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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.
Rasmus does realize we can still hear him, right? Technically there's no need for him to write novels (that last entry he wrote would have been very loooong in terms of waiting for him to finish it) on the wall. We just need to write to him unless he has Linguistics (Lip Reading) or whatever the correct skill would be for that. To be honest, that totally slipped my mind, thanks for reminding me, that does make things a bit easier. Rasmus doesn't have a lot to do right now, so I guess he could help Alistair scout.
Rasmus' eyebrows furrow upon reading Dargys' transcription, and he sheathes his sword. When he reads Deshe's words about steel's folly against the ethereal, he points to it and nods. He makes a gesture of thanks to Dargys and looks around once more, looking for marks of the dead. Seeing Belfer scanning the table's runic inscriptions, he comes closer, taking a look as well. Upon seeing the runes, however, a memory comes to mind, unbidden and unwanted. Memory:
Rasmus struggled against the bindings, his vision blurring from the pain and the shock of Elara’s betrayal. The cultists’ chants grew louder, echoing off the cold stone walls of the crumbling old temple. He could smell a stench of sweat and bile in the air, thick and oppressive, as if it were trying to suffocate him. Small pots of soporific incense were tactfully placed about in a vain attempt to mask the odor. More than the foul air, he could feel tendrils of some strange influence slithering through his mind, burrowing deeper and deeper into his subconscious.
As he was dragged deeper into the abandoned ruin, he caught glimpses of other prisoners, their eyes hollow and filled with the same despair he had seen in Elara’s before her transformation. They clutched at the cultists as they passed, begging for mercy and freedom. One old man managed to snag his hand on the leading cultist's robe. The robed cultist swiveled, his fury palpable despite the stitched mask he wore. He unsheathed his dagger and advanced on the old prisoner. Rasmus was quickly dragged out of sight, but he heard a silken sound, like the tearing of sinews, and a whimpering cry from the prisoner. The leading cultist soon returned to the point of the group, seemingly unconcerned about the blood spattering his robe. The sight filled Rasmus with a renewed sense of urgency. He couldn’t let this happen to anyone else. He was dragged into a small room, with three braziers placed in a triangular pattern around a central, circular altar. The altar appeared to be a massive, wrought-iron bowl, covered with horrible carvings of surprisingly benign and passive faces. It was filled with an eerie black liquid, opaque as the blackness of night. It was remarkably still, almost like a mirror of tarnished silver. The bowl stood upon small granite fingers jutting from the ground like the teeth of some ravenous beast. Seven other robed people stood around the bowl, chanting in a strange language that grated on Rasmus' ears painfully. One of the robed figures turned, and briefly Rasmus saw a flash of its face, and realized it was Elara. She smiled cruelly at him, and turned back to the bowl, chanting even louder. Slowly, hauntingly, a ghostly figure began to rise from the foul lightless ichor of the bowl, strings of the liquid clung to the body like spiders' webs. The cult leader began to smile with satisfaction and his chant reached new, booming heights of ebullience. With a surge of determination, Rasmus focused on the bindings, muttering a prayer to Kalron under his breath and relaxing his muscles as much as he could. The ropes loosened slightly, whether through his action or the hand of some higher being, enough for him to slip one hand free. He reached for the dagger still embedded in his abdomen, gritting his teeth against the pain as he pulled it out. He couldn't help but let loose a small grunt of pain, one that drew the attention of the cultists to him. Quickly, using the dagger, he cut through the remaining bindings and staggered to his feet. The cultmaster waved his hand at Rasmus, and continued his chanting. Three cultists broke from the ranks and closed in around Rasmus, drawing wicked-looking knives. With a deft cut at the closest cultist's throat, he felled one of them, but the other two stabbed at him. The knives struck him in his sides, but he still stood, filled with hatred for Elara and the desire to save the other prisoners. A brief shout echoed through the dark halls, but Rasmus put it out of mind. Rasmus, blood flowing from his sides like grim waterfalls, scanned the room, looking for anything that could help him disrupt the ritual. His eyes fell on the large, ornate bowl. With a deep breath, Rasmus summoned the last of his strength and lunged towards the brazier. He caught on the rim and fell past it weakly, groaning in pain. The cult leader smiled, and turned his eyes back towards the bowl, but saw that the figure was gone, and a small swirl of crimson liquid was swirling in the unseen currents of the ichor. The smile vanished from his face, and he turned to Rasmus, drawing his dagger, shouting, "An impurity in the black blood! You heathen! You murderer! My master was close, closer than he's been in decades, and you ruined it!" The cultists turned towards him, their faces twisted. But before they could react, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the temple. The city guards, alerted by Rasmus’ movements that evening, burst into the room, weapons drawn. In the chaos that followed, Rasmus saw Elara slip away, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment. There was no trace of the girl he once knew, only the cold malice of a devoted cultist. She disappeared into the shadows, leaving Rasmus with a mix of relief and sorrow. The guards quickly subdued the remaining cultists, but the victory felt hollow. Rasmus knew that Elara was still out there, a part of the darkness he had sworn to fight. As he was helped to his feet by one of the guards, he vowed to continue his quest, not just to stop the cult, but to save Elara if he could. He grimaces, and pulls his chalk from his bag again. He steadies himself and, his balance a bit lopsided from sound's disappearance, moves over to the wall he had written on before. He thinks for a moment, frowns, and writes, These runes remind me of the Marks of Braal. I've seen them on the foreheads of undead that wander the Salt Mire, most likely poor farmers taken from their homes for ungodly experiments under the moon and turned into the walking dead. There are some differences, but I would advise caution when dealing with what's down here. Deshe and Sethiel, pray to your gods all you can. We'll need them for what is coming, I should think. He ponders for a moment longer, and seems lost in thought. He thinks back to the rumors and hearsay he's heard these past months in the taverns around the Mire.
