes turn to Alvar's outburst and other rooms, the ratling snaps his fingers and vanishes, turning invisible.
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Alvar sighs, relenting. "Apologies. My temper is a bit short at this time. However, you are not terribly stealthy, and some of us are. I'd rather know what we're facing without them knowing we're here, if at all possible." They shake their head, repeating themselves. "I apologize."
Quietly, they follow the half-elf towards the new room, scanning it as they do so.
Ethyl nods and says out loud, ”I agree, blunt trauma to the back of the head from whatever made the slime trails. And I believe it is quite safe. For the moment. See here, where the trails head out again and head west?”
She begins to rummage through the papers and produces an obscured yew wand engraved with an angel posed like an ankh. Dismissing the uninteresting doctor reports she hands the wand to Alvar, ”What do you make of this?”
Enoch's blue eyes smiles at Alvar's apologies.
Stealth is not actually foreign to me either.
The smiling Paladin follows Ethyl into the crowded room. He looks over the bodies (prodding with his battered longsword) and then he examines them closer.
Apparently, his sight has been completely compromised by....who really knows. He most likely is having an episode. Guilt really is a b&$#$...
Muttering under his breath about demons and death, the Tortured Crusader moves about the crowded room to search it.
Enoch absently begins to hum softly to himself and he begins to rock a bit...
Iosif, after observing the bodies, agrees with what everyone else says, having nothing else to add.
The sylph tilts her head again at the ratling's response, not sure what to make of it. Once it disappears, she walks after the rest of the explorers, taking her time examining the walls both visually and by touch, sliding tips of her fingers on the surface. She enters the room last, and inspects the place. She walks up to the two bodies, looking at them for a while.
She raises an eyebrow and looks at Ethyl. "We shouldn't be so sure." the sylph says, beckoning the rest to come see her pointing out the scratch marks on the heads. "This looks like scratch marks. And look at the ankles. On both bodies."
Ethyl sneers as the sylph shows her up by pointing out the details she missed. "Curious. Were they small things that forced open their cranium after ascending them violently? I still don't know what to make of these slime trails either."
"Based solely on the message, it sounds like it should have some sort of divine spell in it." Alvar muses. "But allow me a few moments to attempt to identify it." Alvar chants a quick spell, gazing at the wand carefully for several long seconds.
Nyarai eyes the wounds of the two junior doctors. The ankles appear to have been targets of small claws and fangs, torn to shreds. The wounds on the heads seem to be made from the outside, as if digging into the skulls' interior.
Ethyl cannot recall or identify what the mucus is, other than its acrid smell and slimy physiology.
Alvar identifies the wand as a wand of bless with 18 charges left on it.
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The sylph ponders what creature causes wounds like this. "Pretty sure it was bloodthirsty butterflies.", she comments.
Snapping back to reality (oh, what a tragedy), the Tortured Crusader glances over to listen to what the others actually found.
Dusty in here.
Absently rubbing his blue eyes, Enoch stands ready to continue once Alvar does his magic stuff....
Ethyl smirks at the slyph's suggestion, "At this rate I actually would not be surprised."
She crept to the next door in the hallway, "Lets make sure."
After checking the door over for ill intent and listening for any presence on the other side, she opened the door. Warning her companions of any potential danger should she find it.
Iosif quietly ponders this new information to see what kind of creature, besides perhaps the ratlings, could bite ankles like that.
The door here is labelled "Conference Room" and is slightly ajar. Finding no traps, Ethyl opens the door to find a ruined conference room, complete with a crushed once-handsome table. The slimy trail encircles the table and chairs, leading towards the still standing closet door in the far corner of the room . There is little else in this room.
Nyarai and Iosif rack their brains to identify what could have made these trails or committed this damage, but their lack of memories and lack of more evidence leads to their thoughts spinning aimlessly.
After determining that there prey was behind another door she carefully checked it before opening it as well. She was beginning to develop a neurosis about doors she realized.
Alvar relays the wand's nature to their companions, then glances wryly at the sylph. "Unfortunately, I can't use this without risk of it failing." They say, gesturing with the wand. "Can any of you?" The tiefling hands the wand to Iosif, glancing over the injuries and searching their own recollections, fragmentary though they are, for what could've inflicted them.
Even as they think on it, they follow Ethyl to the Conference Room, glancing around with their natural darkvision to take in anything of note.
"This is a wand of bless, right? I can make use of it, I believe?" Iosif says as he examines the wand.
