Book II, Part III: Walking Scarecrows aka "Team-Building Exercises! Now with 350% More Rotten Garbage!" Sheriff Hemlock is dismayed to learn of the corruption below Habe's Sanatorium, not to mention the misery within. He sighs and begins drawing up the paperwork to dispatch men to the Sanatorium to retrieve Habe, and the remaining patients. He rubs his forehead. "I wasn't going to ask you about this, you folks have done more than enough the last few weeks, but... You said the ghoul activity was focused in the southern farmlands?" At collective nods, he hands Taiga a thick folder. "We've been getting reports for some time about everything from spoiled crops to unruly Fae to walking scarecrows coming out of that area. Maybe whatever is stirring up the ghouls is mucking around with all that, too?" ~~~ That night at the Rusty Dragon, Wiggles is happily licking up the dregs of Dreok's second pint from inside the tankard when the tavern door opens again. The tiny Familiar pops his head over the rim, as a tall Elf with an elaborately engraved bow walks in with the biggest, whitest, sleekest, most elegant, beautiful weasel the poor little guy has ever seen gliding smoothly along by his side. Dreok turns as Wiggles quite literally floats out of his tankard, his little paws curled against his narrow chest, his pupils becoming tiny hearts. Dreok catches his tail before he can actually float over to the beautiful animal, instead hovering like an awkward little zepplin of mustelid affection. The Ranger introduces himself as Varric, a hunter specializing in Undead threats, and his companion, Willow. Wiggles gives an adoring little chirr, bobbing a bit in the air, and Taiga stifles a giggle as Willow actually rolls her fathomless, ink-dark eyes. Dreok coughs awkwardly and stuffs the enamored familiar into his coat. Apparently Varric had heard of the ghoul activity in the area, as well as the militia recruitment and decided to join up. He falls easily into the banter of the group, has no problems with hunting ghouls or a prospective haunted house and Wiggles is clearly infatuated with Willow, so-- "We're keeping you," Taiga announces, raising another glass of venom. "She means, 'You're hired!' ehehe, not er, not like we're keeping you, like a pet or anything heh, right, Taiga?" Kaitos asks, elbowing her as she gives a fangy grin over her glass. ~~~ The sprawling farmlands are lush with ripe golden grain, root vegetables and pumpkin patches, all full of farmers who wave amiably at the Heroes as they pass by on their horses. Farther to the south, the crops begin to show signs of disease. Instances of greyish spots increase to patches, the stalks and stems sagging, wilted with rot. Lusus leaves off his gossiping with the local crows, who have also begun to thin and clear out, and sticks close to Taiga. Dreok's silvery warhorse snorts and shies at a several particularly large patches of rotten, oozing vegetation, dancing away. Kaitos' placid rented bay ambles along, followed by Taiga's and Varric's, until a pair of lashing tendrils dart out of one, dragging Taiga cursing from the saddle. All four horses squeal and stamp wildly, Shadowmist stomping more darting tendrils to slimy paste as Kaitos vaults from the saddle, drawing his sword. Taiga lashes out with her dagger, as Kaitos helps cut her free of the stinking vegetative ooze, before a second slithers out of the decaying corn behind them. Dreok rides Shadowmist through the second ooze, pulping it under iron-shod hooves and splattering stinking green-brown slime over the horse's legs and belly. Kaitos retrieves the other horses as Taiga sluices rotten vegetation off her skirts. Lusus perches on her shoulder and gleefully picks grubs and worse out of her hair and the folds of her clothes as they saddle up, this time skirting wide of the heaving, twitching masses of compost. Even the scarecrows appear more ragged, their pumpkin heads sagging with decay, though somehow they are more effective. Every crow and raven has vacated the area, even the preternaturally intelligent Lusus huddles close to his witch, hiding under her filthy hair as one appears to shift in the moaning wind that rustles the fields as they approach the farmhouse. The movement only increases as they near it, progressing to rocking back-and-forth as one arm detaches from the crossbar it was tied to, but rather than falling limply to its side, the thing reaches towards them with long, grasping claws and howls. "Found the ghoul!" Kaitos yells, dismounting as it frees its other arm and jumps down. Three rapid-fired shots from Varric shatter the rotting pumpkin covering its head as Dreok drops is reins, his hands filling with magefire until Taiga shrieks, "Wait! These fields are still salvageable--you can't--" "You never let me do anything!" he gripes, extinguishing his flames and dismounting as Kaitos removes the ghoul's arm with a vicious upward slash. Dreok decapitates it, its teeth still gnashing as it rolls away. Kaitos grimaces as the smears of mingled plant-and-ghoul ooze coating his sword, nodding towards the farmhouse as four ghouls rush out of the broken-down door, across the open stretch of lawn. "Here they come!" The Heroes charge forward, lightning rippling down Dreok's sword, jolting from his free hand into the nearest ghoul. Kaitos' sword blurs, carving stinking pieces out of multiple ghouls, his back to Dreok's as the Magus lashes out with whips of lightning, the green-gold light of Taiga's Guidance warping Fate around each of their blades, Varric fires trickshots into the fray until the ghouls appear to sprout feathers. As the last ghoul falls, spitted on Dreok's sword, Taiga begins leading the snorting, shying horses towards the main building, tying them to a hitching post. The Heroes follow her inside, cleaning their swords on rags pilfered from laundry lines. The ransacked farmhouse reeks of rotting meat, the buzz of flies almost deafening around the display in the kitchen. The Hadley patriarch sprawls across the homely butcher-block table. Though the corpse is nearly falling to pieces with decay, the Sihedron Rune stands out in stark rusty-blackened lines across his chest. Taiga steps forward slowly, fanning insects away, her hand over her mouth. They seem unwilling to leave their feast, but enough scatter away from Hadley's sallow, sunken face to reveal a scrap of paper protruding from his slack mouth. She pulls the crumpled, bloodstained scrap free, her breath coming in harsh, shallow pants. Dreok gently takes the page from her slack fingers, shaking it briskly to dislodge the maggots crawling over familiar rust-red calligraphy. "'Take the Fever into you, Love me as She did," he pauses, casually catching Taiga's braid as she sags against the table, retching. "It shall be my First gift to you, my Love.' signed 'Your Lordship' again." He pulls her upright, hand around her upper arm. "We should get out of here." She shakes her head, about to wipe her mouth on her arm before remembering that she's coated in rotten plant ooze. Lusus drags a dishrag out of a half-opened drawer and flutters over to her. "No, no, Hemlock said the Fae were acting up too. We should investigate that, this whole area borders prime Fae forestland. If the Fae are messing around with the ghouls or if it's something else, or--" "Taiga, you can't still think it's not Aldern. One of the ghouls wasn't even a farmer, he had servant's livery, and a set of keys on his belt. He had to have come from the Manor," Kaitos reasons. "I know. I just. I hoped..." Dreok shoves the crumpled note into her sash and briskly pats her back. "Want to go light some monsters on fire? I think I saw some pretty fucked-up looking leshys in the pumpkin field north of the stable." She sniffles. "Uh-huh." ~~~ The atmosphere of the bar is oddly subdued as trio wander inside, scorched, smelly and thoroughly stabbed about the knees and ankles by tiny squash-goblin spears. Kaitos and Dreok are met with casual nods as they plunk into their accustomed seats and Ameiko slides their usuals across the bar. Ale and a kiss for Dreok, white wine with a shot of snake venom for Taiga, and something with even more potential lethality called a Varisian Carriage Bomb for Kaitos. As Taiga tosses the shot back, hissing at the acidic burn, another patron sniffs pointedly and shifts his stool away. "Oh, do we offend?" she purrs, licking greenish foam off the corner of her lip. He snorts. "Just you, witch." "Since when is that a problem?" "Since you've been workin' with a bleedin' killer, witch." "Excuse me?" Kaitos growls, putting his drink down. "We've all heard about the little notes his Lordship has been leaving you," the man sneers into his ale. "Makin' plans for your next kill, witch?" another snaps. "Love letters," a cool voice remarks from the corner. They turn towards it, but get only a glimpse of a red scarf and a mocking little wave before another bar patron blocks the speaker from view, looming over Taiga. "Is that it, then? He leavin' you little prezzies and notes and dead fuckin' bodies to play with?" "It's not like that--!" "Back off, Kief," Dreok drawls, lounging back against the bar, his hands loose and open in a way that would be nonthreatening on anyone but a Magus. "Ain't got a problem with you, Meodin, just the little swamp hag you've been running around with," Tall, Dark and Looming mutters, and Taiga curls up around her drink. Kaitos shoulders his way between Taiga and the two bruisers. "So, just the one that's been keeping our asses alive this whole time and therefore one-third of the reason this whole town isn't overrun with goblins and worse?" "Yeah, she may be a freaky, snail-eating bi--er, Witch," Dreok grins, "but she's our Witch." Kief scoffs, puffing his chest out, until Kaitos glares. A flicker of lightning may-or-may-not have danced over Dreok's fingers. "Just--just keep her on a leash," Kief snarls before storming out of the bar. Ameiko says something filthy in Minkai, slapping her rag down on the counter and pouring Taiga another shot of venom. She leaves the bottle--with its pickled adder floating inside--and begins furiously scrubbing the bartop, still muttering creatively. Taiga pulls it into the huddled curve of her arms as both Heroes turn back to their drinks. Very faintly, they hear a tiny, tiny... "Thanks." Dreok and Kaitos stare incredulously at each other over her head, shrug, and shoulder in closer, clinking their drinks to hers.