That's a fair request. Let me get on it. Don't want you feeling left out Thank you, I appreciate it.
I've got a request, if that's alright. Since Rasmus is deaf, he wouldn't know anything about what's going on in any of the other rooms, or what others are talking about. Is there any way one of you could communicate what happened to Rasmus?
Rasmus watches the others bustling around with interest. Hearing nothing from their voices, he watches their actions instead. He sees Erik starting to investigate the new hallway, and picks up his lantern again, drawing his sword. He nods to the others, indicating his readiness to continue. He concentrates on the hallway and looks for any tracks on the floor that might indicate recent movement down in this ruined hollow, casting his senses along the hallways and passages of this ancient dwelling.
He follows the others when they move, and remains wary. His flickering lantern glows with a dancing flame, and his eyes dance along with it. His eyes seem filled with a mournful lament for the evil that lurks in the dark, and how rarely it sees the light. He glances at the others, and sees the curiosity gleam in their eyes. His own eyes soften, and he thinks, But how long ago was I just like them? They'll learn, in time, to fear the dark, and let that fear give them strength to protect what's holy. But fer now, they should stay young, stay curious. How much worse would it be to be placid, to be content? Lost in his thoughts, he watches the others, to see what their next move is.
Rasmus watches the corpse balefully for a moment or two, and then lowers his blade when he sees that it remains still. He smiles apologetically at the others. The smile, however, does not reach his eyes, and in them a fearful worry can be seen. He begins signing to his friends. He touches his index fingers to his ears, and makes an "X" shape with his hands, showing his loss of hearing. He points to the others, touches his ears again, and makes the "X" shape, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, as if asking if anyone else is hurt. Upon seeing that the others seem to be fine, he sheathes his sword, sets the lantern down on a table, and pulls a piece of chalk out of his pack. He carefully scrawls on the wall, in a surprisingly elegant and cultured script, That scream knocked out my hearing. Don't stop on my account, I can continue on, just please give a held up fist in the air at any sign of trouble, so I know to ready myself. He points to the scrawling once it's complete, looks at the others, and half-smiles-half-grimaces, as a small lance of pain seems to arc through his ears. He thinks for a moment, and reaches into one of the packs, pulling out sets of earplugs for everyone in the party. He hands them out, shrugging, as if to say "just in case." Once this is done, he casts his eyes into the leaping and cavorting flaming light of his lantern, and begins whispering prayers to Kalron, in a steady, if very quiet voice. It is so quiet, that the others can only catch snippets of his prayer. "Guide me sword, Master of the Clashin' Blades...bring the foes of me line, me lineage, me family, and pierce their lies...by the blade of me father, and his father, and his father's father, guide me sword along the paths of justice..."
Rasmus grimaces as the scream worms its way into his brain, and small rivulets of blood begin running from his ears. Though he seems relieved when he thinks it stops, he touches his finger to the trickles of liquid, and stares in shock at the crimson fluid staining his skin. As the deafening silence envelops the group, Rasmus’s initial shock quickly turns into a burning determination. His hatred for foul undead fuels his determination to destroy whatever malevolent force is at play. He adopts a 'coup-de-grace' sword stance, his eyes narrowing as he scans the body once more, this time cautiously. Despite the silence, Rasmus’s body language is clear. He points to the mummified body and then makes a slashing motion across his throat, indicating his desire to destroy it. He then gestures for Erik and Shep to cover him as he approaches the body once more. With a determined look, Rasmus approaches the mummified body again. This time, he is prepared for any supernatural occurrences. He draws his weapon, ready to strike at the first sign of movement. He motions for the others to get themselves to a reasonable distance for safety.
