No pressure GM, but is everything okay?
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See you then!
All is good. Diving in today. Things slowed down for me after the pre-thanksgiving spike. Sidenote... (I'm not seeing that I have shared this yet) RSP has released a 3rd module in this dungeon backdrop line. Sounds great, I'm really enjoying this game!
Rasmus holds up the strange paper and gives it to the librarian. "If you wouldn't mind, miss, I'd 'preciate some help translatin' this scribble, if ye can."
He looks around at the books and scrolls lining the shelves and sighs, as if remembering the days when he used to pore over the old family tomes in the manor.
Nice to meet you both. I'm Rasmus, the old ranger in our party.
If necessary, I could make a few tweaks to Rasmus and make him a cleric. He's devoted to Kalron already, and he hasn't progressed too far along in Ranger levels yet.
I'd be fine either way. It would be nice to get a cleric in the party, but I trust everyone else's judgement on this.
Fare thee well, Deshe. Good luck!
Rasmus wakes with a start, the morning chill seeping into his bones despite the warmth of his bedroll. He sits up slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of dawn. As he gathers his belongings, his hand brushes against something unfamiliar in his pocket. With a curious frown, he pulls out a delicate paper crane, its craftsmanship intricate and precise. "Hmm, what's this?" he murmurs, his voice soft yet resonant with the wisdom of years. His weathered fingers unfold the crane with a surprising gentleness, revealing an ornate script dusted with gold. The writing is elegant, almost regal, but entirely foreign to him. Rasmus studies the script, his eyes reflecting both curiosity and determination. "This is somethin' special, no doubt," he muses, recalling his noble past and the many mysteries he'd unraveled. The old ranger in him senses a significant clue, one that can't be ignored. Despite his usual wariness of arcane mages and their "flauntin' of nature," he knows they're his best hope for deciphering this message. With a thoughtful nod, he pockets the note, resolving to seek their help. "Time to visit those sorcerers," he decides with a hint of a smile. "Sometimes, even old dogs must learn new tricks." He waits awhile for the others at the Temple of Conn to tell them where he's going, and then he goes to visit the mages. "Should probably check in on the others, Dargys and the like..." Before setting off to visit the mages, Rasmus decides to pay a visit to Dargys' family. He makes his way to their modest home, the coziness of the surroundings bringing a sense of calm. Nanna Telena is bustling about the kitchen, the smell of a hearty broth wafting through the air. After sharing a meal, listening to Nanna Telena's gossip, and bidding farewell to Dargys’ family, Rasmus feels a renewed sense of determination. The warmth of the family interaction bolsters his resolve. He sets off towards the mages’ enclave with a thoughtful nod. Sometimes, even an old dog must learn new tricks.
Sorry to hear that Dargys, we'll miss your sword-arm in these coming battles. Safe travels, hopefully things go well for you.
I'm so sorry to hear that. Whenever you need to take some time, that's completely understandable, no need to apologize.
Hope everything's going well for everyone!
Rasmus nods to the others, determination in his eyes, and strides towards the imposing temple doors. He pauses, still walking backwards, and outstretches his arms, his voice carrying a mix of camaraderie and resolve. "Well, I'm off, lads. I'll be back here at the temple tomorrow. Take care of yerselves. Keep a weather eye..." Turning on his heel, Rasmus continues his march, stepping into the bustling, cobbled streets. He takes a deep breath, the familiar aroma of the city—a mix of fresh bread, distant sea brine, and the smoky tang of hearth fires—filling his lungs. You need a drink, don't you, lad? Startled, Rasmus spins on the spot, searching for the source of the voice, but finds nothing. The streets around him remain unchanged, a blur of moving figures and clattering hooves. Shaking his head, he grips his temple, a grimace crossing his face. "I do need a drink, don't I..." he mutters to himself, the echo of the mysterious voice lingering in his mind. With a determined nod, he sets off in search of solace, navigating the winding streets with purpose. He sets off among the vendors and crowds, weaving through the bustling market until he reaches the shadowed confines of Hope's Alley. The narrow, labyrinthine corridors twist and turn, flanked by buildings whose walls seem to lean and leer ominously overhead. The faint light from flickering lanterns casts eerie shadows on the cobblestones, creating an atmosphere thick with unease. His footfalls echo in the darkness, a rhythmic beat that guides him deeper into the heart of the alley. Before long, he stands before the squat door of "The Wobblin' Goblin," a seedy tavern known only to the most disreputable and desperate souls. The door itself is weathered and crooked, its hinges rusted and creaking in protest with every push. He takes a deep breath, savoring the cool, fresh air outside, knowing it will be the last clean breath he takes for a while. Upon entering, he is greeted by a cacophony of drunken laughter, slurred conversations, and the pungent odor of sweat and stale alcohol. The tavern is dimly lit, with only a few sputtering candles and grimy oil lamps providing a feeble glow. The air is thick with smoke, creating a haze that mingles with the shadows. The interior is cramped and cluttered, with rickety wooden tables and mismatched chairs scattered haphazardly across the floor. The walls are adorned with peeling paint and crude drawings, their once-bright colors now faded and smeared by countless hands. Patrons of all shapes and sizes, many of whom bear the scars and rough edges of hard lives, crowd the space. Some sit slumped over their drinks, while others lie unconscious on the floor, their mugs of a foul concoction that could barely be called "ale" spilling onto the sticky planks beneath them. Behind the bar, a surly barkeep with a permanently sour expression serves the questionable drinks, his movements quick and efficient despite the chaos around him. The bar itself is a battered relic, its surface marred by countless knife marks and the stains of unidentifiable substances. In the far corner, a group of rough-looking gamblers hunch over a game of dice, their eyes darting suspiciously as they place their bets. Nearby, a shadowy figure plays a mournful tune on a battered lute, the haunting melody somehow cutting through the din. Despite the grime and the danger, there is an undeniable allure to The Wobblin' Goblin—a sense of refuge for those who have nowhere else to go. It is a place where secrets are shared, deals are made, and the desperate find solace, if only for a fleeting moment. As he settles into his favorite corner, the familiar chaos of the tavern envelops him, and he knows that here, amidst the squalor and the shadows, he can think. Rasmus heads to the bar, nodding to the surly barkeep. "The usual," he says gruffly, leaning against the battered wooden counter. The barkeep, a man with a permanent scowl etched onto his face, wordlessly pours