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<blockquote data-quote="soanso" data-source="post: 6231943" data-attributes="member: 6684655"><p><strong>the Misgivings, pt 2</strong></p><p></p><p>Greetings, Stranger, from a Stranger. </p><p> </p><p>Aye, there is little joy tonight; this chilling tale is too unbelievable to be real, but we have seen, heard, felt and lived it through our own real eyes, ears, and hearts. Terror is palatable, and Evil is real. What I can retell is here; I stand by the tales as any Farateldi would. </p><p></p><p> Shaiira refused to enter the manor, quaking in the dooryard. The heavy scent of mold and decaying vegetation wafted through the open doorway. The rest of us made our way inside; rot and mold were pervasive throughout. Slick black smears, bright orange pillowy tufts, stagnant green mossy swatches, purple-and-pink-flecked growths, and sickly blue mushrooms held the house together. </p><p> </p><p>We passed through a trophy room dominated by a manticore standing at full attack on a center table; other less identifiable trophies moldered on the walls and in alcoves. </p><p> </p><p>We made our way into what was once a parlor- the room with the grand piano I had scouted from the outside. I followed the dwarves into the room and immediately the room lit up, and a lively party replaced the rotten fixtures of the room. Guests in dated finery mingled and laughed, and a halfling sprinkled the keys of the piano with mirth. I was grabbed from behind and twirled about as the halfling played a waltz I recognized but could not name. I felt awash in the high times, and relaxed as my partner twirled me across the parquet. I turned to see my partner, and her face drove an icy pick through my heart.</p><p> </p><p>It was Mum.</p><p> </p><p>My mother twirled me across the floor. But her eyes were wrong, they were dull grey orbs devoid of life. I noticed a purplish bruise across her neck, and she danced faster, and faster, and faster- </p><p> </p><p>I passed out.</p><p> </p><p>My eyes opened to a panting Mundin standing over me. We were back in the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” I asked, shaking confusion from my head and standing.</p><p> “Dunno. Ye passed the threshold there and sorta went whirlin’ and flyin’ about the room,” Mundin said. I heard a nervous twitch in his voice. “I dove in to grab ye and pull ya out, seemed you were in a bad place.”</p><p> “Thanks,” I said. </p><p> “What was it?” Noria asked.</p><p> “My mother,” I said. “She is here.” I knew this meant less to my friends than to me or my sister. Until now, I had given only small hints towards my real purpose in Sandpoint- tracking down my mother. At first, she had died. That is how I came to meet my half-sister, Shaiira. I later found out she was alive, but hadn’t yet counseled my sister. But that is another tale.</p><p> “How so?” asked Vohoi.</p><p> “‘twas she that spun me round,” I said. “But never mind, we are here for another purpose.”</p><p> </p><p>Exactly like a nightmare, the rest of the night was a maddened jumble of guttural emotion and raw terror that defied any logic. </p><p> </p><p>A room on the first floor with windows overlooking the sea. I entered first, determined to discover why my mother was trapped here, haunting this terrible place. I was drawn to the seascape, lovely as it was in the falling daylight. Whitecaps piled on each other as children do upon themselves when the leaves fall from trees in the squares of small towns and are piled up before a bonfire. There was a gentle cadence in the sea foam, a jaunty reverie that whispered to me of a time long lost to memory. A firm hand grasped my right shoulder; my left hand moved to my scabbard as I spun to face the interloper.</p><p> </p><p>It was Mundin, a scattered look spread across his face. He was in the grip of something surreal. His hand tightened on my shoulder; he is a strong, young dwarf and I reflexively dropped to a knee to counter or escape whatever was next.</p><p> Then his eyes returned, and he gazed at me, confused. He shook his head free of something I could not see. His hand eased from me.</p><p> </p><p>“OK?” I asked.</p><p> “Uh, right as stone,” he said. I noted a small quiver in his voice. Whatever he had seen, he had survived it and I was grateful. </p><p> </p><p>A trophy room. Several moldering carapaces adorned the space, which was dominated by a large manticore trophy. Truly impressive. Vohoi refused to approach it.</p><p> </p><p>Stained glass windows were a main feature throughout the house. Their iconography was familiar but I could not place it. Even Vohoi had a hard time with it. C would have nothing to do with the windows at all, bristling whenever either of us approached him for advice. It was odd for him to act so.