magpieandsons

[magpieandsons]

56 - Finders Keepers

Darrel flips the coin and you call it in the air.

“Heads.”

He catches the coin and slaps it down on the back of his hand to show you. Solaya let’s out another giggle.

“Too bad,” she laughs.

Grinning, you tell him you only want to try it out, bargaining and wheedling with him - but you know you’ve lost fair and square. Finally you shrug and produce the baron’s purse. You lean against the window frame and begin innocently tossing the bag in one hand.

Darrel places the hat on his head and becomes a tall, scowling version of his mother. Normally the old girl is of a height with you; you don’t much like looking upward into that clever, domineering face. Apparently the hat has limitations. You shake your head at Darrel and tell him you’ll split the profits later.

“Solaya?” The three of you turn to find Aydriss standing in the library doorway. The girl skips up to her father. He gives her a one-armed hug across the shoulders and ushers her out. She waves to you and to Darrel as she goes.

Aydriss makes his way to his desk and eases into his chair. He peers briefly at Solaya’s books and papers spread across the surface, then gathers them neatly and sets them to the side. From a low drawer he produces a bottle and three small glasses.

“Friends - I hope I can call you such after all that - I’ve put Caspin Ithildahnin away for now, in a… place-less prison, you might say.”

You doles out the glasses and you and Darrel gratefully accept. It turns out to be a smooth whiskey with a slightly spicy flavor.

“I’ve also put out a call to my side of the family so those of us who are available can gather to discuss his situation and assess the damage he’s done.” A bit of red fire flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone almost instantly. “Also to pass along the heart-ash. And this.” He takes the iron key from his pocket and begins pulling the pieces apart, studying the copied sections carefully. “I never should have agreed to hold on to them with my children in the house. I hate to think what a thief with a more malevolent mind might have done to get them.” He puts the pieces down and takes another sip of his drink.

“In the vein,” he goes on, placing his elbows on the desk, and folding his long, purplish fingers together. “I wonder if I might retain your services? In the future? One day?”

***

You walk Darrel home, both of you enjoying the late afternoon sun - a rarity for your friend, who tends to prefer the dark of his kitchen to anything. The Courier & Guard is all but empty when you arrive. Longmaul is asleep on a bench again. A pair of the fleet-footed teenagers who run simple messages are posted up in a corner arguing over some dice. Magpie is nowhere in sight, and neither is Sweety.

Darrel picks up a half-eaten, market-bought pie from the kitchen counter and shakes his head. He also sniffs the carafe of coffee there, and turns his nose up at it before heading into the kitchen.

You draw a stool up to the counter and empty the bag as unobtrusively as you can. By the time Darrel is sliding a warm noodle dish across to you, you’ve counted up 46 platinum, 13 gold, and 6 silver. Darrel surveys the neat piles you’ve made then, looking you straight in the eye, he slides 10 platinum and all the gold and silver across to his side of the counter. Without a word, you bag up the rest and put it away. You hold your hand out to him to shake and he accepts, grinning, then picks up his bowl and disappears into the depths of his kitchen.

Finishing your meal, you call a goodbye, and head home for a long, much-needed, rest.

[magpieandsons]

55 - Outta the Way

You and Caspin both move at the same time. You throw yourself at Aydriss as the baron rises and stabs out with the concealed knife. You feel the blade swipe past your arm, then the elvish man lands half on top of you. The three of you roll across the ground, tangled together.

Caspin starts to say something which might be a curse, and might be spell words; you don’t wait to find out which. Your angle is awkward, but you haul back and aim a solid punch at his mouth. You catch him just under the chin, snapping his head back. He becomes a dead weight again, landing on top of you with a groan.

Darrel appears above you. He drags the unconscious man up and moves away. You lie very still for several breaths, trying to assess whether any part of you has been violently stabbed. You feel more or less in one piece, so you start to sit up, and find your vest has been neatly pinned to the ground by the knife that has failed to kill you at least twice now. You wrench it from a crack in the stone, inspecting both the blade and your side for blood. You find none.

Aydriss sits beside you, breathing hard, eyes wide, one hand rubbing back and forth over his mouth. He meets your eyes, and just shakes his head.

You ask him if he’s alright. In reply, he looks down at the baron’s purse still in his grasp. He tosses it to you. You heft it in your hand. It seems impolite to look inside just now, but you like the weight and sound of it. You tuck it away.

Darrel has already re-tied Caspin’s wrists, and is fitting a makeshift gag around the man’s lolling head, using strips of cloth cut from the baron’s own coat. He asks, by way of confirming, if Aydriss is a healer.

“I’m - uh, well not by trade as such. I’m a cleric of Azuth and with any religious study there’s a certain amount of-”

Your friend waves him quiet and sets about methodically breaking Caspin’s wrists and ankles. You grimace at the first wet snapping sound, but you’re forced to admire his ruthless efficiency. Beside you Aydriss wretches a little.

Somewhere halfway through, Caspin rouses enough to start screaming into his gag and Aydriss gets to his feet with the air of a person who needs a distraction. Similarly inclined, you make your way to Murph’s body where Darrel dropped it. You saw through his belt, and remove the knife’s sheath. The weapon is more like a large dagger for you, but it seems well-made and worth keeping, especially after it spared you twice.

By the time Darrel has the baron and the body of his valet secure again, Aydriss has composed himself. Holding the bangle between two palms, he begins to work whatever magic is contained there.

He opens his hands out flat, and the bracelet hangs in air, and begins to spin, its symbols leaching a thin vapor. You’re caught up watching the motion, and you miss the moment when the world around you changes, and the garden is left behind. You’ve been transported by magical means a handful of times in your life, and there’s always a moment of disorientation as your perception catches up. This time is no different; it takes a few blinks and a shake of your head to convince your eyes that you’re staring at a table filled with magic-worker’s tools in a dark room, rather than a bier and a statue in a bright garden. In time you recognize Aydriss’ workroom.

“If you’ll leave my cousin and the - uh - corpse here,” he instructs Darrel, “and wait a moment in my library while I put the pair of them somewhere safe.” Darrel drops them both, eliciting a muffled shout from Caspin.

Smirking, you lead your orcish friend through to the library. In the spacious room, with its towering shelves, you ignore the alarmed gasps of the teenager seated behind Aydriss’ desk. You make a straight line for a window seat on the far side. Sunlight, real, warm, and blinding, is streaming through. Though mostly healed, you’re still a little achy and utterly exhausted. You stretch out in the sunshine on the cushions like a cat, and listen to Darrel awkwardly introducing himself to Solaya.

You doze, unapologetically, relishing the sun and a slight breeze. When you open your eyes, you’re surprised to find two Darrels staring down at you. As you rush to sit up, one of the hulking figures bends over in a helpless fit of high-voiced giggles, which only compounds the absurdity. You would start to believe you’d lost your wits entirely, but thankfully Solaya doffs her father’s odd hat. The orcish shape melts away around her. She gives Darrel a grand bow and hands the hat back to him. He grins, and applauds as he accepts it.

You hold out a hand to him, and ask if you can give it a try. He tips his head to the side, looking it over, then looking back at you. Finally he pulls a bright platinum coin - doubtless one of the ones you paid him with - from his pocket.

“Call it.”

- Heads

- Tails

https://strawpoll.com/s4c8cskz poll ends 6/15/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

54 - You… Wanna Talk About It?

As tactfully as you can, you ask Aydriss about his ancestor. He brushes his fingers along the statue’s head and gives a slight shrug.

“She killed herself,” he murmurs, “for our sake.” He shakes his head as though trying to clear it, and glances down at you. A look of annoyance flashes over his features. “I don’t know if I’m prepared to unburden my sordid family history to a thief though.”

You apologize, letting him know you read the plaque, and that Caspin had also been somewhat reticent with details.

His lip twitches, and he looks around at the slowly recovering garden. “What did he tell you, then? Did he call us Ithildaerow? The foul betrayers? It’s the other way around in fact - though how like a pair of warring sides to each claim betrayal of the other.” He crouches down, and sits with his back to the bier, looking away from you. Darrel gets up and wanders off to smell some fresh-blooming lilacs. “We’re caught a little longer here before I can take us away,” he holds up his right hand, shaking a bronze bangle worked round with signs and sigils. “Unless you want to take the long way out,” he adds, gesturing to the entrance past the valet’s body.

You tell him no, thank you.

Aydriss sits silently for a moment, one finger running back and forth over the curl of his left horn, and you can almost feel him thinking deeply. “Alright. Okay. I’ll tell you the tale as it was told to me, and as I have told it to my dear Solaya, and as I’ll one day tell it to my little Mercy.