a mug of spiced cider and slides it over. The cider appears to have been pummeled out of the apple with the barkeep's meaty fists, and the spices in it might be only salt and grime. He takes a long drink, grimacing at the bitter taste but welcoming the familiar burn. The "cider" may be foul, but it does the job. He sits alone, the other patrons learned to leave him be years ago. Finishing his drink, Rasmus leaves a few coins on the counter and heads back into the night. He weaves through the maze of Hope's Alley, the sounds of the tavern fading behind him. The cold air hits him like a slap, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. As he makes his way through the dark labyrinthine corridors, Rasmus feels the weight of the city's secrets pressing down on him. The familiar paths through the cobbled streets lead him to the edge of the woods, where the trees stand like silent sentinels. With a deep breath, he steps into the forest, the rustling leaves and distant hoots of owls creating a natural symphony. The path to his cave is winding and treacherous, but Rasmus navigates it with ease, his familiarity with the terrain guiding him unerringly. Arriving at his secluded cave, he feels a sense of relief. He builds a pyramid of firewood in the center of the cave and lights it. The flickering light from the small blaze casts shadows on the rough stone walls, creating a cozy atmosphere. Rasmus settles down, the crackling fire providing warmth and comfort. Here, in the solitude of his sanctuary, he finds the peace he craves. The city's noise and chaos are far behind him, replaced by the calming sounds of the forest and the steady rhythm of his own thoughts, synced to the beating of his tired heart. Beat Rasmus thinks in the light of the fire, reliving the day's events as he drapes a warm pelt over his chilled form. Beat Later into the night, the fire had died, but Rasmus lay in the darkness, turning fitfully. Eventually, he closes his eyes, settling into the deep abyss of sleep. Dream:
Rasmus was lying in his luxuriant bed in the Winbald Manor when he opened his eyes. Still half-asleep, he ran his hands over the soft, velvety material and pushed himself upright. He was in his chambers, he knew. The frigid, drafty flagstones were covered by a magnificent black bear’s pelt, and shelves upon shelves of curious trinkets and books of natural lore sagged next to a roaring fireplace, its charring logs filling the room with a delightful scent of applewood. He ran his hands through his hair and raised himself unsteadily from the warm, plush covers, slipping his feet into small buckskin moccasins at the edge of the rug. A knock at the door jolted him into a vigil, and he heard a familiar brittle voice in a deep, rich tone from the other side of the shriveled and gnarled oak door. “Lord Rasmus, I have your washbasin and some food to break your fast.” Rasmus shambled to the door and undid the latches, pulling it open to reveal Poldrick, the antediluvian manservant of the estate. Even when Rasmus was a child, Poldrick had always been throughout the manor, seemingly always where he was required. No one could ever quite remember Poldrick as a young, or even middle-aged, man. He seemed to exist in the inevitable hollow space in the time continuum for decrepit manservants of noble houses that seemed to age just as everyone else, but yet draw breath on and on as the generations rolled past. The court wizard Aric had always commented that Poldrick must be a mage of remarkable potency to be able to transport himself from one side of the house to another without the use of a bier. Yet, somehow, the crackled old bones of the man always appeared to serve him well, as he could move with great haste from one end of the manor to another when called upon. Poldrick now tottered into the chamber on his impliable and stiff legs, placing a granite bowl filled to the brim with steaming water on the table, followed by the silver tray from which it had come. On the tray sat a delightful assortment of fruits, vegetables, and succulent meat, steaming and emitting a scent of gooseberries and cinnamon. From somewhere in the unfathomable recesses of his waistcoat, he produced a dusty bottle of spiced cider, pouring a liberal portion of the bottle into a shining goblet encrusted with designs of leaves and acorns. Rasmus fell on the fare with the ravenous appetite of a man starved and relieved from the hassles of life. Poldrick watched impassively while Rasmus finished, and then turned his perpetually red-rimmed, piercing blue eyes to Rasmus again. “Once it is convenient, my lord, your mother wishes to see you, as does your father.” Rasmus nodded and thanked the elderly servant, who picked up the tray, leaving the washbasin, and shuffled out the door, closing it behind him with a click. Rasmus dipped his hands into the gentle heat of the water and splashed some on his face. As he did so, he noticed his reflection in the cloudy liquid. His hair was back to its sandy chestnut tint, as it was before the incident in the Mire. The lines too were vanished from his features, and he appeared as a man half his age again. He flashed his old, charming grin and dressed hurriedly in his wonderfully cobalt blue surcoat, trimmed in silver thread and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, pulling his boots on as he went. Though torches were burning cheerily in the hall, and a long crimson rug covered the center of the flagstoned path, the air had a chill that was unexplainable, and a shadow that accented everything it touched. Rasmus advanced uneasily down the hall, reaching the spiraled staircase that traveled down to the main branch of the west wing, and from thence to the Lord’s Hall. He descended the stairs, his boots thumping hollowly on the age-weathered stone and sending up slight drifts of soot. Before much time had passed, he had reached the bottom of the stairwell, and could glimpse the archway to the west wing. As he rounded the corner, he felt a strange, enigmatic compulsion to turn his head to glance down the extensive corridor. When he did so, he caught sight of motion in the darkness behind him. None of the torches in the rest of the west wing were lit, save for those leading to the Lord’s Hall, and suddenly Rasmus felt a pressing urge to escape the tenebrous confines of the murky passageway he was in. A faint rhythmic noise on the edge of hearing thrust him from his numbness, and he hastened down the hallway to the door to the Lord’s Hall, fumbling with the latch and slipping through the door. He was all too sure that the noise had sounded like the tapping of a claw on the flagstones. A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and he spun, expecting to find himself in the vaulted chamber of the Lord’s Hall. Instead, he found himself in the garden, surrounded by hedges and flowering bulbs in a myriad of colors ranging from carmine red to indigo to amber gold. They released a sweet, sickly scent as Rasmus spun around and found himself gazing at a path through the bushes instead of a door, as he expected. Farther along the path, he could faintly see a shape sitting on one of the stone benches beneath a cherry tree, a bubbling brook meandering through the clearing as though on a quest. The figure was singing to itself