JollyDoc's Rise of the Runelords...Updated 12/22

[WarEagleMage]

I just thought of something guys...I wonder if any of those little critters' daddy was the bugbear... would that makes them "buglins"? I smell future pack lords...

 

[JollyDoc]

WHAT LIES BENEATH

“Malfeshnekor?” Luther asked once Wesh had completed Nualia’s tragic tale.
“Perhaps the name of the so-called ‘whispering beast,’” Wesh offered.
“But the wizard said we were too late,” Dex interrupted. “She said Nualia’d already found what she was looking for.”
“And perhaps she has,” Wesh replied, “as it is also likely that if this being was imprisoned, and she found a way to free it, then it’s already loose in the world. Still, I think we’re obligated to continue our search. I want to be able to return to Sandpoint and reassure its people that we did all that we could to insure their safety.

They left Nualia’s lair and followed a short hall beyond the door across the passage. This, in turn, led them to a large, L-shaped chamber. A pair of doors, their faces carved with depictions of two skeletons reaching out to clutch a skull between them, stood at the end of the southern leg of the room, while to the east, the area narrowed down to frame a circular carving of what seemed to be an immense stack of gold coins that rose from floor to ceiling. The edges of the coins were carved with tiny, spiky, Thassilonian runes.
“Odd,” Wesh said absently.
“What?” Luther asked.
“There’s magic here.” The mage held out one hand, as if feeling unseen tremors in the air. “It’s the carving. Something’s not as it seems.”
“I’ll check it,” Dex said.
“Just remember what happened last time!” Wesh called after him. The rogue shot him a withering look before turning his attention to the strange carving. Several long moments passed as he scrutinized every detail, reaching out his hand now and again to touch a particular spot.
“What’s this now?” He whispered. His fingers traced a pair of slots, one on each side of the bas-relief, that would have been easily missed by someone lacking his keen powers of perception. Each slot seemed large enough to accommodate something the size of a coin. Reaching into his pouch, Dex withdrew a pair of gold crowns. Kissing them for luck, he placed one in each slot. As soon as he did so, the entire carving ground noisily down into the floor, revealing another chamber on the opposite side. Dex turned and smiled smugly at Wesh before stepping through the opening.

The area beyond was empty of any furnishing or décor, but three pairs of doors opened from it, one each on the north, east and south walls. The doors to the south were odd. They were made of stone, yet bore no handles. An indented outline of a seven-pointed star, its shape covered by hollows and slits, graced the spot where the handles should have been. Instantly, Dex though of the medallion Luther had taken from Nualia and that he now wore around his own neck, but then the rogue quickly realized the shape and size were wrong. Though the medallion bore a carving of the same seven-pointed symbol, it was itself round.
“There must be another key somewhere,” he sighed after several more minutes convinced him there was no way to bypass the strange locking mechanism.
“Maybe in one of the other rooms,” Adso offered. Dex shrugged. He didn’t have any better ideas.

The doors to the north opened easily enough. A barren room on the other side contained an upraised dais on which sat a marble throne. To either side stood statues of a man clutching a book and a glaive. A ghostly figure seemed to be seated in the throne, an image of the same man who appeared in the statues. He looked to be addressing an audience as he moved his hands about, fingers decorated with hooked rings, but the words issuing from his phantom mouth were difficult to make out and in a strange language.
“It’s an illusion,” Wesh announced, testing the aura once more. “It seems to be malfunctioning though, like it’s caught in some sort of repetitive loop. I can’t make out the words.”
“I can,” Luther said. “They’re Thassilonian. He’s saying, ‘…is upon us, but I command you remain. Witness my power, how Alaznist’s petty wrath is but a flash compared to my strength. Take my final work to your graves, and let its memory be the last thing you…’”
“Do you recognize him, or that name? Alaznist?” Adso asked.
Luther shook his head. “No. I didn’t come across such a name in any of our research. Perhaps when we are next at Windsong, we can research it further.”

The eastern chamber was even more disturbing. It contained three low tables, their tops covered with a strange and chilling selection of tools, saws, long-bladed knives, and objects whose purpose was not readily apparent. A strange collection of bones lay near one of the tables…too many to be one skeleton, but too few to be two.
“Fascinating,” Wesh exclaimed as he bent to examine the odd remains. “It seems to have been a two-headed man, with what appears to an additional partial skeleton of a smaller man growing from the small of his back. I know of certain unscrupulous taxidermy colleagues of mine who have attempted to pass off such amalgams as genuine natural oddities of nature. One in particular comes to mind…supposedly a cross between a deer and a rabbit…a jackalope I think they called it. Still, this smacks of the real thing. What sort of horrible experiments went on here?”
“Look at this!” Dex shouted from across the room. He was looking at the assortment of tools, but the one he held in his hand looked very different from the rest. It was a silver and gold seven-pointed star, one surface studded with nodules and blades, and the other featuring a thin, curved handle. “I think I found our missing key!”
_________________________________________________

The time was now. Malfeshnekor scarcely dared believe it. Almost fifteen-thousand years. That was how long he’d waited, trapped since he was captured by Karzoug’s minions, then forgotten after the great Cataclysm. Oh, he’d had hope before, to be sure. The cultists of Lamashtu had seemed very promising, indeed, but that damnable hellcat had slaughtered them all before he could guide them too him. Then came the goblins. Fragile and stupid creatures by nature, he’d drawn them to this place, but they were unable to find the sealed entrance. He’d begun to despair again, but then his mistress had sent him a vision…a sign. Another of the chosen was coming for him, or rather had been coming. None of the voices he now heard outside his prison belonged to Nualia. That probably meant she had failed and was dead. And yet her killers had succeeded where she had not. Malfeshnekor would still be free. If he had to devour a few souls before realizing that freedom, well…it was amazing how much one’s hunger could fester after nearly fifteen-thousand years…
___________________________________________________

The key fit seamlessly into the lock and Dexter stepped back as the doors swung silently open, revealing a room lit by a large pit of flickering fire that filled the chamber with a strange, humid heat and the smell of burning hair. In two corners of the room, wooden risers each held several dozen golden candles that burned without melting, while the far wall bore an immense carving of a seven-pointed star.
“Is anyone else starting to detect a theme here?” Wesh commented, but a moment later, the wizard’s head snapped back and blood flew from his mouth and nose as several deep slashes appeared from nowhere down the left side of his face.
“What the…?” Dexter began, but his exclamation died on his lips as he saw what stood in the chamber, where before there had been nothing. The creature was big, well over eight-feet tall as it reared on its lupine back legs. The rest of its body bore more than a passing resemblance to a wolf as well, save for its face, which had a distinctly goblinoid cast to it. Black fur rippled across it, and when it snarled, its lower jaw seemed to stretch farther than should have been physically possible. As it stalked forward, it seemed to flicker rapidly in and out of view.

“What is it?” Dex shouted to no one in particular as he fumbled for his rapier. Skud didn’t bother to wait for an answer as he stepped into the room to meet the creature. With incredible speed, the beast brought one paw around in a swooping arc, raking it across the half-orc’s breastplate and tearing through it as if it were rice paper. Skud grunted as he was driven back.
“Watch out!” Dex warned as his large friend bowled into him, knocking his sword from his hand. It skittered several yards across the floor, but it might as well have been a mile away. The fiend stepped forward, placing itself between the rogue and his weapon.

“A barghest!” Luther hissed. “I should have known! ‘Goblin-wolf’ indeed! It is Abyss-spawned, and it feeds off the souls of the living!”
Adso nodded brusquely. He had heard of such creatures during his studies, and he knew that they were highly impervious to mortal weapons. Closing his eyes, he focused his ki, gathering it to him like a physical force. A silver nimbus formed around his clenched fists, and when he opened his eyes again, his hands flared like lightning. Silently, he moved, leopard-quick to close the distance with the barghest. He ducked beneath its swinging arms and struck, focusing all of his ki into the one-inch span of his knuckles. When his flesh struck the fiend’s, bright light flared again, and the beast howled as its skin was scorched black by the monk’s touch. Malfeshnekor hesitated for the briefest of moments, taken aback that one of the soft creatures had actually managed to cause him pain. Then, savagely, he struck back, sinking his teeth into Adso’s shoulder and shaking him like a rag-doll.