“It begins, as so much joy and strife in this life does, with love. Wycroft Theslemarius and Ithilde Trisar were very much in love. Amid great celebration, they married and made a life together on a lovely estate near Deepwater Bay. They were both strong, talented, ambitious women who sought to grow their magics and learn the mysteries of the universe.

“With time, however, a second plan formed - an idea to create a long line of powerful elvish wizards and sorcerers, all children of their blood. But how best to mingle their essence? Each pursued the puzzle on her own, and Ithilde was the first to find a solution. The plan she proposed would be costly, painful, dangerous for them both, and the magics to build it would take a long time to complete.

“Ithilde reasoned “Parenthood is always costly, there is always risk - but I’m prepared to do this work with you beside me.” But Wycroft was frustrated by the idea. And soon after, she proposed her own.

“A man had come to her as she walked the caves at the border of their land and with no prompting he offered a solution to their wish. He was a figure of great power on another plane, he told her, and he could mingle his magic with hers and Ithilde’s, bind their essence together, and show them how to spark life. He named himself as Molikorth.

“Ithilde, who’s study had included the planes of existence, knew the name to be an alias of Mephistopheles, King of Cania, and Lord of the Eighth Circle of the Nine Hells. She rejected the proposal outright, informing her wife of Molikorth’s identity and swearing that if they accepted his offer, there would be a terrible price.

“Wycroft, who had seen displays of the Molikorth’s strength, and who thought herself clever, replied “So what? If there is a cost either way, at least these results will be quick and certain.” In her hubris, she believed she could make a deal with a devil, and keep herself free.

“Ithilde told her “I would gladly brave the hells for your sake, my love, but I will not knit my soul to them for anything.” Wycroft was much aggrieved by this rejection.

“And here we come to the first betrayal, as my side of the family tallies the offenses. For Molikorth whispered in Wycrofts ear, as devils will do. And he told of a glamour which would hold her wife in thrall until the deal was made and their children were ready for birth. And Wycroft said yes to him. She took Ithilde’s will from her and forced her to swear her service to Molikorth in exchange for the children he promised.

“It wasn’t until Ithilde was laid low with labor pains that the glamour faded. As she came to her senses, she became aware of the magic which bound her life and her soul to Molikorth, not to mention those of the children. In her study of the planes, she knew a way to banish Molikorth, to free herself and, she hoped, her wife and children too. Molikorth warned it would cost Ithilde her life to attempt it. She looked upon her love, who had betrayed her, told the devil it was worth it, and she cast him out of the prime material.

“Her own link, bound by a promise built on a lie, was neatly broken. Wycroft’s was not, for she had made her choice the moment he offered up his plan in the cave - this cave. And the children - well, Molikorth will always be with us, but down the line we have made our choice to serve him or to live free. We call each other names - Ithildahnin, Ithilde the Loyal; Ithildaerow, Ithilde the Betrayer. And those of us who are free are often born tiefling, with our history marked upon us, honest to the world, and in full possession of all our power. And the elvish side hides their heritage, rejects tiefling children as born betrayers, and lies to the world about their grandmothers. They rise in power, and greatness in society, but always grasp for more so they might call Molikorth into this plane again some day.”

Aydriss turns then and looks you in the eye. “We pass the heart-ash between us, keeping it out of their reach. Caspin would have bled you dry, fed your life to Wycroft’s spoiled heart, and revived her to further her plans and open a gateway to the Lord of Cania.”

Behind you, Darrel lets out a low whistle. You make a rude gesture towards your friend, and offer Aydriss an apology.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and gets to his feet. “It’s not as though you’re the first person members of my family have hired on pretense and retained by lies.” He peers at the ornamented bangle on his wrist. “Shall we try it now?”

You follow Aydriss as he makes his way to the entrance. Darrel lifts Murph’s body under one arm. Aydriss takes a knee beside his cousin, and waves you close as he reaches into one of the baron’s pockets. “I hope you don’t feel it’s unworthy of me,” he says, “If I supplement your pay from my cousin’s purse. I’m not as wealthy as he, and he’s already put me to some trouble.” He looks at you with a crooked smile. “I’m hesitant even to ask but: how much do I owe you?”

You see it in a split second, and you're certain your companions don’t: the odd twist to the wrists against the winding of the rope, the slight fraying there, Caspin’s eyes open to slits, and a glint of metal, mostly concealed beneath loosened sleeves. Feeling as though time has slowed, you glance to the dead man’s hip where Darrel is holding him beside you. Murph’s knife is gone.

- Grab Caspin’s hands.

- Push Aydriss out of the way.

https://strawpoll.com/8krbw392 poll ends 6/13/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

53 - Can You Sign For This?

Breathing hard and hurting all over, you stare up into eyes that feel like doom itself. You start to shake your head, a helpless laugh bubbling up out of you, then turning quickly to a cough. You give the bright form a sideways look out of watering, squinting eyes, and grin. You spread your arms wide.

“Magpie sent me.”

For a long moment, the figure doesn’t move. You watch each other, Darrel standing tensely at your side, and the garden burning down around you. The wind and thunder have subsided, though waves of cold and heat wash out at you from the inner chamber by turns.

Without warning, Caspin pops back into being in the space between the burning devil and yourself startling you and - to your surprise - the devil. The baron appears confused and shaken, and starts to rise to his feet. The fiery creature curses and gestures with both hands again. Caspin disappears once more.

Reaching up, the hulking figure touches its head; the fire on its skin burns itself out, and the form melts away to a much smaller, horned shape. Before you stands a well dressed tiefling with reddish-purple skin and stark white hair, an odd-looking cap in his hands.

“I can only keep him away for a minute or so, and I can’t do it a third time,” Aydriss informs you. “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

You look up at the man, your eyes squinting, your mouth hanging open, too baffled to speak. Your tired mind keeps turning over the sight in front of you, and the thought that you aren’t dead yet. Aydriss seems to mistake your confusion for hesitance or a desire to bargain.

“I’ll heal your wounds. As soon as he’s secured. Please.”

“The hat too.”

Both of you look up at Darrel. He shrugs.

“Fine,” Aydriss says in frustration, tossing the cap to your friend. “Quickly please, he’s returning.”

Darrel pockets the odd hat, and slides into position where the Baron disappeared. A few seconds later Caspin pops back in and Darrel grabs him before he even seems to know where he is. Your orcish friend pins the man’s arms to his sides, knocks him over, and slams his head against the ground. Caspin goes limp.

“Don’t kill him!” Aydriss begs.

Darrel cocks his head to the side, and you echo his uncertainty, questioning the man’s forbearance.

“He is family, of a sort,” Aydriss says, taking a knee beside his cousin and checking him over swiftly.

Once he’s satisfied the wizard is unconscious but not in danger, he begins working his way through Caspin’s pockets and removing his bag. Some objects he tucks away on his person, the rest he leaves in a pile out of easy reach.

“It’s the work of generations, keeping this bunch from bringing the hells down upon us,” he says as he rifles through the baron’s possessions. “Keeping them away from this place... fixing the damage they do when they get inside… guarding the heart-ash.” He looks up suddenly and casts about, finding the urn on its side, though still closed. He picks it up carefully, and stands.

You wince, the urn’s red, pulsing light almost too much to bear. You feel a deep need to move away from it, and you try to stand. It’s too much. You can’t get your feet under you. All you want is to lay down. So you do.

When you wake, you’re pleasantly warm. The sun shines on your face and the earth beneath you is soft. Your aches are mostly gone, and you feel the itch of new-healed skin across your forehead where you were burned, and along your cheek where you were cut. It isn’t until you smell the slight whiff of brimstone that you remember where you are, and sit up in a hurry.

You’ve been moved to a bit of level ground beside Ithilde’s coffin. Darrel squats in the moss nearby, chewing on a stripped twig like it’s a bit of straw. He’s watching, captivated, as the wall rebuilds itself. Bits of sand and dust gather together near the ground, as though swept into a pile by invisible hands. Slowly, they form irregular chunks which rise, and slot into place, melding with the pieces that are already there, becoming one, smooth whole again.

You take a look about you and find the garden is not the burned wreck you would expect, though neither is it the lush landscape you saw when you first entered. The vines and bushes are awash in new, spring-green growth, slim shoots and immature buds bursting from blackened branches. The progress of the spreading shrubs and climbing vines is quick enough to catch if you watch it for several seconds. The moss is recovering steadily, wilted and burned areas being churned under by new growth.

