Iosif's bullet and Ethyl's second claw end one of the pickled punks, but the alchemist's claw stings with the contact made with the undead. As the claw finishes the job, the bloated thing explodes in a burst of vile ichor.
The remaining punk crawls out of the sickening nest and attempts to latch its puckered mouth onto Ethyl, but Nyarai's hex ensures the wretched thing fails to do so.
Ethyl's claw punishes the creature for its attempted attack, dealing damage but failing to put it down.
Alvar hesitates, a frown wrinkling their brow. "Take care! They'll enflame the skin with their bites and their aftermath is truly foul!" Of course, they probably already realize that. Sighing inwardly, they decide to trust that their companions are able to defend themselves sufficiently, and unleash another ray of energy.
As it goes wide, they take a hasty step forwards to allow them to summon up their warding magics again, should they need to.
Ethyl gives Alvar a withering look as itchy welts, blotches, and rashes develop on her hands and forearms. She retaliates against the creatures thinking it can't get worse.
Iosif tries to end the other pickled punk.
Ethyl's first claw tears the last punk apart, it once again bursting like a malicious boil.
The closet and the conference room now reek of bile. The closet is filled with what must have been the specimen jars from Chawaar's office, each containing a tumorous, malformed body or body part.
Other than the administrator's office, the area north of the library is secured for now.
Iosif grabs the alchemist fires and immediately hands them to Ethyl wordlessly.
"These coats could come in handy if we need to impersonate anyone."
"Ugh.. formalin. It's an irritant. I should have known better. I need to flush the affected area with water. I can concoct a salve later."
Ethyl tried not to scratch the affected areas too much.
With no reservations she examined the body.
She said, "Human, male, Kelish descent. Probably one of the doctors."
Ethyl takes the alchemist's fires and puts two in her doctor's coat for easy access later.
"Let's see if Losandro has anything useful in their office."
Alvar examines the corpse, then nods. "Apologies. I... was distracted. I didn't think to warn you about their... stranger qualities until afterwards." They sigh. "Hopefully next time we meet anything like that, we'll see them well before they get close enough to attack."
The Tortured Crusader sighs at the disgusting mess of bottled slime.
I've a feeling this will not get any better soon.
Enoch stands army the ready if any of those slime still should show itself....
His blue eyes do begin to travel the office while he decides to help Ethyl.
He is seen just staring at nothing...
"Pickled... Punks?" the sylph ponders the words used. "Are they food?" she makes a disgusted grimace when the thought crosses her mind.
"Let's do, please." she adds after a few short moments. "The office, I mean. Find those records."
"No." Alvar answers the sylph's question. "Simply... preserved by pickling. In substances best not considered. But the question is... did these creatures come the Dreamlands' intrusion, or were they already here?" Their eyes narrow. "It speaks poorly of the doctors here, if the latter."
They nod mildly, following the others towards the administrator's office and mentally running over their spells again. Hopefully they'll be useful here...
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Ethyl approaches the door to Losandro's office, inspecting the finely made portal. She too hears the muffled breathing from within, and those standing around glimpse a shadow move across the western window. It rises from below, gnarled branch-like fingers flexing as it reaches up before swiftly withdrawing from whence it came.
The door is closed and at first doesn't seem to want to open. However, another try of the knob proves it was just stuck - slightly swollen - rather than locked or trapped. Opening it, the group enters the long awaited administrator's office.
This office is massive, cathedral-like in its construction. A second floor comprising of a five-foot walkway hugging shelves and shelves of books and scrolls is veiled by that same acrid yellow fog that the party saw in their dreams. A delicate metal staircase spirals tightly up to the private library of the administrator. Three mundane wooden desks stand in opposite sides of the room, the closer one resembling a secretary's station, the other two holding books and a collection of trinkets and memorabilia. Directly across from the door stands a dark marble desk, thick and elaborate like an altar.
In the middle of the room sits the source of the indoor mist. A woman of Taldan ethnicity rests on her knees in a pool of blood, sourced from slowly but constantly flowing but unseen wounds. Her head is thrown back and her mouth agape as mists of blues, greens, and purples rise steadily from her throat. This vibrant hues fade to that sickly yellow five feet from her mouth as they rise to join the curtain gathering below the ceiling.
Entering the room one would see another door leading to the south across the office. The stain glass windows lining the northern wall of the office each feature a slowly twisting shadow writhing in inhuman and unnatural shapes, fading away as one tries to focus on them and redefining themselves in the peripheral.
Doggedly following behind Ethyl, Enoch steadily has his battered longsword ready to defend them--when--sonething putridity born appears....