“It’s blinking,” Wesh said.
“What?” Rico asked.
“The barghest. It’s blinking,” the mage repeated. “It’s an enchantment, one which shunts the recipient constantly between the Ethereal plane and our own. Bottom line…it’ll make it damn hard to land a blow…unless you know what I do.”
“What’s that?” the druid asked.
“Force magic transcends the Ethereal boundary,” Wesh smiled evilly. Then, calling his magic to his lips, he unleashed a barrage of azure bolts at the barghest, and each one struck unerringly true. Malfeshnekor hissed and yowled, pawing frantically at the spots where the missiles had seared him. He locked his baleful eyes on the still-bloodied face of Wesh, and he began working his own spell, intending to subvert the human’s mind to his own indomitable will. At the last second, however, the half-orc he’d first struck dashed inside his defenses and sank his blade deep into the barghest’s side. Though Malfeshnekor’s dense hide shed the worst of the blow, the terrible gash was still such that the pain drove his spell from his mind. Snarling viciously, he rounded on Skud, but then saw Dexter standing behind the barbarian, a gleaming, silver dagger in his upraised hand. Shoving the half-orc aside like a small child, the barghest lunged at Dex, snapping his jaws closed on the rogue’s wrist and crushing it like a twig. Dexter’s dagger fell from his nerveless grasp.

Malfeshnekor spun like a snake back to Skud, and in rapid succession, the fiend savagely bit and clawed at the half-orc, driving Skud to his knees. Unhinging his lower jaw like a python, the barghest leaned over the barbarian. Suddenly, he screamed as the accursed silver dagger flew through the air and impaled the roof of his mouth. Bloodied, and with his right arm hanging loosely at his side, Dexter smiled grimly and waved with his left hand. Malfeshnekor clawed at the burning metal in his mouth, but then another volley of arcane missiles struck him about the head. Reeling, he stumbled back, and as he struggled to regain his balance, Adso leaped straight up, landing a flying side-kick to the fiend’s temple. The bone beneath imploded like an egg shell, and Malfeshnekor, chosen of Lamashtu, at last gained his freedom from his earthly imprisonment.
__________________________________________________

Thistletop was a tomb. Nothing living remained. The Sandpoint deputies stood on the far side of the repaired rope bridge, staring back at the fortress. Orik Vancaskerkin and the lone goblin they’d taken captive sat bound astride Shadowmist, both looking very sullen. Luther had taken the liberty of freeing the goblin children before the company departed, and the vicious infants had promptly scurried for the front doors, across the bridge, and disappeared into the briar patch. As Rico had said, they faced better odds alone in the wild than they ever would have with their parents. The companions felt satisfied by the work they’d done, but troubled as well. Nualia and her minions had been neutralized, hopefully averting any further immediate threat for Sandpoint, but many questions still remained. What was the significance of the Sihedron rune? Where had Malfeshnekor come from and what role had he truly played in the events? What of the mysterious Skinsaw Men Nualia had sought aid from in Magnimar? Ultimately, these questions were, for the moment, unanswerable and perhaps always would be. One-by-one, the seven turned away from Thistletop and back towards home…
_____________________________________________________

Many curious onlookers gathered as the company rode back into town early the next morning. Many more joined them as word spread that the heroes had returned and had brought captives with them. By the time they reached the garrison, Mayor Deverin herself was waiting for them, as well as Sheriff Hemlock.
“Boys,” the sheriff nodded, a look of pride on his face. “I see you brought guests.”
Then, his eyes fell upon Randall, a blindfold still wrapped around the ex-soldier’s damaged eyes. Hemlock misunderstood.
“Him??” he said, his voice becoming louder. “He was involved in this to?? Why am I not surprised?”
Randall turned towards the sound of Hemlock’s voice, his mouth opening to snap back a retort.
“It’s not what you think,” Wesh quickly interrupted. “He’s with us.”
Hemlock looked dubious.
“It’s true. He came to me and offered his service. I admit, I was skeptical to at first, given his…undistinguished military career.”
“Hmph!” Hemlock snorted. “If you can call it that.”
“Nevertheless, he gave an excellent accounting of himself,” Wesh continued. “He suffered a grievous injury at the hands of the goblins, and it cost him his eyesight.”
Hemlock’s expression softened subtly. As a soldier, he understood full well the consequences of such an injury on a fighting man.
“Then we shall see what can be done about having it restored,” Mayor Deverin said, stepping forward. “If I’m not mistaken, Wesh, your old mentor, Madame Mvashti has experience with such matters. We owe all of you much, more than can ever be repaid. For now, however, you will rest, recuperate, and when you’ve done so, you will tells us all of your adventures.”
________________________________________________

In the days that followed, the exploits of the so-called Sandpoint Seven spread rapidly through the town, and once again, they were hailed as heroes and saviors. The townsfolk were shocked and appalled that two of their own, Nualia and Tsuto, were responsible for such tragedy and terror, yet many were also ashamed at the possible role their own treatment of Father Tobyn’s adopted daughter may have played in the final analysis. Hemlock and Mayor Deverin were relieved to know that the rumored goblin attack seemed unlikely without Nualia’s leadership, even more so since the sheriff had only managed to convince the rulers of Magnimar to provide him with a dozen soldiers, most of those green. All seven of the company were invited, and strongly encouraged to stay on as permanent deputies. Hemlock even pinned Randall’s badge on his chest himself. The big soldier, his brown eyes gleaming brightly once more thanks to Madame Mvashti’s ministrations, gripped his commander’s hand in gratitude, and the sheriff nodded stoically in approval. Within a few days of the company’s return, trials were held for both Orik and Mongo, the captive goblin. They were perfunctory events, but Orik was shown mercy for both his remorse at his actions, as well as his lack of actual participation in the raid. He was sentenced to two years of hard labor, and accepted it without comment. Mongo was not so fortunate, and though Luther pleaded for leniency, the goblin was sentenced to death by hanging, which was carried out immediately.

In time though, the furor of the recent events wore down, and life in Sandpoint began gradually to return to normal. There wasn’t actually much deputy work to be done by the seven friends, so each of them turned to their own endeavors. Dexter and Skud, in between marathon sessions of free drinks at the Rusty Dragon, hired on with the occasional caravan bound for Magnimar, only to return a week later to resume their ‘official’ duties. Wesh reopened his shop, having brought back several interesting specimens from Thistletop that drew great interests from passersby when they saw the unique displays in his window. Rico left town shortly after the group returned from Thistletop, saying that he needed to contact Shalelu and bring her up to date, but promising to return every fortnight or so to check in. As for Luther and Adso, the priest sent word to his superiors at Windsong Abbey, outlining everything that had transpired, and requesting leave to continue his ministry in Sandpoint as well as asking advice on any of the larger issues uncovered at Thistletop. For the former, his request was granted, and Adso was instructed to remain with him as his guardian . As for the latter, the high priests did not make much of Luther’s concerns. They suggested that there were probably any number of obscure cults with ties to ancient Thassilonian mythology, and though Nualia’s had been dangerous, it probably was only an isolated occurrence. Luther accepted their response, but it did little to ease his mind. He filled his days with assisting Father Zantus and Hannah Velerin. He and his companions had come across quite a bit of wealth on their journey to Thistletop, and while Luther’s vows prohibited him from keeping any of the money, they did not keep him from making an anonymous purchase of a small house, which he signed over into Hannah’s name so that she might expand her services to the poor and needy.
___________________________________________________

“So what have you decided?” Wesh asked. He was seated in a secluded corner booth of the Rusty Dragon, comfortably close to the inn’s proprietress, Ameiko Kaijitsu. The wizard had become quite infatuated with the young woman since his return, and she, in turn, welcomed his support in her recent ordeals…the death of her father and brother, the realization of several dark secrets long hidden by her family, and the aftermath of the slaughter at her father’s glassworks.
“I’m putting the glassworks up for sale,” she said as she stared down into her tankard. “I’m letting Jasper Korvaski over at the Mercantile League handle the details. The three other noble families will all contribute equally to the sale, and therefore no one family will have an upper hand in the town’s industry.”
“A wise decision,” Wesh nodded, patting her hand.
“I’ve also set up several trusts for the families of the workers,” she said. “Money alone can never give them back their loved ones, but perhaps it can ease their hardships.”
“No one blames you,” Wesh said softly.
“Tsuto was my brother,” Ameiko sighed. “Blood cries to blood, or at least many of the locals believe so. Already I’ve noticed a drop off in business at the inn. It may be time for me to go away again.”
“Don’t say that,” Wesh shook his head. “Not that I sought it, but my word seems to have some pull around here these days. This will pass, you’ll see, and with a ‘prominent’ citizen like myself as one of your star patrons,” he grinned broadly, “it will only be a matter of time before your establishment becomes THE place to see and be seen.”
Ameiko smiled slightly and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Ahem, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Wesh looked up and saw Sheriff Hemlock standing nearby, a chagrined expression on his face.
The wizard sighed. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be if it wasn’t important. What can I do for you sheriff?”
“I need to speak with you…privately,” the big man replied grimly. “Sorry, Ameiko.”
“No problem, Belor,” the inn keeper as she slid out of the booth, kissing Wesh on the cheek before she left.
“What’s this about?” Wesh asked.
“Not here,” Hemlock replied in a low voice. “I’d like you to gather the others and come to the garrison. Are they all around?”
“Dex and Skud just came in yesterday,” Wesh nodded, “and I saw Rico riding in just this morning. His saddlebags were loaded, and I heard the distinct sound of clinking bottles. I think he brought in another supply from his little distillery.”
Hemlock managed a half smile. “Good things it’s only herbals and such that he’s dealing in, otherwise I might have to lock him up.”
“I’ll round them all up and meet you within the hour,” Wesh said.
__________________________________________________

