V M [Unmaking] The Haven Hauntings

[Shinku]

Shinku gasped, sitting up from his bed as if suddenly pulled by some enigmatic force. His heart raced, beads of perspiration dotting his head. Shadows, indistinct whispers, and a profound sense of foreboding were all he could recall from his last night’s nightmare. The rest eluded him, like specters slipping through his fingers.

The tension gripped him for a while in the early hours of the morning. It was as if the ethereal tendrils of his night’s vision followed him to the waking world. Slowly, he tried to collect his thoughts, reorienting himself to his surroundings. He couldn’t help but wonder if the dream held any significance or if it could be the hauntings that the others in the Abbey felt.

A sliver of light filtered through the window, its ethereal glow marking the sign of Shinku’s second morning in the Abbey. With a deep breath, he pushed the remnants of the dream to the recesses of his mind and focused on the tasks that lay ahead. He rose from his bunk bed, the tension from the dream fading into the background as he left the dormitory.

He lumbered down the winding stairs which felt like an eternity, given the nightmare that still lingered partly in his thoughts. As the sight of the Great Hall welcomed him however, he couldn’t help but marvel at the grandeur that was set before him.

The long wooden dinner table at the heart of the hall featured countless culinary delights that beckoned like a dreamy paradise. Moreover, its mixture of several fragrant aromas wafted through the air, immediately stimulating Shinku’s senses.

Shinku marched forward, bathing himself with a spectrum of lights that streamed from the multi-hued stained glass windows that hung high in the abbey’s walls. The scene of grandeur and abundance serve as a momentary respite from the enigmatic dream that caused him his early morning unrest.
The table was already graced with the presence of three tieflings that seemed to enjoy their fill as they chatted amongst themselves. For a moment, he was tempted to join them in their conversation, but the allure of the delicacies before him was impossible to resist. Moreover, he wasn’t used to starting up a conversation anyway so he helped himself with the sumptuous feast instead.

The warmth of the fire in the hearth and the aroma of the food did provide the comfort of a dreamy paradise. A stark contrast to the image he was introduced when he decided to visit the Haven Abbey. It might be a simple pleasure for most, but definitely a luxury for Shinku who was used to the life of poverty.

Still, he couldn’t help but be drawn back to the thoughts of his unsettling nightmare. Most of its part, though shrouded in vagueness lingered like an indelible mark on his psyche. He thrived on challenges and mysteries yet this one, he couldn’t seem to decipher. Perhaps it’ll unveil itself once he’d figure out the mysteries behind the hauntings.

He continued his meal, his thoughts mixed with the haunting of his last night’s dream and the plans he had for the day.

 

[Masahir N'air]

Nalaia sipped at her mug of tea, the smallest of frowns tugging at the corner of her lips. There was a particular brew and style of tea she had grown terribly used to drinking over the past few years living in the city. No doubt this tea was brewed from some more local source of leaf, and while the tiefling could appreciate that notion... She wanted her daily dose of caffeine strong. She raised a hand and hovered her fingers over the rim of her cuppa and summoned a miniscule spark of weave, then raised the cup to her dark lips once more and sighed in contentment now that it was to her taste. Still lovely and refreshingly minty, but now with altered earthy notes.

Soon the chronicler produced a small black leather bound journal, from where the other two could hardly discern, and laid it open on the table next to her. She flipped past several pages filled from top to bottom with lines of indisputably gorgeous blue cursive, the finely swooping calligraphy crawled across the off-white leaves of parchment like countless enchanting tendrils of azure ivy.

"So why don't you tell me about your dream, Jester? If you don't mind, that is." Nalaia inquired, the nib of her fountain pen hovering just above the paper. "The nightmares all come from a single malicious force haunting this holy estate... Perhaps the clues we seek reside in a shared thread across all the nightmares. Follow that thread back to its roots and we may be able to identify the source."

Jester, with the metaphorical pep put back in her step, nodded and easily started up, repeating her earlier monologue on her cramped night terror. The arcana cleric hardly understood what or who this Traveler god was, but filed her questions on him away for later, her pen tip gliding smoothly over the parchment as she dutifully kept pace. To an onlooker her ability to scriven all of Jester's wordy ramblings while partaking in the rest of her breakfast was boarder line otherworldly in its accuracy, and the woman made it seem like it was merely standard. Nalaia had just popped the last bit of cheese in her mouth as the younger woman concluded her recount. The walls closing in struck a cord with the chronicler, her lips skewing towards one side as she took a moment to fully consider her notes. "Often dreams convey important issues to our waking selves, the subtle red flags and warnings that our minds may not immediately notice while we go about our daily lives. Nightmares tend to be one manifestation of our deeper fears and worries."

Nalaia worked the cap of her pen between her teeth as she carefully picked her next words. "You seem to be doing alright indoors, so I assume you're not literally claustrophobic... Dreams where the walls close in around us usually signify a fear of entrapment or imprisonment. You are boxed in and unable to escape, to spread your arms and legs out and venture where you please. Dreams invite us to introspect. When the walls press in close to you, what do you feel?"

"Well, for starters, pretty awful!" Jester exclaimed emphatically, gesturing haphazardly with her fork and sending a few crumbs of food flying through the air and onto the stone brick floor on the opposite side of the table. The young woman carried on speaking, never really noticing how messy she was being. Contrary to what some might assume the reaction of a neat and proper lady to be, Nalaia merely smiled warmly at the blue haired Tiefling chattering at her. Jester's wide eyes and energetic, long winded way of staggering through details and stories unphased reminded her of her own little Curiosity back home in Arcadia, a tiny little toddler called Pandora who danced and chirped her clumsy way around their tower on daily adventures. An ache sprang deep in Nalaia's chest and made her swallow and blink a few times before she regained her composure. She fiercely hoped that Gale had read that precious baby her favorite bedtime stories and did well to distract the little girl from her absence in the coming days. It was the first morning waking up without her mother to greet her.

But at least that fact would never mirror her own experience with the concept, if they had anything to say about it. Her parents hadn't been a pair of downright exceptional mages with a mountain's worth of education behind them. They had been no-name farmers living in the countryside. Pandora was in much safer hands than most children, she had scarce little to worry herself all grey over... But she would call them later tonight with a quick spell, after dinner, just to hear their voices. It would be a soothing balm on her woozy soul--

"What about you?" Jester's question pulled the scribe from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?" Nalaia asked, embarrassment tinting her cheeks a deeper purple. She hoped that her momentary lapse in attention didn't strike her company as rude, her notetaking hadn't faltered after all. Perhaps they would chalk it up to her being deeply focused on jotting it all down, or lingering weirdness from the lack of proper sleep.

"I said what about you?" Jester reiterated without missing a beat, zero hints of impatience or annoyance in her tone. "You said that you also had a nightmare, too, didn't you?

Nalaia blinked a few times and nodded. "Well, I don't remember mine as vividly as I normally would..." She paused and took a moment to find respite in her now-cold tea and a deep inhale before continuing. Then she noticed the army of crumbs decorating Jester's lap and gave a breathy laugh, with a snap of her fingers the mess was prestidigitated away in an instant.