quietly, and Rasmus found that he recognized the voice as his mother’s. He hurried down the path, and came upon his mother, Lady Eveline turning the pages in a dusty old volume, its cracked black leather cover visible, but the name hidden. Upon his entrance, she stopped singing and smiled sweetly at him. “Ah, Rasmus. Come, sit with me.” Rasmus found himself obeying, despite his dubiety, and sitting upon the cool stone of the bench. It was carved to look like three men holding up a slab of stone, with carvings upon the edge that showed faces upon faces of hundreds of people, all with the same nose, chin, and basic facial resemblances. He sat down heavily, turning to his mother, and asking, “What is it, mother? Poldrick said ye wanted to see me, as did father.” At the mention of his father, Lady Eveline’s affectionate smile faded, and faint lines creased her brow. She sighed, “Sometimes I wish your father would just leave the manor and the estate. I feel that it is not substantial enough for his self-importance, and he is harming it, don’t you see?” A leaf drifted down from the canopy above and landed in Rasmus’ eyes. His mother brushed it away, laughing once more. She eagerly held the book she was reading up for inspection. “See Rasmus? I’m taking an interest in your pastimes!” Rasmus tried to read the yellowed and ancient pages, but they contained nothing but anomalous characters in some esoteric and incomprehensible script. Something about the symbols seemed to kindle a small, sputtering flame in his recollection, but he found himself unable to completely confine the thought. His mother watched him owlishly, nervous concern playing on her features. “This is what you like, is it not, Rasmus? I found it in the manor and just knew you had to see it!” Rasmus hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, handing the book back to Lady Eveline. She grasped it hungrily and began reading through it again. A brief noise, like a shout echoed through the garden, slightly recognizable as a calling of Rasmus’ name. Lady Eveline’s excitement faded instantly, and her eyes grew stoic and determined. She pushed Rasmus up from the seat and pointed towards a path opening in the hedges, leading to another door, flanked by flickering torches. She stated, in a monotone voice, devoid of all pleasure and mirth, “Your father is calling you, go and see him directly.” Rasmus found himself treading along the path towards the door warily. A faint noise, like a sob, bloomed behind him, but when he whirled around, ready to comfort his mother, she was gone, hidden by hedges and briars. Rasmus uncertainly turned and crept towards the door, which swung open at his proximity. Inside there was only darkness, void of all light, even the illumination from the garden. Rasmus halted at the threshold, mounting the courage to enter the forbidding chamber. A soft voice from inside drew him in, “Son, come in please.” Rasmus took a hesitant step inside the chamber, and the door flung itself closed, vanishing into the inky blackness behind him. He stood, unmoving, in the gloom for a moment before a candle flared in the shadows and he saw his father sitting at an ornate, polished redwood table. The candle sat in the center of the table, and his father sat on the opposite end from Rasmus, poring over a small, antique-looking volume. He glanced up and smiled at Rasmus. “For Kalron’s sake, lad, sit down. I’ve got a gift for you. Don’t you know it’s been sixteen years since we’ve all been settled here together? Oh, I know the manor’s been passed down, inherited, but it’s been sixteen since we’ve really been settled.” Rasmus still hesitated, and his father’s grin diminished a minute portion. He spoke again, somewhat more forcefully, “Sit down, lad!” Rasmus uncertainly plodded towards the ornate chair on the opposite side of the table from his father and sat down. His father’s grin returned at its previous vigor and he pulled a small golden bell from a pocket of his overcoat, chiming it and calling out, “Poldrick! Fetch Rasmus’ present, would you?” He replaced the bell in his pocket and smiled at Rasmus. “I think you’ll like this gift. I don’t understand it much myself, but it certainly seems like something you’d want.” He shrugged and continued, “Anyways, I heard you talking to your mother. Pleasant enough woman, but it grows tiresome to share this manor with her sometimes, lad. She never talks to me you know, never capitulates to my requests at all.” As he spoke, Rasmus’ father poured two goblets full of a strange amber liquid that flowed like syrup and sparkled in the candlelight. Rasmus watched him replace the ornate gilded flask the liquid came from beneath the table and slide one of the goblets over to Rasmus. “This is a brew of my own design, lad. It’s rather potent, but I want to know your opinion.” When Rasmus brought the goblet to his lips, his father raised a hand, “Not just yet. Wait until Poldrick brings your gift, they go together, you know. Just give me a moment, I’ll get some more light.” Rasmus nodded and placed the goblet back on the table. His father stood up from the table and disappeared into the gloom, returning a minute later with an ornate bronze lantern. He lit it with the flame from the candle, and Rasmus gained a steady look at his father for the first time since entering the chamber. His father was dressed in his usual attire, a crimson tunic with elegant black boots and cuffs. His overcoat, however, was not the azure blue that Rasmus had known, but a deep maroon, bordered with inky black stria. His dark chestnut hair was combed back into a sweeping slicked back style, and his teeth shone white and clear beneath his sharp, lupine features and sky blue eyes. His father sat again, holding up the tome he had been reading from. “Interesting things, in this book. Spirits and secrets and other such intriguing subjects, all with a group of heroes trying to do their very best, Kalron save them. You know,” He leaned forward conspiratorially, “If you have any goals or pressing desires, you should follow them, Rasmus. Do what is proper, but do what you must to maintain our family honor and hereditament. I’m invariably with you, don’t forget.” A brief shuffling noise from behind Rasmus alerted him to the approach of Poldrick. His father grinned when he saw what Poldrick brought, “Ah, your gift! Wonderful! You might want to take a sip of that dram now, lad.” Rasmus took a taste of the saccharine liquid, and felt an excruciating fire course through his veins. Everywhere the poison passed, he felt his body go numb and unfeeling. He slumped to the side, his head lolling senselessly on the back of the chair. His father beamed, chuckled, and declared, “It’s for the pain, you know…” Poldrick placed something clammy on the side of Rasmus’ temple, and to his horror, it began to crawl towards his ear. Lord Thaddeus laughed and snuffed out the light, leaving Rasmus in the dark motionless as the creature began to slither into his ear. Rasmus awakes in a freezing sweat, clamping a hand to his ear. The strange sensation is gone, but the lingering thoughts still wait in his mind. He whispers into the cold dawn air, "Not again..." He sighs, and dresses and washes. After, he makes his way to the Temple of Conn to await the others.
That's okay, no worries.