</p><p> </p><p>We came to another room scattered with memories. What first drew my eye was Mother’s scarf. I recognized it instantly; the intricate embroidery and vibrant reds hid beneath the cloth wicked blades that, if wielded properly, proved deadly. I never did master the technique, but my sister did. </p><p></p><p>She now skulked behind us, unhelpful and unobtrusive in our efforts. </p><p> </p><p>I entered the room. Beyond the moldy trappings of a sitting-room, an unscathed book sat leaves down on the floor, and a stone bookend shaped like an angel with butterfly wings was toppled to the floor. I noted the remains of blood, bone, and hair on its base. I left it to rest on the floor and went to retrieve the scarf.</p><p> </p><p>The cloth whipped up into the air and wound itself around my neck. Suddenly, Aldern Foxglove appeared from thin air, his eyes bulging, his skin a sickly mottled gray, his hands firmly in charge of each end of Mum’s scarf, wound around my neck.</p><p> </p><p>The dance. Mum. The markings on her neck. Aldern! My husband! My children! My children?</p><p> </p><p>Like a sleeper saddled to a bad dream, I threw myself from the haunting. Aldern was not my husband, I had no children. Disoriented, C and Noria helped me to my feet. The room came back to view. Mundin picked up the scarf, giving me a quizzical look.</p><p> </p><p>“I… it’s a long story, I think,” stammered back. The dwarf nodded solemnly. He carefully wrapped the scarf and slid it into his pack.</p><p> A strange glyph on the floor. It was as if someone had painted an intricate spiral staircase descending from the bird’s-eye view of the mural. We passed by gingerly. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you hear that?” Caramour asked as we passed a set of stairs ascending into the haunted mansion. No one did. “It’s a child’s voice, it is scared-” C said as he prepared to bound up the flight. Noria’s firm grasp on his forearm stayed the cleric. “First floor is first,” she said. Noria exhibited a confidence that shook my own initial fears away.</p><p> </p><p>We passed through the macabre trophy room again; Vohoi shrieked and threw his arms up. We saw nothing. “The flames, the face! It’s alive!” he shouted. He reached to his spell component pouch to prepare an eldritch blast, until he realized none of us took up arms, but gazed at him, confused.</p><p> </p><p>The sorcerer chuckled. “Ah, ‘tis the tricks of the mind. Very well, friends. I trust it is you and not the beast I should follow.” He described a woman’s face appearing on the manticore’s, and it coming to life and breathing fire on him.</p><p> </p><p>Second floor. Whispers, moving shadows, and a too-bright moon spilling through the stained-glass windows. The waves crashed in a violent cacophony below the manor. Near the burnt-out ruin, a murder of crows began to gather.</p><p> </p><p>A room of portraits. Whispers. Mold caked the picture frames, walls, floor and ceiling.</p><p> “I hear the child,” C said again. “She needs us.”</p><p> One wall displayed three portraits, singly of a man, a woman, and a young girl all wearing an older style of noble blue couture. C was drawn to the young girl’s portrait, studying it intensely.</p><p> </p><p>The other wall displayed five portraits. A tall, thin man, a portly woman, and three children- two girls and a boy, younger than his siblings. I recognized the boy at once; a child’s eyes do not lie. He was Aldern Foxglove. </p><p> </p><p>“She is the manticore!” Vohoi said, pointing to the mother of three. The whispered voices grew louder, and we all took notice. </p><p> I was compelled to wipe the grime from the nameplates beneath each portrait. The older set was Vorel, the father; Kasanda, the mother; and Lorey, their daughter. </p><p> </p><p>The younger Foxgloves were Traver, the father; Cyralie, his wife, and their children Aldern, Sendeli, and Zeeva. I recalled Aldern speaking of Foxglove Manor as his father’s “labor of love lost,” and that a tragic accident had burned the servants’ quarters to the ground and that his father was nearly ruined by the effort. Shortly after that incident, Aldern was sent to live with relatives in Magnimar. My heart beat blood for him. I hoped to see him again to embrace his rise above such treacherous ground. I prayed to Desna to keep him strong in such times.</p><p> </p><p>The audible popping sounds emanating from some of the portraits turned me to the source, and I watched Vohoi’s face as it was plastered by thick green mold. He wiped it away, but was immediately struck by some sort of fungal virus. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m OK,” he said, smiling with confidence. “Not that I intend to, but if I bloom into a mushroom, carry on, I’ve had my fun.” With a wink, Vohoi always relished the last word.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="soanso, post: 6231943, member: 6684655"] [b]the Misgivings, pt 2[/b] Greetings, Stranger, from a Stranger. Aye, there is little joy tonight; this chilling tale is too unbelievable to be real, but we have seen, heard, felt and lived it through our own real eyes, ears, and hearts. Terror is palatable, and Evil is real. What I can retell is here; I stand by the tales as any Farateldi would. Shaiira refused to enter the manor, quaking in the dooryard. The heavy scent of mold and decaying vegetation wafted through the open doorway. The rest of us made our way inside; rot and mold were pervasive throughout. Slick black smears, bright orange pillowy tufts, stagnant green mossy swatches, purple-and-pink-flecked growths, and sickly blue mushrooms held the house together. We passed through a trophy room dominated by a manticore standing at full attack on a center table; other less identifiable trophies moldered on the walls and in alcoves. We made our way into what was once a parlor- the room with the grand piano I had scouted from the outside. I followed the dwarves into the room and immediately the room lit up, and a lively party replaced the rotten fixtures of the room. Guests in dated finery mingled and laughed, and a halfling sprinkled the keys of the piano with mirth. I was grabbed from behind and twirled about as the halfling played a waltz I recognized but could not name. I felt awash in the high times, and relaxed as my partner twirled me across the parquet. I turned to see my partner, and her face drove an icy pick through my heart. It was Mum. My mother twirled me across the floor. But her eyes were wrong, they were dull grey orbs devoid of life. I noticed a purplish bruise across her neck, and she danced faster, and faster, and faster- I passed out. My eyes opened to a panting Mundin standing over me. We were back in the hallway. “What happened?” I asked, shaking confusion from my head and standing. “Dunno. Ye passed the threshold there and sorta went whirlin’ and flyin’ about the room,” Mundin said. I heard a nervous twitch in his voice. “I dove in to grab ye and pull ya out, seemed you were in a bad place.” “Thanks,” I said. “What was it?” Noria asked. “My mother,” I said. “She is here.” I knew this meant less to my friends than to me or my sister. Until now, I had given only small hints towards my real purpose in Sandpoint- tracking down my mother. At first, she had died. That is how I came to meet my half-sister, Shaiira. I later found out she was alive, but hadn’t yet counseled my sister. But that is another tale. “How so?” asked Vohoi. “‘twas she that spun me round,” I said. “But never mind, we are here for another purpose.” Exactly like a nightmare, the rest of the night was a maddened jumble of guttural emotion and raw terror that defied any logic. A room on the first floor with windows overlooking the sea. I entered first, determined to discover why my mother was trapped here, haunting this terrible place. I was drawn to the seascape, lovely as it was in the falling daylight. Whitecaps piled on each other as children do upon themselves when the leaves fall from trees in the squares of small towns and are piled up before a bonfire. There was a gentle cadence in the sea foam, a jaunty reverie that whispered to me of a time long lost to memory. A firm hand grasped my right shoulder; my left hand moved to my scabbard as I spun to face the interloper. It was Mundin, a scattered look spread across his face. He was in the grip of something surreal. His hand tightened on my shoulder; he is a strong, young dwarf and I reflexively dropped to a knee to counter or escape whatever was next. Then his eyes returned, and he gazed at me, confused. He shook his head free of something I could not see. His hand eased from me. “OK?” I asked. “Uh, right as stone,” he said. I noted a small quiver in his voice. Whatever he had seen, he had survived it and I was grateful. A trophy room. Several moldering carapaces adorned the space, which was dominated by a large manticore trophy. Truly impressive. Vohoi refused to approach it. Stained glass windows were a main feature throughout the house. Their iconography was familiar but I could not place it. Even Vohoi had a hard time with it. C would have nothing to do with