"I was home in our study reading some book when I hear a knock at our front door." Nalaia started, "I pull on my house robe and head downstairs to answer the door. It's odd, the house is terribly still and quiet. You see, ever since our daughter was born the tower is rarely silent for any real length of time in the mornings. My husband is also a morning lark and takes pride in always cooking us breakfast to start off the day... But today the entire house is silent." This small detail deeply disturbed her, her shoulders held just a little too stiffly to convey true comfort.

"There's this otherworldly bright light catching on our curtains through the windows. It's too bright for the time of day, almost too bright to stand looking at. Our grandfather clock in the parlor doesn't click-tick-tick away its familiar pace, but instead when I try to focus on the clock, the knocking at the door sounds again. I glance toward the door, cold dread dripping through my veins as long dark clawed fingers reach around the edges. Before I can comprehend it I am pulled into the dim interior passageways of an illithid colony, slick and humid with aberrant tissue and the chittering rappa-tappa-tap of intellect devourer feet crawling through grotesque tunnels. I've been here before, I can just tell. Somewhere deeper in the colony my husband's voice calls out for me, he shouldn't be here, and I just know that I have to get to him, but when I round the corner I come face to face with a massive quivering brain. I try to run, but my feet have sank into the floor up to my ankles. It reaches a single tentacle out and touches the center of my forehead. Pain splits through my skull and it demands for me to kneel before it. My body obeys without question. It whispers something into my head, words that have now run like ink on wet parchment paper. All I know is that I want to scream and claw my way back to safety and am denied it. I am made a prisoner within my own flesh..."

She trailed off and glanced at the two tieflings keeping her company and put on a calm smile in an attempt to ward off any concern they might have felt. She gingerly finished her cup of cold tea and set it down with a muted tap on the wooden table. "I'm fine now of course, but it just reopened a chapter in my life that I thought was very much closed... I felt very out of control and lost. It's not somewhere I enjoy revisiting or thinking about for long. Whatever is messing with our dreams seems to play on fears. Makes plenty of sense given that it's feeding us nightmares, not just strange and nonsensical dreams."

Nalaia cleared her throat and glanced around the grand hall, taking note of those trailing in. Now the nightmare cultist had taken a seat a bit down the table off by his lonesome. For a so-called Nightmare Lover, Nalaia noted the rather ironic nature of the pale man's discomfort. It seemed that not even the potentially warped and profane were safe from the horrors inflicted by this wretched curse. The scribe looked back to Molly. "What about you, Mollymauk?" She ventured softly. "What terrible visions haunted the tapestry of your mind last night?" A small part of her hoped that his way with words, whatever it was, could distract her mind from fixating on the dread that had sank its claws deep into her bodice during the night. Another part of her prayed to her god to protect them from further atrocities of the mind.

The ram-horned man leaned his forearms casually on the edge of the table, leaving his fork in his half-finished plate of breakfast. Sometime during the exchange he had seemingly lost his interested in his meal, or perhaps he had simply already eaten his fill and overpacked his plate. Nalaia still had yet to get a good reading on him so far beside his ostentatious taste in fashion and finery. He opened his mouth, "Well..."

 

[Aster]

Not for the first time in recent memory, Aster was glad that 'waking up in a cold sweat' was just a figure of speech for her. Of the many things she had inherited....not sweating was one of them. Which, given the way she'd slept last night, she considered a very good thing. It would have no doubt lead to waking up completely drenched.

As it was, though...dry as a bone and free from sweat or not, the 'cold' part had sure sunk its claws in. She had been awake for a while before the bell tolled to rouse everyone and call them down for breakfast. She had been awake and just lying there, staring into nothing so to speak, and just trying to calm herself. The urge to just cut her losses then and there and run away and leave was strong, almost overpoweringly so, but kept in check almost entirely by the fact she was almost positive she wouldn't have even been able to stand in that moment, let alone run anywhere. Not with how badly she was shaking and shivering.

It was just a dream, a nightmare,, she kept telling herself. They already said that, this place has been dealing with that exact thing for a while now. She knew that, of course. And she'd been ready for it, she though; she'd been dealing with some pretty wretched nightmares herself for the past too fucking many years as it was, after all.

But she was wrong. More wrong than she could have ever comprehended.

There had been nights before, when she'd been woken up by some incredibly disturbing and terrifying dreams. But they were fleeting and quickly fell apart even as she tried to remember them, leaving just a vague sense of sickening dread. They were awful enough to wake her up out of a dead sleep -- sometimes several times a night, at their worst -- but they were quick to come and just as quick to go. She barely remembered them by the time she was up and out of bed, and by the time she was fully awake they were gone entirely.

......but this wasn't like that. It was why she had scarcely dared to do anything, in spite of every part of her telling her to leave -- crawl if she had to, just get out. It was so real, so vivid, so still there at the edge of her mind...she felt certain she might as well have still been dreaming. She barely dared to breathe. Didn't dare to turn her head and look around, lest she see him again. Definitely didn't even try to lift a shaking arm to wipe and brush away at the tears. She just laid there, trembling, trying to force her mind somewhere -- ANYWHERE -- else, not even daring to blink, until the bell tolled and the sounds of movement from others told her that she was, in fact, awake.

She still felt uneasy and weak, as she pushed herself up. As others dragged themselves from blankets and beds, and stumbled about, Aster only curled in on herself, arms crossing her chest as hands clutched at her opposite arms.

The worst part about it all wasn't that it had been so real, she had to remind herself. She was sure she'd read somewhere that actually going through something, knowing how something looked, felt, smelled...gave your subconscious all manner of fuel to come up with some truly disturbing things when left to run free during deep enough sleep. It was so real because she knew exactly what it would need to be to be real.

.....no. The worst part of it all was how helpless it had made her feel. If it had only been reliving the experience, dying herself again...well. She couldn't exactly say that would have been "easier" or "better", but... The thought that she had not only been completely powerless to stop him from tearing right through anyone and everyone, her friends and family and anyone else in his way included, that so much as got near, as he all but leisurely and casually pursued her...

The haunting thought of You lead him right to them, you stupid fucking waste of life! Lead him right to them, and then did nothing to even try and help them! You didn't even watch as he ripped them limb from limb while you RAN AW—

"Stop it!" Her arms flashed up, covering her ears as she bowed her head, forehead pressing against her knees as a fresh wave of tears broke through, and she fought down the white-hot wave of self-loathing crested nausea rippling up from her stomach. "I...I didn't...."

......it took her some time yet to actually manage to make it downstairs, to the great hall.

Restless as her sleep had been, her relatively short morning thus far had been by far the more exhausting and draining experience. She scarcely even paid attention to what was going on, almost robotically finding an empty seat to try and get something that would qualify as sustenance. Even in her glassy-eyed, distant state....she knew that she'd need something to give her energy to keep going. Maybe after something to eat and some time to calm down she'd feel better and have the strength to actually leg it and get the fuck out of dodge, after all.