Iosif experimentally casts Bless on himself using the wand, just to make sure he's capable of due to his memory issues. "Hm. Bless functions in a... burst, is that the name? So you all should be affected."
As the divine energy washes over everyone Ethyl comments, "Affirmative Iosif. While I can't imagine worshipping a deity I will not turn away their blessings."
A warped human baby is gently laid out on the table, brackish mucus dripping from its grey distended flesh and the large jar it was being stored in. An elf - whose face is covered in a mask and goggles - gently sets the jar aside and looks at Alvar.
"Alchemy. Necromancy. Pacts with dark powers. A parent's love. The loss of life is a trivial thing when there are so many means to restore a life. This wretched creature was stillborn, but the mother was a cultist to ..." The name of the entity is warped and whispered, "... and she sacrificed her husband's life to revive her child. Do you know what these sorry lives are cataloged as?"
"Pickled punks." Alvar replied confidently, glad they had picked up that alchemical tome last week. Looking back down, Alvar sees not the undead creation but the junior doctor's defiled skull.
As the wand is used, there is a flash of golden light from the wand's tip and Sarenrae's ankh. Enoch feels a familiar celestial warmth in his soul, feeling courage swell in his heart. Ethyl, Nyarai, and Alvar do not recall any familiarity with the feeling other than a clinical appreciation of the divine magic. Iosif feels a strange moment of guilt for sins he cannot recall, or perhaps for choosing the wrong road to walk, but that moment passes and is replaced with grim skepticism.
Ethyl examines the closet door, finding it closed but not locked or trapped. Opening it, she hears something gurgle and exert effort as a jar filled with brackish liquid is hurled at her head. Fortunately it flies past her, but it lands on the floor behind her with a sickening crash.
Looking up, Ethel sees two tiny monsters gurgling and shrieking in alarm and hatred. Resembling malformed infants, these tumorous creatures are slick with mucus, warped and bloated from being submerged in whatever chemicals they were stored in. One is up on a shelf, near a couple more jars, while another crawls out of a nest on the floor made up of filled specimen jars, bloody doctor's coats, and the chewed and disassembled body parts of an unrecognizable humanoid.
Iosif grimaces at the guilt, steeling his resolve as he wrecks havoc on his foes. Do I shoot the allies? No, that makes no logical sense if they can help me escape here to do more freely. But something feels off. Is some other deity trying to pity me?
Enoch's blue eyes widen as the mini-mucus minions retaliate for being bothered.
Think I may get sick...
The Paladin thinks about these creatures with both pity and disgust in his throat.
Enoch's blue eyes wince at the double posting, but a Paladin gots to do what a Paladins got to do!
He Strides to stand next to Ethyl and attempts to bring his battered longsword down on Bad Boy Blue!
The sylph looks at the creatures for a moment and can feel her hair stand on end. She shakes the feeling once Iosif fires the cursed thing and returns into reality. Or what seems like reality, anyway. She clutches her scarf and focuses on Ethyl for a short moment, then lets out a gasp.
Protective Luck (Su) (Heroes of the High Court pg. 9): The witch can cause fate to twist so that it benefits a creature within 30 feet for 1 round. Whenever that creature is targeted by an effect that requires an attack roll, including weapon attacks, the attacker must roll twice and take the worse result. At 8th level and 16th level, the duration of this hex is extended by 1 round. A witch cannot use this ability on herself. Hexes that affect the fortune hex, such as cackle, also affect protective luck.
Alvar staggers for a moment as memories assail them, and they shake their head. "Pickled punks?" They hear themself say, before snapping back to the present. What was that? Who was that? When did I learn about-
The sound of crashing glass brings their attention to the newly emerged and monstrous creatures.
"Wait, are those pickled punks? Stillborn children reanimated?" They exclaim. "Smash them, don't cut or stab!" They take a step into the room, their six-fingered hands dancing as they chant a quick spell and unleash a ray of energy at the creature, which flies wide.
"Damn." They hiss under their breath.
Ethyl recoils at the sight of the specimens come to life. Zombified fetuses, horrid. Luckily her revulsion caused the creature tossing jars filled with vile preservatives to misjudge and miss her.
Ethyl tried to claw at the punks heedless of Alvar’s warnings to bludgeon them to death.
Ethyl opts not to get a mouthful of zombie infested preservative fluid. She steps back hoping to draw them out.