the windows at all, bristling whenever either of us approached him for advice. It was odd for him to act so. We came to another room scattered with memories. What first drew my eye was Mother’s scarf. I recognized it instantly; the intricate embroidery and vibrant reds hid beneath the cloth wicked blades that, if wielded properly, proved deadly. I never did master the technique, but my sister did. She now skulked behind us, unhelpful and unobtrusive in our efforts. I entered the room. Beyond the moldy trappings of a sitting-room, an unscathed book sat leaves down on the floor, and a stone bookend shaped like an angel with butterfly wings was toppled to the floor. I noted the remains of blood, bone, and hair on its base. I left it to rest on the floor and went to retrieve the scarf. The cloth whipped up into the air and wound itself around my neck. Suddenly, Aldern Foxglove appeared from thin air, his eyes bulging, his skin a sickly mottled gray, his hands firmly in charge of each end of Mum’s scarf, wound around my neck. The dance. Mum. The markings on her neck. Aldern! My husband! My children! My children? Like a sleeper saddled to a bad dream, I threw myself from the haunting. Aldern was not my husband, I had no children. Disoriented, C and Noria helped me to my feet. The room came back to view. Mundin picked up the scarf, giving me a quizzical look. “I… it’s a long story, I think,” stammered back. The dwarf nodded solemnly. He carefully wrapped the scarf and slid it into his pack. A strange glyph on the floor. It was as if someone had painted an intricate spiral staircase descending from the bird’s-eye view of the mural. We passed by gingerly. “Do you hear that?” Caramour asked as we passed a set of stairs ascending into the haunted mansion. No one did. “It’s a child’s voice, it is scared-” C said as he prepared to bound up the flight. Noria’s firm grasp on his forearm stayed the cleric. “First floor is first,” she said. Noria exhibited a confidence that shook my own initial fears away. We passed through the macabre trophy room again; Vohoi shrieked and threw his arms up. We saw nothing. “The flames, the face! It’s alive!” he shouted. He reached to his spell component pouch to prepare an eldritch blast, until he realized none of us took up arms, but gazed at him, confused. The sorcerer chuckled. “Ah, ‘tis the tricks of the mind. Very well, friends. I trust it is you and not the beast I should follow.” He described a woman’s face appearing on the manticore’s, and it coming to life and breathing fire on him. Second floor. Whispers, moving shadows, and a too-bright moon spilling through the stained-glass windows. The waves crashed in a violent cacophony below the manor. Near the burnt-out ruin, a murder of crows began to gather. A room of portraits. Whispers. Mold caked the picture frames, walls, floor and ceiling. “I hear the child,” C said again. “She needs us.” One wall displayed three portraits, singly of a man, a woman, and a young girl all wearing an older style of noble blue couture. C was drawn to the young girl’s portrait, studying it intensely. The other wall displayed five portraits. A tall, thin man, a portly woman, and three children- two girls and a boy, younger than his siblings. I recognized the boy at once; a child’s eyes do not lie. He was Aldern Foxglove. “She is the manticore!” Vohoi said, pointing to the mother of three. The whispered voices grew louder, and we all took notice. I was compelled to wipe the grime from the nameplates beneath each portrait. The older set was Vorel, the father; Kasanda, the mother; and Lorey, their daughter. The younger Foxgloves were Traver, the father; Cyralie, his wife, and their children Aldern, Sendeli, and Zeeva. I recalled Aldern speaking of Foxglove Manor as his father’s “labor of love lost,” and that a tragic accident had burned the servants’ quarters to the ground and that his father was nearly ruined by the effort. Shortly after that incident, Aldern was sent to live with relatives in Magnimar. My heart beat blood for him. I hoped to see him again to embrace his rise above such treacherous ground. I prayed to Desna to keep him strong in such times. The audible popping sounds emanating from some of the portraits turned me to the source, and I watched Vohoi’s face as it was plastered by thick green mold. He wiped it away, but was immediately struck by some sort of fungal virus. “I’m OK,” he said, smiling with confidence. “Not that I intend to, but if I bloom into a mushroom, carry on, I’ve had my fun.” With a wink, Vohoi always relished the last word. [/QUOTE]
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