She didn't really think the chances of that were very high. It had taken a lot out of her to make it out here in the first place, when she was in much better spirits and condition. The thought of trying to make a return trip in the state she was in was...to be honest, incredibly unsettling and didn't fill her with much confidence. She was doing everything she could to keep the idea of cages and traps out of her mind, much as the current predicament felt like one.

Still, though....if she couldn't leave, she couldn't just very well sit around doing nothing. She hated everything about this entire situation, sure. She hated the way she felt right now, how hopeless it was and how probably powerless she was to do anything about it. There was one thing she hated ever so slightly more, though.

Lifting her face slightly, she wiped at her eyes with the back of one arm, doing her best to get rid of any traces of the salty crust of dried tears and sleep gunk that still remained. Everyone here, that lived and worked in this place....were good people, she was sure. The time she'd come here as a kid was so long ago she didn't really have any clear memories of it...but the place just felt overall familiar and comforting, in spite of the foreboding location and the terror plaguing it. It was a wonderful place, full of good and honest people...that didn't deserve any of what was happening right now.

Could she do anything about it? By herself, almost definitely not. But could she help find something, so that someone else more capable than her could do something about it? Maybe. So as long as she was here...she was going to at least keep trying to help, and to find something useful.

Was it going to be easy? Hell no.

Did she have any idea of what she could even do? Not exactly.

Was it going to stop her? Not a chance.

Because the one thing she hated more than anything, even her current situation....was doing nothing and being helpless.

 

[Dr. McNinja]

Dr. McNinja was having coffee with Death.

It wasn’t an unusual dream for Doc to have, nor a particularly unpleasant one, though he was only vaguely aware that it was a dream while within. He’d frequented Death for years, even since before he arrived at the Crossroads.

Death, as it turned out, was a skeleton waiter. He stood there in his black vest and bowtie, holding a silver tray, cloth draped over his forearm, grinning his morbid grin at Doc. Doc himself was sitting at a clean table with a neat white tablecloth. There was nothing in front of him except a saucer with a cup of espresso.

But something was different. This time, Death was perturbed.

“You’ve walked into dangerous territory, Doctor,” Death said, “If I may take your order?”

“Nothing else, thanks,” Doc said, “And you always think that.”

“Ah, but this time, there are things beyond even my control,” Death replied, “I insist you must order something, sir.”

“I already got this coffee.”

“The coffee was offered freely. I’m afraid you must order something.”

Dr. McNinja squinted at him. “You’re never this eager to get me to order something.”

Death’s face didn’t change, but his expression fell.

“Policy, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Mm.”

Dr. McNinja looked at the menu. The items on the menu were always regrets or bad memories. You had to eat them to pass into the afterlife of your worth. But not this time. He read the items with a disturbed expression.

“I’m sorry, death of my protege? Peter’s still alive. Well, so to speak.”

“Ah, we’re running a special menu today, sir,” Death replied, “Tonight you’ll be dining on your fears of the future.”

“You’re Death. Your whole thing is that there’s no more future.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid, sir.”

Doc looked at the menu again. Protege attacks you, you fail to save somebody, you kill somebody innocent. Alright, fairly simple stuff. All he needed to do was order all of these and he would wake up.

“Ah, but Doctor,” Death said, “There’s no waking up tonight.”

Doc raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

But Death was gone.

Dr. McNinja waited for Death to return, but there was no sign. There was the eerie uncertainty that followed when something had gone wrong - this was not how this dream usually went. Usually, Doc ordered some of his past traumas, he ate them, relived them, and that was that.

“Hello?” Doc called out, “I’d like to order now.”

Dr. McNinja was vaguely aware that his legs would not move, almost as an unspoken rule, in that way that dreams trick us into believing nonsense. So he sat there uselessly, looking around like a lost child waiting for a parent.

“I said I’d like to get out!”

Dr. McNinja squinted. He could hear voices - voices of people he knew. Daisy, Dr. Hans Leon… Peter. They were all trying to wake him - shaking his arms, calling his name, even trying to remove his mask (a surefire way to wake him from any sleep).

“I’m in here! I can’t get out!” Doc shouted from his seat. His coffee was getting cold.

He looked up. There was an image of his friends gathered around him, all with worried expressions. Apparently, his eyes were open, but he wouldn’t wake.

“Hey! Try unicorn tears mixed with adrenaline!” Doc shouted, “Unicorn tears with adrenaline-”

Before long, Daisy gasped as a sword protruded through her stomach. Peter snarled with fury at the unseen attacker, lunging at them. But before he could mount much of a defense, he was struck with a wooden stake. He vaporized instantly into dust. Then, it was Dr. Hans Leon’s turn. He cowered in the corner, unable to do anything. He was killed with little ceremony.

Dr. McNinja became aware of himself screaming in anger as he jolted awake.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked him, turning to him.

“Ugh, bad dream,” Doc replied, “You okay?”

Doc looked at Peter for the first time, and noticed Pete’s eyes were missing. There were gaping holes left where his eyes were supposed to be, and blood oozed and bubbled out of them liberally.

“What’s wrong, Doc?” Peter asked as Doc screamed.

But then, he was back at his table with his little coffee. He wasn’t sure how he got here, but here he was. Doc uneasily sipped his coffee.

“Okay, this one’s a little more intense,” he thought to himself, “But I’ll wake up any second now…”

On cue, Doc sat up from his bed, his body moving before he was even fully aware that he was awake. He sighed in relief.

“Good, good, awake now,” Doc said, “No more nightmares-”

He looked to his right and met eyes with Daisy. His immediate reaction was to notice Daisy’s blank eyes staring back. They were completely non-responsive, and her head was tilted to the side. The next thing he noticed was the rope around Daisy’s neck - tucked under the rope, vampire bite marks.

Doc screamed in horror as he then noticed the blood on his sheets. He knew without words that it was Daisy’s blood. It read, “Your Fault”.

Then he was back at the table.

This cycle would continue for an uncountable amount of time. Doc would wake from the dream, experience some new horror, then return to his seat. He lost count of how many times he’d seen Peter, Daisy or Hans Leon get murdered violently. Laela was in there a few times, too. Eventually, he’d gotten numb to the violence, and the nightmare seemed to notice, leaving him waiting at the coffee table for much longer, waiting in dread for the next illusion.

Then, after what seemed like hundreds of days had passed, he heard a voice. His voice. His Voice.

“I see you,” whispered Darkseid.

***

Dr. McNinja jolted awake. For the first time, he was aware that he was in his assigned bedroom at the Abbey. Peter was sitting on his own bed nearby, watching him with concern.

“Bad dreams?”

Doc swallowed hard. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“It’s 7 AM.”

“Ugh…” Doc mumbled, covering his still-sensitive eyes. “How about you? Did you get any sleep?”

“Same here. Didn’t get much sleep,” Peter sighed, “So… they weren’t kidding.”

“They were not,” Doc affirmed.

“What did you dream about?”

Doc swallowed hard. He recalled his visions of the mutilated Peter and Daisy.

“Same old,” Doc lied.

Peter nodded. “Same here.”

Dr. McNinja abruptly rose from his bed, flinging off the sheets and ruffling Peter’s head.

“Right! Let’s get on with our day,” Doc said, “We need to talk to that Daniel kid.”