Far back near the entrance, Murph’s body has been laid out, a handkerchief over his face. Beside him lies Caspin. The baron is still, his hands and feet bound.

Aydriss stands poised at the foot of Ithilde’s grave, hands clasped over his heart, head bowed, seemingly in prayer. As you watch him, his eyes open. For a moment they glow, then they calm to a more normal red. He lets out a breath, and braces himself against the sarcophagus. He gives you a tired smile.

“All to rights - though it may mean years off my life.” The smile fades, and his study of you becomes more critical. “You’re tricky, friend. I never would have let you leave my home in one piece if I’d know you had this and the heart-ash on your person.” He produces the iron key from a pocket, then makes his way past you.

You follow his progress across the garden, turning to find the wall is complete, including the imposing doors with their complex seal. You can’t see how he does it, but you hear the clank of tumblers as Aydriss works the lock. You are able to glimpse the circular gesture he makes around the symbols, and to see them flare briefly then go dark. He returns to the bier, laying a gentle hand beside the statue’s head. With a sigh, he tucks the key away again in some inner pocket.

You clear your throat.

- What will happen to Caspin?

- How did Ithilde die?

- So when am I getting paid?

https://strawpoll.com/1e44hk14 poll ends 6/11/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

52 - Roll Away

You lift your legs, throwing your body off the far side of the bier. You land in the dry, brown, crumbling moss, then leap to your feet. A gust of wind buffets you as you tear across the rapidly wilting garden, leaves and twigs flying into your face.

You’ve almost reached the entrance when another bolt of lightning blasts out of the sky, striking the threshold, and throwing you onto your back. You blink away the dazzle of blinding white light only to find the dark shape of Murph rising above you. You scrabble backward, and one wildly reaching hand closes over the darkened lantern where he discarded it when he entered. As your vision clears, his face resolves into a red, abraded mess on one side. You strike out with the lantern, aiming to make the other side match.

His hand intercepts yours this time and you scream in pain as he hauls you up by your bad arm. While the last of the false sunlight fades, you find yourself staring into his cold, merciless eyes.

“Oh Lord of Cania,” Caspin’s voice rings through the chamber. “Hear one borne of your power. Father Mephistopheles, Molikorth, Lord of the Eighth Circle, I seek to revive your servant-” the voice transitions to language somehow both slick and jagged at once, which you can only assume is Infernal. Murph begins to smile.

A shadow rises up behind him.

Easy as can be, thick, ropy fingers slide around the human’s neck. His eyes go wide and he opens his mouth for a last, gasping breath. With a sickening snap, his head jerks to the side, and his grip on you goes slack. You tumble to the ground. The looming form of Darrel tosses the valet away, and reaches out to help you up.

You open your mouth to thank him, and to tell him the both of you should run, when the nearby doors swing closed with a solid crash. You feel a sudden building of pressure in your ears and you cover your face, swiping at Darrel’s knee to tell him to do the same. Several bolts of lighting strike at once throughout the chamber. When you raise your head again, flames are climbing the vines along the walls and spreading over the carpet of moss.

Astonishingly, Caspin still stands before the doors to the inner chamber, arms upraised. He calls out again. “Betrayers of Wycroft Theslemarius - you cannot stop her rise!”

The far wall begins to crumble, the stone slowly turning to sand and tiny shards, and sifting to the ground. Sounds of grinding, popping, and the clatter of bits of rock fill the air. You and Darrel stand frozen, watching by the firelight. The harsh, but natural smell of burning vegetation becomes mixed with a different scent of burning as the wall falls away. A more caustic, metallic smell, of brimstone and molten earth, washes over you. You both begin to cough as the innermost chamber of the Tomb is revealed.

Wycroft’s resting place stands in mockery of her wife’s. The cavern is an improbable pit of ice and lava flows. Jagged points of stone hang from the ceiling and rise from the ground, covered over in a thin layer of crystalline ice. Snow and ash rain from the soot-covered ceiling. An icy pathway runs between two rivers of lava towards a second bier or altar. Upon that stained and pitted platform is no elegant memorial, but a seared, blackened mummy reaching skyward with tortured, grasping hands.

Caspin raises the urn high above his head, and a red pulsing light emanates from within. It hurts your eyes more than the heat and the smoke filling the garden. An answering glow begins to throb within the body on the altar.

Slowly, Caspin turns, his eyes finding you instantly. They’re wild and enlivened, panicked and thrilled at once. One arm still holding the urn aloft, his other hand stretches out to you, and closes to a fist. About your neck hangs a silver chain, half-forgotten, and on it a protective pendant of tourmaline. The pendant rises and pulls toward it’s maker. The force of it jerks you forward. Darrel reaches out to hold you back, but the chain is biting into your neck. He takes hold of the silver instead, fighting Caspin’s magical grip on the necklace. Both of you are pulled, stumbling across the garden through the fires, past the bier before Darrel manages to pull back on the chain just enough for you to duck your head out of it. The pendant flies into the baron’s hand, but he tosses it aside and reaches out for you again.

Before his magic can take hold of some part of you, a form flares up in the room behind him. A shape made of bright, white flame, topped with curling horns dripping fire, unfolds itself to stand above him. Caspin turns, falling to his knees.

“Great one!” you hear him cry in ecstatic fear. “I serve thee!”

The bright figure puts out two hands, and a rumbling voice speaks words you don’t understand. Caspin seems to blink out of existence, leaving you and Darrel alone with the flaming figure. It studies you with eyes like dark coals within a raging inferno. Your legs shake, and you fall to your knees, exhaustion beginning to overtake you. The booming voice speaks again, this time in Common.

“Whom. Do. You. Serve.”

- I serve no one.

- Molikorth

- Magpie sent me.

https://strawpoll.com/7xsb2hf2 poll ends 6/9/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

51 - A Gnome Divided

Your stomach sinks with the dawning realization that you have been royally screwed. The pair of them might never have needed your help to get them this far. You fear you’ve been led here for no other purpose than to play sacrifice to whatever terror they plan to raise from the inner chamber.

You look right, to the outer door. You look left thinking to put the bier between you and the approaching human. In your moment of indecision, Murph sees you preparing to run. The valet lunges at you, aiming a fist for your bad arm. Fortunately he miscalculates a bit, assuming the wound is to the arm itself and striking there, sparing your shoulder the full blow. You double over regardless and Murph takes hold of you, lifting you on to the bier and pressing you down against the statue.

“Wycroft must wake,” he tells you grimly as you struggle. “Molikorth must rise.” He lifts the knife. “This is your place in the path of things.”

He cuts away at the sling binding your arm in place, then at the collar of your shirt. You hold yourself as still as possible while the knife is so near your neck, but your eyes shift about wildly, desperately searching for an opening. Above you the false sky continues to darken, swirling with clouds.

“I can make this go quickly,” Murph assures you.

Your skin exposed, he wastes no time, stabbing downward at your neck. You jerk away as hard as you can, jostling him. The knife lands a deep cut along your jaw, leaving a cold, sickening line of pain there. Blood flows from the wound, but you don’t think he hit anything serious.

The man curses in frustration and slips the knife into his belt, not bothering to sheath it properly. He takes up the stone bowl from where he left it near the statue’s arm. Moving it to a flat space near her feet, he drags you atop her legs to angle your bleeding wound over the vessel.

“Very well,” he says, “slowly then.”

Bruised, burned, and bleeding, you gaze in stark terror at the curve of the dome above, and the ebb and flow of the clouds there. Abruptly they seem to clench and seize; a flash of light burst through the room, and a second later a crack of thunder. Murph lets go of you and backs away a step, staring up into the false sky.

“My lord?” he calls to Caspin.

“Ignore it!” Caspin returns, and you realize both of them are shouting over the rising wind. “I have the wand!”

You half-raise yourself from where you lay, looking toward the baron. From his bag he’s pulled a long wand with an odd, irregular shape. He points it towards the doors and speaks a word. A clanging knock, like a giant metal fist striking a metal door fills the air. The glowing Common symbols around the lock flare and one of them goes out. As if in answer, the sky shivers again and lets loose another flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder.

Murph notices you’ve shifted position and shoves you down again. He reaches for his knife once more, but you struggle on, determined not to give him the chance. You try to get your feet up to kick at him.

Caspin’s voice rings out again, followed by a second clang. Another flash fills the room, and this time a bolt of electricity with it, lancing out of the sky to strike a bush not far from the doors. You and Murph both flinch away from the blast. When you sit up, you see Caspin still standing at the doors, one hand pressed against them, looking for all the world like he hasn’t even noticed.