Rasmus moves quietly through the dimly lit halls of the Temple of Conn, his heavy boots echoing softly against the stone floor. The scent of incense lingers in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of sacred artifacts. He approaches the armory, where rows of meticulously organized holy items glisten under the flickering torchlight. His keen eyes scan the shelves, lingering on a variety of blessed weapons, shimmering vials, and carefully wrapped relics. He reaches for a small vial of holy water, feeling its cool, smooth surface in his roughened hand. The liquid inside glows faintly, promising divine protection. Gently, he slips the vial into his pouch. Next, his attention shifts to the silver weapon blanches. Their metallic sheen catches the light, reflecting a promise of enhanced efficacy against the foul undead. He selects three of them, each weighty with the potential to turn the tide in their favor. The blanches are carefully placed alongside the vial in his pouch, ensuring they are secure. Satisfied with his choices, Rasmus turns and walks towards the temple priests. Rasmus reaches into his coin purse, extracting several gold coins. "Fer the supplies," he says in a gruff but respectful tone, placing the coins into the priest's outstretched hand. Rasmus steps back, the weight of the holy items comforting against his side. He then turns to his companions, his expression serious but calm. "These should help us deal with whatever dark forces we encounter," he says, holding up the vial and blanches for them to see. He pauses, considering their next move. "If it's not urgent to head back into the cellar, I suggest we get some rest and prepare ourselves better fer what's to come. We’ll need all our strength fer this."
Rasmus smiles and nods at Deshe, "Aye, that would be a help, to be sure, lad. In particular, can ye call on the power of Kalron to say some benedictions over us, and maybe have Kalron's Gaunlet guide us? We're dealin' with the unholy; ain't nothin' better to fight them with than a good prayer."
Rasmus strolls to the supplies quartermaster and observes his stock.
Rasmus carefully observes the bustling activity in the Lawgiver's Hall, his sharp eyes catching the intricate details of the room, from the finely carved statues to the opulent gold trimmings. As Vuokko Laiten examines Sethiel, Rasmus maintains a calm demeanor, blending into the background while keeping his senses alert. His thoughts race as he pieces together the troubling clues. The temple's recent renovations, funded by a mysterious benefactor, and the possible resurgence of the cult of Braal can't be mere coincidences. He needs to approach this delicately. When Vuokko asks about the haunts, Rasmus steps forward, his voice gruff yet steady. "High Priestess, we encountered somethin' unusual in the basement. There were... disturbances that seemed beyond the ordinary. I believe it warrants a closer look." He glances around the room, noting the presence of the temple guards. He must tread carefully. "If I may," he continues, "it might be wise to investigate the source of these disturbances further. With yer permission, I can assist in securing the area and making sure there are no lingerin' threats." Rasmus turns to his companions, making brief eye contact with each of them. "Deshe, Alistair, Erik, Dargys—maybe ye can help gather information from the townsfolk. Any clues about unusual activities or suspicious individuals could be invaluable." Returning his attention to Vuokko, he adds, "High Priestess, yer guidance and support would be crucial in this endeavor. We want to ensure the safety of the temple and its congregation." He subtly indicates the opulent decorations and recent changes in the temple. "It's clear that significant resources have been invested here. Understandin' the motivations behind such generosity might shed light on the disturbances we've encountered."
Okay, thank you! Based on this information, Rasmus would definitely be interested in this, despite the spooky atmosphere. His one driving goal is to hunt down and destroy Elara and the other cultists of Braal to clear his name and restore honor to his family. Though his father is probably dead by this point, as far as Rasmus knows (He'd be around 80ish, but who knows...), most likely his oldest brother Alaric has ascended to the title of Lord Winbald. Alaric never liked Rasmus that much, and the scandal made him hate Rasmus even more, but if Rasmus clears his name, he thinks that Alaric might let him come back to the manor and see his family again.
Right now, I'd like to post, but I'm having trouble thinking of what Rasmus should do. He doesn't really know that much about the divine, that belongs to the clerics and druids, and he doesn't know much at all about magic and wizardry. He might know a thing or two from his time in the Salt Marshes, but based on his level, he probably wouldn't know much, just snippets he's heard from travelers. If nothing else presents itself, he can just go to some taverns and start trawling for rumors about the situation, whatever you all think is best.
GM, I have a quick question. In my most recent backstory exposition for Rasmus, I added his Grandfather's Journal to his equipment list (for roleplaying purposes, no practical use). I also went into more detail about Rasmus' Grandfather's sword, which it was revealed is the sword he uses now. As I get more experience and money, I was going to try to improve my sword, bit by bit, and say Rasmus is probing the contents of the book and "unlocking" hidden secrets in the sword, but still realistically paying all the costs and everything. Does this fit in with the style of the game, or would you prefer I stick with the normal style of upgrading (i.e. seeking out a craftsman or wizard or some such and paying them to improve the item)? Whichever you pick would work for me, I was just wondering which would work best for the setting. Also, I have a question. Based on Rasmus' encounters with the followers of Braal in his backstory, I'm assuming he'd be pretty unnerved by this possible resurfacing of a similar cult, but I don't really have any evidence to go on. Even if that's not what's really going on, I think Rasmus would think that it is. Is there anyone Rasmus would be able to talk to, using the proper diplomacy and social rolls, to try to investigate this?
Rasmus thanks the youth and gratefully sinks down into a chair. ”I don’t rightly know what was down there, but I think I have an inklin’ as to what it might be. I hope to Kalron’s Grindstone that I’m wrong. All ye need know is that spirits were bound down there, by a wizard practicin’ necromancy I would bet, and they attacked us when we disturbed their rest.” He turns to the others and continues, in a sotto voice, ”We need help, lads, and there’s no mistakin’ that. Klaus, can ye talk to yer masters at the wizardin’ school and see if they’ll help us, maybe lend ye a scroll or two? Deshe, can ye talk to the deacon, see if they’ll find some way to exorcise this place or somethin’ such?” He thinks for a moment, and begins fidgeting with his sword. Eventually he looks down at it and begins muttering to himself and thinking. ”Ancestral steel, me Grandfather’s sword, and yet it still cannot touch those beyond the veil.” Memory of the Sword:
Rasmus crept down the long hallway, his cloth-wrapped boots tapping silently on the flagstones. Over his shoulder was a bundle of essentials, wrapped in a crushed velvet covering. Rasmus was leaving, to spare his famil…his mother, the shame of having to fight with his father to let Rasmus stay in the keep. Forever a traitor to the clan. Through large windows, the half moon cast a watchful, lupine azure light, highlighting the darkness instead of lessening it. As he passed through the door to the East Wing, the quality of decoration sharply dropped. Whereas the other hallway had gilded portraits hanging of distant ancestors and crimson drapes hanging over the windows, this hall had nothing of the sort. It was covered with cobwebs and dust was settled over the floor like a thin blanket of snow, disturbed in places, but fairly even. Rasmus hurried through the wing, ignoring strange reflections from the side hallways and ancient portraits of long-dead ancestors, all leering at him from the walls disdainfully, and reached a massive, rusting wrought-iron door at the end of the hall. He hesitated before opening it. Father had always punished his children if they had even gone near the East Wing.