“Maybe breakfast first…?” Peter started to say, but Dr. McNinja was already out the door.

 

[Shallan Davar]

Shallan awoke with a more collected perspective on the situation.

The night’s rest had been far from peaceful. Instead of the orphan boy, it had been her brother Jushue who sat by the fireplace. She had begged and pleaded with him, anything to stop him from smiling that terrible smile. He had only agreed on the condition that they trade. The morning bell had sounded just as Shallan felt her own face twisting into the same grinning visage.

Disturbing though the dream had been it made the distinction clear. This was not like Opealon, a place full of irredeemable monsters that needed to be stopped no matter the cost. There was a malice here, that much was undeniable. But these were children and caregivers, people she was sworn to defend as a Knight Radiant.

Life before Death. Strength before Weakness.

Rather than Veil’s white coat and hood, today she had chosen to return to the traditional Vorin Havah dress. With this many strangers she preferred the blue dress’s elongated sleeve rather than Veil’s glove, though it was quite evident by now that the concept of safe hands and free hands meant nothing to the Crossroads. Yet, to SHallan, the fact that she was so far flung from the world she had known made the comfortable familiarity of the tradition all the more important.

Her hair only vaguely tamed, she wandered downstairs to the dining hall. Once again the variety of foods available impressed her. They lived and ate well, these orphans! After some consideration, she settled down at one of the benches. It would be a late breakfast at this point, but the food showed no signs of running out. As she sat, a feline chef was setting out a platter of fresh bread, from which Shallan selected a piece eagerly. She paused, knife in one hand, her eyes roaming the collection of jams.

“Pardon,” She called out to the chef’s assistant as she left, “but I must ask your recommendation on spreads.”

“Hard choice in the early morning?” The cat turned about with a pleasant tone to her voice.

“I have found that the choice of adding a jam to good bread can have drastic consequences.” Shallan nodded, mirroring the cheerful tone to hide the unease that lingered in the back of her mind.

“In that case, I quite recommend the mulberry, dear.”

Shallan nodded in thanks, though the slightly patronizing response gave her the impression the cat had judged her to be closer in mind to one of the orphans than to an important visitor here to save the abbey. She set to work spreading a generous helping of the mulberry jam, a part of her mind now side-tracked wondering how old the little cat actually was.

Pattern had taken up a position on her sleeve this morning. It was one of the more conspicuous places he could have chosen, but he could easily be mistaken for a design on the dress. Shallan suspected he found that fact amusing.

Do you intend to draw more people today, Shallan? he hummed faintly.

Not just now, no. I think there are some conversations that need to be had.

With the boy who smiled in your drawing?

Among others…

Shallan ate her jam-slathered pastry while eyeballing the others who had come down for breakfast.

Looks like a bad night for most of them as well.

That would fit the pattern. Pattern chimed in, Everyone who sleeps here appears to be suffering from the disturbance to their nightly rest.

Now that’s a thought worth checking… Shallan furrowed her brow and chomped on the bread as she considered.

 

[Mollymauk Tealeaf]

Molly had only met one distinguished Tiefling in his short life, and that was Jester’s mother. This newly met testament to their infernal bloodline had very quickly at least tied with the Lavorre matron; her being an extremely well-known courtesan, and of the highest possible praise in Molly's eyes. Nalaia though, even as obvious as an academic as she was, was a completely different kind of Tiefling altogether. He could tell Jester was as much in awe as he was. Successful devils like them were rare. She seemed so much older than them, but they could not have been more than a decade apart.

Empty

Up till this point, Molly had taken to just fiddling with random objects, avoiding the absolute feast presented before them, and slipping in the last bit of the last flask to his coffee. Maybe it was the last flask, he might surprise himself later. Anything to take his mind off of the voice that had followed him from his nightmare down to breakfast, before this wonderful newcomer had come and cast a spell, and just like that Molly had felt right as rain, no more hearing that voice in his head. He had focused intently on Jester’s recounting and subsequent interview and retelling.

Empty

That voice again. That he was absolutely sure wasn't there.

As sure as ya were the fuckin' angel moved, Molly-boy?

Empty

He focused on how wonderfully enthralled and inspired he was with Nalaia. From the perfectly pressed peignoir gown, to the fact that even her horns seemed to be symmetrically upstanding in a way he had never seen. Even her god, Oghma, he knew to be one of the smart people Gods. She wasn't a complete prim flower, though. Not with a face tattoo, and although her mismatched lavender and red eyes had the kindest glow, radiating her intellect, they also had the spirit of a fighter. This woman would never be caught as a mark at the carnival, and just like when he first met Jester, why would you even want to try anyway?

Empty

Molly realized that she had been staring at him this whole time. Expectant and patient. He uncharacteristically had to pep himself up before he started talking.

You're Mollymauk Tealeaf, you're-

Empty Came the other voice.

Molly exhaled deeply and noticed that Jester and Nalaia were staring at him with some concern at this point. Jester seemed a little visibly shaken, and put a hand on his shoulder, noticed sticky fig jam on her thumb, licked it off, then placed the hand back on his shoulder.

"Molly, are you ok?" Jester asked, her pink eyes full of sincerity and care.

Molly snapped out of it, and thumped a hand on the table. "Yes! Well, enough o' that nonsense with the starin' dolefully at ya, Nalaia, just a wee bit o' lack of sleep. Nightmares…right. Well, I think that about wraps mine up, wouldn't ya say," and he smiled brightly at both of them.

Empty

"Er... No, actually Mr. Tealeaf...” Nalaia gently corrected him the way a mother would. “You started off rather confidently before you abruptly stopped talking altogether. Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Tealeaf? We can go and sit somewhere else if your dream is hard to talk about around the others." Nalaia offered with a warm countenance, her pen and notebook at the ready to recount symptoms.

Jester gave his shoulder a squeeze. Then she hugged him, and Molly could feel the crumbs rubbing off of her and onto him, despite the fact that the scribe had just cleaned her off with a spell. She pulled away and stared at him, her pink eyes intense.

"Molly, you literally talk even when nobody is around. What in the heck is even going on with you? You just sat there, mid-sentence and stared at Nalaia like a total creep. Molly, we have like no Tiefling friends, and she is a real fancy lady. You can't just stare at fancy ladies like that, probably. I don't think so. Maybe." Jester said, casting a quick little glance back at the other woman.

Empty

"Jester, dear, I can hear you... Thank you, really, but I am more worried about any new symptoms that may have developed this morning with Mollymauk-" the Cleric to Oghma started.

"Ole Molly is just fine, Jester.” He cut in, quick in his attempt to assuage their worries. “…I would absolutely tell ya if I wasn't feeling up ta snuff. Trust me," he asserted with a flash of his brilliant smile and crimson eyes at both of them.

"Oh come now, lying is hardly befitting such a handsome young man as yourself," Nalaia discerned immediately, her mismatched eyes still held patience, but her voice was rather stern in her assessment.

"Yeah, big time," Jester agreed. They both stared at him with raised eyebrows.

"Well," Nalaia relented as she set down the pen, "if the most resplendent Mollymauk isn’t comfortable with sharing his dreams, that is his choice to make," she added, warmly if not a little dejected.