The seven deputies sat in Hemlock’s office, the first time they’d all been together in several weeks. The sheriff paced restlessly before leaning heavily against his desk.
“First, let me thank you again or all you’ve done for Sandpoint,” he began. “It’s fortunate that you’ve proven yourselves so capable, because we’ve got a problem that I think you can help us with…a problem that I wish I didn’t have to involve anyone with, but one that needs dealing with now before the situation gets worse.”
“Put simply, we have a murderer in our midst…one who, I fear, has only begun his work. Some of you doubtless remember the Late Unpleasantness and how this town nearly tore itself apart in fear as Chopper’s slayings went on unanswered. I’m afraid we might have something similar brewing now.”
“Last night, the murderer struck at the sawmill. There are two victims, and they’re…they’re in pretty gruesome shape. The bodies were discovered by one of the mill workers, a man named Ibor Thorn, and by the time my men and I arrived on the scene, a crowd of curious gawkers had already sprung up. I’ve got my men stationed there now, keeping the mill locked down, but the thing that bothers me isn’t the fact that we have two dead bodies inside. It’s that this is actually the second set of murders we’ve had in the last few days.”
“I come to you for help in this matter…my men are good, but they are also green. They were barely able to handle themselves against the goblins, and what we’re facing now is an evil far worse than goblins. I need the help, but I’m afraid you’ll need the help too. You see, it seems that this particular murderer knows one of you as well.”

At that point, Hemlock removed a piece of blood-stained parchment from his desk.
“This was found pinned to the sleeve of one of the victims.”
He passed the parchment to Skud. The half-orc took it, and then stared blankly at the writing there.
“Ahem, if I may?” Dexter said, clearing his throat as he took the paper from his friend’s hand. Skud’s illiteracy was a sore point with the half-orc, and Dex wanted to spare him any embarrassment.
“It’s got your name on the outside, Skud,” he said, and then he unfolded the parchment.
“‘I do as you command, master!’ is all it says, and it’s signed, ‘Your Lordship.’ What’s this supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Hemlock replied, “but don’t worry, I believe the note was left to purposely cast suspicion on Skud. He’s not a suspect in any way, but if word of this got out, I’m worried that the reaction of the townsfolk might not be as understanding. For this reason, and because I don’t’ want to start a general panic, I would like to keep the news of the murders as quiet as possible.”
“Who are the victims?” Luther asked quietly.
Hemlock dropped his gaze. “Banny Harker,” he said.
“Harker?” Wesh asked. “He’s one of the mill workers, right?”
“Yes,” Hemlock nodded, “and so is Ibor Thorn. I’ve got him in custody downstairs in case you want to question him, thought I don’t suspect him.”
“Who was the other?” Luther pushed.
“Katrine Vinder,” Hemlock said quietly.
Luther was stunned. Katrine was the sister of Shayliss Vinder, the young woman who had first tried to seduce the priest, and then later slandered him when he’d rebuffed her advances.
“It seems that Katrine and Harker were having an affair,” Hemlock continued. “The mill was apparently their rendezvous of choice. You might be thinking that would make her father, Ven, an obvious suspect, since everyone in town is well aware of how protective he is of his daughters, but when I broke the news to him, he was so distraught that he flew into a rage. I took him into custody as well, but more for his own safety than anything else. You may question him as well if you like.”
“You said this was the second set of murders,” Wesh said. “What about the first?”
“Ah yes,” Hemlock sighed heavily again. “Two days ago, a patrol along the Lost Coast Road was assaulted by a deranged man near an abandoned barn south of town, along the banks of Cougar Creek. He was obviously sick and insane, his flesh fevered, eyes wild, mouth frothing, and his clothes were caked with blood. The guards subdued him, but when they checked inside the barn, they found the mutilated bodies of three men. Although they were too disfigured to identify, one of them carried this piece of parchment.”
Hemlock passed another folded note to Dex.
“ ‘Messrs. Mortwell, Hask and Tabe’,” Dex read. “ ‘A deal has come about that I need capital in. It involves property and gold, and though I am not at liberty to tell you the exact details, it will make us all rich. Come to Bradley’s Barn on Cougar Creek tonight. We can meet there to discuss our futures.’ It’s signed, ‘Your Lordship.’”“Again with the ‘Lordship,’” Wesh said. “Who were these men?”
“Tarch Mortwell, Lener Hask, and Gedwin Tabe,” Hemlock replied. “Con men and swindlers that I’ve had run-ins with in the past. Last time I hauled them in, I forbade them from operating their con games and barely legal operations within Sandpoint. I must admit, I wasn’t particularly surprised to find them murdered. It was only a matter of time before they tried to swindle someone worse than them, but in light of last night’s murders, and the fact that all three of the men had the same symbol carved into their chests as Harker, convinces me that there’s something worse than revenge going on.”
“Symbol?” Luther asked quietly, his blood going cold.
“You’ll see it,” Hemlock answered, “when you go to the mill. You can also examine the bodies of the first three. I’ve got them in a cool room down in the basement. As for the man who attacked the guards, he’s been identified as Grasyt Sevilla, a local Varisian thug. I turned him over to Erin Habe, the caretaker of the Saintly Haven of Respite. So that’s it then, gentlemen. That’s all I can tell you. I suggest, if you’re willing, you begin your investigation.”
________________________________________________________

Ibor Thorn was still in a state of shock when Luther approached him in his holding cell, both sullen and traumatized.
“I already told the sheriff everything,” he muttered. “I don’t know nothin’ else.”
“I understand,” the priest said kindly. “I just want to make sure there is nothing we’re overlooking. We need to do everything we can to prevent more murders.”
Thorn hesitated, his eyes shifting nervously. When he spoke again, his voice was uncertain.
“Well…ah Hades, what harm can it do to tell ya now? Banny’d been cookin’ the books for awhile now. I never wanted any part of it, mind ya, but Banny might’ve stashed away quite a little nest egg by his skimmin’ over the years. The Scarnettis, they own the mill ya know, they got a reputation for bein’ pretty ruthless. Word on the street’s that they had several competin’ mills in the area burned down. I wouldn’t put it past’em to hire somebody to kill poor Banny if they found out what he’d been doin’. Poor Banny…”

Katrine’s father, Ven, was far less forthcoming. Such was his rage and grief that he was barely coherent. Though Luther tried for some time to get through to the man, in the end he was forced to give up, convinced that the merchant was just what he appeared…a heartbroken father.
_____________________________________________________

When the deputies arrived at the lumber mill, a sizeable crowd was gathered outside, and groups of nervous-looking town guards stood at the entrances. A murmur ran through the onlookers as they saw the arrival of the Sandpoint Seven. Their suspicions that something important was afoot was only confirmed by the presence of the local heroes. The guards stepped aside at Hemlock’s word, and the company stepped into the dim interior of the lumber mill.

The mill was a well-built wooden structure with very thick walls. The roof was made of wooden shingles, and the doors were simple timber, and all usually were kept unlocked, according to Hemlock. The machinery had been disengaged, and the silence inside the usually noisy structure was eerie. The floor of the main room was coated with sawdust, and the first thing that was readily apparent was that a desperate struggle had recently taken place there. The dust was churned with footprints, and stained with several large splashes of blood. Rico knelt down and examined the prints more closely.
“Boots, slippers…and bare feet,” the druid noted, pointing out the different sets of prints. Then he bent even closer to the bare prints and sniffed. “Ugh! Smells like rotten meat!”
In fact, the lingering scent of decay filled the entire interior of the mill, almost as if a small animal had died somewhere in the room and its remains had been allowed to ripen.