Enoch's blue eyes widen at the bizarre sight of the female and her stigmata breathing life into this Mist! The Tortured Crusader shakes as if in remembrance of something foul, filthy, forgotten.
Barely recognizing the decor, the Paladin Strides into the office heading straight for her!
The tortured blue eyes of Enoch are only for her.....
She begins to say something to Enoch as he rushes towards the fog spewing woman, part of her wants to stop the man; it could be dangerous and he is useful. But another part of her wants to see what happens when he enters the fog. She hesitates and fails to give warning in time.
Ethyl marvels at the chamber drinking in the details to analyze later. The drawings catch her eyes first, A cityscape rendered in charcoal, why is it familiar? I’ve seen it, a dream or a nightmare. Curious.
She also notes the desks and bookshelves, they would have to thoroughly ransack them for any clue to their plight.
"Is that..." Iosif says, not even reacting at the dead body and blood on the floor. His eyes dart straight to the charcoal painting. Then his eyes turn to see the source of the mist, and he grumbles. "What should we do about... her? it?"
It seems familiar.
Enoch absently begins to perspire as the determined Paladin continues his approach....
Alvar grimaces as they see the yellowish mist whirling about the room, but their eyes widen slightly at the sight of its source. "What in the...?" Their voice trails off as they take in the full horrors of the room. Strange... a nightmare emerging from the fog? Is she the source of all the fog outside? Surely not alone... Does that mean there are more, or am I underestimating how the ritual focuses on her?
"Wait." They say, lifting one of their six-fingered hands.. "Let's not do anything hasty."
The elder mythos scholar knows immediately this is an oneirogen, a mortal infused with a sliver-sized tear between the planes. Flashes of a blackened seaside fortress and depthless libraries blind Alvar for a moment, as the tomes and scrolls they once read but had forgotten fill their mind with information.
Oneirogens are no longer the individuals they once were, wholly consumed by the planar energies leaking from their husks. The fog spilling from them both obscures them from danger and serve as manifestations of the plane they are bound to. Due to the yellow coloration, this oneirogen is tied to the Dimension of Dreams, and while one is a danger to those around it, enough of them could release enough planar corruption to allow a thinning of the veil.
Those within 10 ft of an oneirogen take a 20% miss chance, those adjacent take 50%. Those adjacent also must make a DC 12 Will save or fall asleep, not receiving natural healing from sleep for the next 24 hours. Oneirogens are immune to mind-affecting effects, but are weak to dismissal and banishment and other such spells.
Despite bleeding profusely, the woman might not be dead. The fog does not spew constantly, but rhythmically as if exhaled. Her chest also rises and falls as if still breathing, her mouth flexing with inhales and exhales.
As Enoch strides towards the woman kneeling in a puddle of her own blood, he enters the fog surrounding her and looses sight of his surroundings. He is still visible to his companions, but he cannot see them. Drawing closer, he begins to feel his mind fog and slow.
The memories buffet Alvar for a moment, but then they are returned.
"An oneirogen?" The abjurer grimaces. "That's... advanced stuff. You've got to insert an... incision, for lack of a better term, between planes into a humanoid's body. It basically kills who they were, hollows them out... this one, obviously, is tied to the Dimension of Dreams..." They shake their head. "One isn't enough to cause a thinning or merger of planes, but they are dangerous to get close - dammit, man!" Alvar curses. "Get back here! You could fall asleep if you're that close to it!" And that, they don't need to say, would be very bad.
"And this is a time I'm glad I chose a weapon such as this," Iosif says as he steadies his aim at the oneirogen, standing it of course.
Ethyl is transfixed by the scene before her and it slowly drives her insane.
[ooc] Wait why is your Will -1?! ]/ooc]
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The full immersion of Enoch into his delirium of his guilt ridden past pushes the Paladin through the sickly mist. He goes for the head!
The woman's head remains on her shoulders for a moment, a red curtain spilling from a thick line across her neck. The colorful fog ceases to flow from her mouth as the head finally rolls from her neck to the floor, splattering the pooled blood onto the paladin's robes.
The companions can hear the sound of a little girl laughing, along with muted voices. These voices are familiar, inspire trust, not for you but for the woman. Flashes in the last colorful wisps of fog show a vision of a younger version of this woman, a child, playing in a field with her parents. "Eliege!" The voices call. "It's time to come home, sweetie!"
The fog obscuring Enoch fades away, and in the next minute the fog congealing in the ceiling also begins to dissipate. However, the fog outside remains, and the shadows playing in the stain glass windows slink away teasingly. It becomes quiet, only the heavy breath of the paladin can be heard.
Ethyl watches in horror as Enoch is enveloped in the murky yellow fog. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding as he emerges again, now spattered with blood and the mist clearing from the room. Ethyl keeps a wary eye on the shapes outside, clearly unsettled by them she tries her best to focus on the task at hand.