Along with the sunlight, the vitality seems to be fading from the garden as well; the dry, withering bush catches fire. Murph’s attention wavers as flames lick along the branches so close to his master. Unseen, your left hand reaches back, and you manage to grasp the stone bowl. In one smooth motion you swing your arm around, aiming for his head, and catching him just along the cheekbone. He stumbles backward.

- Grab his knife!

- Roll off the other side of the bier and run!

https://strawpoll.com/xx8c2s24 poll ends 6/7/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

50 - Open This Damned Lock

You run your fingers around the circle of symbols thoughtfully. Your tired mind keeps coming back to the Infernal marks and their mysterious syllables, until you’ve convinced yourself they must be the answer.

You insert the key and turn it slowly until you feel the tick beneath the symbol “mo.” With a little pressure, the key slips further into the lock. You keep turning, though with more difficulty this time; you can’t be sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Beneath “lik” you press it inward again, and keep turning. Deep inside the door you feel something grind and strain. You pause a moment, suddenly uncertain.

“Do you know how it works?” Caspin asks from a few feet behind you.

In a rush you complete the turn around to “orth” and push. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect; you press harder. The key slots into place, and you feel something slam against it on the inside. You push yourself back from the door, a sense of dread taking you.

“What is it?” Caspin asks. “Did you solve it?”

Murph slides past you both and begins to try the handles. The doors still won’t budge.

“What did you do?” Caspin demands, his voice going low and harsh.

Murph tries to remove the key from the lock, but it appears to be stuck fast. That’s when you notice the sunlight is fading. In a rush you explain the mechanism of the lock, and the need to activate it with the symbols. Murph backs away from the door, and as he does you see the Common pictographs line up in sequence: Let. It be. Sealed.

Caspin grabs hold of your left shoulder. “And those were the images you chose?”

You shake your head. You tell him you picked the infernal syllables.

He turns you to face him, grabbing hold of your shirt and your sling and lifting you off your feet. His eyes are wild. “What have you done, you little half-brain? THEY built this door!” he gives you a shake. “They would never invoke Molikorth. Why didn’t you ask me?”

You never thought to ask, and you don’t dare to admit it now. You struggle in his hold, trying to gasp out some sort of apology. Night is falling over the garden, and the hint of a Summer breeze you felt when you entered begins to blow itself into a wind.

“My lord?” Murph calls from beside the doors.

“This forest trash has foiled us,” Caspin sneers, giving you another shake. “Did you do this on purpose? Are you in league with those filthy, betraying Ithildaerow?” He hauls you away towards the bier. “I WILL attain the inner chamber - if I have to pull the entire wall apart to do it. She shall rise, and I will stand beside her and Molikorth as her most faithful child.”

A murderous, canine growl stops the baron in his tracks for a moment. He looks down at the snarling Darrel, then quick as lightning he lines up a booted foot and gives the dog a fierce kick, sending him flying off into the bushes. He disappears into the forsythia and you see no more movement there.

Caspin throws you down against the coffin, all the air going out of you from the pain it brings along your left side and right shoulder. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves, then removes his bag, reaching in as he does and retrieving the urn you worked so hard to obtain. Up above, in the dome of the ceiling you see a swirl of clouds forming. Caspin takes the bowl from the sarcophagus lid, shaking the flowers, leaves and dirt from it. You notice as they fall that the leaves are brown, and the poppy buds wilted and dry.

“Murph,” he calls, holding out the bowl. “Take this. Bleed the gnome.” You start to push yourself up, alarmed, but Caspin neatly knocks your feet out from under you with one of his. “The fresh blood should be all we need for the ritual, but take the heart and eyes as well to be safe. I want to begin the moment we get inside. I don’t know how quickly my cousins may respond once I’ve taken down the wall.”

Murph appears, looming above you. He accepts the bowl from his employer and Caspin moves back toward the doors with the urn in one hand. Murph produces a long, thin-bladed knife from beneath his jacket. His face is deadly blank, and cold.

- Roll right! Head for the entryway to the garden!

- Roll left! Dodge around the bier!

- Attack! You must still have some tricks up your sleeve!

https://strawpoll.com/cezpk285 poll ends 6/5/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

49 - Grave Observations

As the baron retreats, you wait a moment more beside the statue. Running your hand over the mossy stonework, you see the break that indicates a lid, and you realize he was being literal when he said this was Ithilde’s crypt. The sarcophagus is shaped a bit like a log, but flattened on top to accommodate the figure. Gaps in the moss reveal stylized, regular ridges made to look something like bark. A pattern of carved rosettes and vines curls in and out of the genuine greenery. On a hunch, you circle the bier, looking for signs of inscription. At the head of the coffin you find it, a plaque, discolored with age, but free or moss. The words are in Common, though an outmoded, partially runic version of the language you’ve only seen in mementos from your eldest relatives.

“We the Ithildahnin here vow to honor the memory of she who bore us and willed that we should live free. Though she be at rest, we place her in guard of our gate to her betrayer - for even in her misery she loved those that turned against her.

Our mother

Ithilde

Who, dying, mourned her living children.”

By now you half-expect to find the cuts and gouges and defacement you’ve seen throughout the tomb. However, aside from the crushed poppy at your feet, the coffin and the garden stand undefiled.

“I thought you were as eager as I to get on with this?” Caspin stands beside the door with his arms folded.

You make your way to him, asking as you go just how Ithilde died. The baron doesn’t even seem to hear you as he turns his attention back to the raw, dark stone. “You’ll be gratified to know, the time has come at last,” he says, and places something heavy into your hands.

You look down at the piece of iron in your grasp. The key is actually a bit larger than the picture suggested. You study it, holding up in the false sunshine, and watching the play of light through the portions of dark green crystal in the shaft. You try to find the difference between the metal of the part you recovered, and the other pieces. The sections match up perfectly, however. You ask him how he got his hands on the rest of it.

“They aren’t genuine, I’m afraid. They are perfectly, painstakingly recreated by a-” he twitches his fingers through the air dismissively. “The method isn’t important. It was time-consuming and expensive, and it worked.” He plucks the key from your hands, and gestures toward the set of double doors. You step close with him, taking in the lock, also iron, polished to a higher shine than the key.

“The size, the shape, each detail of its form is precisely recreated. And yet-” The key slides into the lock with ease, and turns smoothly, eliciting a satisfying clunk from some inner mechanism. Caspin reaches up to a pair of handles placed horizontally at his shoulder height. He pulls at them, then pushes and the doors budge not an inch in either direction. He gives a great shove to the right, then the left, and still nothing. Finally he steps back and throws his arms wide in defeat.

“Well? What say you, thief? Have you ever seen the like?”

You study the lock and the space around it carefully. Arrayed about the inset iron are carvings, each a bit larger than your palm, forming a circle of nine symbols. Three pictographic versions of three different languages are represented: Elvish, the same archaic version of Common as the plaque on the bier, and some jagged script you can’t identify but which feels vaguely familiar.

You spin the key back, and remove it to examine it again. You weigh it carefully in your hand, feeling the point of balance like a knife. Peering closely at the odd, barrel-shaped bit with its overly-complex pattern of notches and grooves, you grow more certain of the idea forming in your head.

You insert the key again, and spin it just as Caspin did, getting that satisfying resistance and mechanical sound on a full revolution. You turn it back again. It’s subtle; you understand how he missed it. A person would have to be very familiar with locks in general, or looking for it in this lock in particular. You turn it once more, slower, to be certain. There’s a subtle push and a faint click, one that could easily be mistaken for correctly working tumblers, except that it has the regularity of a combination lock, hitting nine specific points. You wiggle it, trying not to make the motion obvious to the baron. The bit barely enters the mechanism.

You remove the key from the lock.

“Well?”

You ask him if he knows the language of the symbols you can’t identify.

His brows come together. “It’s… a sort of neutered version of Infernal often used by tireflings.”

You press further, asking if he knows the words.

He gives a frustrated sigh. “They aren’t words, they’re syllables. Around in a circle, it should be… “mo-lik-orth.” You might say it’s a powerless word of power in this form. The whole array is something of an insult, really.” He stabs at the Elvish with his finger. “This isn’t even a full phrase - “ill hearts remove.” And the Primary Common: “let it be sealed.” Honestly-” he backs up a step, looking along the wall, “-they built this wall to lock the chamber away, then fill the door with cryptic, meaningless little charms.”