“Over here,” Hemlock called from where he stood beside the log splitter. “Brace yourselves.”
A pale-faced, obviously upset guard stood at attention nearby. When the deputies approached, they got their first look at what was left of Katrine Vinder. It was instantly apparent how she’d died…she been pushed head-first into the splitter, and now her mangled, ruined remains lay on the floor amid heaps of bloodstained firewood. Luther’s face looked stricken, while Wesh’s expression showed revulsion and nausea. Dexter turned away and coughed into his hand, while Rico just shook his head. Skud and Randall remained stoic, though both of their eyes narrowed. They were warriors, and had seen death in many forms, but the senseless brutality of what had occurred only a few short hours before still unnerved them. Adso remained calm and self-possessed, but a look of deep sadness passed briefly across the monk’s face, and he could only wonder about the capacity for man’s inhumanity towards his own kind.
“We found this nearby,” Hemlock said. A handaxe was embedded in the floor near the splitter, as if it had been dropped there. The handle was covered with bloody finger marks. Randall reached down and pulled it from the planks.
“Looks like bits of flesh and bone on the blade,” he said, then he sniffed and his nose wrinkled.
“Let me see it,” Luther said, and Randall passed him the weapon. Though his face contorted in disgust, the young priest leaned in close to the blade.
“This corruption is beyond that which a dead body can normally produce,” he said. “This was very likely used against some sort of corporeal undead creature.”
For a moment, his companions and Hemlock looked shocked at the implication, then Randall chuckled slightly.
“Looks like our little lady there didn’t go down without a fight.”

Banny Harker’s body had been horribly desecrated. The poor man had been affixed to the wall by several hooks normally used to hang machinery. He had been mutilated, his face carved away and his lower jaw missing entirely. In addition, there were several small gashes visible in many places, that almost seemed to have been made by a claw…a five-fingered human-hand-sized claw. Last, and most disturbing of all, however, was the strange rune that had been carved into his bare chest. There was no doubt at all as to what the seven-pointed figure represented…the Sihedron Rune…

 

[Cerulean_Wings]

Next time, on the Sandpoint Seven...

A killer on the loose, with nothing to lose!
The locals are in a panic, as another tragedy strikes the town!
Will the Sandpoint Seven find out who the undead killer is before it strikes again?!

Stay tuned for the next installment of Jolly Doc's Sandpoint Seven!

Whew, that was the longest update so far, but really good. I like the character's personalities and their stories

A murder investigation? I saw it coming, but that being said, the adventure path seems promising in terms of a cool investigation.

 

[JollyDoc]

Next time, on the Sandpoint Seven...

A killer on the loose, with nothing to lose!
The locals are in a panic, as another tragedy strikes the town!
Will the Sandpoint Seven find out who the undead killer is before it strikes again?!

Stay tuned for the next installment of Jolly Doc's Sandpoint Seven!

Whew, that was the longest update so far, but really good. I like the character's personalities and their stories

A murder investigation? I saw it coming, but that being said, the adventure path seems promising in terms of a cool investigation.

I love it! Sounds like a hit new series to me!

So far, the investigation is VERY interesting, and we ramped up the creep factor big time tonight. Which brings us to...

SUNDAY NIGHT TEASER

1) The investigation of the Sandpoint murders continues with a visit to the sanitarium. Can Ze Doctor be trusted? What about the poor, tortured soul he has locked away upstairs? Is everything really as it appears? Of course not!

2) As if grisly murders in the town itself weren't enough, reports start coming in of scarecrows coming to life and terrorizing the rural farmers of Sandpoint's hinterlands. An investigation by the Seven puts everyone in mind of Jeepers Creepers.

3) The trail grows hotter, leading the Sandpoint Seven to a bonafide haunted house on the edge of civilization. The heroes are faced with the grim reality that you can't fight what's only in your mind...or is it? Dark family secrets are revealed. Break out the Mystery Machine and the Scooby Snacks! Those meddling deputies are on the case!

 

[Supar]

Danm JD and his creepy house..... IF I CANT HIT IT I DONT WANNA FIGHT IT

 

[Neverwinter Knight]

3) The trail grows hotter, leading the Sandpoint Seven to a bonafide haunted house on the edge of civilization. The heroes are faced with the grim reality that you can't fight what's only in your mind...or is it? Dark family secrets are revealed. Break out the Mystery Machine and the Scooby Snacks! Those meddling deputies are on the case!

Skuddy, duddy, dooooo...

Great story, great characters, great timing for the next update?

 

[JollyDoc]

MISGIVINGS

Luther did not say anything aloud when he saw the symbol, though a quick glance at his companions told him that they all recognized it as well. He did not want to voice anything of his suspicions to the sheriff…at least not until he had some idea as to what those suspicions were.
“I think we need to pay a visit to the sanatorium,” he said aloud. “Sheriff, I recommend you have your people clean up the scene and remove the evidence. I also suggest that the mill remain closed until we have more information.”
“The Scarnettis aren’t going to like that,” Hemlock said.
“The Scarnettis may have some questions to answer themselves before all is said and done,” Wesh replied.
“They might at that,” Hemlock nodded. “In fact, while you boys are away, I think I’ll pay a visit to Lord Scarnetti in person.”
__________________________________________________

The Saintly Haven of Respite, or as the locals called it, Habe’s Sanatorium, was located in a remote dale a few miles south of Sandpoint. It had been founded by a wealthy doctor from Magnimar, Erin Habe, who was said to be an expert on various diseases and mental derangements. He was also said to be a bit eccentric. The Haven itself was a squat, stone building with three floors under a stout, stone-flagged roof, built in the lee of the limestone escarpment known as Ashen Rise. When the deputies knocked on the front door, it was answered by a burly, bald man dressed all in white.
“Yes?” he asked in a thickly accented voice.
“We are here to see Dr. Habe,” Wesh said.
“Ze Doctor is a very busy man,” the orderly stated flatly.
“Well, he’d best unbusy himself then,” the wizard replied as he unfurled a letter of introduction given to them by Hemlock. “We are duly appointed deputies from Sandpoint, and we’re here investigating a murder.”

The orderly ushered them to a small parlor, and a few minutes later, a middle-aged gentleman with white hair, a bristling mustache and thick spectacles stormed in.
“What’s this all about, then?” Dr Habe asked impatiently. “I’m in the middle of some frightfully important work, and I do not like being disturbed!”
“Settle down, Doctor,” Wesh said, rising from his seat. “We won’t take much of your time. You’re holding a man here named Grayst Sevilla. I believe Sheriff Hemlock delivered him to you a few days ago. We need to speak with him about the murders he witnessed.”
Habe looked dubious.
“Mr. Sevilla is a very sick man,” the doctor said curtly. “He shouldn’t be put under undo stress.”
“We’re not here to brow-beat him,” Wesh said. “We just want to ask a few questions. You have my word, we’ll be brief.”