Book II Part IV: Misgivings Part i: aka "The one time we let you burn the something to the ground and you're telling me it won't burn?!" Our Heroes decide that they need to gather information before they attempt to explore the abandoned Foxglove Manor, given that Taiga is the only one that knows anything about it, and even then, the fact that she's only been in Sandpoint for a handful of years, out in the Briarwood, means that she only knows rumors amounting to "Abandoned for decades, extremely fucking haunted." Extending their Free Drinks privileges to other patrons of the Rusty Dragon for a night results in a wild, tragic tale. Built by Merchant-Prince Vorel Foxglove eighty years ago, the manor was the seat of the Foxglove family until disease took most of the family twenty years later. His grandson, Traver Foxglove, attempted to reclaim the manor forty years later, despite rumors of strange lights in the windows and muffled screaming heard all over the property. The manor was abandoned again when the servants' quarters was burned to the ground, with Traver himself found dead of his own hand in his study, and his wife Cyralie's corpse found burnt and broken on the rocks below the cliffside manor. Traver's children--including young Aldern Foxglove, were sent out of town to be raised by relatives. Aldern also returned, but had difficulty hiring locals for repairs and eventually left the place in the care of a servant whose description matched that of the livery-clad ghoul found near the Hadley farm. ~~~ Morning breaks with the particularly bleak, cold drizzle of the season finally, grudgingly realizing that winter is on its way. “Dreok? Kaitos?” Taiga fidgets in the courtyard of Goblin Crush Stables near her sturdy dapple-grey, one hand stroking its nose. Dreok pops his head over the side of Shadowmist's stall, saddlebags thrown over his shoulder, as Kaitos looks up from his bay’s hind hoof, cleaning pick in hand. “Could… Could you please come here for a moment?” Dreok squints skeptically at her, eyeing her like she’s sprouted a third arm. “Why?” “Yeah, kinda busy here,” Kaitos grumbles, flinching when his horse whisks the side of his head with its tail. “I just… I wanted… Uhm…” She fiddles with the end of her braid. Her bracelets jangle cheerfully for a moment before she realizes what she's doing, drops her braid and fists her hands defiantly at her sides. “Just shut up and get over here, stars Blight it,” she snaps. Dreok nods, balance restored, and slings his bags over Shadowmist’s haunches, clipping them into place, while Kaitos scrubs his hands off on his borrowed leather apron. They stand expectedly in front of Taiga, watching her try and fail to stop plucking at a bell-edged scarf around her hips. “Well?” Dreok prompts. She sets her jaw, strips her gloves off, and seizes Kaitos’ arm where the sleeve is rolled up, exposing her Scar on his arm, in her right hand. She shoves the left into Dreok’s open shirt collar, over her Scar on his shoulder. She digs her fingers in as both men jerk backwards, remembering the searing pain of the initial branding, her head and eyes rolling as silver light ripples down her arms. The Scars begin to glow in answer, pulsing silver in time with their heartbeats. The Witch shudders, sucking in a desperate gasp of air as her heart spasms once, twice, seeking theirs. Kaitos’ syncronizes first. He seizes Dreok’s sleeve, swearing, as the Magus doubles over, clutching his chest as the Scars flare bright as stars in the soggy winter air. Abruptly she releases them, staggering back into her horse. “What the shit?” Dreok yells, standing up. “The hell is this?!” Kaitos demands, brandishing his shiny new brand at her. Genuinely shiny, at that. The puffy scar has flattened, shining like silver foil painted onto his skin. “...s-sword,” she rasps, sounding rather like Lusus. “Again, I ask, ‘what the shit?’” She coughs, clears her throat. “It’s a ward.” “At the risk of sounding completely redundant, what the shit?! What the hell kind of ward causes arrhythmia?” “Witch’s ward. ‘S specific. Scar marks you as mine. This is more. Tells other Witches you're under my protection.” Kaitos snickers, outright laughing when she glares at him. “Sorry, sorry, it's just… you are going to protect us?” “Yes, damn it.” She taps her breastbone. “I have your heartbeat now. I'll know if Witches try to hurt you. Protect you from ‘em. From hexes, mostly.” “I think it means she has a vested interest in keeping us alive beyond us being the particular pair of assholes Fate has saddled her with,” Dreok murmurs, studying her. She won't make eye contact with him, and is blushing faintly beneath the curtain of her hair. “That's… wow,” Kaitos breathes, admiring the way the mark shimmers as he moves his hand. Dreok clears his throat and pulls his shirt collar aside, awkwardly examining his shining Scar. “So, does this mean we're protected from your hexes too, or…?” Taiga rolls her eyes and shoos them back to work prepping themselves for travel. ~~~ A few scrawny, sickly crows hop clumsily around the ruined servants' quarters in the chill, misting rain. They rasp at Lusus, who abandons his perch on Taiga's saddlehorn to huddle inside her hood, poking his head out to hiss back at them. The manor itself looks exactly like every Bard's-tale haunted house the Heroes have ever heard of. Diseased, flowerless wisteria and patchy ivy clings to moss-covered stone, creeping into broken windows. Its roofs are buckling in places, hastily patched with sodden, splintering wood between drunkenly leaning chimneys and leering gargoyles. One of the doubled doors of the entrance, heavily carved with the Foxglove flower-and-thorns crest, hangs open on rusting hinges. Shadowmist stamps a hoof in the thick, clinging mud of the front walk as the Heroes approach. Dreok sucks air through his teeth, eyeing the structure skeptically as Taiga and Kaitos come to a halt at either side of him. Taiga rummages in her pockets, comes up with a handful of beads, bones and some of the malachites they'd recovered from the Thistletop raid, and scatters them in the mud in front of the house. She dismounts carefully, boots squelching in muck far too thick and pervasive to be explained by the drizzle. "There was more than death here," she mutters, crouching to poke at a rapidly discoloring malachite, "There was obsession, and betrayal, and the deaths... Not all the deaths lasted. Insanity, from multiple voices. So many voices calling out for vengeance, justice be damned.” She fiddles with a muddy crow feather. “Also, we really do not want to go in the front door." Dreok nods decisively. "Right. So. All in favor of just burning this fucker down?" Nods and mutters of approval from Kaitos and Varric. Wiggles rubs his tiny paws together in glee from his position of "living scarf" as everyone turns to Taiga. "What, after that, you think I'd want to keep this hellhole around? Go for it. Not sure if you can get it to go up in this wet, but worth a shot." Dreok dismounts, handing the reins to Varric. Somehow, the image of his hands flaring with blue-white magefire and stalking squelchily towards the manor with a devilish grin on his face isn't diminished in the slightest by Kaitos' entirely unsurprising commentary about not having any difficulty at all with getting certain things up in certain other wet things. Taiga groans in mock despair and Varric chides her on leaving obvious openings like that, which creates a downward spiral of getting things up in wet, obvious openings while pure Fire cascades from Dreok's hands, racing up the decaying walls of the manor--and Taiga begins to scream. Kaitos jumps halfway out of his saddle as she clutches at her head, shrieking. "What?! Fuck's sake, woman, it wasn't that bad--" "Stop! Stop, Dreok, for gods' sake, stop, can't you hear them?!" Taiga yells. Dreok slaps his hands together, breaking the channel. The clean blue-white flames rapidly darken to orange, flickering like alcohol fire on a bar top and leaving about as little damage. "Hear what?" he grouses, scowling disappointedly at the faint scorch marks that fade even as they watch. "Them," Varric says, pointing up to the hundreds of thousands of sickly, ragged crows gathering across the rooftops, packed impossibly tight and dead silent but for the rustling of feathers. Lusus hisses menacingly from Taiga's shoulder, spreading his wings protectively over her head as she shakily stands up. "Well shit. Should have guessed it'd have defenses against that sort of thing. Fuckin' ghosts," Kaitos grumbles, turning his horse up the side path as Dreok and Taiga remount. They tether the horses to the least-ominous-looking tree they can find near what appears to be a conservatory or Dancing Parlor. The wide glass-paneled doors open easily, though the hinges squeal in protest. Large, shattered windows have left the beautiful oak wall paneling and dance floor moisture-warped and peeling, spotted with mildew under a sagging ceiling and littered with dead leaves. A battered grand piano leans lopsidedly into a wall, its paneling split and warped. Willow shakes moisture out of her fur and begins studiously chewing clotted mud from between her toes as the Heroes file in, furiously grooming herself back to pristine snow-white despite the dust. Taiga shucks her cloak, walking towards the battered piano. "Look at this thing, it looks like it's been down here for ages... I wonder if it's part of the original house..." She idly presses a cracked key, releasing a surprisingly clear tone. She makes a pleased sound, and fumbles her way through a half-remembered scale that turns into a sweet, slow waltz. Dreok grins, turns to one side, bows as if to an invisible partner and steps out onto the dance floor. Kaitos snorts as the Magus whirls his imaginary partner around the room in flawless form despite the uneven footing. "Show-offs. Taiga, where the hell did you learn to play, living out in the sticks?" She doesn't turn to look at him, instead focusing on the keys. "I didn't," she murmurs. As they watch, Dreok's empty hands slowly fill with those of a smiling, dark-haired woman in a blue dress, her eyes bright with happiness as she fades into sight. He smiles adoringly at her as they glide around the room, and she laughs silently, blushing prettily. "Varric, Kaitos, I-I can't stop," Taiga whispers, her fingers flying over the keys, the music growing discordant. Color begins to bleed from Dreok’s face as the image of the beautiful woman grows clearer. The dancing woman's eyes widen suddenly, filling with tears as angry blue-black bruises begin to form around her throat. Dreok continues to dance, still smiling. Wiggles darts down his arm, pulling and biting uselessly at their interlocked fingers. Their steps never falter as her face twists in pain, slowly turning red, then purple as she chokes, her tongue protruding grotesquely. Katos and Varric exchange horrified looks and sprint across the room to Taiga, Kaitos seizing her around the waist and tearing her away from the jangling piano. Cracked, splintered ivory slashes her fingertips as the music grinds to a halt and Dreok collapses to his knees, his "partner" rotting away in his arms until she fades away into slimy ectoplasm. "What the actual fuck," Varric yells over the sounds of Dreok gasping for air and Wiggles' angry chittering. "New plan! Don't fucking touch anything." He helps Dreok stand, muttering angrily. "Desna's bloody left tit that's haunted house rule number one, honestly, what were you thinking?!" “Dreok, I--stars--I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, it--it begged me to play, it was so lonely, I--” Dreok braces himself on Varric’s shoulder, his fingertips crackling with lightning. He makes as slashing gesture, a streak of white power arcing out. The room echoes with a tremendous thunderous crack-boom as the energy sizzles toward--and then past Taiga, into the piano, which collapses with a discordant clang. “Kaitos, how do you feel about manufacture of seige weapons when we get back to Thistletop? Fire resistance isn't going to stop me from razing this place to the ground,” he growls, storming past the others into the Hall. “Ada Sanderson said she and her brothers have won the annual pumpkin-chucking contest the last four seasons running. Bet they’d love to upgrade their lethality.” “Perfect. So, what’s behind door number one?” His long fingers trail blue sparks as he traces the doorframe, but nothing flickers back in echo.