They aren’t charms, you’re certain of it now.

- Elvish

- Common

- Infernal

- Tell him the key doesn’t work.

https://strawpoll.com/6xfk9f34 poll ends 6/3/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

48 - Let’s Focus, People

Climbing to your feet, you try not to feel the depth of your aches and pains. You clear your throat and remind the baron that you’ve all come to this place for a purpose - one who’s importance he seemed adamant to defend. With a broad gesture you take in the room as a whole, asking if you’re close to the resting place for Wycroft’s ashes.

Caspin looks at you, and a touch of a smile passes over his lips. “Our gnome friend is in a hurry,” he informs Murph. The man shrugs, and bends to retrieve his lantern from the floor near the stairs.

“Very well, let’s be about it,” Caspin says brightly, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. He wanders out of sight behind the broad curve of the staircase. You follow slowly, Darrel walking close by your side, letting you lean on his back for support.

At the far end of the room is an entryway more elaborate than the others. While the rest are dark, riveted metal, the grand doorway is cut and carved straight from the stone of the walls, and inset with decorations made of the same matte red rock as the room of skulls. On either side of the threshold is depicted a polearm with a trident head, the middle point longer than the others, and tapering to a jagged tip. Above the doors three birds with the hooked beaks of raptors are shown in flight, their wings tripled as though to show their rapid movement. The swoop and dive of the birds is mirrored below on the face of the doors in a trio of red mountains beneath a red sun.

As Caspin approaches, he pulls a small bottle from his bag, and you can just see that it glows a bit with a golden light. He seems to square off before the carved handles, and set his shoulders, gathering himself. In a rush, he uncaps the bottle and drinks it down, throwing it to the side where it smashes. He takes hold of the door handles and leans close to them. Then, to your utter surprise, he begins to sing.

His voice proves to be a sweet melodic tenor, very different from his speaking voice. You can’t understand the words, and you can’t be certain of the language, but you have an inkling it may be draconic. The phrase is a simple one which he repeats a few times, his voice growing softer with each repetition until it seems to fade to nothing. For a long moment, all is stillness and quiet in the chamber. You’re about to speak, or to cough awkwardly, when there’s a rumble, and the doors sweep inward, pulling Caspin with them.

You duck away at first, blinded by the radiance beyond. After so long relying on lamps and torches and your own vision in absolute darkness, the wash of light that flows out of the room is actually painful. Murph goes after his master and you’re compelled to follow. What you see as you cross the threshold is more baffling than anything you’ve seen yet.

You feel, for all the world, as though you were outside. The pale, grey dome above seems higher than it is, and the entire space is lit as though with diffuse, noonday sunshine. You could swear a pleasant breeze rustles through the foliage.

The foliage! You turn in a circle, taking in vibrant greens, yellows, reds, and whites. In an instant you’re sure this is the place the garden chamber on the floor above was meant to evoke. The garden walls are real here, and hung with living vines. The floor is moss-covered stone. Towering forsythia, awash with delicate yellow blooms, stretch toward the ceiling. Red poppies grow in clusters to the sides. Climbing hydrangea in abundance replace the liars vine. You’re overwhelmed by the light and life around you, wanting to simply turn your face up to the sun that isn’t there.

With a deep breath, you draw your gaze down to the room at large again. Where the statue bearing the holy oil stood in the chamber of the stone garden, here the same elvish woman appears, life-sized, in sculpted repose on a moss-covered bier. Her bowl is still with her, now tipped at an angle against her hip, another spray of poppies apparently taking root inside it. This statue is far more lifelike than the others, the features more delicate and precise. Her knees are half drawn up, and canted to the side, one arm bent and tucked under her head, giving the impression she has just laid down for a nap among the flowers.

You cast about for the baron and his valet, and find them studying yet another set of doors, this one cold black stone looking raw and out of place within the garden walls. They seem so oblivious to the verdant landscape around them, you’re moved to ask if they see it and if it’s only an illusion.

Caspin turns back to you and squints up at the false sunlight. “It’s real, in its way,” he waves a hand vaguely. “Though I’m not familiar with how it’s done.” He sniffs a bit, seeming somehow displeased or disappointed with the garden. “It’s a waste, really. An extravagance. Mere sentimentality.”

You ask him if the statue is a representation of Wycroft.

“This?” he scoffs, stepping away from the doors. “Of course not.” He approaches the bier, and plucks a poppy from the bowl. “This is the crypt of her wife, Ithilde Trisar. We - both factions of the family unfortunately - are born of Ithilde’s body - and Wycroft’s power. All of this-” he crushes the poppy in his hand and tosses it aside, “is little more than an attempt to deify a woman who did little more than give birth, and die.” He gestures to the door. “What we’re after lies this way - the altar to my family’s true power and worth.”

His dismissive tone gives you a pang of sadness as he moves away from the reclining form.

- Ask Caspin how Ithilde died.

- Investigate the statue further.

- Join Caspin and Murph at the door.

https://strawpoll.com/hczsseg1 poll ends 6/1/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

47 - What to Do?

You reach for the knife, then pause, gripped with uncertainty. Darrel lets out another stream of vicious barks, the noise echoing percussively off the stone walls. Cursing under your breath you turn towards the door instead, ready to run for it; you only make it a step before turning back to the table. You vacillate a moment, caught between fight or flight, the skulls drawing nearer every moment. Their laughter rises to a hideous cackling that fills the room, threatening to drown out even Darrel’s barking.

You dive for the knife, but the second it’s in your hand you know you won’t be able to hold it for long: it’s grown hotter. The thin blue-white line of flame continues to burn just along the very edge, but as it burns the heat has built in the metal turning it red and spreading down its length. A thin sheet of smoke rises from the wood of the hilt where it meets the narrow metal guard. You try to transfer the knife to your other hand so you can pull your sleeve down around your fingers for protection, but the flame starts to catch on the sling, and your hand is too weak. The knife clatters to the table.

In a near-panic you lunge for the doors. As you hit them, something slams into the floor near your feet, sending chips of stone flying up at you. Another hits the riveted metal of the doors just beside you - a blinding blue bolt of energy that scores a melted gash above your shoulder. You fall to your knees, covering your head, just as another bolt slams into the doors. Shouting in fear and frustration, you dive for the only cover available, under the table.

Darrel springs after you and fortunately there is just enough room for both of you to hide there huddled close together. You duck your head beneath your one good arm, certain another blast of energy is about to strike at any moment. When none does for several seconds, you uncurl yourself a bit and look around. As cautious as can be, you inch your head out of cover.

Above you, the skulls have formed a circling, swarming mass over the table. They hover, and swoop, and turn, none of them stopping, and none striking each other, like a school of fish. In the mass of movement, you never see which lone skull blasts at you. The blue flame splashes against the table leg, so close it knocks your head against it and seers a line of pain from your forehead to your temple. You drop, trying to shield your face with your arm again.

Something clangs beneath the hideous laughter, and there’s a groan of metal. Darrel barks beside you, and there’s a flurry of blasts elsewhere in the room. You hear Caspin shouting spell words, and suddenly a hand latches onto your collar and drags you across the floor. Murph dumps you on the other side of the threshold then returns for his master. The two men back from the room of skulls and shove the doors closed amid a flurry of blue fire.

“Wondrous,” Caspin murmurs, placing a hand on the doors. The blasts stop abruptly. “There must have been a mechanism for control - did you see what it was?”

Murph takes a knee beside you and peers at the burn on your forehead. “Still alive?”

You reply that you think you are, probably.

He chuckles. “That dog of yours is as good as an alarm bell.”

“Imagine the other secrets this place holds.” Caspin has turned his gaze to the rest of the chamber.

Whatever illusion spell someone tested on the torch-lit hallway you passed through, is perfected along the walls here. Ornate sconces line the room, and above each floats an unconnected globe of bright, flickering fire. The space is more or less round, a set of white, marble stairs describing an open, elegant spiral at its center. The walls are rough rock, with several more doors like that of the room of skulls heading off to parts unknown.

There’s a hunger in Caspin’s face as his eyes shift through the room. “The knowledge - the power - the treasures! - that may be interred here, locked away from the world for all this time.”

- If we’re looking for treasure now, I demand my cut.

- Shouldn’t we concentrate on the task at hand, and lay the ashes to rest?