Dr. Habe, accompanied by a pair of orderlies, led the deputies up to the third floor of the sanatorium. He unlocked a sturdy door and pushed it open before stepping aside. Grayst Sevilla crouched, sobbing in a corner of the small, plain room beyond. His skin was pale and looked gangrenous. His hair was wild and his eyes were milky white. He was wrapped in a straitjacket and muttered incoherently to himself in between sobs.
“What in the…?” Luther whispered as he stepped into the room and stooped down beside Grayst, reaching one hand out to feel the other man’s forehead. He then turned and shot a fiery look at Habe.
“This man is near death!” the priest snapped. “Worse, he’s dying of ghoul fever!”
“Ghoul fever?” Wesh asked. “What is that?”
“A disease transmitted to the living by the bite of a ghoul,” Luther explained. “It kills slowly, driving the victim inexorably insane. When he finally dies, he will rise as a ghoul on the following midnight. Were you aware of this, Doctor?”
Habe’s face was pale as he stammered something noncommittal. Luther turned back to Grayst in disgust.
“Mr. Sevilla?” he said gently. “Can you hear me? My name is Luther Asclepius. I’m a priest from Sandpoint. I’m here to help you, but I need to ask you a few questions first.”
“Razors…,” Grayst whispered. “Too many teeth…! The Skinsaw Man is coming!”
Luther’s eyes widened at the reference, but suddenly Grayst’s eyes bulged to as he stared at something behind Luther. The priest turned, but all he saw was Skud leaning in the doorway.
“He said,” Grayst whispered excitedly. “He said you would visit me! His Lordship! The one that unmade me so! He has a place for you! A precious place! I’m so jealous! He has a message for you! He made me remember it! I hope I haven’t forgotten. The master wouldn’t approve if I forgot. Let me see…let…me…see…He said that the bodies you are finding are signs and portents; that when he is done, you shall be remembered forever and the Misgivings shall be your throne!”
Grayst then collapsed to the floor and began a low moan, which rose a moment later to a shriek as he lurched back to his feet and began straining at his straitjacket, the fabric pulling and tearing.
“Be at peace,” Luther said as he rose with the deranged man. He placed his hand on Grayst’s head again and the other sighed deeply before dropping to the floor once more and folding himself into a fetal position. Cautiously, Luther moved away, pulling the door shut behind him. One of Habe’s orderlies hastily locked it back. Luther quickly rounded on Habe.
“You have something to say?” the priest demanded.
“Please,” the doctor begged. “Please forgive me! I had no idea that he would react in such a manner. Yes, yes I knew that he had ghoul fever, and I should have turned him over to Father Zantus immediately for treatment, but I thought he would be a valuable research subject. I hoped his transformation would give me some insight into the disease itself. Please, I beg you, don’t report me! It would mean the end of my studies!”
“You’re a monster!” Luther snarled. “You will take Mr. Sevilla into Sandpoint tomorrow and give him to Father Zantus. Rest assured, Sheriff Hemlock and the mayor will find out about your so-called research, and then they can decide what should be done with you!”

The seven departed the sanatorium, and as they left, Wesh patted Luther on the shoulder.
“I didn’t think you had it in you! You were an animal!”
“No,” Luther replied despondently. “That doctor is the animal, and I’m not much better, losing control like that. I should be better than that. Still, this trip was not wasted. We will be able to get Grayst the help he needs, but further, did any of you pick up on the phrase he used?”
“He’s crazy,” Skud grumbled. “Nothing he said made sense.”
“One thing did,” Luther replied. “He specifically said, ‘the Misgivings shall be your throne.’ Do you recognize the name, Wesh?”
The wizard thought for a moment, and then understanding dawned on his face. “Yes! That’s the name the locals call that old, abandoned estate south of here…Foxglove Manor!”
“Foxglove?” Dex asked. “Wasn’t that the name of that dandy we rescued from the goblins? The one that was so taken with…Skud?” Comprehension came quickly to the rogue as well.
“We need to get back to town!” Luther said. “Then we need to find out if our old benefactor has been seen around lately.”
_____________________________________________

“The old Foxglove place?” Hemlock asked dubiously. “Are you sure?”
“He said the Misgivings,” Luther replied. “Isn’t that what the townsfolk call the estate?”
“Yeah,” Hemlock acknowledged, “especially the Varisians. Place has a bad reputation. All sorts of rumors about it, from lights in the attic windows, muffled screams from inside, even to sightings of some sort of giant bat-creature, if you believe the tall tales.”
“Why’s the place abandoned?” Dex asked. “Where’s Foxglove’s family?”
“The family lived there as recently as twenty years ago,” the sheriff replied, “but then a fire burned down the servant’s quarters. Cyralie Foxglove, Aldern’s mother, was found dead…burned and dashed on the rocks below the cliffs behind the house. Traver, her husband, was found in his bedroom, dead by his own hand. The children, Aldern and his two sisters, were sent away to be raised in Korvosa by distant relatives.”
“He told me he’d speak to his father about helping to sponsor a hospital in Sandpoint,” Luther said softly.
“Well, all I know is that Aldern returned to the area about five years ago,” Hemlock shrugged. “He moved to Magnimar, but pretty quickly he set about trying to reclaim his family’s estate. He ran into some problems, though, finding skilled laborers and servants. The manor’s reputation was hard to overcome. Word is, he finally hired some desperate, down-on-their-luck sorts, but even then, the job was a huge one. The place was in pretty bad shape. Then, a year or so back, Aldern up and got married…to a Varisian girl, no less. Talk about marrying below your station! She was a beauty, though. Aldern moved her into the mansion during the renovation. She left a few months later, however. Went to Absalom to visit friends, or so I heard. Aldern left shortly after. Went back to Magnimar. I heard he ran out of funds to finish the repairs, so he went back to maybe borrow some more money from his rich friends. The Swallowtail Festival was the first time he’d been seen around here since he left…and the last. Haven’t seen or heard of him since.”
“I think the next obvious choice for our investigation is that house,” Wesh observed.
“Well…,” Hemlock rubbed his head absently, “I’m glad you boys came back here first. See, something’s come up. I’m not sure if it’s related to the murders or not. Some of my men picked up one of the local farmers this morning. Fellow by the name of Grump. He ran into the middle of town screaming about walking scarecrows or some such. His breath smelled like a distillery, but I’m afraid the booze may have actually dulled his memory, and what he’s saying may actually be worse than he tells it.”
_____________________________________________________________

Hemlock led them down to the holding cells, where Ven Vinder and Ibor Thorn had now been joined by a bearded, red-faced man with wild eyes, covered in mud and sweat. He sat on a bench in his cell, rocking back and forth and reciting some sort of sing-song rhyme:
“Mumble Mumble Scarecrow,
Alone in the maize.
Sleeping in the daytime,
A stitched man he stays.
But when the moon she rises,
Up Mumble gets.
He shakes his hands at first
And he moves his feet the next.
And when the dog is snoring,
And when you’re fast asleep,
Mumble, Mumble Scarecrow
Will find you good to eat.”
“Grump!” Hemlock called. “Knock off that foolishness! I already warned you once. You’ve got visitors.”
Slowly, the old man looked up, terror still in his eyes.
“I want you to tell these fellows what you told me,” Hemlock said, more kindly.
Farmer Grump wrung his hands for several moments before stammering out his tale.
“For a while now, there’s been tales around the farmsteads of scarecrows comin’ out of the fields at night to feed. Nobody ever saw anythin’, but we sure heard it. Screams in the dark…dark shapes chasin’ people across the moors in the moonlight. When we visited the farms the next mornin’, they was empty. At first, we thought we could deal with it ourselves, but yesterday, it just got to be too much. We all knew that the problems were comin’ from the old Hambley place, so a bunch of us took up torches and pitchforks and headed over there last evenin’. When…,” he paused, gulping violently for several seconds. “When we got there, we was attacked by folks that looked like corpses, but ate like starving animals! They even ate the dogs!”
At that point, Grump dissolved into hysterical sobbing before resuming his haunting rhyme once again.
“You want us to check it out?” Wesh asked Hemlock.
“Walking corpses seems to fit the pattern of what we’ve been seeing,” the sheriff shrugged. “The Hambley place is on your way to Foxglove Manor anyway.”
__________________________________________________

Over three dozen farmsteads dotted the fields and vales southeast of Sandpoint, the furthest being some six mile from the town. As the Sandpoint Seven rode across the farmlands, they found the normally friendly locals unwilling to chat with visitors. The first farms they came upon, the most north and easterly, had heard stories of the trouble further south, but it was not until the company had moved south of the Ashen Rise and approached the Soggy River that the rumors turned into firsthand accounts. Footpaths, dusty tracks hemmed in by fields of corn and other crops, connected the farmsteads. By farmer Grump’s report, the Hambley farm was nestled at the western edge of the Whisperwood, a forest said by locals to be home to capricious gnomes, pixies, and other fey. The five farms the deputies passed south of the Soggy River were all deserted. The transition from the final one to the Hambley farm was no different from the countless other steads they had passed through. Fields of tall-stalked plants transformed the paths between them into oppressive tunnels. Several scarecrows were visible among the crops, but they looked the same as all the other scarecrows they’d seen. Yet somehow, the atmosphere was oppressive, as if a storm were on the horizon.