On the best of days, Grandfather’s Study radiated a sort of dread, but at night, it whispered things into the mind that burrowed into the soul and writhed like a feasting worm. Rasmus hesitated a minute longer, and then steeled himself and creaked open the door. He was expecting something grand, something impressive, or grandiose in some way. What he saw was disappointing. It was a small room, and if the hallway outside was dusty, this was choked with dust to the extreme. Inside, there was simply a table with implements, gleaming in the scarce moonlight, their purpose sometimes mysterious, and sometimes grimly evident, a cloth-covered metal chair in the center of the room, and a large banner over a case. Two portraits hung near the banner, one with a regally imperious-looking man in garnet red robes, his salt grey beard tapered to a sharp point, and the other with a beautiful looking woman wearing clothes from a fashion decades old. The names on both were weathered and faded, but one could barely make out the letters “—nd-ll -in—d” and “Y—t- Wi—l-” The chair held something in it, a large shape or mass, but Rasmus did not have the courage to lift the white shroud and gaze at it. He did move towards the case, his eyes straying to the sharp, scarlet symbol on the banner. It seemed to writhe under his gaze, and he quickly looked away to open the elegant glass case. Inside was a beautiful, elegant sword, set with a green emerald in its pommel, and a carved scabbard, stained with some strange substance. Next to it sat a yellowed tome, with a cracked leather cover proudly bearing the title “The Records of Crandall Winbald.” Rasmus opened it, carefully turning its wafer-thin pages, and read a small bit, that of which shocked him. “11th of _____, Trial 42, Aetherial Passage Attemped Through the Veil of Moil, Use of Modified Rite of Ashvar. Symbol drawn at midday, 4 liters needed. Source expired after 2, seek new source tomorrow. Sprinkling of ground silver and teeth, coated with quicksilver applied to cardinal points seems to mollify the Rite—” A slight current of air brushed his neck, interrupting his reading. Rasmus flinched and turned, but the door was still open, a rat was scurrying along the floor and quickly disappearing up into the shrouded shape on the chair, squeaking madly. Rasmus shivered, but gratefully, as it was nothing more supernatural than a rat. He turned back to the weathered tome and continued reading, his brow furrowed and his eyes widening as he read on. “—black onyx needed. Imitation attempted, but unadvised. No other stone or gem works, though emerald invoked a slight presence, nothing powerful. I need to find a source of black onyx. The family treasury has grudgingly produced half a palmswidth of the gem, but more is needed. I’m on to the last few pieces in my possession. I’ll attempt the rite tomorrow, and review my chants for now.” As Rasmus continued to read on in horrified fascination, a faint creak from the door jerked him around again, but the door stood open just the same as before, if perhaps slightly moved towards the doorframe, as if to close. “Old place, settling,” Rasmus muttered to himself, and he turned and continued his reading. “12th of _____, Trial 43, Continuation of Aetherial Passage through Veil of Moil, Use of Modified Rite of Ashvar. New source obtained last night through the help of Grigori. Reminder: Take gravekeeper off shift tonight at common graveyard between evening and midnight. Grigori demands another payment for his services. All these bribes to remove the gravekeepers are getting expensive. But, results cannot be argued with. This source put up a minimum of resistance after Grigori’s venom did its work, and it was held motionless as I prepared the circle again. Epiphany: Apply 4 quarts as instructed in the Rite, but additionally add the calcified silver mixture. Double strength is possibly attainable. I shall begin the chants around evening, and culmination should occur around midnight. Yvette, you have passed beyond the veil, but you are not out of reach yet!” Rasmus shut the book quickly and took a sharp intake of breath…and even more quickly held his next, for there was a slight sound on the edge of hearing, as if it were coming from through the door and down the hall. A scraping sound, accompanied by rhythmic clacking, as if from sharp boots hitting the floor repeatedly. Rasmus picked up the sword and, on second thought, shoved the book into his bundle as well, and crept over to the door and peered around the frame. In the hallway, silhouetted by the dimming moonlight, was a hunched figure in an elegant uniform, somewhat weathered, and covered mainly by a cape. A large, broad-brimmed black hat sat upon its head, pulled low. The scraping sound was explained by a bundle about the size of a long roll of cloth, but considerably wider and, though the white sheet obscured the fine details of its features, a hideously humanoid appearance. Rasmus slightly sucked in another breath in surprise, and the thing turned suddenly, focusing a pair of gleaming red eyes on Rasmus.
Rasmus comes back to the present, and sighs, ”Yer right Alistair, we need to bring this to the city officials, though we should be cautious. Not all those we talk to will have an altruistic outlook on this.”
Hey folks,
Rasmus blurts an oath. "What in-" He trembles in place for a moment, then seems to rally a bit. He seems a bit ill as he wipes his face, his hands still shaking. "Ain't right...ain't right at all. To the blazes with this place!" He seems to dwell on things for a moment, muttering under his breath. "Ain't right, bitin' into the flesh of yer own kind. This is a cursed place." He begins checking on the others as he makes his way towards the exit.
Rasmus’ heart pounds in his chest as he glances around the dimly lit chamber, the flickering lanternlight casting eerie shadows on the ancient stone walls. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of blood, bites his nostrils. His eyes fall upon Sethiel, the elf cleric, lying motionless on the cold ground, his usually vibrant eyes now dull and unfocused. With a determined grunt, Rasmus sheathes his sword and hurries to Sethiel’s side. The elf’s chest rises and falls shallowly, a sign that life still clings to his fragile form. “Hang in there, Sethiel,” Rasmus mutters under his breath, his voice a mix of urgency and reassurance. He carefully slips his arms under Sethiel’s shoulders and knees, lifting him with a surprising gentleness for someone of his imposing stature. The journey back to the stairwell is fraught with tension. Every clack of the ancient stones and distant echo of dripping water sets Rasmus on edge. He moves swiftly but cautiously, his muscles straining under the weight of his comrade. The stairwell looms ahead, a narrow spiral of stone steps leading to the relative safety above. As they reach the base of the stairs, Rasmus lays Sethiel down gently, propping him up against the wall. He kneels beside the elf, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Come on, Sethiel, we need you,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the dungeon. He pulls his waterskin out, and washes any wounds Sethiel has, and splashes Sethiel in the face to try to bring him back into focus.