Empty

Molly slapped at his forehead a little and sighed. "No, no. I won't have ya telling me yer dreams and me not telling my tale in return. Just wouldn't be very sporting, now would it. Ok, well fer starters, I've been hearing a voice-"

Jeater gave a little squeak and covered her mouth. Trying her best to not interrupt.

"I've been hearing a tiny voice in my head, repeatin' the same word over and over again… ’empty’. A simple word, the same one I was mutterin' when the carnival found me and took me in." Molly said and both clerics leaned in, the pen already scratching on the scholar's pad. "...In the dream, I'm walking in a forest, much like the one we took ta get through the Hinterlands ta here at this fine old Abbey with just the best fresh brewed coffee, I know yer both a fan o' the tea, but ya gotta try this coffee-".

"Molly!" Jester whined.

"Mr. Tealeaf please... take your time. But please know that this is for posterity. In my experience, delaying will only make the retelling more difficult, I assure you."

"Right, enough o' the nonsense.” He remarked with a sigh. “So I's walking down this path, and I hear a voice. Not just a voice, MY voice. My voice from before. It's me, chasing myself in the dream, and through brambles and dodging the trees at night I am running, from my own damn self. Sorry Clerics for the language, but sit on an Arbiter's shitter- I am running for my life. My actual life because it's the man I was before coming to recollect on what's his, And I know it, as he gets closer I hear it again and again, letting me know he's gaining on me. Empty. Empty. Empty…"

Molly tapped the table lightly with a tarot card each time. His showmanship now overcame his fear and anxiety. Nalaia's eyes took note of the card, but she remained intently listening.

"Finally, I feel a familiar hand on my shoulder and I’m spun around and see myself, as the stranger I saw in the mirror when I first woke up, no tattoos, no finery, no cloak, no memory…"

"Just empty…" Jester cut in, in a whisper.

Molly nodded and continued.

"He stares at me, this stranger with my face, then he shoves me and I fall backwards into a shallow grave, my body a perfect fit because it was made for me. I can't move, my arms are pinned against the walls, and I'm standing above myself, shoveling dirt, bit by bit I'm being buried and all the while he just repeats the words over and over. Empty. Empty. Empty," and Molly tapped the card each time again.

"Then, it's just my face left exposed…and the last bit o' earth is on the shovel and he looks down on me, buried again, like the night I crawled out of that grave…and he stares back at me with my own red eyes…and then, I WOKE UP!" Molly yelled and slammed the table.

Jester shrieked and jumped back, while Nalaia gave a little laugh, showing he even got to her a little. Molly smiled and stood up to stretch, downing his coffee.

"All of that is actually how it happened," Molly said, wearing his full armor of a roguish grin again.

"Very well then, Mollymauk. Do you still hear the voice now?" The Cleric of Oghma asked with a smile and knowing look.

"Huh, funny that. I do not, Good Cleric Nalaia," Molly replied, and sat back down in his seat relieved.

"The calming spell can only do so much, but the best advice I can recommend when it comes to healing and recovering is to simply become comfortable talking about what happened. Interestingly enough, despite being the least dangerous option, many find it to be the most difficult. Thank you for sharing, Mollymauk," Nalaia said with her welcoming and compassionate blue-lipped smile.

"Molly…she really is, like, super cool." Jester said, beaming at the other cleric.

Molly stood and gave a flashy bow complete with a spin and courtesy in gratitude to the two blue Tieflings.

"So, what's gonna be on the agenda, then?" Molly asked, holding his arms outstretched and letting the warmth from the windows cover his chest, only slightly covered by his open robe, and closing his eyes in a moment of peace.

 

[Arbiter]

OBSERVE ACTION

Shinku will observe in the kitchen with his focus on the gatekeeper's mention about strange smells and whispers in the dark. He'd be drawn by the dark void in the kitchen but would mostly observe the working staff.

Passed Observation Check!​

As Shinku started down the ancient, cracked stone steps of the Great Hall, his nostrils filled with the savory aroma of spices, stale smoke and roasts. The heavy air seemed to thicken with every step he took into the depths of the flickering stove-light that illuminated the kitchens below. Everywhere was a cacophony of sound; the clatter of pots and pans, the chatter of busy cook-folk echoing all around him inside the cramped space, but he paid them no heed as he continued on to his destination.

Soon, the shadow assassin found himself standing in the dimly lit, smoky kitchen. He peered around, taking the measure of the room in a glance, studying its contours and the stately brick walls bordering him on all sides. The dawn's light crept in through high, thin slit windows, setting an eerie orange glow over the towering brick. Pots and pans hung above him on wooden shelves, illuminated by flickering fireplaces and blazing woodstoves.

He could make out the shadows of a few kitchen workers bustling about, sweeping and wiping down the cooktops, their contorted shapes darting around like frenzied mice, the murmur of their chatter melding together into a buzzing drone. Shinku felt the faintest curve of a smile on his lips as he understood well that he had made it down here unnoticed, unseen in the darkness.

They weren't doing anything particularly... interesting, though. Just cleaning and preparing for lunchtime. A notable young woman with brown hair and green eyes viciously scrubbed over a collection of dirtied pots beside a washbasin, her brows knit together in concentration, but the rest of the kitchen's staff were almost a blur of frenzied motion; tromping upstairs and then back down again to shift various plates around, cutting up vegetables for lunch, peeling potatoes...

The assassin caught a glimpse of it out the corner of his eye, then; a pantry door, ajar and inviting to his darkness-oriented sensibilities. Shinku crept warily closer, transfixed by its shadowy depths. He felt as if mysteries untold lay within, calling to him like an ancient siren’s song. He felt drawn to it, a determination within him building as he recalled the gatekeeper's words from the evening before. He would observe this pantry a bit more closely, then.

Bracing his shoulder against it, Shinku grunted faintly as he pushed the heavy door all the way open with a creak that reverberated through the dimly lit room and into the kitchens just over his shoulder. He squinted his eyes in an effort to penetrate the looming, eerie darkness that shrouded whatever was hiding within, for shadows always concealed things that might wish to remain unseen, and he knew this better than anyone.

The shadow assassin's clever eyes swiftly adjusted to the dark, twinkling in the gloom. He could make out a few shelves stocked with mismatched jars, pungent spices, and dried fruits that seemed fit to crumble into dust if he ventured any closer to touch them with his fingertips. There were also piles of wooden containers and drooping hessian sacks stuffed with unfamiliar herbs and knotted roots.

Navigating the inky abyss with tentative steps, for he couldn't very well observe the place by just standing inside the doorway like a loon, Shinku vigilantly scanned his surroundings for any uninvited company. Each shallow breath and thudding heartbeat felt like a call to alert whatever lurked in the shadows of the dank room, which seemed to almost stretch on forever as Shinku steadily picked his way across the space. His vision adjusted further to the stygian darkness, revealing stacks of bulky barrels piled atop one another in the farthest corner, stretching up like a shadowy mountain range.