Rico was on point of the column, mounted high on Shadowmist’s back. He peered down at the track, periodically taking another branching path that looked more heavily traveled. It was at one such intersection, guarded by yet another of the ubiquitous scarecrows, that he felt a sudden chill on his spine…as if he were being watched. He drew Shadowmist to a halt and raised his hand for the others to stop as well. As he looked about in all directions, he thought for the briefest moment that he had caught movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looked again, the scarecrow looked subtly different, as if its head had turned just slightly. A moment later, there was no doubt. It began surging against the ropes that bound it to its pole, snarling savagely through its sewn burlap mouth. With a final heave, the ropes snapped and the thing leaped to the ground, landing in a crouch before Shadowmist. The big stallion reared, its fore hooves pawing the air. Rico fought to bring the warhorse around, while at the same time slashing down at the ghastly creature with a curved sickle he drew from his belt.
“Rico, down!” Dexter’s voice came from behind him. Instinctively, the druid ducked, plastering himself against Shadowmist’s neck as an arrow whizzed past his ear and sank to the fletchings in the scarecrow’s throat. The creature gurgled as it clawed at the arrow, but an instant later several flashing, blue bolts arced from Wesh’s outstretched hand and slammed into its head. With a final growl, it collapsed to the ground.

By that time, the other horses, less disciplined than Shadowmist, were in a panic. One-by-one the deputies dismounted. Rico whispered hastily in the stallion’s ear, and the warhorse’s shrill whinny brought the other mounts up short.
“Go, my friend,” Rico said. “Lead them to safety, then return to me.”
The stallion jerked his head, then wheeled and trotted back down the path, the riding horses hurrying to follow. Luther, meanwhile, knelt next to the scarecrow and carefully pulled the burlap sack from its head. He drew back in disgust as he saw the emaciated corpse beneath, its flesh sickly yellow, and its teeth filed to crooked, jagged points.
“A ghoul,” he said. “Just as we suspected.”
“No telling how many more of them are out here,” Dexter said, looking around nervously. “We must have passed a dozen or more scarecrows already. Where’s the blasted farmhouse?”
“I think I can help,” Rico said. He stepped away from his companions and raised his face to the sky. As they looked on in disbelief, his body began to melt and change, until a large, golden eagle stood where the druid had been but a moment before. With a shriek, the great bird took wing, soaring on the thermals high above the fields. Within a few minutes, it returned again, once more changing form, until Rico stood exactly where he had previously.
“We continue south down this path,” the druid said simply, ignoring the incredulous stares of his friends. “It’s not more than a hundred yards from here.”

The first building they reached was the barn, an L-shaped building that had been constructed around a unique feature…a twelve-foot high stone head, canted slightly to the left, depicting a helmed warrior, his face a stern model of placid determination. Moss had grown over much of the weathered figure, making his features hard to discern. Luther recognized it as Thassilonian, one of the numerous relics of the ancient empire that could still be found dotting the landscape. The barn doors were ajar, swinging slowly back and forth on their creaking hinges. Cautiously, the seven deputies approached and peered into the deeper gloom of the cavernous building. Immediately, they were struck by the powerful stench of rot and decay. The interior was a macabre tangle of bones and partially eaten carcasses, though it was difficult to determine exactly what kind of animals the corpses were. Slowly, they moved inside, Randall hanging back at the door to watch the farmhouse. They had barely gone more than a dozen paces, when Adso suddenly hissed for them to stop. Several shapes had detached themselves from the shadows and were moving, crouched and scuttling towards the companions, odd, gibbering grunts issuing from them as they approached. Abruptly, the interior of the barn filled with bright light as Rico flung one hand into the air. A glowing sphere of flame appeared in the center of the floor, immediately setting the loose straw there ablaze. Half a dozen creatures were revealed in the light, all hissing and shielding their sensitive eyes. They all bore the same resemblance to the emaciated ghoul the company had met in the corn field, save that all were dressed in the rags of farm clothes, and some obviously had been female in life. Shrieking, they loped forward on all fours, like a pack of mad dogs. One of them latched on to Skud’s boot with its teeth, worrying at it like a cur with a bone. The big half-orc quickly brought his blade down on the creature’s skull, splitting it open like an overripe melon. A second one leaped from the shadows near Randall, but the soldier turned at the last instant and crushed its chest with a mighty swing of his maul. He then whirled and pulped a third that was capering about madly, trying in vain to put out its clothes that had been set alight by Rico’s flaming sphere. Dexter yelped in pain as another of the savage horrors nipped his hand. Disgusted, he drove his silver-bladed dagger into its eye, and then thrust his rapier up through its lower jaw and straight into its worm-eaten brain. The rogue then flipped the dagger blade-first into his hand, and flicked it as straight as an arrow into the base of the neck of a ghoul struggling with Adso. The final fiend dissolved into a pile of ash when Luther stopped it in its tracks with his upraised holy symbol, which flared with golden light.

No sooner had the last ghoul fallen, than several low growls sounded from the open barn doors. The companions turned and beheld another pack of the undead predators crouched, snarling in the doorway. Behind them stood another figure, obviously just as dead as they, yet upright, and with a wicked gleam of intelligence in his eyes. He was dressed a bit more nicely as well, though this was a relative thing. He wore trousers and boots, as well as a white cotton shirt. Around his neck hung a large, iron key which bore a heraldic symbol of a curious flower surrounded by thorns. He looked at the living souls and nodded once. At his silent command, the ghouls attacked. The first three went down quickly beneath the weapons of Skud and Randall, as well as Adso’s fists, though Skud suffered a nasty bite before dispatching his foe. When the remaining three charged, Luther raised his amulet again, and this time the light shown like a small sun, incinerating the ghouls, as well as their leader, in holy fire. Silently, Luther walked over to the pile of ash and plucked the key from inside.

The farmhouse was in a terrible state. The mutilated body of farmer Hambley lay in the kitchen. Although decaying and swarming with flies, the Sihedron Rune was still plainly visible upon his chest, and a single scrap of parchment was pinned to the shreds of his tunic. Skud’s name was scrawled on the front.
“You and you alone have brought this fearful harvest,” Dexter read. “They are dead because of you, and more shall join them soon.”
“Should have left him as goblin food,” the half-orc snarled, regretting having ever bothered to save the life of Aldern Foxglove.
“Don’t worry, my large friend,” Wesh said. “Someone is going to pay, and pay dearly for this, and if Aldern Foxglove is responsible, he’ll wish we had given him to the goblins before I’m done!”

A search of the house revealed no other survivors, but Dexter noted a loose floorboard in the master bedroom. When he pried it up, he found a stout wooden coffer. Inside, were thirty-four meticulously organized leather pouches, each containing one-hundred silver coins.
“Undoubtedly the farmer’s life’s savings,” Luther said.
“Which he has no use for now,” Dexter observed.
“It should be returned to his family,” Luther said indignantly.
“I’m pretty sure we just destroyed what was left of his family,” the rogue said tightly. “What do you suggest, we put up a sign in town to see if any distant cousins want to claim it?”
“We should turn it over to the sheriff then,” Luther replied calmly. “He can decide what best to do with it.”
“Well, I know what’s best to do with my share,” Dex shrugged, and he reached down and picked up five of the bags and deposited them into his pocket. Skud followed suit. After a moment, so did Rico. Luther scowled darkly at them, then slammed the lid shut on the strongbox and picked it up before he stalked out of the house. Dexter smirked at Skud as they followed the priest into the yard. Skud grinned back, absently scratching at the bite mark on the back of his hand, which was starting to redden and itch…
_______________________________________________________

Foxglove Manor lay scarcely three miles from the Hambley farm, down along a narrow path that followed the Foxglove River from the covered bridge where it flowed under the Lost Coast Road to the dark sea cliffs overlooking the Varisian Gulf. The company decided that, since it lay so close, they would continue their investigation before returning to Sandpoint. As they drew near the Misgivings however, it almost seemed as if nature herself had become sick and twisted. Nettles and thorns grew more prominent, trees were leafless and bent, and the wind was unnaturally cold and shrill as it whistled through the cliffside crags. The path slowly rose, turned a steep corner at the cliffs, and then Foxglove Manor itself loomed at the edge of the world. The place had certainly earned its nickname well, for it almost appeared to loathe its perch high above the ocean, as if the entire house was poised for a suicide leap. The roof sagged in many places, and mold and mildew caked the crumbling walls. Vines of diseased-looking gray wisteria strangled the structure in several places, hanging down over the precipitous cliff edge almost like tangled braids of hair. The house was crooked, its gables angled sharply and breached in at least three places, hastily repaired by planks of sodden wood. Chimneys rose from various points among the rooftops, leaning like old men in a storm, and grinning gargoyle faces leered from under the eaves. That the manor still clung to the cliff was remarkable, as the whole far side was nothing more than a sheer drop down to the ocean below, a fall of over three-hundred feet. Out front, the foundation stones of a long-burnt outbuilding stood sentinel astride the weed-choked approach; a low stone well squatted morosely amid the ruins. It was impossible to tell how many floors the outbuilding once had. The foundation stones still bore scorches and cracks from the fire that destroyed it long ago. A murder of sickly looking ravens perched atop the stones, but they took wing and flew clumsily away as the company approached.