Book II Part IV: Misgivings Part ii: aka "Taiga does not get paid nearly enough for this shit. Or at all." Taiga slaps his hand away as he reaches for the handle. “Nothing good,” she hisses. “That's the foyer! I Saw something in there, something monstrous--” “This house is monstrous, Taiga, and we're going to destroy it. All of it.” “So you’re going to do the exact thing your seer said not to do, and you're going to do it first.” He grins. “Yes.” “I really don't see how you're still surprised by this sort of thing,” Kaitos chuckles. “I'm not,” she sighs. “I just keep hoping that maybe once, just once, you two won't try to get us all killed.” Dreok eases the door open enough to allow Wiggles to squeeze through, his beady black eyes glowing with blue magelight as Dreok scrys through him. It's not long before the Magus snorts and shoves the door open, stepping through. “Found your monster,” he drawls. “Found a bunch.” Massive bears, elk, deer, wolves, foxes, boars and more snarl down at them from their mounts littering the wall, dozens of hunting trophies, prized animals all. The centerpiece is the enormous motheaten body of a female manticore taking up much of the floor facing the entryway, rearing onto her hind legs, scorpion tail poised to strike. Kaitos whistles, fists on hips. “Damn, looks like Aldy’s apple fell pretty far from the tree, if his family bagged these beauties and he couldn't handle a little Tickwood boar.” “No, this isn't right… I Saw…” Taiga trails off as pale flame begins to thread across the limbs of the manticore. “I Saw fire.” “Oh, great, so the house gets to play with fire,” Dreok gripes as the massive beast slowly drops to all fours, her armored tail creaking as the flames grow higher, brighter. She turns to look at the Heroes, her paws leaving smoking prints in the rotting wood floor as her grotesque, fanged face transforms into that of a modestly pretty human woman even as she snarls. Lightning chains back and forth between Dreok’s sword and free hand, a crown of eldritch stars bursting into light at his brow. He lunges forward with a terrific two-handed slash into the beast’s broad chest, severing both front legs and carving deeply into its torso. A long trail of flickering blue-white lightning lights the creature from within, its skeleton of wood-and-wire starkly silhouetted against ancient hide that peels back from the superheated blade. The stuffed manticore thuds to the floor, broken wires from its legless torso gouging deep scratches in the rotting boards. Dreok smirks, his smile turning to horror as an echo of the manticore’s tail whips forward in a streak of fire. He stumbles backwards as it scorches a thin line across his greatcoat. “What the fuck?” Kaitos yelps, drawing his sword as the manticore, now pure ghostly flame, rears onto its back feet, her lovely face wreathed in smoke and unholy fire as she lashes out with her claws. He attempts to parry, but her claws flicker right through the blade, raking down his arm. “Shit--” Taiga snarls, grabbing Dreok's sleeve in one hand, Kaitos’ in the other. She shoves at Varric with her shoulder, headed for the northern hallway. “Either it’s not real or you can't kill it. Run!” “Feels pretty fucking real!” Kaitos snaps, but follows along. Willow stumbles over the ragged silk rug in the hall, skidding wildly as it shifts under her paws, sending more than one hundred pounds of weasel careening into Varric’s knees. They slide across the floor through a swirling patch of greenish-grey mold as the fiery manticore leaps--and vanishes at the threshold of the Hall. Willow immediately begins making incredibly distressed noises, her pristine coat streaked in grime. She attempts to lick herself clean, grimaces at the taste and resorts to twining around Taiga's ankles and voluminous skirts like a cat, whining piteously. The halls lead into a dining room flanked with fireplaces. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that should look out onto a spectacular clifftop view of the sea instead frame stained-glass murals of four monsters each dissolving into a seven-sided box. “Dreok… Look at this…” Taiga stands before the northernmost window, rain streaking down the panes dying her face flickering gold and blue. She traces the edges of a box with her fingers--carefully not touching. “These runes are necromantic in origin. But this… These monsters… They have nothing to do with ghouls. These windows are part of the original construction! What the hells happened here?” “I'm getting the feeling Aldern wasn't the only one that dabbled in the black arts,” Dreok muses. “Looks like there's a library this way, maybe they left some spellbooks out, some black candles?” Varric calls from across the room. The library is bereft of spooky paraphernalia, beyond a truly impressive amount of dust and cobwebs. Two sagging armchairs stand before the empty fireplace, one bloodstained, overturned on its side near a broken bookend and a discarded book. The other has a shining red-gold scarf draped across the back. The bookshelves are filled with an entirely mundane collection of plays, poetry and historical texts. “Whore!” The word echoes from the doorway, thunderous with rage, and Taiga whirls around to face the beautiful scarf flying to wrap tightly around her throat. “Oh cold fucking hells,” Dreok snarls, dropping the books he was holding. “Taiga!” Kaitos screams, lunging for the Witch. She yanks at the scarf, choking, as the trailing ends pull taut in front of her--held in the hands of an enraged, ghostly Aldern Foxglove. “Lying bitch, how dare you betray me?!” he roars, jerking Taiga forward and to her knees as her lips turn blue. Kaitos seizes one end of the scarf, yanking it out of the ghost's hands. It abruptly falls limp as Aldern’s image fades, Taiga and Kaitos begin frantically unwrapping it until she is able to gasp desperately for air. She leans on Dreok, and between great heaving gulps of air she wheezes, “Fuck… this...h-house.” He pats her arm, “I’ll let you fire one of the catapults, yeah?” She nods as vigorously as she can as he guides her from the room, until-- “Wait,” she croaks. She turns back to the wrinkled red silk scarf lying innocuously behind the chair, its shine only now dulled by dust. It dangles loosely from her hand, a gold-painted work of textile art she then ties tightly around her waist, vindictively yanking a complicated knot into place on her left hip. “Now we can go.” ~~~ The northern sitting room is largely untouched, layered under swaths of dust and cobwebs. “No creepy instruments, no monster statues, no weirdly distinct accessories lying around… Significant improvement already,” Dreok remarks from the window, twitching aside the filthy curtains. “No, no we have to get out of here,” Kaitos rumbles, fumbling backwards for Taiga’s hand. “We have to run!” “Uh… Kaitos?” Taiga tries to pull away, wincing as he tightens his grip. “Kaitos, what the hells?” “Oh gods, oh gods I'm so sorry,” he smooths her hair away from her face, cupping her cheek as she flinches away. “Please, don't be afraid, Lorey.” His face seems to melt, to fade for a moment into that of yet another woman’s. “Lorey, my sweet girl, we have to run.” “Lorey? Wh--hey!” she yelps as Kaitos yanks her around, dragging her after him at a full sprint. “Another one?!” Dreok snarls, tearing off after them. Taiga digs her heels in, boots sliding on the battered hardwood as the Warrior drags her headlong down the hallway. “Kaitos! Damn it, Kaitos it’s not real--” He ignores her, barreling straight down the Hall toward the foyer--and the wreckage of the stuffed manticore that begins to flicker with ghostly fire the instant they enter the room. Varric slaps his hand out sideways, stopping Dreok just before they cross the threshold. “Out the Dancing Parlor! They'll make it past the manticore, but it'll be awake when we get in there.” They burst out the Parlor door just in time to watch Kaitos stop dead in the mud just outside the property line, having thrown Taiga across his shoulders at some point in the interim to get her off the property faster. He sets her gently on her feet, shaking his head bemusedly. They can see her berating him, though most of her tirade is lost in the distance--and in the rustling of millions of feathers as the crows descend. Varric shoves two fingers into his mouth and lets out a piercing two-note whistle from the doorway, “Back in the house! Move your asses!” Taiga snatches Lusus out of the air, where he'd been trying and failing to defend her from the onslaught of his corrupted cousins. She tucks him against her chest, ducks her head and runs hell-bent for leather up the side road, Kaitos on her heels. Beaks and claws rattle off Kaitos’ chain and plate armor, slicing deep scratches into the leather but causing little real damage. Taiga sticks close to him, letting him knock the shrieking, rasping masses away from her with gauntleted hands and arms as best he can, though she loses several clumps of hair and gains heavy bites and scratches down her arms and back. They slam the parlor door behind them as the crows settle silently to the ground a few yards away, watching the door. “Right,” Taiga pants, slumping against the doorframe. “So. We’re not getting out of here just yet then.” She hands her bedraggled familiar off to Willow and Wiggles, peeling her bloody, shredded shirt out of her bodice and off as the weasels lick and groom his feathers back into place. She rummages a wine-red shirt out of Varric’s pack and a tin of salve out of her own, slathering it over the bites on her arms. “Is there a reason you’re stealing my shirt?” “It’s nicer than mine and it won’t show bloodstains,” Taiga replies matter-of-factly, pulling it over her head. The oversized collar hangs off her shoulders as she reaches underneath, unties her bodice and relaces it over the shirt. She rolls the sleeves up over her hands and stands up, shoving the salve back into her bag before hoisting it over her least-injured shoulder. “Upstairs or down, then?
Book II Part IV: Misgivings Part iii: aka "If we die, I'm going to haunt you." Varric shudders. “I have absolutely no desire to investigate the basement of a clearly haunted mansion.” “Right, because the bedrooms of several guys that clearly murdered the absolute fuck out of their wives will be so much better,” Kaitos scoffs. Taiga sighs as they continue to squabble, digging a flat grey river stone out of yet another pocket. She licks one side and tosses it into the air. “We'll flip for it,” she announces, as the stone lands quivering on its edge. Dreok cocks an eyebrow. “So, what’s that supposed to mean?” “Depends. Which one is ‘upstairs’?” “Uhm… wet?” Varric shrugs. The stone rattles over, wet side up. “There, see? Upstairs it is.” “You know you're supposed to call the side in the air, right?” Kaitos grumbles. “That’s boring.” ~~~ The stairwell echoes eerily, to the complete lack of surprise of anyone in the group and is subsequently ignored. The room closest to the stairs appears to have been that of a child, strewn with toy soldiers and ragged stuffed animals. Everyone stands about awkwardly, waiting to see what will happen this time. As Taiga nears the bed she shudders, turning back towards the door. “M-Momma? Pappa, wh-why--? Don’t! Please, don’t hurt him, don’t!” she stammers, wide-eyed, before whimpering and diving under the bed. It takes an embarrassingly long time to coax her out of there, even after the haunt releases her. “No, no. Just leave me here to asphyxiate on dust and humiliation. I’m fine. This is fine. I'm perfectly content with this series of events. I'm only the oldest person here but damned if I don't keep getting the kiddie ghosts,” she grumbles, then sneezes explosively. “Also I'm stuck. Apparently possession-by-child means you can fit into child-size spaces. Why wasn't I the mother? At least then we wouldn't have had to deal with the fucking crows, no way I could have dragged one of you assholes around.” “Probably because it was a girl-child that Grandma Foxglove was flipping out over,” Dreok shrugs, grabbing Taiga’s outstretched hand and dragging her out as Kaitos and Varric hoist the bed up off of her. “‘Girl’ was qualification number one.” “Joy,” she growls, shaking clouds of dust out of her skirts and hair as she stomps into the next room, sunset turning a second set of stained-glass murals into grotesque tapestries of burning jewels. Several couches face the murals, along with a stand of instruments long destroyed by rust and rot that Taiga and Dreok deliberately avoid while they study the murals. “I've got belladonna and a girl that's about to get eaten by a spider. You?” Dreok reports from the southern windows. “Probably-a-vampire, butterfly with skull markings, and a ghost scorpion,” Taiga replies, crossing her arms and scowling. “Please, for the love of fuck, tell me I did not just hear the phrase ‘ghost scorpion’” Kaitos moans. Taiga snickers. “Not ghost scorpion. It's a real animal. They're translucent white and they glow purple in magelight, hence the name. About as rare as they are venomous, which is to say, ‘extremely’. Almost all the parts are useful reagents for different things. Eyes, meat, claws…” she trails off, eyes widening in dawning horror. Dreok nods. “And venom.” Taiga begins ticking off windows. “Ghost-scorpion venom, vampire saliva, deathwing moths, belladonna flowers…” “And the heart of a maiden killed by poison,” Dreok finishes, jerking his thumb backwards to the final window. “Combined with the murals downstairs, we now have an illustrated guide to ‘How To Make A Lich.’” “A Lich?!” Kaitos yelps. “Isn’t that the point of the entire country of Lastwall? To fight a Lich? And now there's one here?!” “Nah,” Dreok shakes his head, flopping onto a dusty couch. “If Grandpa Foxglove pulled it off, we’d have known decades ago when he, y’know, took everything over to build his undead horde. Something must have gone wrong.” “Lucky us,” Varric grumbles. “North again?” Another bedroom awaits, this one overgrown with more of the stinking green-grey mold they'd encountered in the downstairs hall. Willow balks, pointedly sitting down in the hallway as Dreok surveys the room, scratching idly at his stubble. “What is it, Dreok? Something on your face?” Taiga asks. She claps a hand over her mouth, her voice having become progressively higher pitched and childlike as she spoke. Dreok's eyes widen in horror as he stares at his hands, the backs erupting into green-grey boils. They race up his arms and neck, rapidly bursting into pulsing tumors across his face. He claws frantically at the growths, tearing them off in chunks and gouging deep gashes into his skin. “Oh fuck, oh fuck Kaitos get him out of there!” Taiga screams in her own voice, hauling Varric out by the wrist as Kaitos throws Dreok bodily from the room. The Magus writhes on his back in the hallway making distressed noises that are entirely too masculine to be called “whimpers” as he scratches and claws at his face until Taiga pounces and sits on his chest, trapping his arms under her legs. She seizes his head in both green-glowing hands as he writhes and bucks underneath her, healing light burning the contagion from his body. He stills as the sores deflate, scab over and disappear, breathing harder than if he'd run at full sprint from Sandpoint. “Boats,” he wheezes. “Eh?” Taiga raises her hands as if to heal him again, worried the sores had progressed to his brain. “Boats. I want fucking boats with fucking catapults and flaming fucking ballistae and we're going to take out this whole fucking cliff and drop this entire fucking place into the fucking sea.” Taiga collapses forward, giggling hysterically in relief, mashing her forehead into that of the Magus.
