Through flashes of lighting and the crashing of thunder you remember seeing a leaning monument to the district’s pain, this four-story courthouse is a crumbling marvel of cracked plaster and chipped marble. Once a testament to justice wrought in shining white stone, the courthouse is now a crushed dream, its wretched exterior corrupted by a bloated evil festering within.
Rainwater from a recent downpour mixed with mulch oozes from ruptures in the rock like pus bubbling from a wound. The structure of the eastern wing of the upper floor buckled long ago, and now the bell tower tilts perilously, appearing as though it might careen to the ground below at any moment. Two massive pillars frame the heavy oak doors of the court. The pillars’ surfaces run with cracks and fissures like so many burst veins. The doors sag in their archway like the drooping eyes of a madman. The surrounding structures long ago fell in upon themselves in supplication to the creaking courthouse.
A salt wind blows up the precipice and rakes across the tangled weeds of Beldrin’s Bluff. The whole building groans as the wind blows, its tortured lamentation fading to a rasping hiss as the wind ebbs. This croaking murmur never completely fades away. The sun sets in the west, the last slivers of twilight painting the courthouse blood red as darkness creeps closer.
repeatedly and snarls for silence. The murmur of the crowd relents as the stocky magistrate
draws up to his full height, smoothing a silver beard with one hand as he sets down his gavel
and focuses on you with shining green eyes. “Jarbin Mord. For the brutal and savage slaying of your own wife and six-year-old boy, it is the verdict of this jury, with which I concur wholeheartedly, that you shall hang by your neck until dead. May the gods take mercy on your blackened soul.”
Slowly, the vision fades away as you return to consciousness, but the sight that greets you is almost as disturbing. The dying gray light of sunset peeks through slits in the boarded windows, barely illuminating a yawning courtroom replete with pews and a towering bench covered in cobwebs. A shadowed mural on the domed ceiling above depicts Iomedae in her shining plate mail of gilded sunlight, locked in mortal combat with Norgorber, Calistria, and Asmodeus, holding the trifecta of evil at bay with her shining sword. You find yourself in a jurors’ box, and you are not alone. In the other chairs, eleven other figures stir in the darkness, each emerging from troubling dreams into a new nightmare.
Please only read your vision. I would like a will save from each of you and please note if there are any situational modifiers, ie +2 vs. spell.