“I don’t know that I believe in haunted houses,” Wesh observed as they mounted the rickety porch, “but this certainly fits the bill.”
“Just be prepared for anything,” Luther said. “If Aldern Foxglove is inside, he’s certainly nothing like the man we met in Sandpoint a few weeks ago.”
Using the large key taken from the ghoul at the Hambley farm, Dexter unlocked the front door. An entry hall lay just inside, and the sound of the house straining and creaking gave the long, high-ceilinged room an additional sense of age and decay. The place smelled damp, the unpleasant tinge of mold laced the air as surely as it stained the wooden floor, walls and furniture in pallid patches. A curving flight of stairs to the south wound towards the upper floor, while a pair of large, stone fireplaces brooded to the north and south. Heavy, dark blue curtains hung over the windows, and the frames above each of the two doors along the hall were carved with dancing gargoyles and skeletons. Trophies hung on the wall to the northeast: a boar, a bear, a firepelt cougar, and a stag, their glassy eyes stared from fur crusted with mold and cobwebs, yet they paled in comparison to the monster on display in the center of the room. There crouched a twelve-foot long creature with the body of a lion, a scorpion’s tail fitted with dozens of razor barbs, huge bat-like wings, and a deformed humanoid face. The stuffed beast’s poorly maintained fur had fallen away in places, allowing the sawdust filling it to sift out into tiny mounds on the platform below.”
“Now that’s a damn shame!” Wesh observed as he moved closer to the stuffed manticore. “This was a fine piece of work once. I’d have been proud to display it in my shop. Some people don’t have any respect for art,” he shook his head wistfully.
“Did you hear that?” Adso abruptly asked, his head tilted towards the ceiling.
“What?” Luther asked.
Adso cocked his head. “For a moment, I thought I heard a woman crying. It sounded like it came from upstairs.”
“I didn’t hear anything, but I smell something,” Wesh wrinkled his nose, and leaned down to sniff the manticore. “Phew! Smells like burnt hair and meat!”
“Let’s keep to this floor for now,” Luther suggested. “It may have only been the wind or the seabirds you heard, Adso.”

A short hall connected the entry to the dining room. A rather gruesome antique…what appeared to be a mummified monkey head…hung on the northern wall. A bell pull extended from the monkey’s gaping mouth, while beneath it on the floor, a ratty throw rug partially obscured a foul stain of dark-colored mold. Dexter paused, and kicked aside the rug, then knelt down to examine the stain more closely.
“What are you looking at?” Wesh asked.
“I’m…not sure,” the rogue replied distractedly. “For a second there, I saw something. It almost looked like a picture of some kind of spiraling staircase going down. The steps looked like they had bones and skulls on them…ah! Just a trick of the light I suppose.”
An instant later, a shrill, simian shriek sounded throughout the hall, and the deputies instinctively reached for their weapons…all except Skud. The half-orc stood grinning like a fool, one hand still holding the bell pull.
“Monkey!” the barbarian smiled.
“Oaf,” Adso muttered as the group continued down the corridor.

The dining room was dominated by a large mahogany table surrounded by high-backed chairs. It was covered by a moldy white cloth, and a cobweb-choked chandelier hung from the ceiling above. Twin fireplaces loomed to the west, while to the east, a bank of stained glass windows obscured what could have been a breathtaking view of the Lost Coast. Each of the windows depicted a stylized monster rising out of smoke pouring from an intricate seven-sided box covered with spiky runes. From north to south were shown a gnarled and tangled tree with an enraged face, an immense hook-beaked bird with sky-blue and gold plumage, a winged centaur-like creature with a lion’s lower body and a snarling woman’s upper torso, and a deep blue squid-like creature with evil red eyes.
“This is a very odd design choice,” Luther observed. Before he had began his studies at the abbey, he had half-aspired to be an architect as a young boy. “Blocking arguably the best view with windows you can’t see through.”
Wesh smirked at the young priest. “I don’t think that whoever designed these windows had aesthetics in mind. Those runes are necromantic, and those monsters aren’t coming out of that box, they’re being drawn in. And look at their faces; that’s not rage, I think. Looks more like fear. Somebody in Aldern’s family tree was into some bad mojo.”

A small parlor gave off the dining room, containing only a ruined piano that must once have been grand. Through a door on the opposite side, the group found themselves in a simple washroom. An ancient metal washtub stood against one wall, and a ring of mildew crusted its inner surface. A strange, furtive scratching came from inside the tub. Cautiously, Dexter crept over and peered inside. What he saw was both horrific and pitiful, a rodent the size of a cat, whose face and back were a dripping, pulsing mass of raw tumors and sores. It was obviously blind, the tumors having grown over its eyes, but it seemed to sense Dexter’s proximity, and it began shrieking and squeaking in a frenzy as it struggled to scale the slick side of the tub. With a look of disgust, Dex flicked his dagger at the thing, ending its struggles for good. When he retrieved his blade, he made sure to wipe it down thoroughly before resheathing it.

Down a narrow hall from the parlor and the washroom was a dusty parlor, which featured a long couch, its cushions caked with white sheets of wispy fungus. The sofa faced a stone fireplace with capering imps and birds carved along its mantle. Eddies of dust skittered along the warped floorboards as if caught up by a slight breeze, yet no wind was noticeable in the air. Adso walked over to the eddy, where it almost seemed as if the dust was being disturbed by someone pacing violently back and forth before the fireplace, though obviously no one was there. He even imagined he saw footprints appearing momentarily with each step before fading from view. Suddenly, the monk’s mind was filled with a brief flash of memory that was not his own. It was that of a woman, filled with worry about what her husband might be doing on the late nights he spent in the basement. An instant later, Adso became convinced that Luther was his child…the woman’s child, and a powerful urge seized him to escape the house with the child before something horrible happened. A moment later, it was gone.
“Are you ok?” Luther asked. Adso’s face had gone as pale as a sheet.
“I…,” the monk hesitated. “I saw…experienced something. There is evil slumbering in this place, and I think it is much older than Aldern Foxglove.”

Back in the dining room, another door on the opposite side led into a large library, which featured a pair of chairs, one of which lay on its side, set before a stone fireplace. Every available inch of wall space held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books, their spines riddled with mold. A brightly colored scarf, its reds and golds contrasting sharply with the drab, moldy palette of the room, was draped over the side of the fallen chair. A single book, open and face-down, sat on the floor between the chairs. A stone bookend, carved to look like a praying angel with butterfly wings, lay on its side in the fireplace itself. Luther moved closer to the odd scene and noted a splash of dried blood stained the back of the northernmost chair, and the bookend showed even more blood, as well as clots of hair and bits of skull and flesh. In addition, part of one wing was broken off the statue and was nowhere to be seen. Just then, Luther caught a faint flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw the scarf fluttering softly. Suddenly, a horrific shriek filled the room as the scarf flew into the air and wrapped itself around the priest’s throat. Before Luther’s eyes, a ghostly image of Aldern Foxglove manifested, his hands wrapped around the scarf that was choking the life from the cleric. For a moment, Luther lost all sense of himself, instead believing himself to be a woman named Iesha…Aldern’s wife! Desperately Luther struggled to get his fingers beneath the strangling scarf, and an instant before he lost consciousness, he succeeded. The scarf became inanimate once more, and the image of Aldern vanished, leaving the priest gasping and clutching his throat on the floor.
“What was that? What was that?” Randall babbled, his eyes wild, looking all directions at once.
“Luther,” Adso said, cradling his friend’s head. “Can you speak?”
“Did…did you see him?” the priest rasped.
“Who?” Adso asked.
“Foxglove…,” Luther coughed. “Aldern…,”
“There was no one here,” Adso replied quietly. “We saw only you struggling with the scarf.”
“He killed her,” Luther explained as he climbed to his feet with Adso’s aid. “Aldern killed his wife in this room. I saw it. He used her own scarf to strangle her.”
Cautiously, he reached out to pick up the scarf and tucked it into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Wesh asked. “That thing just tried to kill you!”
“No,” Luther shook his head, angry bruises already appearing on his throat. “It was a haunting…an afterimage of a violent act or strong emotion. It’s passed now. Let’s move on.”