- What is WRONG with your family?!

https://strawpoll.com/kcbg9h3d poll ends 5/29/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

46 - All We Need is a Little Light

Resting the pry-bar against the table edge, you remove the glass housing around the wick and feel in your pockets for your flint. When you find it, the little tinderbox is badly dented, and stuck closed. You pry at the cover with your fingers for a few moments, but it’s to no avail with one arm strapped against your chest. You try to knock the tin against the edge of the stone table, your frustration growing. Finally you grab the knife, with a vague idea of levering the lid open.

The moment you take it in hand, the knife bursts forth with a low blue flame along the blade; a wave of heat washes over you. You almost drop it, knocking the tinderbox to the floor instead. Holding the fire away from you, you turn it in your hand, examining both the hilt and blade for markings or adornment. There seem to be none. The flame is low, but very hot, just a delicate blue glow surrounding the wavy metal. Slowly, gently, you set the knife down again.

The blade continues to burn.

With the rising panic of a thieving drunk who can’t close the tap, you snatch it up again, and wave it through the air as though to blow out the fire. Darrel gives a small confused whine. At an utter loss, you shake your head, about to drop it on the table again. You pause and, wincing, you touch the point to the wick.

The lamp flares to life. The blade still does not go out. You drop the burning knife on the table, and replace the glass globe which diffuses the lamplight a bit, spreading a soft glow around the immediate area. While the light is comforting, you’re taken aback to see the stone of the table is actually a deep, vibrant, bloody red. Backing up a step, you realize it’s the color of the floor and the walls as well. It doesn’t seem to be paint, or stain, or enamel, but rock like none you’ve ever seen.

Darrel gives another whine which scales down into a growl. You see he’s facing back the way you came. With a pang of dread, you spin around to look behind you.

The wall through which you entered does not look like the rest of the room. From the floor to the ceiling, and side to side, the entire span of the wall is packed with skulls. Hundreds of them. The doorway just beyond the straight-cut stones of the threshold is bordered by bones - long limbs of a creature far larger than an elf or a human. Your gaze follows a bleached tibia down to floor level, and you realize there are jagged, claw-like feet there too, turned out and half-embedded in the wall. What truly chills you though is the thick chains wrapped around the massive ankles as though trapping them in place. You edge around the table, and as the full glow of the lamp washes over the rear wall, blue sparks alight in dozens of gaping eye holes.

An odd hissing fills the silent air, stuttered and soft like steam from a covered pot. It builds as the pinpoints of light flicker and waver across from you. Suddenly the sound solidifies into a chorus of hissing laughter. Darrel breaks out into a round of fierce and angry barking. As you watch, skulls begin dropping from their perches in the red stone wall. Each stops a foot or so short of the floor and floats up into the air. Those that still have jaw bones clack and shake as the laughter continues to build. Slowly, they begin to float toward you.

- Grab the knife and defend yourself!

- Grab the pry-bar and defend yourself!

- Throw the lamp!

- RUN!

https://strawpoll.com/as3zzfk8 poll ends 5/27/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

45 - Where’d They Go

Your head begins to clear, and you start to regain your bearings. This place does indeed have walls and a floor as you previously surmised. It does not, however, have carvings. The walls are bare rock, not even smoothed over by a mage’s work. You’re in a natural cavern which tapers at one end leading to a worked stone hallway which is absurdly straight by comparison. Even more odd, the hallway is lit.

Still using the bar as a walking stick, you make your way there. Darrel follows at your heels. You spend a moment standing at the entryway, looking at the row of torches along one wall, trying to figure out what magic keeps them alight, and what it is about them that feels so uncanny to you. After a few seconds you realize they’re flickering in time with each other, and rhythmically. Bracing yourself, you reach out with the metal rod to tap the nearest sconce. The pry-bar swipes through the torch with no resistance. You look down at Darrel and shrug, telling him they must be illusions - impressive ones to give off real light and to last so long.

The corridor feels close and confined, even to you. It doesn’t exactly lead in the direction you were heading to reach the middle of the oval on the floor above, but it’s your only option, so you follow it. The atmosphere is different down here, and you can’t put your finger on the cause. You know you’ve been deep underground for hours now, and perhaps it’s the exhaustion of your injuries, but for the first time you feel the weight of the rock, and the dirt pressing down upon you.

Ahead, the corridor widens, or rather ends, and gives way to another, this one bare stone again. That’s part of it of course, you think; this area is much more rudimentary. The spaces above felt planned, intentional, even stately at times. Following the natural curve of this second passage into a rough-cut room, you’re struck by a feeling that the space is haphazard, and unfinished, though incredibly, terribly old.

The cavern beyond the hallway is smaller than the one you fell into and has the look of a natural cave that’s been widened outward. The floor is uneven, and several pockets and outcroppings seem to lead off into passageways in various directions. Only one clear tunnel proceeds the way you’re aiming for, fortunately. You and Darrel each have a glance down the next closest passageways. Yours dead ends after only a few yards. Darrel returns from his and sneezes, then shakes his head.

You muse to your friend that it’s strange there’s no moisture here. Just as the orderly, worked spaces above, these caves are bone dry, without a drop of the water that must have carved them in some ancient past. Without water of course, there’s no life either. No lichen or moss, no evidence of fossils or amber in the flat grey of the stone of the walls. This place is wholly isolated and deathly quiet, and you’re increasingly grateful for the soft sounds of Darrel’s breath and footsteps by your side.

Your path evens out a bit in the next tunnel, the floor becoming more flat and the walls more regular as you go along until you’re brought to a short, sharp-cornered threshold. On the other side is the first space you’ve seen on the lower level that you’d actually call a room. It’s square-floored, with a high ceiling and flat, featureless walls. On the other side is a set of double doors made of solid, riveted metal.

Before these, however, is the room’s only apparent furnishing, a small, round table. Upon the table rests an enclosed lamp and a short knife with a thin, wavy blade. The lamp, so small and ordinary despite its evident age, gives you a wash of relief. You pick it up and tip it side to side a bit, feeling the reassuring slosh of oil within.You’re suddenly desperate for a light to see by; the dim, grey-toned cast of your darkvision making your eyes tired and your head ache.

- Light the lamp.

- Move along.

https://strawpoll.com/srx6p6rw poll ends 5/25/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

44 - I Know - Right?!

You dive, with every bit of strength you have, to the right of the central aisle as you feel the rush of displaced air bearing down on you. A massive rock from the ceiling shudders loose and crashes into the floor and through it, sending shattered bits of stone in all directions. You cover your head as you hit the ground, but you feel yourself tilt and start to fall as the stones beneath you give way too. On the other side of the aisle Murph shouts something you can’t make out while you scrabble for purchase.

The floor around you collapses, and you plummet. A sharp cracking fills the air. You hit the ground on your side in a bloom of dust. Coughing, you roll onto your back. Another sharp crack above forces your eyes open just in time to see the sunken ground around the nearest coffin give way. You watch it slide downward at an angle toward you. You roll, covering your head again, certain your blessing has run out. Solid stone slams against your shoulder with the power of a charging ox, pushing you several feet along the floor. You let out a noise somewhere between a choked scream and a sob as everything goes quiet.

You’ll never know for certain how long you lay there. Every inch of you hurts. You start to shake. It’s the ragged sound of your own breathing that rouses you at last. You don’t know how it’s possible you’re still breathing at all. You try to take a deeper breath and pain shoots through your midsection. Somehow you manage to sit up, leaning against the stone box that nearly killed you.

Far above you hear a voice. “I see movement.”

Murph calls out “Can you hear me?”

Tipping your head back, you squint through the settling dust to the jagged hole some thirty feet above you. The baron and his valet aren’t within sight from where you are. You call back that you’re alive, your voice sounding thin and broken to your own ears. You let them know you’re hurt.

“We’re going to cross to the other side of the room,” Caspin calls down to you. “We can’t get near the hole here - it’s unstable.”

You ask if they have rope, though you’re not entirely sure how that would help yet. They must not hear you as they don’t reply. Long minutes pass. You rest your head against the sarcophagus, cold, shivering, and trying to breathe shallowly. In time you hear shuffling above and the clack of falling pebbles. The sounds of conversation follow, but none of it’s directed toward you.

“Gnome!” Murph shouts to you at last. You don’t have the strength to feel offended or to wise off back at him. He goes on, speaking slowly and distinctly. “We’re going to try for the stairs. His lordship believes they’re close by. Can you describe the area around you?”

You squint a bit. There are walls. Maybe carvings. There’s definitely a floor, because you’re sliding down onto it now. You think you responded to the valet, but you can’t really be sure. He’s gone now, so it’s probably fine. Lying down hurts, but it’s easier to do than sitting up.