I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Please take all the time you need. Our prayers go with you and your family during this difficult time. Your well-being is the most important thing right now. Thank you for everything you do for this game; it means a lot to all of us. We’ll be here whenever you’re ready.
Rasmus passes Deshe at a run, wheezing slightly, "Ah, me old bones...*huff*... ain't as limber as they used to be..." He rounds the corner and sees Deshe standing there with the puncture in his armor and the axe in the creature. "Bitin' blades, that one did a number on ye, did it? Looks like it went straight fer yer heart, that's a puzzler. I'll get Sethiel out, see if ye can help the others! I'm sure they'll be needin' some healin'!" He's going to take Sethiel's body from Deshe and prepare to drag it towards the escape hatch if he can.
Rasmus starts off in a sprint, "Come on lads! Let's go help Deshe!" His footsteps pound on the stone as he runs, his booted feet barely finding purchase before he bounds off, running with the alacrity of a stag bounding through the reeds.
Rasmus starts for a second at the uncanny movement of the creature, then rallies. He glances for a second at Alistair in concern, "Don't bleed out on us, lad, we need you." Rasmus is going to try to grab the creature rushing towards Dargys on the wall.
He tries to pull it from the wall and stab it, but seems to have trouble accounting for its jerky movements. "Stand still, ye blighted critter!"
Rasmus scowls at the creature Dargys attacked, deftly sliding across the wall next to it.
"We can fight these foul fiends together!" He adopts a quick fencing stance, but he wields his heavy longsword with more force than normal for such a stance. He takes a half step forward with his right foot and brings his sword upward in a diagonal-left manner, slicing toward the creature's back.
Rasmus hesitates for a moment, and then sighs, "You're right, lad. Let's be goin'. Elara can wait." He follows Klaus' path out, his feet slipping and sliding on the slightly moist stone. He glances at the shadows with a bold look in his eyes, as if daring it to try to strike. "Kalron..." he whispers, "Grant me the strength to face this new terror!" His lantern flickers ominously in the supernatural dusk, but he holds it high, turning it to its full strength, letting the light fall on all it can. He says, almost to himself, "Let me lantern shine with the light of ages past. With the light of me father, and me mother, and me brothers. Let me lantern turn back the shadow and guide us to our salvation. And if we perish, and Kalron's chariot comes to collect our penitent souls, then let us go forth on the golden river, to the ether's prismatic, scintillatin' colors, and the vast clouds of the heavens above, where me ancestors wait, callin' to me. To the great misty halls of the Eternal Sentinel's domain, let me lantern's light shine with the light of a thousand suns, and let me ancestors wait a while longer, before I join them in the garden of stars!"
Hey guys I say this with love. When you post, have forward momentum in mind. The last two days there have only been a couple things for me to respond to. I’m 100% with you guys doing what you want, but I also don’t want things to stall because there isn’t a forward progression. Understood, I'll try to keep my posts more action-oriented.
Rasmus' face pales, and his eyes widen. "Somethin's here..." He shakily, and somewhat loudly, speaks to the others ahead of him in the cavern, "We should regroup, get back to a safe loca...ah, to blazes with it. Run, lads! It's never good when somethin' like this is happenin'" He takes one last look around the room before starting to try to get the others to leave, fight another day if they can. His eyes land on the mysterious symbol. He shivers, and some sweat rolls down his forehead. He glances around, looking for the thing that keeps flickering in and out of vision. He brings his sword into an offensive position, and advances on wherever he saw the thing last.
Rasmus frowns at the mention of a "mad rat." "Rats as familiars? I don't reckon I know many wizards who'd keep somethin' that squalid sittin' around with them as they do their researchin'. It don't sit well with me nohow anyways. A person bindin' their soul to a creature, it's temptin' fate, is what it is. Ye bind yer soul to a creature fer too long, ye start to become like that creature. Klaus is right, we might be lookin' in the wrong way." He follows Dargys and Alistair, readying his sword once more. "I might as well make use of meself." He adopts a slower pace and glances around thoughtfully. "All this old stone and rock, wonder what stories it could tell, if it had the voice to speak?" [ooc]Rasmus is going to make a survival check to inspect the cave system they are in.
Rasmus clears his throat, and wipes his brow after the exertion of clearing some of the rocks. "Lads, I think we need a definite plan on what we're gonna do next. There's so much to explore, that I think we need to strategize a wee bit first." He pulls a hunk of bread from his bag and begins chewing it thoughtfully. "Oh, and there's a small rodent over here, looks to be a rat. Nothin' unusual about that normally, but it looks like it's wearing a collar. Maybe ye scholar-types can figure out what it's doin' here."
Rasmus moves over to one of the tables in the room, motioning for Deshe to follow. "Would ye help me, lad?" He thumps the head from the earthenware honey jar onto the table. "We should probably get this checked out, I should think." He nods, and then walks to the rocks in the hallway. He strains, trying to move some of the rocks.
Rasmus feels the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Despite his limited experience, he knows he must act decisively. He takes a deep breath, his senses sharpening as he surveys the scene. Seeing Belfer in distress, Rasmus kneels beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Rasmus stands and turns his attention to the mysterious book Klaus is handling with Mage Hand. He knows his knowledge of arcane matters is limited, but his keen eyes might spot something others have missed. He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines the book from a safe distance.
He then takes a step back, his mind racing. He knows he must rely on his instincts and the skills he has honed in the wild. He draws his bow, nocking an arrow just in case. “We need to be cautious. This place is full of surprises, and not all of them are pleasant.” Rasmus glances around the room, his eyes scanning for any signs of danger. He listens intently, his ears tuned to the slightest sound. The cold, damp air of the dungeon feels oppressive, but he pushes the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand.
Rasmus sighs, and holds up his hands, "Lads," He frowns with uneasiness, "We mustn't allow ourselves to be drawn apart over arguments. We have a duty to this city and to its innocent citizens to investigate this thoroughly and swiftly. There are none else who will." "Dargys, yer family needs to be protected. Klaus, ye need to bring Dargys back alive, fer Ulrikke. Alistair, ye have family to protect as well. Erik, yer father would flay me alive if ye were hurt. And Belfer, ye have a duty to magic to understand whatever is goin' on down here." "I know this ain't what ye reckoned ye were goin' to be doin' with yer life. I know yer a little scared. Kalron knows, I'm scared out of me wits. But remember what we're fightin' fer. I swore an oath against the evil that beats like a heart within this world, and that's why I take every trek into every godforsaken cave and pit. I would like nothin' better than to settle down with a nice lady and live out the rest of me days peacefully, but when the Fates wove the tapestries of our lives, they didn't weave that into mine." "Who knows, perhaps ye all can find peace someday soon, when all this is over. But until then, we have a duty to find out what is goin' on under this city, and save its people. Fer yer families, and the families of those who cannot fight, but would." He smiles, but his eyes don't completely reflect it. "Who knows, maybe ye'll find the wealth and treasures ye seek as well." He shrugs and lifts up the head from the honey pot, "Until then, though, Deshe, can ye look at this? I believe this may be another anchor fer a restless spirit."