The shelves seemed to reach their natural terminus there. Shinku went closer, his hands clutching the shelves, using them as anchors as he steadied himself in the darkness, stepping carefully over scattered objects, observing all the while.

His steps came to a sudden cease as he heard a tiny, abrupt rattling noise from the far corner. His beating heart froze inside his chest and his breath held still, his feet daring not to move another inch; a hunter, poised to strike at his prey.

Shinku waited a moment more, yet nothing came.

Suddenly, the pantry door flew wider open with yet another thunderous creak from behind him, and in stepped a pale-skinned young woman with chestnut locks, a petite figure silhouetted against the amber firelight of the kitchens, her green eyes wide with... alarm? Shinku thought so, at least.

"Uhm, hey!" she called out to him, voice tinged with anxiousness, wringing her apron steadily between her hands. "What are you, uh... doing in there?"

Her eyes darted over his shoulder, to the far corner of the room behind the stacked barrels, then back to Shinku's face.

Shinku is merely observing the kitchen's pantry currently, but further different actions can reveal more.

NPC Info: The young woman is named Anna, from the feast last night. She is Daniel's sister.

Feel free to roleplay where Anna is being cagey about something unmentioned and trying to convince Shinku to leave the pantry alone.

 

[Arbiter]

INTERROGATE ACTION

Aster is going to go (attempt to) speak with dear ol' Mister Krotgrim, and ask about the tapestry in the Great Hall. Specifically in regards to when it wad damaged, or what it showed before being so. As the reining Oldest Man of the Abbey, he'd be the one in the best position to know, after all.

Passed Interrogation Check!​

Upon being invited inside, Aster cautiously opened the creaky gatehouse door a bit wider, and the strong aroma of decades-old parchment, dusty records and other forgotten relics wafted from the cramped chamber, tickling at her sensitive snout.

Her crimson eyes roved about, taking in all the memorabilia with the same air a child might have when looking at a particularly large library or museum, though her enthusiasm for such things was severely tempered by her evident exhaustion and weariness.

A gnarled old desk of carved oak stood nestled against one wall, its intricate wooden inlays gleaming like a beacon in the dim light. Scrolls and parchment that had seen better days lined the towering shelves to both her left and right; practically spilling forth, meticulously organized by the aged hands of the gatekeeper.

Mr. Krotgrim was hunched over said desk already, furiously shuffling through a pile of records—his wizened, snowy-white beard cascading onto the floor like a rippling waterfall. The ancient man peered up at her sharply as he noted her uneasy state, his beady, hawk-like eyes narrowed behind a pair of spectacles that he had evidently conjured up from somewhere.

The wolf girl noticed the gatekeeper was wearing the same robe he had worn the night before, albeit cleaner. His gruff, cantankerous demeanor seemed to have grown impossibly grumpier since their initial conversation, yet when she remained standing uncertainly in the doorway, too hesitant to comply with his invitation inside even after it being granted, she could spot a smidgen of softness worm its way across his wrinkled face as he beckoned her inside the gatehouse.

"Sit," he said brusquely, motioning for her to occupy a tattered couch strewn with age-worn dust. It may have once been a deep, velvety crimson, but now appeared to be more of a rusty orange.

Aster sat.

A drooping basset hound promptly emerged from underneath the couch, his dark brown eyes fixated on her ankles. He sniffed around for a few moments with his wet nose, and then with a rumbling sigh, curled up for a nap at her feet.

Without a word spoken between them, Mr. Krotgrim bustled over to a nearby teapot, placed on a wooden tray brought in by one of the cook-folk. His rough hands poured out a cup of piping hot tea, which he quickly shoved into the wolf girl's paws.

As the steam curled up and twined around her face, Aster bemusedly breathed in the comforting smell of the herbal brew. Then, she turned to Mr. Krotgrim, her muzzle parting as if to speak—

In a sudden huff, the old man spun away (at a hobbling pace) and returned to his desk as if he had suddenly remembered something significant. He feverishly flipped through the pile of scrolls before him, but kept an ever-watchful eye on her. His intense gaze seemed to be studying her closely, weighing the decision to speak words of great import.

Finally, Mr. Krotgrim grumbled, his face crinkling in a scowl, "So, you're asking about the tapestry's burnt end, eh? I saw you gawkin' at it last night. The damage to it didn't occur all that long ago, if you must know..."

He jabbed his twisted finger upon the battered wood of his desk, punctuating his words. "It was but a fortnight ago, when it happened. I was in this very gatehouse, sittin' content in my peace and quiet." His face seemed to pale as he remembered what he had found. "I heard a sudden, awful wail and ran out to find the source. And there she was, one of the little ones—Susan, I think is her name—standing in the Great Hall with floodwaters cascadin' down her face, driven to tears by what she'd done."

The old man grumbled, yanking his beard. "Seems the child sleep-stumbled and knocked a candelabra near the tapestry! The damned flame lit up the fabric like kindling, though we managed to put it out before too much harm was done, but fire ate away at a portion of it. All that history, up in smoke..."

Mr. Krotgrim's voice stopped abruptly and he grumbled, shaking his wizened head in sorrow. He glowered as he muttered, "There ain't no patchin' what's been burned. That was one-of-a-kind artistry, and none of our menders can fix it. Though I don't blame the child, no, and I'm certainly glad she didn't set fire to someplace else, such as the dormitories... the abbey's been more vigilant with our nighttime patrols ever since."

Then, with a haughty sniff, he slouched back into his desk chair, a cloud of the ever-present gatehouse dust rising around his form. His gnarled, trembling hand scrabbled at his desk for a moment, then unfurled a large roll of parchment for Aster to see.

"Look, here's the original portrait. Mighty fine, isn't it? Can't see nothing of its former glory in the burnt tatters..." the old man rambled, oblivious to Aster's shock.

The illuminated hero on the aged parchment, expertly painted with vibrant plant dyes on the ancient paper, did not look as the one embroidered on the tapestry. Instead of pointing their mighty sword downward at an unseen enemy, this hero stood proud and unwavering, their moonlit blade held aloft and shining brilliantly—thrust towards the heavens.

 

[Arbiter]

INTERROGATE ACTION

Dr. McNinja is going to Interrogate Daniel! Mostly, why he thinks the troll is in the abbey.

Passed Interrogation Check!​

"I'm not crazy," insisted Daniel, with a crazed look in his eye, glaring up at Dr. McNinja. The ninja doctor and his vampire assistant had located him in the orchards, sitting slumped in the shade of a tree, angrily poking at the ground with a stick.

"It's here! The troll is everywhere," Daniel gestured wildly, jabbing his stick baton at the trees, the grasses, and even the air around them. "No one believes me, but it's real. I can still feel it!"

The frustrated teenager slammed his fist against his thigh, rage and exasperation marring his features. But he could see in the doctor's eyes a burning curiosity that kept him from ending the conversation, so he swallowed the boiling bile back down into his belly and continued to speak.

"I... was just doing my duties, or at least, what I used to do... before," he gestured limply towards his arm, missing at the elbow, straitjacketed to his side by pristine bandages. "I was... taking care of the animals, y'see. This was before the forest outside was too dangerous to wander around, before things got bad, before the nightmares started. One of the sows waddled her way into the thicket and I thought it'd be fair to let her snuffle about for truffles and such. Especially since she had a clutch on board. I... thought she could use the fresh air before being stuck in that stuffy barn for who knows how long."