Rasmus steps cautiously into the chamber, his senses heightened by the eerie silence and the oppressive darkness. The sight of the mummified body on the table sends a chill down his spine, but he steels himself and approaches, his jaw set in a grim point. He whispers to his companions, his voice firm. “This place reeks of sufferin', horrible sufferin'..." Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Soften yer steps too. The dead don't always sleep peacefully.” As he approaches the table, memories of a past encounter flood his mind. He recalls the day he found Elara, the young woman who had captured his heart, ensnared in a dark cult. She had been little older than Deshe and Erik, and the memory of her eyes still lingered with him. He had been tracking the cult for weeks, following their trail of bloody horror through the alleys and streets of Dulwich. When he finally found their hideout, he was horrified to discover Elara, bound and surrounded by dark symbols. Her eyes, once full of life, were now hollow and filled with despair. “Elara,” he had whispered gently, kneeling beside her. “I’m here to help ye, to get ye away from these mad cultists..." She had flinched at his touch, but his soothing voice had seemed to calm her. As he reached forward to untie her binds, an ice-cold pain had shot through his body, and he fell backwards, clutching in vain at the dagger sticking from his abdomen. With a single word of magic, Elara's bindings had slithered free from her wrists and coiled around him like snakes. Her eyes had lost all feigned despair and radiated a cold malice that cut into his heart mercilessly. He could say nothing as clammy, rotting hands grabbed at his tunic and dragged him further into the makeshift temple. Flinching as his mind returns to the present, he gently examines the mummified body, looking for any clues that might reveal what happened here.
“This poor soul has been through unimaginable torment,” he murmurs, his kind demeanor shining through despite the gruesome scene. “We must ensure that their suffering was not in vain.” Rasmus’ hand hovers over the broken stone on the floor, his instincts telling him that there is more to this than meets the eye. He readies his weapon warily, taking a deep breath. He silently vows to protect his companions and bring justice to the tormented souls that haunt this chamber.
Rasmus casts one last baleful eye at the cave, and moves to support Klaus. "We should stick together. Maybe yer right, maybe I'm overreactin'. Thanks fer yer trust in me, lads, but I'll support ye as best I can." He smiles, and readies his sword and Lantern.
Upon hearing the laughter, Rasmus draws back from the cave entrance, holding out his lantern-arm protectively in front of Erik. His sword-arm traces a slight warding symbol in front of him, and he mutters a clipped rural invocation of protection. His eyebrows raise, and he addresses his friends in a low whisper, his eyes flitting back and forth between them and the shifting dark. "I coulda sworn I heard somethin' down there. Sounded like a little bairn laughin', and no mistakin'. I don't trust it one bit. In the Salt Mire, I've seen creatures, spirits that mimic the laughter of children to lure ye to a watery grave, becomin' a meal fer the undead that wander there. The cave looks a bit rough, though, movin' along it might prove a bit difficult." He draws out a torch, lights it from his lantern, and throws it into the gaping maw of the cave entrance as far as he can. He readies his sword and moves to where he can guard the others best from the opening. He flicks his eyes over to the rusty bar, and says, "That door seems solidly wedged, I'd wager. Let's fortify our open front for now, and we can come back to it later. It don't rest easy with me, the idea of leavin' this cave unexplored while we explore other rooms; somethin' might sneak up on us. I'll go take a look in a second, if any of ye want to come with me."
Yeah, that's fine with me.
Rasmus is going to wave up to the others, telling them in a barely audible whisper, "It's all right, lads. Ye can come down, just be very quiet and cautious, we don't want to wake anything before we're ready." He will then move in front of the cave's mouth and peer into the gloom, trying to distinguish anything of note. His sword is raised defensively before him, and his eyelids furrow as he squints to try to pierce the darkness.
No worries. I'm glad to hear things went okay.
No problem, take as much time as you need.
Rasmus unhooks a beaten, weathered old lantern from his belt. Its tarnished and blackened exterior makes it hard to distinguish details, but faint elegant symbols and markings can be seen on it. Almost as an afterthought, a roughly worked piece of metal serves as the "hood," letting light be cut off from the surrounding area at the user's discretion. He draws a flask of oil from a pouch at his waist, fills the lantern's well to full capacity, and lights the lantern with his flint and steel. He then holds the lantern in his left hand, high above his head to pierce the darkness, and draws his heavy blade from its sheath. He glances down at the trapdoor, "Well, lads, this is where it begins. I volunteer to go down first, to scout out what's down there." He turns his head to Alistair, "If ye ain't averse to it, I'd like to have ye down there too, fer a second pair of eyes and if there are any locks to work through. I dare say yer a good sight better than I am." He turns to the two clerics, and asks them, "Can ye extinguish yer 'god-lights' if necessary? Some things in the dark are drawn to the light, like moths to the flame. We don't want any unpleasant surprises down there. If ye can, start prayin' to yer gods now, I ain't sure what we'll see down there." Erik and Deshe notice that, for one of the first times since they've known him, Rasmus seems truly uncertain about what is going to happen. His grim determination and iron will are his outward face, but touches of fear show at the corners of his eyes. Once the trapdoor is open, he is going to climb down with his lantern hooded, listen for a moment to detect any movement around him, and, if there isn't any, unhood his lantern, with his sword at the ready.
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