Rasmus watches the others as he warms the honey in the ceramic jar. "Splittin' up to avoid gettin' got by traps and haunts is one thing, but if we ran into a battle, we might be in quite a bit of trouble. I'll go with whatever you all want, but I agree with Dargys. I don't think we should split up. I'm going to finish this, and then I'm going to go help Belfer if I can." He returns to his task, humming a common folk tune.
Congratulations on your anniversary! I'm enjoying this game so far, and the world's interesting, it has some good depth. People have been polite and working well together, which is always fun too, and I've been very impressed by the roleplaying I've seen from others. I don't really have any comments otherwise.
With the return of his hearing, Rasmus blinks once or twice, stretches his jaw, and winces. "Well, lads, I can hear once again. Sounds like the screams of the infernal powers were just what I needed to heal meself." Hearing Klaus' trepidation and talk of leaving this to the professionals, Rasmus smiles sadly, "Lad, we all wish we could go back to a simpler time. Heavens above know that I've seen more than I really bargained fer, but the fates don't wait fer us to get our lives in order." He nods at what Dargys says, and listens to the others with interest. Upon hearing Deshe's comment about the haunts, Rasmus says, "I do think ye've got it right, but perhaps the smaller bones tie to the girl ye saw earlier. Either way, to put the souls to rest is a fine goal." Rasmus nods, and walks into the room so quickly abandoned during the spirit encounter, pulling down the small casket off the shelves. He solemnly brings it to Deshe and nods. Then he returns to the earthenware pot and he resumes his attempt to loosen the honey to retrieve the item inside.
As the water recedes, Rasmus steps forward, his boots splashing in the puddles left behind. He surveys the scene, noting the positions of his companions and the state of the room. His gaze lingers on Sethiel, who lies sprawled across the floor, and then shifts to Klaus, who is sputtering and spitting out water. “Steady, Klaus,” Rasmus says, his voice a deep, calming rumble. “I'll check ye fer an infection, of the spirit or otherwise.” Rasmus holds open Klaus' eyelids and shines the lantern in them. Then he takes a small glinting object from his bag and quickly presses it against Klaus' palm. When Klaus does not respond, he nods, satisfied, and palms the tarnished silver symbol of Kalron. "No, ye ain't infected as far as I can tell." He thumps Klaus on the back and goes back to checking everyone else for injury. When Deshe shows Rasmus the words he remembered and wrote down, Rasmus puzzles the words of the spirit. When he reads Dargys' words, Rasmus' eyes grow misty. Memory:
"He was in the grand hall, a cavernous room adorned with rich tapestries and illuminated by the flickering light of countless candles. The scent of polished wood and incense filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the gardens beyond. Rasmus watched from the shadows as his father, Lord Thaddeus, engaged in a heated discussion with the court wizard, Aric.
Aric was a man of great wisdom and mystery, his flowing robes embroidered with arcane symbols that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. His presence was always accompanied by the subtle scent of exotic herbs and incense, adding an air of intrigue to the otherwise rigid court. His long, silver hair and piercing blue eyes gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. “Thaddeus, you must consider the implications of this alliance,” Aric urged, his voice calm but insistent. “The magical energies at play are not to be taken lightly.” Lord Thaddeus, his face a mask of stern resolve, dismissed the wizard’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “We cannot afford to be swayed by superstition, Aric. Our family’s future depends on this.” Rasmus felt a pang of frustration. His father’s cold pragmatism often clashed with the more nuanced perspectives of those around him. It was in these moments that Rasmus felt the distance between them most acutely. His father was a man of ambition and unyielding determination, his every decision driven by the desire to secure the family’s legacy. Yet, this often left little room for empathy or understanding. As the argument continued, Rasmus’s gaze shifted to his brothers. Alaric, the eldest, stood by their father’s side, his expression aloof but attentive. Alaric had always been the dutiful son, groomed to inherit the family title and responsibilities. Despite his often distant demeanor, there were moments when he showed a surprising depth of care and concern for his younger siblings. Cedric, the youngest, was perched on the edge of a nearby chair, his eyes wide with fascination. Cedric had always been brash and impulsive, his interest in magic leading him to follow Aric around like a shadow. He was eager to learn, but his enthusiasm often got him into trouble. Later that evening, Rasmus found himself in the gardens, seeking solace among the blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over the scene, creating an atmosphere of tranquility. He wandered along the winding paths until he reached a secluded bench, where his mother, Lady Eveline, sat waiting. Lady Eveline was a woman of grace and warmth, her presence a soothing balm to Rasmus’s troubled mind. She looked up as he approached, her eyes filled with understanding. The soft light of the moon highlighted her delicate features, and the scent of jasmine from the nearby flowers mingled with the cool night air. “Rasmus, my dear,” she said softly, beckoning him to sit beside her. “Your father means well, but he often forgets that strength comes not just from power, but from the heart. You have a kind soul, and that is your true strength.” Rasmus sat down, feeling the weight of his frustrations lift slightly. “Mother, why does Father always dismiss Aric’s concerns? There is so much more to consider than just alliances and power.” Lady Eveline reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. “Your father has always been driven by duty and ambition. He believes that securing our family’s future requires unwavering resolve. But you, Rasmus, see the world differently. You understand that true strength comes from compassion and understanding.” She smiled gently, her eyes reflecting the wisdom of her years. “Remember, no matter how cold the world may seem, you are never alone. You have the love and support of those who care for you.” Rasmus nodded, feeling the warmth of her words seep into his very being. It was moments like these that gave him the strength to face the challenges of his life. The memory of his mother’s kindness and his father’s stern resolve would stay with him, guiding him through the trials ahead. The memory fades, and Rasmus is brought back to the present. The chaos around him, the uncertainty of the situation, and the need to protect his companions all resonate with the lessons of his past. His father’s words about responsibility and strength echo in his mind, but it is his mother’s wisdom that truly guides him now." Rasmus is snapped back to the present roughly at the end of the memory, and he sighs and scratches his rough beard. "Ah, I don't know what in the blazes is down here, but it ain't goin' to reach the surface. We have family to protect, Dargys is right."