Daniel sniffed, just a little. He could recall the darkened woodlands with ease; the stillness overwhelmingly peaceful; it felt nice to be outside of the abbey's walls, all alone. Like he was responsible, being treated like an adult at last.

Yet even though the dimly-lit, pre-dawn atmosphere blanketed everything in a curtain of silence, Daniel could still hear the thumping of the sow's hooves on the bed of crisp autumn leaves and broken sticks. Or, at least, he thought he could... until it was too late.

He sighed heavily and hung his head, the hand clutching the stick still having not stopped its intricate sketching in the fine grains of dirt. "I was so... so happy about being out alone that before I knew it, I'd found myself in a little... dell in the woods. No pig to be seen," he murmured, his gaze glued to the ground. "I went searching for her but only found an old stream, dark and deep, with this... old, broken bridge spanning over it instead."

The boy glanced off across the orchards, his green eyes caught in a trance of recollection. The bridge had looked like it had been there for many years, with its old wooden planks twisted and gnarled from decades of harsh weather and timeless wear—split perfectly in two over the rushing water.

In his memory, the ground was strewn with fallen leaves, twigs and debris, while a thick fog clung to every inch of the bridge like a ghostly blanket. Strangely enough, Daniel felt courageous instead of afraid; something deep down inside him had urged his feet forward.

When Daniel stepped closer, peering at one half of the cracked bridge with a sense of wonder, a lone gap—wide enough for any manner of secret to be concealed within—stood out amongst the rest of its weathered, cracked timber brethren. An odd chill had run through him as he mused on the potential of what might be hidden in such an unlikely place, and he'd moved closer.

"I'd heard tell of... o-of trolls living under bridges from some travelers who stopped by the abbey," Daniel said slowly, abruptly dropping his stick and letting it settle among the dirt. He rubbed at his face with his hand, sighing. "I was... curious to see what all the fuss was about. Who knew? Maybe there was a troll living under the bridge and I could befriend it," he shrugged his thin shoulders, morose. "Trolls can't be that bad, right? The abbess always said not to judge a book by its cover."

He paused, turning his head down to the ground, his shoulders sagging under the weight of some invisible burden. "There was a troll under the bridge, alright. It talked to me from this little gap in the planks," his forest green eyes went unfocused. "It seemed... nice, like it wanted to be my friend, almost. I dunno. But when I got too close..."

The boy shuddered and shook his head furiously, trying to push back the tears that threatened to spill over. He bit down on his lip, a faint tremor passing through his body as he clutched at the stump of his missing arm.

He glanced up at the doctor, his eyes spanning wide. "It followed me home. It's here, and it's going to get me."

 

[Arbiter]

OBSERVE ACTION

Shallan would like to take an OBSERVE action, watching the breakfast-goers demeanors this morning. Her aim is to look for anyone who didn't suffer from nightmares last night.

Passed Observation Check...?​

As Shallan gazed upon the Great Hall, she noticed how all of her fellow investigators seemed to be ensnared in a dream-like state, and many of the cook-folk, as well. The atmosphere was tinged with hopelessness and exhaustion, and few carried themselves with any semblance of vigor or cheer. All around her were pale faces, tired eyes, and sluggish movements; even their voices were muted by private suffering.

Yet one individual moved freely among them; this person was obviously unencumbered by the heavy darkness and sorrow brought on by unpleasant dreams...

Lieutenant Columbo.

The dark-haired man perched on an oak chair, his rumpled coat hanging loosely from his body, seated across from a weary Abbess Oriole. He bit into a powder-dusted donut as he spoke in a quiet and slow manner, probing her with questions.

But he appeared to have endured a peaceful sleep, unaffected by the turmoil of the night. His dark brown eyes twinkled with polite interest and his features were unmarked by anything, save wrinkles brought on by the passage of time.

As Shallan watched, Columbo removed an object from out of his coat pocket and presented it to the Abbess—said object small enough to fit into the curve of his hand, hidden from Shallan's sight by the meat of his palm. The detective cocked his head, as if in question.

The Abbess studied the object, her lips twisting as she pondered it, but shook her head.

Bobbing his head in puzzled understanding, Columbo tucked his hand back inside his pocket, the mystery item swiftly vanishing in the depths of his wrinkled, stained coat.

He resumed asking questions.

 

[Jester Lavorre]

“What’s on the agenda?” Jester repeated back, looking at Molly. “That is a pretty good question. You know what I’ve been thinking about?”

“What’s that, dearie?” Molly asked kindly.

Though her friend wore his characteristically charming grin, Jester was worried he was putting on a brave face. There was no use prying any further, though, lest she embarrass him in front of their new friend. She made a mental note to stash away some pastries to surprise him with later.

“I’ve been thinking about that guy.”

She bobbed her head discreetly towards the end of the table so that the tip of her curled horn indicated the rumpled detective, Columbo.

Columbo chatted animatedly with the Abbess. He munched on a donut while he spoke, and held an unlit cigar in his off-hand all the while. Jester was struck by the distinct impression that the man was masking something with his constant preoccupation. It seemed he was always doing something with his hands and engaging in idle conversation, but the more she thought about it, the more Jester began to suspect that engaging the inhabitants in constant idle banter was the best way to learn what was happening around the Abbey. When the Lieutenant asked a question the Abbess would start to explain something while he listened. Was his disheveled appearance and constant restless activity a facade within which he concealed his grander sleuthing?

“That guy?” Molly arched an eyebrow. “Have ya noticed somethin’ about ‘im, Jester?”

“I’m not sure.”

The Cleric tapped her croissant against the table thoughtfully, watching the detective. Was he ever going to light that cigar? Also, it was an art the way he could sneak a bite of a donut in between sentences while fully engaging a conversation. And that hair! She wondered if he ever used a comb.

“I just can’t put my finger on it. It seems like he is probably some kind of weirdo. Probably. On the other hand, it feels like he has some kind of method. I wonder if he has learned anything,” Jester realized she was rambling, and swept her gaze away from the detective and back to the Tiefling gang. “So, what I was thinking! About the entire ‘agenda’ thing. I have a couple of things I wanted to do today. First, I wanted to stop by the Gatehouse. I could not help but notice that there seemed to be a lot of like, books, and scrolls, and all kinds of stuff. Probably, if we poke around in there, it can tell us a little bit more about what’s going on around this place, or at least, what has gone on around this place before. That dog person, or whatever, was talking about the tapestry last night and it got me to thinking that maybe if someone went so far as to burn a historical tapestry that there is something about this place’s history that might give us a clue about what’s coming next. Maybe we can find out what that history is from a scroll or a book.”

“The next thing I want to do,” Jester continued, speaking so quickly that her words simply tumbled over each other in a rush of tea caffeine induced gum flapping. “...talk to that guy. There’s just something about him, and the way that he is, with that jacket, and that cigar, and the entire thing. He reminds me of this detective that Molly and I know named Mickey, except not quite as serious. Mickey was a bit of a hardboiled egg, if you know what I mean. There is something about that detective's eyes that make me wonder if he has found something already, and since he wasn’t at the group session last night, we should probably ask him.”