She fights back the fear and manages to order her mind. First she starts on Alvar’s observations, ”Onierogen, creator of dreams, a clever appellation. It seems we have the how of the asylum's troubles or at least in part. We don’t know how a person is transformed into a living conduit of dreams. As to the who and why, I suspect this Tatterman is creating ideal conditions for its modus operandi. Since the fog cleared after destroying what was left of Losandro I suspect that there are other onierogens and that if we destroy them we will be able to escape. But that does not help our own personal problems, let’s check and see if the administrator kept records of our admission.”
Ethyl methodically goes through each desk, moving to the bookshelves afterwards.
Enoch's tortured blue eyes stare at the fallen, headless corpse of the woman. The Paladin absently cleans his blade.
Should be able to read better now, Ethyl.
As the smoke fades, the tiefling heaves a sigh. "As I was saying - I don't think this one alone would've been enough to cause what's happened here. If I had to guess, there are likely others in the sanitarium, though I cannot begin tell you where."
They frown slightly, considering the creature's last words. "... that was probably the last dream of whoever the oneirogen used to be. Presumably the administrator." The wizard sighs heavily, then begins to help Ethyl looking around.
If you turn around, you can see the sylph standing in the door, eyes aimed in the direction of the remains of the 'administrator' but seemingly out of focus. She looks catatonic in her reactions, but seems to be muttering under her breath — something about a great ruined city, black stars sinking into lakes, and tattered kings of old.
The secretary's desk holds nothing of note, a few pages of schedules and notes of meetings. The other tables hold a small selection of books, some fiction, most psychiatric with multiple bookmarks and dogeared pages of both mundane and magical means of tending to the mind. The collection of oddities includes a wooden box carved to resemble a brain, bookends depicting a set of twins - one screaming and the other crying, and a brass Osiriani pyramid.
Stepping up the stairwell to the library above reveals hundreds of medical texts on the nature of mortal minds. Long winded titles decorate the spines of these tomes, all of which contain far more dense jargon than the contents of the main library.
The framed sketches each bear a delicate copper plate with the name Ulvar Zandalus and feature dates ranging from 4708 t0 4715. The one dated 4713 depicts the five figures fleeing from a mummified pursuer.
The main desk has several drawers also filled with mundane writing materials and notary. However, the middle drawer is locked. As the fog clears, a ring of keys can be spotted on Losandro's belt. Inside is a well kept and used journal, signed to Eliege Losandro. Up to the last year, it is mostly filled with mundane notes and ramblings of the late administrator.
However, it is the last few pages that strike the reader. The name Count Haserton Pragmus Lowls IV and variations of it appear with increasing frequency. The Count seems to have taken an extreme interest in Ulvar Zandalus, visiting frequently and communing with the disturbed artist.
The last few entries read as such:
Oathday: Another unexpected call from Count Lowls. These have become so common and Lowls’s focus is so singular that they no longer leave me apprehensive. He requested to see me after his visit with Zandalus, though. He claims to have a theoretical solution for the poor man’s condition. I don’t know what the count and my prized patient have been discussing and Lowls again refused to share - but I doubt that lordly amateur psychologist has truly hit upon anything of worth. Regardless, I’d be a fool not to humor my liege.
Starday: Lowls’s "solution" was not at all what I expected. I have no clue where he turned it up, but on his most recent visit he brought along a copy of Valhadis’s The Chain of Nights, a near-legendary collection of psycho-arcane studies and treatments focused on dreaming. While I abhor arcane tampering, if there’s a permanent solution to Zandalus’s nightmares, it could be here. Lowls allowed me to study the text for the duration of his visit, but staunchly refused to leave it in my possession.
Moonday: Lowls has made me an offer: his copy of The Chain of Nights. All I must do in return is accept a handful of new patients - five former associates of his that have suffered some unprecedented manner of group amnesia. I might accept this as charity on the count’s behalf, but he insists that I keep no record of their committal. The terms make me suspicious, but I can learn more of these curious strangers once they’re in my care. If it means the possibility of a cure for Zandalus and others, I welcome the bargain.
Toilday: The Chain of Nights is a marvel. It will take years of study to unravel all its possibilities, but already I’ve discovered a process by which chronic dreams might be drawn forth and disposed of like so much psychic gristle. Barnellus has already determined much about the Count's former associates, perhaps the Chain of Nights can help them too. Tomorrow our experiment begins.
Attached to the Moonday entry is a slip of paper with a filing number and the word Confidential.