Something crashes to the ground nearby, and the immediate, terrifying thought that the other coffins are coming down sends you rocketing to your knees and tumbling away to the side. You let out a pained groan as you look up in a panic.

A looming shadow gets to its feet and brushes itself off. Darrel puts out a giant hand to steady you as you start to sink to the ground again. His heavy features are tipped with concern. He kneels beside you, and removes something from his pocket.

“For emergencies,” he rumbles.

He hands you a thin vial, encasing a thick orangy liquid you’re fairly familiar with. Murph gave you something similar not that long ago. Darrel’s fingers, always impossibly delicate for their size, pry up the cork. This one smells less potent than what your employers offered, but you’re more than grateful. You drink it down and brace yourself, shutting your eyes tight while it does its work.

In an instant, you’re breathing easier. The stabbing along your ribs is gone. The throbbing in your head goes away, and while it’s still cold here, you aren’t shivering anymore. You wince as you sit up; the shoulder that took the brunt of the sarcophagus is still a mass of pain. You reach up to touch it and feel sick finding the shape of it is all wrong.

Darrel takes hold of the affected arm, stretching it out, then folding it in close to your body. He starts back suddenly, pointing at something in the distance and gasps. When you turn to look he jams the joint back into place. You swear at him for a while, first in common, then in gnomish. By the time you’ve run out of foul language he’s wrapped your arm against your chest with a strip of cloth. Grinning, he tells you to be more careful, and slips the collar back around his neck.

You’re able to stand, and even to walk - though you feel like ground beef. Miraculously, you find the pry-bar sticking out of a bit of rubble. Grasping it like a walking stick, you peer upward. The floor above seems to be holding, though it makes you nervous.

- Find the bottom of the stairs to meet up with Caspin & Murph

- Rest and wait for Caspin & Murph to find you

https://strawpoll.com/wcp9xd8f poll ends 5/22/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

43 - Along the Straight and Narrow

You assure Caspin that you have a plan, and that you’re trying to take the path of least resistance. You ask him and Murph to step back from the door, which they do, moving further down the hallway. Standing on the hinge-side of the door, you hook the pry-bar in the handle. It feels necessary to sacrifice control for distance, grasping the bar from the very end. The angle isn’t great and you’re forced to put all of your weight on the bar to get the door to budge. It swings open at last with a low groan.

Nothing happens. You edge around it carefully until you can peer inside. Murph and his lantern are too far away so the vine path is invisible at the moment. Regardless, there appears to be a straight aisle through the middle of the room running between two pairs of decorated sarcophagi embedded in the floor, and an open passageway at the far end.

You inch your way into the crypt and your heart stops for a beat or two as your foot crunches down on a piece of glass. You bend, and crouch to take a look at it without moving your feet, and find the scattered remains of a dark bottle and a long piece of broken string. You’ve seen other bottles of this type in other dismantled traps along the way. Taking a relieved breath in, you stand up again, and continue.

As you draw even with the first pair of coffins, you come across a bit of loose stone. Picking it up, you discover its a curling horn bearing delicate gold embellishments. You squint over at the heavy stone lids of the sarcophagi and see they bear reclining sculptures of their inhabitants - or they once did. The figures are battered and broken, the faces chipped away entirely. If it weren’t for the pieces of horns and tails here and there, you probably wouldn’t even know they were tieflings.

As the baron and his valet appear in the doorway, you wander over to a pile of rubble between the pair on your right. The chunks of marble here show bits of engraving. You can find pieces of words, and dates, but not enough to make sense of. Whoever defiled the crypt destroyed all evidence of who these people were.

Caspin and Murph are still hanging back near the entrance. As you approach the center aisle again, Caspin waves a hand, taking in the room.

“It’s safe to proceed then?”

You shake your head, though not in answer to his question. You ask him what sort of betrayal leads to this kind of desecration. If what he’s said is true, then those who have passed through this tomb are all family. You question what kind of betrayal leads to this depth of hatred. This crypt alone has been trapped, disarmed, and defiled.

Caspin’s face is bland as he stalks up the aisle. “I don’t believe I hired you to make judgments.”

You step back and sweep your arms wide in an exasperated shrug and feel the distinct sensation of a string or wire pressing against the length of your spine.

Trapped. Disarmed. Defiled. And trapped again.

You freeze in place, then hold out your right hand for Caspin to stop. You don’t breath, just turn your head very slowly from one side to the other, which is when you catch sight of the glimmering vine again. By Murph’s upheld lantern the path turns a sharp right as it passes the threshold and skirts the very edge of the room, avoiding the aisle and the sarcophagi entirely.

The string snaps.

There’s a sharp crack, and a rumble above you.

- LEFT!

- RIGHT!

- FORWARD!

https://strawpoll.com/5c1f9whp poll ends 5/20/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

42 - This Way! For… Reasons.

It doesn’t even occur to you to question whether the vine path is the right one or not. Perhaps it’s a forest gnome’s sensibilities telling you to trust the symbol of a growing thing, and perhaps it’s the slight itch of the holy oil drying on your eyelids. Either way, you know which route to take, and something more inside you suggests you shouldn’t let the others know why.

Murph begins to scout along in the wrong direction. As he reaches the liars vine door you call out to him to stop. He does so, and you beckon him back. Finishing what you had started to say about the trap in the floor, you embellish the danger to include the rest of the intersection. You theorize the door was closed up by someone to skirt the danger there.

Caspin peers past you. “Have you checked along the other direction? Is it safer that way?”

You gesture for them to wait. Then, Darrel by your side, you follow along the glittering pathway pretending to poke and prod for traps using the pry-bar. As you go, you also give the vine a surreptitious tap; it shines back at you unhindered. While the glow is soft, if you hold your hand above it, it’s almost as thought the light shines through your skin. It’s just plain frustrating then when you follow the curve of the wall past the reach of the lamplight and the vine disappears. You curse to yourself under your breath a bit, then wave the other two forward. The vine image fluoresces to life again, reaching all the way to the fork in the hallway, and clearly veering to the right.

Angling your trajectory so as not to block the lantern whenever possible, you lead them around the long curve. All of you walk in silence for a time, passing - and ignoring - a handful of vault doors on either side of the corridor. At one point the vine takes you on a sharp left turn, then a minute later a right.

“You walk with such purpose,” Caspin comments. You glance back at him over your shoulder and he shrugs. “Good to know I’m getting my money's worth, I suppose.”

As you progress, you begin to form a vague shape of the area in your mind. It feels as though this level of the tomb is ovular, assuming you began by traversing the outermost passageway. On the whole, your turns take you further in towards the center of the oval. You also begin to theorize that such a circuitous path was not the original intent of its construction. There’s enough regularity to the placement of the vault doors, corridors, and side passages that suggests a straightforward logic.

As the vine path leads you over a set of old, solid oak planks covering a pit in the floor, you become certain there are two opposing forces at work here. Just past the pit you find a shattered bit of purple crystal, and the place where a small gap in the stonework at floor level was widened to accommodate it. Similarly, at an intersection on the opposite end of the oval from where you entered, your trail takes you away from a trip-wire and a set of blades secured to the ceiling in the shadows. None of the challenges you see appears to be part of the original architecture, but are rather added on and rigged into place over time. And while some are still clearly a threat, your path takes you neatly around them, and sometimes through others that have been disabled.

Each turn or trap you face, you pause to make a show of assessing your options, before following the glowing markers onward. You think you’re making a pretty good bluff of it all around, until you come to a closed vault door and the vine path clearly curls beneath it. You pause at the threshold, and even risk a tug at the big brass handle, when Caspin calls out from behind.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

The door doesn’t seem to be locked or barred, which sets off your every instinct that it’s trapped. Running your fingers over the latch side, and the hinges, you tell Caspin your best guess at the shape of the crypt and that you’re trying to move toward the center.

The baron sniffs a bit at this, but doesn’t offer any immediate criticism. “If it helps, the chamber we’re moving towards should be a level lower than this. So it would be nice to find some stairs soon.”

You step back from the door, your eyes still scanning up and down it. You don’t feel any obvious signs of traps, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one present. If your assessment of the overall structure of this place is sound, then there’s a chance you could guide everyone safely the rest of the way without the assistance of the glowing vine. In the meantime, Caspin is leaning against the wall behind you in an advanced state of passive aggression.

- Open the door and stay on the vine path.

- Leave the vine path and find your own way inward.