Book II Part IV: Misgivings Part iv: aka "Holy fuck Fortune is such a useful spell." “So. There's… Uhm. There's a washroom over here,” Varric mutters as Taiga stands up, scrubbing her face on the back of her wrist. He guides her to a side room, a massive claw-footed bathtub taking up most of the creaking, sagging floor. Willow bounds in behind them, peering disappointedly into the empty, dusty tub, the floor squealing warningly as she leans against the side. She quickly scrambles backwards, too late to avoid the collapse of the sagging floorboards. She yips as the huge bathtub topples down, crushing the ceramic tub on the bottom floor as she snaps out, catching Taiga’s skirts in her jaws as she follows it down. Taiga instinctively clings to Varric and hauls him into the pit with her, Wiggles dancing fitfully on the edge as Willow squawks indignantly, squashed under Witch and Ranger both. Dreok rolls over, crawling on his belly over the floor to peer over the edge. “Y’all okay?” he slurs. Taiga groans as Willow wriggles out from underneath her and Varric rolls out of the tub, his knee squelching into and crushing a slightly flattened, heavily diseased-looking rat. Varric waves vaguely up at him, and Taiga heaves herself to her feet. “Y’wanna rope?” “We’ll just take the stairs again!” She yells. Dreok waves and scoots back as Varric, Taiga and Willow pick their way out of the wreckage. They make it back upstairs with no incident to find Dreok and Kaitos surveying the wreckage of the master bedroom. The ornately carved bedframe is hacked to pieces, its heavy mattress slashed open in a tangle of feathers and shredded linens. Paintings and wall hangings all around the room have been similarly destroyed, knife slashes leaving huge gashes in the damp plaster behind them, save for one. The two Heroes stand before the one intact painting, turned with its image to the wall. “I'm not going to touch it.” “Well someone has to. I mean, clearly this is significant,” Dreok drawls, gesturing to the overturned painting. “We should see who he wanted to save.” “Yes, and poking at significant things has worked out for us so well thus far,” Kaitos growls. Taiga shrugs from the doorway. “I'm curious. Why this one?” Kaitos rolls his eyes, sighing exasperatedly as he flips the painting. A beautiful dark-haired woman in a black dress gazes down at them, a sweet half-smile on her full lips, a red-gold scarf draped over her arms. “There you go, Dreok, it's your dance partner,” Taiga quips, grinning. Dreok snorts. “And your murder-scarf. Guess she was Aldern’s wife. Curiosity satisfied?” “Of course not,” Kaitos snarls. “That's what started all this. Her fucking curiosity.” “Uh, no, I'm pretty sure it was Aldern's,” Dreok chuckles uneasily. “Somehow the snail eating and persistent feather-dust failed to dissuade him from her witchy wiles.” “Thanks, jacka--” Taiga snaps. “Shut up,” Kaitos snarls, advancing on the Witch. “This is your fault. You and your curiosity. Always poking around where you don't belong.” “Kaitos--wh-what--” He seizes her by the shoulders, slamming her back against the doorframe. "You ruined everything, all my work, in your fucking curiosity. You couldn't just let--things--be--!” he roars, slamming her head against the wall over and over. “Hey! Ease off!” Dreok yells, hauling on the Warrior’s shoulder, Varric prying at his hands. “K-Kaitos, don’t--don’t make me--!” she sobs, shoving at him, her hands flickering with oily purple light. He freezes, lets Varric and Dreok pull him away. “T-Taiga? Taiga, I don't--I didn't--” “I know, I know,” she mumbles, rubbing her arms as she backs out of the room. “Let's just--fuck, let's just keep moving.” She dusts her skirts off briskly if futilely as they enter a huge portrait gallery. "Bright side is, I think we know why the Foxgloves keep offing their wives.” “Care to share with the class?” Dreok drawls, eyeing the cobweb-shrouded portraits warily. “We know something fucked up Grandpa Foxglove’s lich ritual--” “Lich-ual?” Kaitos suggests quietly, with a ghost of his usual smile as Taiga mock-scowls at him. “Sorry, couldn't resist.” “Lichual, then. Bet you it was Grandma Foxglove. Kasanda. Pops is still pissed, that anger poisoned the rest of the house. Future Lady Foxgloves are screwed.” She flinches as a chill, damp breeze trickles through a broken window, stirring the heavy shrouds of spiderweb over the portraits. Cyralie, with her flame-red hair, and Traver Foxglove stand with young Aldern and his two sisters. Kasanda and Vorel stand at the center of the far wall with young Lorey and Traver. The breeze picks up, rustling a few scant scattered leaves across the floor and shredding the cobwebs covering the portraits. The shrouds fall to the floor. Cyralie bursts into flame, her limbs twisting horribly. Traver grows pale as a deep slash opens across his throat, blood pouring down his chest. Aldern becomes equally pale, ghastly, gaunt and rotten. Kasanda and Lorey slump in their seats, consumed by weeping sores and pulsating tumors. ...and Vorel Foxglove's face stretches into a death's-head grin as the frame of his portrait bulges out, the canvas tearing under an explosion of mold spores. Ropes of slimy green-gray mold race across the floor, spreading impossibly fast as the spores roil thick as smoke in the air. “Run!” “Doorway! On the left!” “We don't know what's in there!” “Just move!” They dart into the next room, slamming the door. Varric strips off his cloak and jams it into the gap under the door, damping it down with his canteen before slumping against the door and sliding to the ground. “Dunno if it's ghost mold or magic mold or fake or what but hopefully that'll keep it out of here a little while,” he gasps. Dreok sags against the wall as Taiga huddles on the floor by the bed, carefully equidistant from anything she could possibly inadvertently touch with her arms around her knees. Kaitos leans on his hands against the writing desk. “We should never have come here,” he mutters. Dreok shrugs philosophically. “Bit late for that. Can't leave, anyway. May as well finish what we started.” “It's going to kill us all. That's what it does. Makes you hurt the people you care about,” Kaitos whispers, raking his fingers through sweat-soaked hair. “Take it easy, man. I know this place has gotten to you worst of us but--” Dreok reaches for him, but the Warrior flinches away, crashing into the desk. “Makes you kill them. Gods, gods, I killed her!” “No, you didn't,” Dreok snaps. “She's fine. Taiga, tell him you’re fine.” “It's not me he's worried about, it's another haunt!” she yells, scrambling to her feet as a dagger appears on the desk. “I won't let him win!” Kaitos snarls, seizing the dagger. “Oh stars, it's Traver, Kaitos, don't!” She begs as he turns to her, staring through her and out the window. “Hold on, Cyrie-love, I'll be there soon,” he murmers. “Don't you dare!” she lunges for him as he slashes the bright blade across his own throat, blood gouting from the deep wound-- No. No, I won't lose you like this! --she lunges for him as he slashes the bright blade across-- Not like this! --she lunges for him as he slashes the-- This is not how this ends! --she lunges for him as-- No! --she lunges for him as the silver ward on his arm flares bright as a star, the sudden light searing his vision startling him just enough that the killing slash cuts too low, carving a deep line over his windpipe and collarbones, blood pouring down but not gushing as though from an arterial slice. Taiga crashes into Kaitos as the knife dissipates into harmless dust, shoving her hands against his bleeding neck as he staggers back against the desk, sitting haphazardly on the edge as his legs give out. “Don't you fucking dare die on me, Kaitos Ilastari!” Taiga growls, tangling her fingers into his hair and yanking his head back, forcing him to look at her, blood splattering from his mouth and nose with every breath. Her other hand is pressed gently to his bleeding throat, glowing soft gold-green. She pulls a little, shaking him. “Don't you dare. Not like this. We’ve got way too much ahead of us to let a couple fucking ghosts take us down, you hear me?” Dreok claps him on the shoulder, holding tight. “Besides, you still have to find your stupid family's stupid sword.” Kaitos shakily clasps his hand over Dreok’s, shuddering in Taiga's hands. Then he slowly, carefully wraps an arm around her waist, and buries his face in her shoulder. Taiga stares at Dreok over Kaitos, untangles her hand from his hair and reaches up to cover Dreok’s Scar with her hand. He laces the fingers of his free hand with hers. It's a long time before any of them are willing to move on.
Book II Part IV: Misgivings Part v aka "Hell Hath No Fury..." Kaitos breaks the scene first, shrugging Dreok’s hand away and sitting up. He clears his throat, sliding off the desk. “So. What’s left? Creepy attic or creepy basement?” “I am continuing to veto the fuck out of ‘haunted basement,’” Varric mutters from the door, his fingers buried in Willow’s oily, dusty neck ruff. Her tiny ears are laid back as she snorts her agreement. “Upstairs has nearly killed me multiple times,” Kaitos growls raggedly. “I’ve had more than my fair share of Upstairs. We go down.” “Exactly. Upstairs has treated me just fine in comparison, I don't want to find out what this shithole has saved for me at the bottom.” “Listen here, shithead--” “Both of you shut up,” Taiga hisses, staring up at the ceiling. “We need to go upstairs.” “What? Need I remind you that Upstairs hasn't exactly been a laugh riot for you either? Hell, Upstairs nearly made me kill y--” “Shhhhhhht! I can't hear her over your bitching, dammit.” “Hear who?” Dreok demands. “Oh great, the possessions are starting faster,” Kaitos grumbles. “I'm not possessed,” she snaps. “Listen, damn it! Can't you hear her?!” “Fuck’s sake, hear who?” “Her, you idiot!” “It’s one of the wives, isn’t it?” Varric asks quietly, standing up. “Oh, spectacular. There's at least three of them hanging around haunting us, and I don't hear shit,” Kaitos grumbles. “Not a haunt,” she replies, still watching the ceiling as she nudges Varric out of the doorway. Dreok crosses his arms, leaning back into the wall. “Meaning what? You've finally cracked and now you hear dead people?” Varric shrugs. “She said not all the deaths stuck. More’n ghosts and haunts can come back, figures one of them would try to talk at her. She's been flirting with all this necro-voodoo crap this whole time.” “Been running from it longer than you’ve been alive,” she murmurs, moving past him into the silent, empty, spore-free gallery. “She wants us to come.” Taiga leads them on, up more creaking stairs, focused on some distant point ahead and above, bypassing most of the doors. She stands staring at the last door as the others investigate mostly empty storerooms, one filled with dozens of maps, globes and curios from around the world. “Here. She's here,” she whispers. Dreok leans past her, slowly pushing the door open onto yet another storeroom. “It's empty.” “No, it's… She's here, she has to be here…” the Witch mutters, stepping into the room. A huge antique chest of drawers topped with a tarnished mirror dominates one side of the room, facing a tumbled stack of shipping crates. “Taiga, are you sure you're not possessed?” Dreok asks, slowly, carefully following her in. “I'm not fucking possessed, dickhead, I can hear her,” Taiga snarls, seizing the top of the mirror in both hands and wrenching it forward. The frame creaks but refuses to budge, then cracks suddenly, the glass sliding free to clatter onto the dresser and shatter. Behind her, a tangle of tapestries and linens begins to stir. Dreok swears, one hand filling with magefire, the other seizing his sword hilt as the remains of Ilenya Foxglove rise from the rags, her long dark curls tangled around her green-pale face as she slowly climbs out of the trash. “Don’t!” Taiga yells, shoving him back from the revenant. She braces both hands on his shoulders, keeping herself between them. “Please, don't! All of you, let her pass!” Varric and Kaitos stand aside as Ilyena straightens and steps through the doorway, her posture and gait a perfect picture of a graceful noblewoman--but for her head lolling limply to one side on her bruised, broken neck. Her hands clench into fists at her sides, her sweet smile turned ghastly, milky eyes wide and staring. Taiga slumps forward against Dreok, giggling as the fire in his hand flickers out. “I’m sure the question is obvious, but I'm going to ask anyway: what the fuck was that and why couldn't I kill it?!” Taiga looks up at him, grinning viciously, her green eyes bright against the exhausted shadows beneath. “Because she wants the same thing we do,” she rasps. “She wants Aldern dead, and she's going to find him for us.” ~~~ The revenant stumbles and weaves on the stairs, overbalanced by the uncontrolled motion of her limp, slack neck and head, thudding into the railing as she wobbles down, losing one fashionably delicate silk slipper on the second landing. She doesn’t breathe, exactly, but a thick, glottal moan rises and falls disjointedly from her swollen lips. “Why does she keep making that noise?” Kaitos whispers. “‘Probably not just noise,” Varric replies easily, stepping up and pushing the hall door open for the revenant before she can crash into it. “It’s pretty hard to talk with a crushed windpipe, broken neck, and all the other fun stuff that comes with being strangled to death. What’s she saying, Taiga?” “Mostly things like ‘I’m coming for you, Aldern, my love!’ and ‘You’ll be in my arms again soon!’’ “Charming. I thought she wanted him dead?” Dreok gripes from the back. “Oh, she does. The tone of menace is completely lost verbally but I promise you, it’s there,” Taiga chirps, tapping her temple. She grins at a particularly garbled, drawn out groan. “Ooh, there we go. ‘I will lie in your bones forever.’ That’s actually kind of sweet, in a homicidal way.” “Y’know Varric, for a guy that’s sworn to destroy undead, you’re strangely tolerant of our rotten friend here,” Kaitos says, eyeing the hunter. “Not her fault,” he replies, shrugging nonchalantly, and refuses to say anything more on the matter. The revenant stalks mindlessly through the dining room, then downstairs again into the kitchen door. She pushes against it, scrabbling at the handle with stiffened, useless fingers and whining hideously. Kaitos struggles a bit, trying to find a way to open the door for her without disturbing her further. Or touching her at all, really. He manages to unlatch the door, and Ilyena pushes it open, leading them into an empty, clearly unused kitchen. She glides to the pantry door, pushing it open easily--and releasing a flood of emaciated rats covered in grey-green, pulsing sores. The shrieking, squeaking horde swirls around Ilyena’s ankles, rippling out of her way as she steps through them, crushing a few underfoot and losing her other slipper as they surge towards the Heroes--and the fresh meat they represent. Both Dreok’s hands burst into blue-white flame. “Nope. Fuck this. Hit the deck!” he snarls. Kaitos, Varric and Taiga immediately drop to the floor as pure Fire roars out over them into the massed rat hordes, reducing them to dozens of tiny, disgusting puddles of ash and slime mold. The Heroes pick their way through the resulting mess and down a darkened hallway to the revenant, which has been stymied by yet another door, this one barred with heavy iron bands. She throws herself at the door, the once-fine silk and flesh over one shoulder shredded and full of splinters, her fingertips broken off to the first knuckle as she scratches wildly at the frame and handle, smearing thick dark ichor across both. Kaitos grimaces as he edges past the revenant, testing the handle and growling when he finds it locked. The revenant turns to glare at him--as best she can, at least. More accurately, she rolls her shoulders until her head flops over so her sightless eyes are directed at the thoroughly disgusted warrior. She pointedly shoves her ruined shoulder into the ironbound door again, staring through him. She actually steps back, allowing him the space to break the door down with one well-placed kick just below the lock. The revenant immediately veers off down another hallway, ignoring the numerous workbenches scattered with dozens of ruined spellbooks, alchemical equipment, and a third stained-glass mural, this one looking directly out of the cliffs below the mansion, fitted into the natural angles of the stone. Dreok begins stuffing the least ruined and most valuable spellbooks into his bag as Taiga examines the latest set of murals with her hands on her hips, head cocked to one side. “Do you think we could change ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch’ to ‘Don’t spend a king’s ransom on custom made stained glass windows depicting your successful transformation into a Lich until you’ve actually succeeded in transforming into a Lich’ or do you think it’s too wordy to catch on?” she asks blithely, unperturbed by “art” depicting Vorel himself in various states of grotesque decay and triumph. Dreok moves to stand beside her, unconsciously mimicking her pose with his pack and the pockets of his greatcoat stuffed to overflowing with scrolls. Taiga blinks at him. “Are you taking all of that? Most of it won’t even have spells you can use.” He shrugs, papers rustling loudly. “What I don’t use I’ll send home. It’s a Lich’s laboratory, there’s bound to be something useful in here.” “Yes, but can’t you get it later?” “Did you miss the part of me dropping this shithole into the ocean? I’m not coming back here to grab books first.” “Thus, pockets full of books.” “Thus, pockets full of books. Don’t question it.” “Into the pit, then?” “I sincerely hope it’s not a pit.” “You know it’s going to be a pit.” “5 gold?” Magus and Witch both spit into their palms and shake. Dreok regrets this immediately as the skin over his palm begins to smoke. Taiga snickers and follows Kaitos, Varric and the revenant as Dreok frantically scrubs his hand off on the ratty upholstery of a desk chair. Countless spiralling stairs later, Taiga sits on a landing, stretching her aching calves and manages to grin up at Dreok. “Told ya. Pit.” “It’s a staircase to hell is what it is.” The staircase finally opens onto an enormous, high-ceilinged sea cave, multiple passages leading farther along the cliffs, following the shoreline. “Cave, not a pit,” Dreok says, grinning. “Son of a bitch.” “There’s pits in caves, y’know,” Varric says from farther down a tunnel, crouching to examine black ichor-soaked footprints in the sand. Taiga brightens. “Double or nothing?” “Done,” Dreok nods, calling magelight to his hand as Taiga lights the crystals in her staff, following Varric down the tunnels as the ranger draws his bow, nocking two arrows that shines too brightly in the dim magelight. The Ranger halts in the clatter of bones and heavy rasp of bare flesh over stone. He sets his feet, drawing both arrows simultaneously as four slavering ghouls leap out of the shadows. Both shots hit home, punching through the skull of the lead ghoul and knocking it flying backwards. Dreok throws fire into the following ghouls, the bright flames crackling over two of them, scorching them hollow as Kaitos charges in, hacking the last ghoul to pieces. As the last ghoul falls Kaitos continues on, racing through the tunnels with Varric and Dreok hot on his heels until they stumble to a halt at the edge of-- “A pit!” Taiga cackles, holding her skirts above her knees in both hands, staff slung over her back on its strap, lit crystals bouncing over her shoulder to cast dancing shadows into the crater spiraling down into a pool of water in the floor of a massive, cathedral-like cavern as she runs up to stand with them. Her manic laughter cascades wildly around the cave, as Dreok scowls murderously. “That's not a pit, that’s the world’s worst waterslide. To hell,” Dreok grumbles, looking around the cavern. “Which in many circles would be considered a pit,” Taiga insists. “Pay up.” “Nope, nope. Nothing in the pit,” Dreok says, grinning triumphantly as he sets off further into the cave, sticking close to the wall, away from the edge of the narrow walkway. “What we want is over there. See? Creepy oily rotten footprints. No bet.” He points across the pit to a door set into the stone above the northwest side. Taiga stomps over to him, fully prepared to prove him wrong--and topples screaming into the chasm as the edge of the walkway crumbles underfoot, sliding down the spiraling ramp. She manages to stop her descent before she hits the water, hauling herself clumsily to her feet, clinging to the wall as she scoots up out of the pit. Dreok and Kaitos lean down over the edge as she approaches, heaving her up onto the main level by the wrists. “Okay, agreed, waterslide to hell,” she gasps, clinging to Dreok. “Still a pit.” “Doesn't matter, because our guy isn't in the pit. Still no bet,” he replies, smirking. They continue bickering enthusiastically as they cross the cavern, even as a section crumblings under Varric, sending him aand Willow tumbling down to splash into the brackish pool below, even as they haul them both back up and out, cross to the door and give Kaitos a chance to break it down. And discover what’s left of Aldern Foxglove waiting for them, seated in an antique desk chair in his once-fine blue velvet overcoat. Ilyena Foxglove lies in pieces around his feet, and he smiles grotesquely, fixated on Taiga, his mouth stretching far too wide for a human face. “Ah, there you are, my love! I knew my letters would sway your heart!” He uncrosses his legs, idly kicking Ilyena’s arm away from his chair. “I'm afraid my dear wife was rather upset when she found out, but as you see, I've remedied the issue.” He stands, grinning widely, and flourishes a massive straight razor. “Now there's nothing that stands between us. Let us consummate our… our hunger!” He leaps forward, overlong tongue lolling from his wide-open mouth--directly into the bolt of lightning flung over Taiga's shoulder from Dreok’s outstretched hand. It explodes into his torso, blasting a massive blackened crater through his chest, leaving his weapon-arm hanging by a thread. The ghast tumbles to the ground, wailing. He skids to a stop Taiga’s feet, clutching his arm to his chest. “T-Taiga? Kaitos? Dreok? Gods, y-you have to help me… I don't know what happened…” He reaches for the filthy, torn hem of Taiga's skirts, crawling on his knees. “Please, I… I needed money, there was… the Seven, the Skinsaw and--” The Witch recoils, and Aldern stops in his tracks. “Oh,” he says, sighing. “That doesn't seem to be working, does it. Well then.” He jumps lightly to his feet, the hole in his chest shrinking, overgrowing with tendrils of fungus that draw his arm back up into its socket. “I wonder how your deaths will affect the world? What your broken promises will spawn?” He flourishes his razor with his restored arm, letting it clash against Kaitos’ longsword, throwing sparks. They dance around the dank, squalid room, lit with arc after arc of mage-lightning, blade and bolts both carving huge, black-bleeding chunks out of the ghast as it laughs wildly, slashing at the warrior. “Kaitos!” Varric yells, three bright-white glowing, white fletched arrows nocked to his cheek. The warrior half-turns, parrying a vicious stroke of the ghast’s deadly razor. “Move.” Kaitos ducks to the side as three arrows hiss through the dank air of the cavern, punching through Aldern’s forehead, throat and heart simultaneously, the impact knocking the ghast over backwards to sprawl unmoving in the dirt. Dreok and Kaitos stand staring at the fallen ghoul as three more arrows sink into the body, causing it to twitch as the arrows strike home, half an inch to the left of the first volley, then lie still. “That’s it?” Kaitos asks, prodding the hacked up, burnt, arrow studded corpse with his boot. Varric nods shortly, walks over, plants his boot in the ghast’s chest and yanks the first two arrows out. “Really? With the magical glowing? And the Drama? Thought he'd… y’know, go up in flames or something. Poof.” “Nope. I just like the glow. Easier to find ‘em in the dark,” he grunts, pulling his last arrows out in a series of soggy, grinding squelches as Dreok and Kaitos inspect the old desk. Taiga pointedly avoids the desk and its collection of trinkets, scraps of bright cloth, white raven’s feathers, an earring, a silver bell from a dancer’s scarf and a thin braided lock of long, impossibly bright white hair draped over dozens and dozens of charcoal sketches, some benign, most of them intricately detailed erotica, all of her. Instead she examines the far wall and the intensely wild growth of tumorous fungus covering it. She idly kicks at a the remains of a jeweled, many-sided box at the feet of a vaguely humanoid silhouette of particularly virulent mold. “Found Grandpa Foxglove. Pretty sure this'll just grow back if we burn it or something. Probably give us time to get out of here, but if we want to destroy it, we'll need a priest.” “Think we could find one in Magnimar?” Dreok asks, his hands full of letters. Taiga shrugs. “Pretty sure we could find one in Sandpoint.” He waves a letter vaguely. “Yeah, sure. But all of this--well, besides the porn--says the Sihedron Rune crap is coming out of Magnimar. Under someone named Xanesha and the Seven.” Kaitos holds up a stained but elaborately beribboned document. “Hey, neat, Aldy’s got a townhouse. Road trip?” Dreok nods. “Just one more thing…” His hands light with the pure blue-edged-with-gold of true Fire, gorgeous sweeping arcs of flame flaring out, igniting Aldern's shrine, Vorel’s legacy, and all the broken bodies in one beautiful stroke. “Now let's get the fuck out of here.”