Rasmus sees the spirit swell with pressure, and his eyes widen with a mix of concern and determination. The cold, dusty stone hallway around them seems to close in, the air thick with an eerie chill. He steps forward swiftly, bracing Erik with a firm but gentle arm. As the wave of water cascades from the creature, Rasmus stands his ground, shielding Erik from the brunt of the impact. The frigid water splashes against the stone walls, sending a shiver through the air, but Rasmus remains unfazed, almost as if the cold and dampness don’t affect him. When the torrent subsides to a manageable level, he wipes his stringy white hair from his eyes and lets out a low growl of frustration. “What in the blazes was that? I’ve seen some haunts before, but none of them have ever done that!” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, his voice tinged with a mix of bewilderment and experience. His soft footfalls echo in the hallway as he approaches Sethiel, and he stands above him, one hand outstretched to help him up. His other hand rests on his sword hilt, ready but not threatening. His eyes, though narrowed and watchful, hold a glimmer of reassurance. Once he’s assured that Sethiel is free of possession, his gaze softens, and he speaks with a gentle tone. “Sethiel? Are ye alright, lad? That was yer first shade, I take it. Don’t ye fret, ye’ll get used to it before too long. Up ye get.” He lifts Sethiel to his feet and pulls a dry cloak from his pack. He hands it to Sethiel with a kind smile. “Here, lad, dry off. Ye’ll chafe otherwise.”
Rasmus squints his eyes and tries to discern Sethiel's words.
He can see some of Sethiel's words, but he can't make out everything. "her tomb...mad mage...life...surface...us all..." Rasmus' eyes widen at the words "mad mage," and he grips his sword tighter. A low growl escapes his lips, and his hand restlessly taps on the pommel of his sword. "Wizards are fine if they keep their magic to themselves, maybe use it fer the people when they can, but mad wizards...they don't know what's too far to go to gain knowledge, end up burnin' down the fields and boilin' the seas just to see if they can..." He looks to the others quizzically, "Yer talkin' to this shade? Ye better make sure it ain't gonna stab ye or infect ye first." He raises one eyebrow in displeasure at the possessed form of Sethiel.
Rasmus feels Deshe's hand on his shoulder, and turns, raising his eyebrows. Upon seeing Deshe's combat gestures, he nods and turns back to the fire. His heart races as he glances around the dimly lit storage room, the flickering light from the small fire he had started casting eerie shadows on the sagging wooden shelves. He knows something is happening with his companions, but he can't hear quite what. He takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves. The earthen jar with the crystallized honey sits before him, but he decides there is no time to investigate further. His friends need him, and he must to be ready for whatever is coming. Rasmus quickly extinguishes the small fire, not wanting to leave any potential hazards behind. He reaches to his sheathe and draws out his thin, engraved sword. Nodding, Rasmus moves to the doorway, peering through the corridor into the room where the spirit is grappling with Sethiel. He can see his companions preparing for a potential fight, but he is puzzled by their lack of action. He assumes that they need more information before making any aggressive decisions. He positions himself defensively, ready to assist his friends if needed. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail, every possible threat. He knows they are walking a fine line between caution and action, and he is determined to be ready for whatever comes next.
Rasmus, unaware of the noise from the other chamber, approaches the earthenware jar. He kneels down and runs his leathery hands across the porous and coarse exterior of the jar, mumbling a few words to himself, "Looks like one of old Bedrick's jars, it does. Coarser grain than that lot though, ain't sure what clay to attribute it to." Looking inside, he sees the darkened honey-like substance, and taps it experimentally with an iron spike from his pack. "Crusted up, like honey, fer sure. And there's somethin' in there too. Ain't sure if it'll do the trick, but maybe warmin' it will loosen its grip." He pours a small amount of water into his iron pot and begins striking some loose tinder with his flint and steel, hoping to generate a small, localized flame that he can warm the water with.
Rasmus entered the room with Alistair and Erik. He glances around, his eyes twinkling with curiosity and wisdom. Taking a few tentative steps into the room, his feet stir up wisps of dust that dance in the air like tiny spirits. “By the Glintin’ Blade, this place is ancient,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble that carries a hint of awe. “Looks like it might’ve been a storage room of some sort, but it’s still too early to tell for sure.” As Deshe moves towards the boxes on the shelves, Rasmus reaches out and gently lays a hand on his shoulder, his touch firm, yet comforting. “Hold there, lad,” he says quietly, his tone level. “We should check for any shades or remnants before we start pokin’ around in these boxes. We don’t want to draw them across the veil, so maybe say a quick prayer first. Don’t disturb anythin’ more than ye have to. We should respect the dead, lad. This place is unhallowed, people suffered far too much here. It ain’t right to disturb it too much.” Rasmus lifts his lantern, the soft glow spreading across the room and revealing more of its secrets. He takes a moment to peer into the hallway. “Hey, lads!” he calls out, his voice carrying a note of interest. “We’ve found somethin’ over here, ye should come see!"
Rasmus stretches his jaw, wincing as his ears pop. He mutters a few lines of prayer under his breath, his voice steadying as he does so. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, and he offers a reassuring smile to his companions. “That’s a bit better, lads. Still can’t hear nothin’ real well, but I can at least hear meself speak. Less disorientin’. I ain’t entirely sure what’s goin’ on here, but,” His voice carrying a note of cautious optimism, he glances over the notes Dargys had kindly translated for him, committing the details to memory. “Yep, I agree with Dargys. Ain’t nothin’ we can do against the spectral dead except grit our teeth and pray. No weapons of my kind can harm them. The spirits exist sort of behind a curtain of sorts, somethin' to do with the planes, I never was much good with that sort of thing. I've heard they can be ‘eroded’ by wizardry, and, of course, the prayers of the devout. Their spirits don’t form correctly, or somethin’ such like that, and they find it harder to cross the curtain.”
Rasmus scans the dimly lit corridor, his eyes narrowing as he spots Alistair at the far end, slowly reaching towards a door. Something about Alistair’s movements seems off, enough to set Rasmus' hairs on end. Rasmus strides towards him, his guard up but his sword sheathed. The flickering lantern light casts long shadows, the only barrier against the encroaching darkness. “Alistair? Is somethin’ wrong? Ye don’t seem to be movin’ right,” he calls out, his voice a mix of concern and determination.
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