- Tell Caspin he’s welcome to lead.

https://strawpoll.com/18egp77k poll ends 5/18/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

41 - Bless Me

You’re not the most religious sort, but a blessing is a blessing, by your way of thinking. You wait until you’re sure Murph is moving towards the arch, and swipe the oil over your closed eyelids, murmuring “so mote it be.”

Catching up with the baron and his valet, you see they’ve been stopped by a deeply recessed door. The vine motif continues into the alcove beyond the arch; delicately sculpted grey stone, dotted with white marble flowers, wends its way over wood and iron. Standing back a bit and casting your eyes about the room, you realize the entire space is decorated to evoke garden walls. Inlays of darker stone, which you took to be marks of age before, are in fact subtle mosaics of plant-life. The passage you came through, and another not far from it - the Ithildaerow entrance - both bear sprays of forsythia above them.

Caspin has his folded sheet of paper out of his pocket again, and is unfolding and refolding it, apparently looking for some clue to open the door. You edge around him and see where the vines cross, effectively forming bars over the wood. There’s no handle in the door, and the hinges are hidden from view. You run your hands over what you can reach of the threshold, and announce that you believe it’s a false door.

“A false door?” Caspin mutters indignantly, leaning away from it to peer at the structure as a whole.

You nod and tell him to have a look at the frame. You point out how tightly it fits and how sturdy the carving is. You admit it’s possible the door worked once upon a time, but if so, then someone with the magic to grow stone has quite effectively blocked it.

“But why do you say it’s a false door?” he asks you. “What makes you believe there’s another entrance?”

You run your thumb over one of the marble flowers, feeling glad you spent some time in the forest with family recently. You tell Caspin the vine is climbing pelacupta - liars vine. One of your aunts grows the stuff around her garden gate. Stepping back into the room proper again, you look left and right to find the place where the vine continues several feet away - this batch actually embedded in the wall.

Pointing out the large, threatening-looking thorns you tell them how, on the living plant, those thorns are false. They’re nothing but shiny bright red leaves meant to scare off predators. You tip your head to the side, following the path of the thorns, then, finding the place where they seem to grow thickest, you reach out to put your weight against the stone.

To your utter shock, you fall through the wall.

You stumble, but manage to keep your feet. Looking about, you find you’re in another corridor. The wall behind you is unbroken, and the passageway curves off to your left and your right. On the right side you can see a fork in the path a few yards up. Stepping to your left a little you find an intersection: the corridor continues on ahead of you, but a second hallway here starts at the arched door to the left, and runs on into the dark on the right.

You smile grimly at the sight of the sculpted liars vine growing through the door and across the floor for several feet. You look at the way the strands bunch together in places, and you kneel down. You’re able to work the pry-bar in past a knot of flowers and push at the flooring beneath. You feel the slightest bit of give and pull back, getting to your feet immediately. There’s some kind of a trap foiled there, and you’re not interested in setting it off.

As you turn back the way you came, Darrel comes jogging up to you, tail high. He begins sniffing you over at once, then - apparently judging you to be in one piece - he moves from you to the corridor at large. He follows slowly as you retrace your steps. Just before you reach the illusion-covered opening, Caspin and Murph slip through it to join you.

You start to tell them about the other side of the original door, and the trap beneath it, when a bit of shine catches your eye. You blink, thinking perhaps your eyes are just getting tired from so much use of them in the full dark. But blinking only makes the shine clearer: more vines, these made of sparks of light, as though a path of broken glass were catching the glow of the lantern.

Caspin doesn’t seem to notice you’ve trailed off in your explanation. He’s looking right and left along the corridor with a critical glare. “Yes. Well done. But we’re in the maze of it now, I think. This place was built over time by both sides of the family. Who knows what traps each has laid to protect our dead.”

“And where do we begin?” Murph asks.

“I have a thought,” Caspin murmurs, glancing at his folded notes, “But I’m not certain…”

He’s looking towards the liars vine door, and Murph is following his gaze. You realize neither of them sees the glimmering vine trail that you do, the spark of it clearly wending away in the opposite direction.

- Convince them to follow your lead, but don’t tell them why.

- Tell them what you see.

- Let Caspin lead from his notes.

https://strawpoll.com/kg1xzh5s poll ends 5/16/20 at 10pm

[magpieandsons]

40 - Go Ahead, I Need a Second

The taste of the healing potion still lingers in your mouth. Leaning against a flat bit of wall near the door, you touch the back of your head and feel your hair is sticky with drying blood. A careful probe of the area finds no wounds however, though the skin is a little tender. You brace your hands on your knees for a moment, taking a few deep breaths.

Caspin is fumbling with the key in the lock, muttering indistinctly to himself. You look up as he pauses, withdrawing the key. He pulls a folded slip of paper from his pocket, studies it a moment, then nods and puts it away. He runs a hand along one of the heavy crossbeams. You see the false bolt in the metalwork before he does, but you say nothing. Caspin finds it at last, and pries it up with his fingers. Beneath is another lock, which the key fits. There’s a solid clank as the baron turns it and slides the door open.

You follow Caspin through to another hallway, this one relatively short, and sloping downward. Murph calls for both of you to wait a moment, which you do, looking back as he lifts his lantern to a groove in the wall around level with his head. The groove seems to run the whole length of the corridor, following the slope of the floor. Murph reaches up to run a finger along the inner edge.

“Lamp oil, milord?”

Caspin digs a fairly hefty looking bottle from the depths of his bag and hands it to you. Murph trades you for the pry-bar. He pours a delicate but steady stream into the groove for a minute or two, enough that you’d be surprised if any remained in the bottle. Nevertheless, he caps it and hands it back, the contents sloshing as you pass it along. Pulling a small taper from a pocket, he lights it off the lantern and drops it onto the groove. An arrow of light shoots down the hallway and around the corner as the oil flames. The inner curve proves to be highly polished metal, throwing dancing light against the walls.

“Lovely,” Caspin comments, and proceeds down the corridor. “Now, if I don’t miss my guess, we should be coming to the 3rd and 4th generation burials next.”

Murph slips by you, and after a moment Darrel nudges your leg, urging you forward.

You trudge after, asking Caspin who the 3rd and 4th generations are, exactly.

“Wycroft’s descendants, of course,” he responds, as he turns the corner.

You miss a step, taken aback by his reply. You ask how that’s possible - if Wycroft was his grandmother.

“It’s an address of respect, of course,” he calls back to you.

The next hallway turns a sharp corner and likewise slopes. Caspin’s and Murph’s long legs take them downward at a swift pace; you’re tired and falling behind.

“Now, the property changed hands quite a bit in those days, and we’ll have to find our way between the betrayer paths and the betrayed, I fear.”

The turn of the next corner reveals a steeper slope. Caspin and Murph are still gaining ground. You shift your grip on the pry-bar to use it like a walking stick, but after a moment you stop dead, holding the hand that gripped the curved end up to the light. A smear of red crosses your palm. You reach up to touch the back of your head again, and feel suddenly ill, trying to recall what happened after the ghost possessed you. Darrel, a few paces away, looks back at you and whines. You wipe your hand against the wall and jog on as safely as you can.

At the next turning, your pathway opens out to a larger chamber. The long ramp ends at a circular, domed room. Murph is already setting light to a few torches in a ring of stands surrounding a statue. It’s a smaller version of the one by the entrance stairs: the figure of a lovely, elvish woman with her head bowed and a bronze bowl held aloft. Caspin is studying the sculpture. He reaches into the bowl briefly, then peers at his fingers, spreading something wet along them with his thumb. You draw even with him as he grimaces and wipes the stuff away on his handkerchief.

You ask him what the statue signifies.

“A relic,” is his vague response. “Just a bit of sentimentality, really.” He slides past it, heading for the door across the room - an archway decorated with a carved pattern of vines. As he moves off, you notice a metal plaque set into the floor at the base of the statue. Here is another odd sign of defilement. The original inscription has been scratched, stabbed and rubbed with soot. You can just make out the words:

“Bless thine eyes, oh beloved child, and by this put faith in my will.”

In opposition to this, scrawled as rough gouges in the surrounding tile is another inscription. “The loyal need but strength to persevere.”

It’s a bit of a stretch, but you can just reach the inside of the bowl. Your fingers come back tipped with a thin, greasy liquid. You recognize the herbal scent as holy oil.

“Keep up,” Caspin calls from the archway. “We might be seeing some doors which demand your skills very soon.”

- Try to make Caspin say more about the statue.

- Accept the blessing and say nothing.

- Ignore the statue and move on.

https://strawpoll.com/7w64fz13 poll ends 5/14/20 at 10pm