Book II: Interlude aka "Wall o' Self-Indulgent Character Building Fluff Text Part 1" It's a subdued, quiet group that returns to Goblin Crush Stables late that night. The rain had increased overday and into the evening, drenching them to the skin but doing little to wash away the sweat, blood and terror of what had seemed like days or weeks in hell, rather than mere hours. The Dragon is mostly empty when they stagger in the door, save for one or two lingering regulars deep in their cups. Ameiko relaxes behind the bar, chatting with Leera the goblin hunter, back from patrol, while the maids scrub down the empty tables for the night. Both women look toward the door, welcoming smiles quickly fading to concern at bloodstains and grime and tired, hollow eyes. Ameiko signals the maids, who begin ushering the last few patrons out the door as she runs out from behind the bar to Dreok. They have a quiet, tense conversation that looks unusually sincere and intimate for the sarcastic Magus--they’re holding hands. Kaitos stumbles over to Leera, who takes one look at him, haggard and bloody, and takes a very large bottle of very strong spirits from underneath the bar. She holds the bottle in one hand, pulling the cork with her teeth and holding Kaitos’ wrist in the other as she hauls him bodily up the stairs. Ameiko and Dreok soon follow, still talking quietly, and disappear into their room. Taiga sighs, hanging her filthy cloak on a hook to dry, shoving her staff into the barrel by the door. Varric strips his cloak off as he walks, slinging it onto the bar with a splat before vaulting easily over the counter. He ducks down, rummaging around until he comes up with two bottles older than either of them with peeling labels. He makes a note for Ameiko in the inventory list near the cashbox, hands both bottles to Taiga, and pockets a corkscrew before hoisting himself back over the bar without saying a word. They settle on the floor against Dreok’s couch, kicking off filthy boots and damp socks so Willow can curl silently around their bare feet. Taiga murmurs a brief thanks as one of the night maids stirs up the embers and adds a log to the dully glowing fire. Varric simply nods agreement and takes a drink straight from his freshly opened bottle, handing the corkscrew to Taiga. She wrestles her bottle open, clinks it against his when he offers, and sits in silent company with him for hours, drinking to forget and watching the fire burn down. ~~~ Morning is surprisingly quiet and not awful for Taiga. She is warmly buried under the slightly beer-scented furs by the hearth, her long hair undone and spread out in a shining white fan across the floor where Lusus had apparently spent the night preening it clean. The late morning sunlight pouring in through the front windows onto the empty tables is entirely painless, indicating that her new preemptive anti-hangover potion works beautifully--pity it's lethal to anyone without a Witch’s iron stomach, she could make a fortune--and that Ameiko never opened the inn for the breakfast rush. She stretches luxuriously, smiling and feeling oddly well rested for the little sleep she managed. But then, what little she did manage was the deep, heavy sleep of the mentally, magically and physically exhausted with a dash of slightly-drunk-and-incredibly-well-fucked. Speaking of… Varric groans, shying away from the light and hiding his face between his arms and her bare stomach. Poor button. No pre-hangover potions for him. She runs glowing fingers through his red-gold forelock, scratching lightly at the short scruff at his nape until the pained groans turn into pleased ones. “Th’ f’mazin’” he mumbles into her skin. She smiles softly “Yeah? You weren't too bad yourself, hotshot.” “Oh?” he purrs, somehow managing to convey an utterly charming grin with everything but one eye hidden by his arm. “Yes, do tell.” “Inquiring minds, and all that.” The lovers freeze in horror. Taiga tilts her head back to find Dreok and Kaitos leaning over the back of the couch on their elbows, chins in hands with matching disgustingly gleeful grins on their stupid arrogant nosy faces. “So Taiga, did he manage to hit the target?” “Or was he too much of a quick shot?” “Well, he does have multiple bolts in the quiver, at least one had to hit.” Varric groans and buries himself further in the furs. “Oh come on, don't hide, not without telling us about your cave diving expedition!” “Nah, caves don't work, she's a swamp Witch, what's swampy?” “Well hopefully not her crotch.” “I have nothing for swamp metaphors that aren't actively gross and I'm pretty sure she's already about to hex both our dicks offffffffuck run!” Both Heroes scamper off, cackling as an infuriated Lusus dive-bombs their heads and shoulders, chasing them out into the courtyard as both Taiga and Varric collapse into giggles. ~~~ “We need a priest,” Taiga announces. “What, now? Because you of all people know he's not here,” Dreok replies from her desk. He is hunched over one of Vorel Foxglove's texts, the book oozing slime and spores across Taiga’s tiny workbench in the Pillbug’s Pantry. The virulent residue is just barely restrained by the battered silver containment circle embedded in the scarred tabletop. Taiga rolls her milky, sightless eyes, unable to do much more without dislodging one or more of the focusing crystals balanced along her body from forehead to groin. She lies on her back in the center of the tiny room, her hands, feet and head each in a point of the pentacle woven into the worn rug. Kaitos grimaces, looking up from the haphazard, one-sided game of Chalice he’d dealt himself out of her tarot cards. “Would you close your eyes? That's creepy as hell.” “Also, where do you keep the magnesium? The spores are getting uppity again,” Dreok asks as he carefully scratches his nose, mindful of the protective runes painted up and down his hands and forearms. “Cabinet on the left side of the window, top shelf, behind the raw copper,” she replies, grinning and widening her corpselike eyes at Kaitos. “I meant we should keep a cleric around in general, running around with us. Think about it, if we had a priest yesterday, we wouldn't be stuck here, Hemlock wouldn't be down in the pit risking his, Father Zantus and the militia’s lives and Vorel would already be exorcised and extra crispy.” The sheriff had insisted on escorting Father Zantus himself into Foxglove Manor, with a dozen brave militiamen. The priest had agreed that the Heroes needed rest more than anything else, refusing to budge until they promised to spend the day healing physically and spiritually. While unwilling to allow the townsfolk to risk themselves, the Heroes weren't entirely adverse to the thought of never setting foot in “that fucking hellhole” ever again. They'd compromised on sending Taiga with them via deep, long distance scrying through Lusus. The raven carried as many healing and protective spells as his fluffy body could hold and guiding the townsfolk safely away from the haunted rooms from Hemlock’s shoulder. The unusual range of separation between Witch and Familiar meant the four Heroes were packed into Taiga’s tiny personal workroom. Kaitos and Varric to keep an eye on a vulnerable, entranced Taiga and Dreok to study Foxglove's books in a relatively safe environment. “Wouldn't be a bad idea, then we’d have just about every flavor of magic at our disposal,” Dreok nods, idly squashing a semi-animate blob of fungus under his thumb with a sizzle. “That'd be what, Dreok for Arcane, Taiga for Natural and new guy for Divine?” Kaitos asks, shuffling his cards and dealing a new hand. “Nope, I'm Arcane too, just more obscure than Dreok’s elemental arcana. Note the bleached-white hair. Varric’s Natural,” Taiga chirps. “Varric? Seriously?” Varric shrugs easily from the windowsill, not looking up from the rabbit he was carving out of a twist of knobbly root. “Little bit.” “So you’re telling me I'm the only normal guy here?” Kaitos demands incredulously. “The word you’re looking for is ‘boring’,” Dreok teases, pouring metal shavings over slime that hisses angrily upon contact. “Anyway, we’ll have to wait until Magnimar to get one. I can't imagine one of the little local acolytes of Desna running around with us, we’d traumatise them.” “I figured once Father Zantus is done with the exorcism and I got all of this cleaned up, I'd cast a Sending for someone that'll work well with us and Call them to meet us in Magnimar. It's a big crossroads city, there's probably plenty of nomadic orders passing through every day.” “How much longer? Did they destroy it yet?” Kaitos asks, fidgeting with the worn edge of a card. Taiga sighs exasperatedly, the lump of jade on her chest wobbling dangerously. “Kaitos, they just got into the caverns. I promise, I'll relay all the gory details when they exorcise the bastard. Hell, hand me the smallish crystal ball off the short bookshelf and I'll see if I can't project the show in living color.” “I just want this to be over, is all,” Kaitos mumbles. “Short bookshelf?” Varric asks. “Mhmm. Third shelf, between Nymerion’s treatise on copper dragon breeding and the herbology encyclopedias with the eelskin bindings.” “Nope.” “What do you mean, ‘nope’?” “‘S not there.” “Dammit. If it got accidentally sold again, I'm going to have someone’s head. I brought that thing out of Geb.” “Again?” Dreok drawls. “Why don't you lock it up somewhere?” “It gets cranky if it doesn't get enough sunlight,” she mutters. “Wait,” Kaitos blurts, “How does a crystal ball get cranky?” Taiga shrugs carefully. “Divination is tricky as it is. You've seen how vague my visions are, and that's through media that wants to cooperate.” “Found it!” Varric yells from three-quarters of the way behind a different bookshelf. He wriggles out, rolling a fist-sized sphere of water-clear quartz over his knuckles. “Must have rolled off the shelf.” Dreok shrugs. “May have gotten bored while you were away and went exploring.” Kaitos stares at him. “What? I had a spellbook that did that,” Dreok explains. “Old, magical things get weird after a few years. Arcana especially.” “Oh! Oh, they're in the lair, gimme the crystal,” Taiga says excitedly. “Here, hang on… Uhm. Put it over my left eye, it should balance against my eyesocket. Perfect!” The images of Sheriff Hemlock, Father Zantus and half a dozen militiamen facing the wall of rot shine up out of the crystal. They watch as Father Zantus chants, the silvery light of Desna’s stars shining from his eyes, and the humanoid fungus silhouette detaches from the wall, lashing out at the priest with gnarled fists. “Oh good, I was hoping that would happen,” Dreok remarks. Varric eyes him skeptically. “It's a good thing, see?” Dreok explains as two militiamen dart forward, shielding the priest as the others hack away at the fungal monstrosity. “Now they're heroes too, not just errand boys. Good for morale.” “If they survive,” Kaitos mutters. “They’ll be fine, they've been training at Thistletop for weeks,” Dreok drawls as one of the militiamen does something showy and complicated with his longsword that takes the fungus-monster’s arm off. “There, see? You taught him that, that's your stupid riposte, I’d recognize it anywhere. “Speaking of which…” He muses, turning to Varric. “How d’you feel about giving archery lessons? Couple of the recruits are naturals.” The Ranger nods vaguely, watching as points of holy starlight explode across Vorel Foxglove's tainted, monstrous form until it cracks and shatters into a thousand pieces. When Father Zantus pours a large bottle of holy water over the remains and rapidly shrivelling fungus, it doesn't smoke or sizzle. “They did it,” Varric reports. “Oh thank fuck,” Taiga groans, sitting up abruptly. Semi-precious focusing stones tumble and bounce away almost eagerly. The crystal ball rolls right back under the bookshelf. “I have the worst hip cramp. I have got to figure out an easier way to do that spell.” She stands, stretching as Varric and Kaitos round up the scattered crystals. “Dreok, do you think you'll reach a stopping point soon? I'd like to get this Sending out of the way and head back to the Dragon. Ameiko will want to know about the expedition.” “And prep the bar for the return of the new heroes. They'll want to celebrate. Let me finish this chapter?” “I need to pick up a few things from the main shop anyway. Kaitos, can you lend an extra pair of hands?” The warrior nods and follows her out onto the sales floor, ducking low-hanging bundles of herbs and charms, sidestepping crates and barrels of unknown, undoubtedly disgusting spell components. He pauses when Taiga stuffs a bundle of long, fragrant yellow beeswax candles into his arms. “Taiga, you have a whole box of these under your workbench.” “I know. It was an excuse to get you alone,” she mutters, standing on her toes to reach a jar of sparkling black sand. “Are you alright? I mean, I know you almost well, died, yesterday but… You seem…” “Like someone that nearly died?” Kaitos scoffs. “That is kind of a big deal, you know.” Comprehension dawns and she leans against a shelf, frowning sympathetically. “Oh, was that your first time? I should have guessed.” “What do you mean, ‘first time’?” “First death. Or rather, near-death experience. It… well, it doesn't exactly get better, but the first one can be especially traumatic. You get used to it.” “‘Get used to it’?! Get used to this?” he snarls incredulously, dropping the candles to pull his collar open, to exposing the livid red scar across his throat. She bends to pick up the candles, unfazed. “In a way. I've had three that I remember, and apparently I actually died as a child when my family’s caravan was raided by soldiers of Geb's Graveknights. “Look, Kaitos…” she sighs, two broken tapers in her hands. “Death is part of your life now. It's part of being the Hero. You're young, and you're brave, and you'll get used to it. Or drink yourself into your grave. But until then, we need you to hold it together. We still need to get to the bottom of this Skinsaw mystery. Now, grab that box of salt with the red label--no, the other red label--and let's go call a priest, hmm?