In the locked drawer are also several items. A fine magnifying glass with an inscription around the metallic ring around the glass reading "To Eliege, to find the things no one else was looking for". Several cases containing a total of eleven vials, each clearly labeled: 2 vials of alchemist's kindness, 1 vial of smelling salts, 2 vials of soothe syrup, 4 doses of antitoxin, and 2 liquid doses of opium. A simple wooden scroll case holds a scroll of fox's cunning and 2x scrolls of remove paralysis. A candle of spirit protection is contained in a burlap baggie, and a tin contains incense of open thoughts. One last bag holds a greater talisman of beneficial winds on a fine silver chain, and a braided leather cord holds a lesser talisman of healing power and a lesser talisman of warrior's courage.
Alvar glances over the valuables, frowning. "A small treasure trove of curios, but I'm not sure how valuable that sketches are..." Their eyes narrow. "But unless I'm very mistaken, that last one is probably relevant. Zandalus fleeing from something?"
They cast the minor cantrip to scan for any magical auras in the vicinity, still thinking about the journal. "Lowls? Isn't he the ruler of Versex? And... didn't Miss Klaczka mention him as the target of her investigation?"
"I can't make heads or tails of the magical means of tending to the mind, but each of these curios should be... 50gp to the right interested party?"
He then looks at the morbid art with fascination, pausing as he examines it as if some kind of trance, then snaps out of it. "Hm, find the right person, and this could go for 10 platinum, equivalent to 100 gold in most places."
"Hm. I don't know how I know that, but yes Lowls is the ruler of Versex, I can confirm that. Unless a new ruler has shown up and all of our memories are out of date due to amnesia, that is."
Enoch's blue eyes seem stuck staring at the sketch dated 4713 depicting the five figures fleeing from a mummified pursuer.....
This seems ominously familiar....
He begins looking for a calendar.
....or ominously foreshadowing....
"But unless I'm very mistaken, that last one is probably relevant. Zandalus fleeing from something?"
"Or chasing someone..." the sylph comments. Apparently, she's regained her senses and is now meandering about, looking through random files. Once she gets the opportunity to take a look at the journal, she immediately takes the paper slit and starts looking around the cabinets for the associated number.
"Yes, yes. We will know soon. Have patience." she mutters while her eyes dart around.
"Hm." Alvar glances over the magical items and effects. "Interesting. Some of these would be quite useful. I'm not entirely certain that all of them are what they're labeled to be, but here's what I do know."
They look at the others. "I can carry whatever you want to stow for now, but some of this might be useful to us in the more immediate future." Their tail indicates their enchanted backpack.
Nyarai takes the filing number and begins looking around. The southeastern door holds a plaque with three locations: Dayroom, Storage, and - most importantly - Records.
As she approaches the door to the coveted Records, the party hears a scrapping sound, like a chair being dragged across the stone floor. Looking around, they don't see anything at first. However, Nyarai slowly looks behind her and a chair once seated at the desk with the bookmarked tomes is now closer to her. It trembles for a moment, then the chair lunges for her.
Click.
Enoch slowly turns his gaze from the foreshadowing sentence to stare uncertainty at the Chair.
Anyone else see that Chair move?
The Tortured Crusader heaves a heavy sigh of relief when it actually does launch itself at them.
Oh, thank Pharasma! Not yet ...not yet...
Enoch (with a bit of renewed energy) Strides to the really hostile, angry, but everyone else sees it too Chair and Strikes!
Earlier
Ethyl ponders, "Five amnesiac's all at once delivered here by Count Lowls. We of course are those five patients, the chances otherwise seem unlikely at best. And he brought an arcane tome promising miracle cures for chronic nightmares. Administrator Losandro should have known better than to tamper in techniques she ill understood. I believe I will have words with Count Lowls once we escape."
Once she had a moment she prepared another draught of her mutagen and drank it, bringing forth her monstrous side.
Now
Ethyl rushed towards the animate chair and swiping at the upholstery.
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The sylph gasps and attempts to dodge the incoming chair by jumping aside. She gives Ethyl a curious look. "Why would you throw chairs at us?"
And then Ethyl and Enoch both close in on the chair and start absolutely destroying the piece of furniture. The sylph, on the other hand, continues to be confused.
Alvar's eyes narrow as they see the oncoming attack. "This really is a nightmare." They grumble, rapidly determining that their current spells are unlikely to help much against this thing. "Chairs that attack. A construct of some sort, probably, though I have no idea what its capabilities might be." They draw the five-pointed star in the air, invoking their magical protections to defend themself and their closest allies.
Alvar manages to recognize some kind of animated object as the chair turns on its attackers, leaping up to slam into Enoch. However, the paladin holds out his sword, deflecting the chair back to the floor.