The library gave on to another small corridor, which in turn opened back into the entry hall. No sooner had Wesh entered the hall, than his eyes widened as they fell upon the stuffed manticore. The creature was stuffed no more! It lurched to sudden life, its face shifting to resemble that of a distraught woman, while its fur erupted into flame. Its tail whipped forward, and as it touched Wesh’s clothes, they burst into flames. To his stunned companions, all they knew was that one moment everything was ok, but the next, Wesh was being immolated. They never witnessed any transformation of the large, trophy monster. Randall quickly whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around the wizard, shoving him to the floor and rolling him back and forth. Soon enough, the flames were extinguished, but Wesh’s skin was scorched and blistered. Luther quickly began tending the worst of them.
“This place is a death trap!” Wesh shouted. “Haunts, or whatever you call them be damned! We’re not wanted here, so we find Foxglove fast and get the Abyss out of here!”
________________________________________________

The spiral staircase led to a landing from which several doors opened, most single, but there were also two doubled pairs, which faced each other from across the hall. Choosing one of the nearby single doors first, the company entered a small bedroom which held a child-sized bed, a chair next to a toy box and a looming stone fire place big enough for a child to get lost in. As Skud peered in, he heard the soft sound of a child’s cry coming from the large stone hearth.
“Baby crying,” the half-orc mumbled, and he started across the room. As he drew nearer, his vision began to blur, and he suddenly knew that his parents were trying to kill each other. Worse, whichever of them survived would be coming to kill him next. He saw his mother, wielding a torch, and his father, festering with tumors and brandishing a long knife, both struggling to murder the other. When his sight cleared again, tears streamed down Skud’s face and he simply stood for a moment in bewilderment. When Dex put a comforting hand on his shoulder, the half-orc shrugged it angrily away and stalked out of the room.

Behind the first set of double doors was what appeared to be an art gallery. A stone fireplace sat in the northwestern portion of the chamber, and paintings hung on the walls to the north and south, each covered over with a thick sheet of dusty cobwebs that obscured the subject from view. Wesh slowly began moving from picture to picture, muttering under his breath and passing one hand over each. As he did so, the cobwebs were swept clean, revealing the portraits beneath. The first painting on the northern wall was of a tall, middle-aged man with long, dark hair, a clean-shaven face and dark blue noble’s clothes. A plaque beneath identified him as Vorel Foxglove. Next to him hung a painting of a stern-faced brunette woman with wisps of gray in her short hair, and a flowing blue dress. This was Kasanda Foxglove. A young girl with her mother’s dark hair and eyes was named as Lorey Foxglove in the final picture on the wall. To the south were five portraits. The first was of a man who, like Vorel, was tall and thin, but with an even narrower face and a thin mustache. His name was Traver Foxglove. His wife Cyralie, in the next picture, was a young woman with long, red hair and an impish smile. Next came portraits of three children, a boy and two girls: Aldern, Sendeli and Zeeva. No sooner had the last painting been cleared, than the temperature in the room began to drop dramatically. The seven companions looked around them, their breath frosting in the air, while fingers of rime slithered across the walls. Suddenly, the figures depicted in the portraits shifted from paintings of living people to those of dead folk. Kasanda and Lorey slumped into misshapen, tumor-ridden corpses. Traver grew pale as a long cut opened in his throat and blood washed down over his chest. Cyralie blackened and charred, and her arms, legs and back twisted as if broken in dozens of places. Aldern’s flesh darkened with rot, his hair fell out, and he deformed into a ghoul-like creature. Both Sendeli’s and Zeeva’s portraits frosted over, but otherwise remained unchanged. Lastly, Vorel’s entire painting, frame and all, erupted into a sudden explosion of fungus and tumorous growth. The wave of fungus and disease washed over the entire room in seconds before the room abruptly reverted to normal. As it did so, both Dexter and Luther saw tiny splotches of mold and tender, red bumps on their flesh.
“What is this?” Luther whispered.
“You see it too?” Dex asked anxiously.
“See what?” Adso asked. “What else is here?”
Luther held out his arms, but the monk shook his head in confusion. The skin looked pink and healthy to him, as did Dexter’s.
“I’m starting to become afraid of this place,” Luther said. “Something has awakened here, and it’s feeding on our fear.”
“Starting?” Dex asked incredulously. “I’ve been ready to piss myself since we walked in the front door!”

The room opposite the art gallery turned out to be a musician’s chamber of some sort. It featured two padded chairs and a long couch that faced a wide alcove line with stained-glass windows. The room lay directly above the dining room. Several music stands leaned against the southern wall next to a violin, two flutes, and a large harp, all of the instruments in poor condition. The windows themselves depicted a diverse array of animals and plants…from north to south were a large pale and ghostly scorpion, a gaunt man holding out his arms as a dozen bats hung from him, a moth with a strange skull-like pattern on its wings, a tangle of dull green plants with bell-shaped flowers, and a young maiden sitting astride a well in a forest while a spindly spider the size of a dog descended along a string of webbing above her.
“Interesting,” Wesh said as he stroked his chin. “All of these depictions represent classic spell components for necromantic magic…scorpion venom, vampire’s breath, the tongues of deathwing moths, belladonna, and the heart of a maiden slain by poison. This obviously ties with the windows we saw below, but I still can’t tell exactly what spell or ritual is being represented.”
“Maybe you can ask Aldern when we find him,” Dex said sulkily as he scratched at his arms, “although personally, I don’t give a rat’s spit about his creepy family history.”

A small bedchamber lay further down the hall, every inch of it caked with a thick, spongy layer of dark green, blue and black mold.
“Don’t touch anything,” Wesh warned. “There are several strains of mold which can be deadly.”
“Yes, but this isn’t one of them,” Rico said, stepping casually into the room. No sooner had he gone two paces, however, than he stopped dead still, head cocked as if listening. Absently, he began scratching at his face.
‘What’s on your face, mommy?” a child’s voice whispered into the druid’s ear.
“Aaah…ahhhggg!” Rico began to scream as it seemed to him as if his entire face had erupted into a tangled mess of tumors and boils. Horrified, he dug his fingers into his flesh, struggling to remove the offending mass. To his shocked companions, however, he was merely tearing his nails into his own skin, gouging out deep rents. Randall lunged for him and seized both of his wrists, screaming into his face to shock him back to his senses. A moment later, Rico stood open-mouthed and confused, blood running in rivulets down his cheeks. Luther took him by the shoulder and led him into the hall, only to see Dexter come shrieking out of what looked to be the master bedroom across the corridor. The once-fine chamber had been destroyed. The bed was smashed, the mattress torn apart, the walls gouged as if by knives, the chairs hacked apart, and paintings on the walls torn to pieces…with one exception. A portrait hung on one wall was untouched, that of a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a thoughtful pose. If Luther had had a chance to examine it more closely, he would have recognized Iesha Foxglove, but as it was, he was too distracted by the sight of Dexter driving his own dagger into his arms and chest again and again, screaming, “Die, you bitch! Die”
Skud flew across the hall and body-tackled his friend, wrestling him to the floor and dashing the knife from his hand. Dexter’s eyes closed and his breathing was slow and ragged. Luther hurried to tend his wounds, but as he knelt he, and everyone else in the corridor heard muffled sobbing coming from directly above them…the attic.

 

[Gli'jar]

Deleted. Double post.

 

[Gli'jar]

Although all of your storytelling is great and I greatly enjoy every read, this was an excellent chapter!!

 

[JollyDoc]

Although all of your storytelling is great and I greatly enjoy every read, this was an excellent chapter!!

Thank you! I'm really enjoying this chapter of RotRL. It's challenging in a unique way. Which brings us to...

SUNDAY NIGHT TEASER

1: Who or what is crying in the Foxglove attic? The Seven find out, and the answer is quite surprising.

2) The company is led on a merry chase through bowels and catacombs of the mansion, where they run afoul of diseased rats, ghouls, and gooblins( goblin ghouls). And how can you add more fun to a frantic fight with the undead? Add a slip n slide!! Merriment and mayhem ensue.

3) The Skinsaw Man himself is bearded in his lair, but the outcome of the confrontation is anything but predictable. In the aftermath, Skud finds some deeply unsettling "mementos" left for him.

4) The next leg of the journey is revealed, but there is still the matter of escaping Foxglove Manor.