Book II Interlude ii: aka "Yes, 'Dave' is a reference to exactly who you think it is, no his player didn't connect my 'casual suggestions' until well after the character was well established and I am very proud of myself" Dreok blows a wisp of hair out of his face for the third time in thirty seconds, threatening to ruin the delicate lines of sand and salt trailing around and around the stained hardwood of the workroom. Taiga growls, yanks the tie out of her own hair and throws it at him, knotting her braid around itself instead. Kaitos snickers as Dreok sits back on his heels, scraping his hair back from his face and tying it back, leaving a streak of red chalk along his temple. “Remind me why I'm helping again? We've fairly well established that fiddly delicate bullshit like this isn't, y’know…” Dreok snaps his fingers, a ball of lightning sparking to life in his palm. “...exactly my thing.” Taiga looks up, a smudge of blue across her nose. “No, it's not,” she agrees, completing the ring of salt-sand sigils around both of them anyway. “I don't need synchronicity or mirroring or anything like that,” she says, grinning as she seizes his hand--and his handful of lighting. The sigils flare bright, burning white as lightning crackles harmlessly up her arm. “What I need is power, and you've got that in spades with a direct tie to Elemental Air.” She snaps her fingers, mimicking a Magus, and all the dozens of candles in the room flash into white light. “I don't know how far or long I'll have to look, so I want as much as you can give me.” “Sure you can handle it?” Dreok grins, waggling his eyebrows outrageously and taking her other hand. “Ooooh Dreok,” she coos in falsetto, sputtering off into a laugh as they settle into the circle. Dreok grins, calling his crown of eldritch stars into life as his lightnings crawl up her arms to her face, pooling in her eyes. She shudders, loose threads of her hair dancing in the static, and begins calling the Winds in all their glory. The West, typhoon and sea air and homecoming. Dreok leans close, whispers its true name in her ear as a breeze rich with salt and seaweed ripples through the open window. The South, sandstorm and crushing heat and warning. Another whispered name, another breeze through the window. Varric climbs carefully off the sill as loose papers begin to rustle on the workbench. The East, darkness and light and magic gone awry, The open pages of Vorel Foxglove's books flap wildly and Kaitos’ cards are blown off the table entirely. The North, whitecapped mountains and deep forest and snow, The last and strongest wind roars into the room, bringing all the fury of the impending winter, upsetting books and sending papers whirling around the spellcasters. “Where the hell is your focus?” Dreok yells over the trapped winds. “My what?” Taiga asks. “Your focus! How are you going to control them?” “How should I know?! I don't deal with Elementals!” “You have to be joking,” he groans, dismayed. “Fine. Varric, untie her hair!” “Are you crazy?!” Taiga yelps, as Varric yanks the securing knot out of her braid. Her long tresses immediately fly free, tangling wildly in the multidirectional gale. “I hate you so much,” she growls. Dreok shrugs unrepentantly. “Your fault for not giving it a focus. Can't bind the winds, you can only catch it's interest for a little while. And clearly it likes you.” Around them, the papers, scrolls and books have settled onto tables and floor, the Winds instead causing her hair to writhe and twine like snakes, like seaweed, like ribbons in the air. She sighs as a large section of hair is invisibly woven into a complicated plait and unraveled over and over. “Right. We have the Winds. Now, who are we calling?” Kaitos reshuffles his cards. “Well, a priest, obviously.” Hundreds of thousands of pinpoints of multicolored light splinter off from the candles, whirling in dizzying patterns. “Narrow it down a little?” Taiga hisses testily. “Warrior order, preferably nomadic,” Varric suggests, brushing wind-scattered wood shavings off the workbench. Thousands of lights flicker out, shades of blue, green, purple, gold and white fading away. “Not aligned with anything evil,” Kaitos chimes in hastily, causing all the eerie blue-black glowing spots vanishing with a hiss, along with half the red and a few orange. “Strong of heart, will, and body would be a bonus,” from Dreok. A scant handful of lights remain. “And for the sake of all the stars and little fishes, give them a sense of humor,” Taiga groans. The lights wink out but for one, shining wine-red. “Got him,” Taiga says, grinning fiercely as threads of her wind-spun hair encircle the tiny red star, pulling it down to hover between her and Dreok. “I ask you, children of Air, find this Cleric and bring him to us in Magnimar. Give us a way to find him.” The light begins to spin wildly, rising into the air, taking her hair with it--only to plummet down, darting into her chest. She freezes, gasping in pain and horror as a long, bloody line opens up just below her breastbone. Dreok catches her as she slumps forward, revealing a matching wound on her back, as though she had been run through. She shudders in his arms as blood spreads, her hair falling limp around them both as salt and sand and tiny red star are swept wildly out the window. Varric and Kaitos join them on the cleanswept floor as she sits up carefully, running her hands over her uninjured stomach. Dreok peels her ruined shirt away from her body, showing a bloody smear shaped like a twelve-toothed gear. “I have no idea what this means.” Taiga shrugs. “I guess we'll find out in Magnimar?” ~~~ Magnimar is immense. A major port-of-call and the intersection more than one nation-spanning road, resulting in a bustling metropolis rich in trade, politics and adventurers alike. Consequently, a swamp witch, a warrior-prince, a magus and a ranger with a horse-sized weasel are just four more faces in the crowd. Something of a shock for the Heroes of Sandpoint, who now have to actually pay for their beer and get thrown out of no less than three bars for balking at big-city price gouging. Two solid weeks of horseback travel, rough camping in freezing autumn rain and the Elemental-aided Sending had left Taiga with a constant low-grade headache. Her new semi-permanent psychic link to their mysterious Cleric and the resulting baffling series of bizarre divinity-flavored nightmares meant that Dreok and Kaitos were currently being dragged by their sleeves through the Religious District, past the rich, glorious cathedrals dedicated to Light and Glory and Truth and the Elements. Street preachers and hawkers try and fail to convert them away from or to various temptations as they moved deeper into the rougher areas dedicated to less benevolent or forgotten gods, Strength and Chaos and Darkness. Taiga releases the swordsmen, allowing them to rest hands on sword hilts, watching the darkened alleys warily. She stands in front of a somewhat tumbledown chapel dedicated to some obscure God of Madness or other--the symbology was largely obscured by graffiti--her hand over the itching phantom wound in her belly. Varric casually stomps on the instep of a particularly foolish pickpocket, who curses and flees at Willow’s enthusiastic snarl. “Can you even set foot in a church?” Dreok asks idly, contemplating a pair of particularly detailed if stained guardian chimaera statues across the street. “Or does the Witch thing mean you just automatically burst into flames?” “Dunno,” she replies. “I got thrown out of a chapel of Sarenrae once but that was because I had a vision that the High Priest didn't care for, rather than pyrotechnics. Maybe that would have come later.” “What was the vision about?” Kaitos asks curiously. “Him losing his position for being an arrogant, uncharitable pig and rejecting people from sanctuary on grounds of personal taste. Ironic, innit?” She digs her fingers into her stomach, glancing around the street, turning in place before settling on a seedy looking building marked with the sign of a red crocodile pouring ale into its gaping grin. “A bar? We’re going to find our Cleric in a bar?” Dreok asks. “Did you really expect otherwise?” Taiga grins, pushing the door open on squealing hinges. The pervasive drizzling cloud cover parts for a moment as she does, allowing a wide shaft of sunlight to pour into the dim confines of the taproom. Dusty gold light flashes off the hilt of a monstrous claymore strapped to the back of a broad-shouldered man in a heavy, wine-red cloak sitting at the bar. “Daevaris?” she calls simply, a strange word from a stranger tongue cutting through the rain and dust and golden light. The man straightens, half turns to the door. The dusty light turns his deep brown eyes to reddish-amber in his dark-tanned face. He watches the Heroes calmly, and nods. “And here I thought you’d never show,” he says in heavily accented tradespeech, smiling warmly and waving them over to the bar. “I was getting tired of waiting.” “It's a ten day ride from Sandpoint even in good weather,” Varric shrugs as Willow carefully weaves between the cramped tables and manages to knock over less than five empty chairs. The Cleric laughs and signals for another round. “I've been waiting in Magnimar since the autumn equinox.” Taiga starts. “That's not possible, I Sent for you two weeks ago.” “So you did,” he nods. “But it's a long way from Azir. If I'd gotten the sending just then, I’d never have made it here in time. My God intervened and brought your Sending to me earlier last year.” “Azir?” Kaitos yelps. “Last year?” Dreok sputters, coughing on cheap, flat ale. “That explains why I kept dreaming that I was in Nirmathast.” Taiga mutters. Daevaris shrugs easily, reaching over his shoulder to tap the elegantly worked hilt of his sword, the whole thing carved as though it were made of steel gears and clockwork. “It's not exactly unusual for Timekeeper. It's His duty to see that everything happens when it should, and to manipulate Time until it does. He ensured that we would meet when we needed to, and here I am.” “I've never heard of ‘Timekeeper’, is he region-specific?” Dreok asks skeptically. “Not originally,” Daevaris says, shaking his head. “But the number of active followers and practitioners tends to diminish rapidly when a deity--and his whole pantheon--has been dead for millennia.” “That would do the trick.” Taiga decisively slaps her hands on the sticky bar top and instantly regrets it, grimacing. “The important question, Daevaris--” “Dave is fine.” “Dave, then. The important question is ‘How do you feel about ransacking the townhouse of a minor noble turned insane fungus ghoul and serial ritual murderer?’” she asks, grinning brightly. “If you made it up from Azir alive, I’d say you're sufficiently crazy enough to want to tag along.” ~~~ The Foxglove family townhouse is a lovely three-story building set in a district full of similar “new money” families. Tradesmen and prospectors rub shoulders with artificers and alchemists. The front gate is closed but unlocked, and a single groundskeeper waves cheerfully from the front garden, piling mulch around winter-trimmed hedges and flower beds. “Suspect you’re here to see the missus!” he hollers, straightening and waving them in, pressing his free hand to his lower back. The Heroes glance around awkwardly. Unless Aldern had yet another mistress, “the missus” is several small piles of ash buried deep beneath the wreckage of Foxglove Manor. As they enter the gardens, the front door is thrown open by a widely smiling young woman with long, curling dark hair and a red-gold scarf draped over her shoulders. Taiga glances down at its twin still wrapped around her waist as Ilyena Foxglove bids them welcome, saying she recognized them from her dear Aldern’s stories, and how they’d saved him from not only goblins but that wretched boar. She babbles on cheerfully as she leads them into the sitting room, insisting that they stay for dinner, it’s the least she could do, and calling for her husband. An equally hale and happy Aldern Foxglove steps out of a side room, welcoming them. “Aldern, you’re looking… Healthy,” Dreok says awkwardly. “Thanks to you,” he smiles ruefully. “After that mess in Tickwood I realized the country life wasn’t really for me, you know? How have things been in Sandpoint?” “Oh, you know. Damp, kinda dull, full of homicidal whackjobs carving weird symbols into their victims and turning their wives into revenants.” “Ah, you found her then, did you?” Aldern asks as the gardener steps into the room, bolting the door behind him. A serving maid peeks into the sitting room from the kitchen and does the same. “Among other things,” Kaitos growls, drawing his sword. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries then, shall we?” Aldern asks, grinning widely until his features melt away entirely into a shapeless mass, its clothes absorbing into the spongy flesh of its true form. “Ilyena”, the “maid” and the “gardener” follow suit, lashing out with slimy claws. Kaitos and Dreok quickly dispatch the faceless monsters, leaving them in smoking pieces on the utterly ruined carpets. Exploration of the upstairs indicates that the house had been empty for months, with the imposters maintaining only the bottom floor for the sake of appearances. The upstairs suites are dusty and ransacked by looters. A hidden cache reveals the deed to both the townhouse and the Manor, indicating that both had been partially funded by the Brotherhood of Seven, backed by collateral in the form of the “Seven’s Sawmill”. Dave confirms that the Seven’s Sawmill is in Magnimar, one of several along the river, and that he’d be happy to tag along with the group.
"Dave" is Kaitos' cohort via the Leadership feat. Varric is Dreok's. Taiga was going to have one, but I got lazy and have enough to deal with trying to be GM + Player + NPCs + Enemies to have a cohort.
Leadership! Leadership can be broken as hell but I've had fun with it. The fighter in my "Rain of Black Fire" campaign uses it to maintain a small township rather than bringing an army on adventure so it's fine. It seems like with your party of 2 players it makes a lot of sense, though.
It definitely makes the party less broken and more versatile. They're mostly using it for their cohorts, but they also have the lower-grade minions building a magical/martial training facility back in Sandpoint in the remains of Thistletop Fortress because clearly Sandpoint's militia isn't cutting it. Which reminds me I need to pay them their "stipend" from town income.
Book II Part VI: The Seven's Sawmill aka "Dreoooooooook, that kills people!" The mill is under full operation despite the heavy autumn rains, the swollen river driving its heavy water wheels hard enough that the sounds of machinery are audible over the wind, rain and roaring water. The shipping entrance is unguarded, all the workers taking shelter from the rains and confident the heavy chains barring the gate will deter passerby. Naturally Kaitos picks the heavy, simple padlock, the rattling of the chains masked by rain and river and machinery. No one stops them from hiking around the loading deck and down the stairwell to a maintenance entrance labeled “Employees Only”. Kaitos picks the lock, opening the door onto several busy workmen in heavy coveralls and tool belts operating and maintaining the four massive, spinning waterwheels. Others operate a panel of heavy levers designed to direct the mill’s power through a series of pistons and gears to the upper floors. One of the workers looks up and waves cautiously, yelling over the roaring waterwheels. “G’day, folks? Is there anything I can help y’all with? This area ain’t exactly safe for civilians, got a lot of heavy machinery and work t’do. Any shipping or production questions are handled upstairs.” “Not interested in shipping,” Dreok shouts, “Who are you people?” The mill worker snorts, cleaning his hands off on a rag as he drawls, “Well, last I checked, I’m Danner, and I’m foreman of this team of assholes runnin’ this particularly dangerous level of the mill. Fact, I’m pretty sure we’re all mill workers, seeing as you found us all working down in the maintenance area of a successful, fully operational mill. Ain’t that right, Tav?” “Speak for yerself!” another worker yells from the rafters, where he is repairing a winch line. “ I woke up here hungover as shit and you threw me a toolbelt tellin’ me to get my ass to work. Last I checked, I was a tailor!” Danner chuckles. “Don’t mind him. Now if that’s all, I suggest you folks head back up to the shipping docks.” “Fine, you want to be rude?” Dreok scowls and calls lightning to his hands. “We’ll do this the hard way. Tell us about the Skinsaw and the Brotherhood of Seven.” “I honestly thought that was a perfectly reasonable response,” Taiga mutters to Kaitos, who snickers. “Clearly he’s never worked retail.” Danner sucks air through his teeth and tosses his rag aside, pulling an oversized straight razor from behind his belt. “Up and at ‘em boys, we’ve got trespassers!” Mill workers arm themselves with suspiciously similar straight razors and throw themselves at the Heroes. Several of them attempt to rush Dreok and drive him sideways into the open millwheels only to be swept aside in a torrent of wildfire. Dave is bowled over the railing by another Skinsaw, pummeled and shoved underwater by the rumbling wheels until Varric drops his bow to haul the cleric out by the scruff, nearly falling in himself when a punishing sword slash from Kaitos sends a third and fourth Skinsaw reeling backwards into the machinery. Dreok exchanges lightning-edged blows with Danner as Kaitos somehow, improbably, manages to decapitate one Skinsaw and slit the throat of another on the backswing. A completely unfazed Taiga pulls the water from Dave’s lungs, as Varric turns the two remaining Skinsaw cultists into pincushions. Varric helps drag Dave up the stairs after Kaitos and a cheerfully humming Dreok. The ground floor is occupied by another team of workers loading and packing a series of pallets with freshly cut lumber sent down from the upper floors, and hauling raw, uncut wood up into the rafters via a complicated series of pulleys. Varric shrugs Dave off onto Taiga’s shoulders, who staggers under his weight, pushing hard into his cracked spine until it straightens and heals in a series of sickening pops. They watch as the cultists quickly fall to arrows, swords and magic, their oversized razors unable to cause any significant damage. Taiga ducks out from under Dave’s arm, hikes up her skirts and begins walking up to the next floor before even half the foes have fallen. Dave hesitates in the doorway. “Shouldn't we…?” “Nah, they'll be fine,” Taiga yells down over the sound of saws and screaming. “C’mon, Lusus says the next floor is the workshop.” The men arrive upstairs to find Taiga sitting on the floor outside the workshop, her eyes clouded and glassy white as she scryes through her familiar and sketches a map in the thick layer of sawdust coating the floor. Kaitos combs sweaty hair out of his eyes with bloody fingers. “What'd we miss?” “Nothing yet. Lusus can see eight Skinsaw, scattered around,” Taiga replies, gesturing to her drawing. “There’s four massive in-ground saws running. I'd rather not have to deal with the results of those, so try not to trip.” Dreok cracks his knuckles and nods to the door. “Kaitos, if you’d be so kind?” Kaitos shoves his armored shoulder into the workshop door, breaking the jam inwards, and gestures extravagantly inside as Dreok lobs a rapidly expanding fireball into the center of the room, then reaches past Kaitos to pull the door closed, kicking a large splinter of wood under the threshold to seal it. “Right, next floor, then?” he asks brightly as Taiga slaps a disgusted hand over her face. “You just threw a firebomb into a room literally knee deep in sawdust in a wooden mill.” “Yes.” An enormous whoomph rocks the building to its foundations as the fireball detonates into nearly infinite, powder-dry kindling. “You're going to kill us all.” Dave appears slightly concerned that Taiga’s tone is less accusatorial and more statement of fact. “Shh…Shhhhhhhh... you hear that?” Dreok grins and puts his arm around the scowling Witch, leaning in close. “That's the sound of forgiveness.” “That's the sound of people burning alive, Dreok,” she deadpans. “Evil, serial murdering cultists, not just people. You hate evil, serial murdering cultists.” “You lit a building on fire while we are in it, there is no way you can come out looking good here.” “And on that cheerful note, let's continue upstairs while there’s still an ‘upstairs’, shall we?” Kaitos calls from the next stairwell. “Shouldn't we make sure they’re dead in there?” Dave asks quietly. Dreok chuckles and follows Kaitos up the stairs as Taiga awkwardly pats the Cleric’s shoulder in passing. More cultists upstairs, this group unsurprisingly ready for an attack, given that no matter how loud the mill machinery was, the explosion downstairs and the now scorching-hot, partially collapsed floor are impossible to miss. Taiga hisses out a vicious stream of invective in something other than tradespeech as a section of floor near her crumbles away in a shower of sparks. “Quickly, please!” Dreok and Kaitos grin, racing a hail of arrows into the cluster of cultists. As Skinsaws and floorboards crumble under the onslaught of-- “--More fucking fire, I hate you--” --the sturdy office door in the back swings open, revealing Magnimaran High Justice Ironbriar in full regalia, channeling waves of vile energy that are abruptly cut off by two swords and more arrows than could possibly have been fired that quickly unless the archer took lessons from Robin Hood, Men In Tights. Taiga shoos both swordsmen ahead of her into the office, grimacing at the Justice’s macabre collection connecting him to the many murders in Magnimar--the preserved faces of the victims stretched over wooden frames. Dreok shoves scrolls and papers from the desk into the pockets of his greatcoat and breaks a window out with his sword hilt, taking flight on a harnessed wisp of wind and leaping outside with a whoop. Kaitos hoists a large footlocker onto the windowsill, coughing in the rising smoke as Dreok catches the other handle, letting it hang from his hands as Kaitos clambers up into the frame. Taiga yanks three large white feathers out of her braid, stuffing one down the back of Kaitos’ collar before giving him a sharp shove out the window. She chivvies Dave into his place as Kaitos turns over in midair with a rude gesture and slowly, gently plummets into the river. A befeathered Dave and Varric follow as Taiga throws her staff out the window, where it floats, waiting for her to haul Willow into her arms--three quarters of her own weight in cranky, squawling, muscle and fur--and jumps out the window, riding her staff down to the shoreline. Someone is eventually sent to fish Dave out of the river while Dreok and Taiga dump Ironbriar’s footlocker out right there on the shore and proceed to have a long, loud argument over how many languages the High Justice had worked into his overly complicated journal cipher. They’re still going when the fire-control boats and their elemental mages show up, but they at least have enough translated to assure the constable and later the Mayor that no, really, they did need to burn the entire mill to the ground.
Unfortunately this campaign is sadly finished, as we moved and the group disbanded. Largely because Fighter was a Gary Stu in life and on paper and did a terrible job watching my dogs while we were house hunting.
I was wondering what happened to it. Thanks for sharing while it lasted though. Magus going "~magic~" at credulous peasants has become a running joke with my dad.
I'm sorry to hear that. I feel like my long-running 3.5 game mightve disbanded at this point -- been half a year since we've managed to schedule a session and we've sort of drifted apart. I hope you find another.
@Aviari sorry to hear that, the campaign sounded like a lot of fun to run and participate in. I also enjoyed reading about it. :) I hope you can reuse these great characters in another campaign, especially Taiga (and Daevaris, obviously)—the hints of her backstory have been really intriguing!