Nalaia and Mollymauk, for their part, were patient as Saints as they waited for Jester’s train of thought to pull the brakes into the station.

Jester, for her part, had begun idly picking the flakes from her croissant with her thumb and forefinger as she spoke.

“The last thing I want to do is take a walk around the grounds. I don’t really like being cooped up inside for too long, and maybe we will notice if there’s something weird out there. Plus, there are bees out there,” Jester grinned widely. “I really, really like bees.”

After a pause, the first significant one since the trickster Cleric had begun speaking, Nalaia began to speak in earnest.

“That’s a well thought out agenda, Miss Lavorre,” she smiled approvingly. “Perhaps we should begin with the first activity and then see where the morning takes us.”

“And if we need ta do more things at once, we could always split the party,” Molly suggested. "I was thinkin' about headin' ta the cellars an' pokin' around a bit. Maybe see if I can find some o' that fine abbey wine."

“Both sound like good ideas,” Nalaia agreed with a courtly nod and stood. “I’ll head off with Miss Lavorre to investigate the Gatehouse. Except,” she reached out and laid a gentle hand on Molly’s arm, “Mr. Tealeaf, perhaps we could make some time later for a private conversation, after dinner tonight. I’d like to talk a bit more about your dreams.”

Mollymauk glanced apprehensively at Jester for reassurance, but his blue friend was hastily snatching up then depositing croissants into her carry-on and paid no notice to the showman’s nervous beseeching.

“Well, sure, o’ course,” Molly agreed, trying not to betray his reluctance to discuss his dreams in further detail. “Then we’ll all meet up at dinner an’ revisit this.”

“Sounds pretty good to me!” Jester agreed, oblivious to Molly’s plight. “Let’s go check out some scrolls and stuff!”

 

[Izaneus Phortea]

The corner of the darkness seemed to move, So many things happening at once. There was so much darkness, the length of this sleep seemed to take longer than normal. It wasn't until Minala sat up with a start and a gasp for air, patting herself down fervently to check for wounds.. disease.. something. That she realized something was genuinely wrong with this place. Her heart beating fervently, matted with a layer of sweat that stuck to her, and made her shiver more than the fear of.. whatever had just happened. Raising a hand to her temple to ease the growing ache, she tried not to think longer on what had just happened. Merely understanding that.. Well, yes. If the previous night hadn’t confirmed her suspicion that this was a foreign entity. This had.

The strangest thing about it was.. Just that, she couldn’t remember any of it. Perhaps if she’d been able to just… see something. Then maybe, just maybe she’d have been able to learn just a little mo-

Another throb of pain from her temple signified that it was time to stop thinking. Carefully, the girl got up, and dressed herself accordingly, donning the uniform armor she’d worn the night prior, and stretching with haste, the pleasure of her body getting exercise gently pushing away a portion of the pain in her skull.

But certainly not the shiver in her body.

Suddenly the girl believed it was a better idea to skip breakfast, and head straight into investigation.

Her steps gently echoed down the hallways, down the grand hall where everyone was dining. The thought of food made her stomach churn unnaturally, so she turned from the table and instead began to head into the nearby Gardens. With a resolve to investigate the fireplace later. For now though, she held hope for searching a rather serene area. Her body continued to shiver unnaturally. Only barely easing as she entered into the lush gardens filled with colors that made her take a breath of relief. The safety of Familiarity rushing through and over her.

She took a few moments to enjoy the sun kissed spot of nature so lovingly preserved. Before beginning her investigation in earnest.

 

[Arbiter]

INVESTIGATE ACTION

Minala will investigate the Gardens for her first action!

Passed Investigation Check!​

CONTENT WARNING

ANIMAL DEATH, RELATED EYE TRAUMA FROM DECOMP.

Minala cautiously stepped into the gardens of Haven Abbey, taking in the sweet-smelling aroma of the fertile brown soil and freshly churned earth. The sun-dappled pathways were lined with neat rows of vibrant vegetables crisp on the vine and fragrant green herbs, while nearby, the buzzing of bees filled the air as they flitted among their hives, wafting out the treacly scent of fresh wildflower honey.

Lush grass swayed all around the borders of the gardens, sprinkled with a heavenly mix of blossoms. Their petals sparkled in the light of day, dusting the emerald carpet of the lawn in an array of pastel hues; it was evident that the bees were thriving, and certainly happy about it.

The buzzing sound of the bees was a comforting presence, and Minala took her time to appreciate it, the steady, warm hum like a fortifying anthem for her soul.

But as she ventured deeper into the gardens, she heard a different type of buzzing—one that seemed to originate from further in the garden, behind a row of glistening, healthy tomato plants. With each step closer, the buzz got louder, and before long Minala parted the tomato-laden foliage with her hands—and there lay the cause of the noise.

It was a dead rabbit, splayed open with its guts everywhere, honeybees crawling all over the dark, gory entrails.

Minala reeled back in shock, a deep sense of revulsion surging through her own guts. The rabbit was rigid in death, one leg missing and its eyes hollowed out. The remaining pits were lined with a gruesome smear of some disgusting ooze, yet the throng of bees buzzed about it ceaselessly, their fuzzy black and yellow bodies lightly speckled with scarlet blood.

The poor thing seemed as if it had been mauled by a wild animal.

 

[Masahir N'air]

“Well, sure, o’ course,” Molly nodded in agreement, the small creases tucked along the corners of his mouth and between his fine brows crinkled just the slightest bit, his lips pursed every so slightly as he held to his composure. He was uncomfortable with the prospect of his dream facing further discussion, that much was obvious to the chronicler. “Then we’ll all meet up at dinner an’ revisit this.”

Nalaia withdrew her hand and dipped her head, bidding that the goddess of fortune bless him. "May Tymora guide your ever seeking hand..." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she moved a step closer, a playful smirk worn on her face. "And if you find anything nice, perhaps you could be convinced to share."

She shot him a coy wink and spun on her heels, her mane of purple curls shimmering under the kaleidoscopic rainbow of the stained glass as she made her exit with Jester in tow. She couldn't blame the man's apprehension. Empty. Empty. That voice he heard undoubtedly haunted him, and the images invoked by his nightmare swam across the theatre of her mind. He had mentioned being found repeating that word by his Carnival. Well, he had certainly struck her as a performer, if his jacket and bedazzled horns didn't reinforce it enough then the peacock roosting along the curve of his neck absolutely did... His apparent amnesia had struck her as well, the cool admittance that he had woken up into this world feeling wretchedly incomplete.

Nalaia chewed the inside of her lip as she turned his words and posture over in her mind, her black claws rapping gently over the square case of tarot cards secreted away within her satchel as she stepped out into the main courtyard. The pale morning sun glistened across the cool damp lawn, sparkling with a rather striking contrast against the low and well kempt deep blue-green bentgrass, but Nalaia hardly noticed it through the blue light bouncing off her cheek scales and into her eyes. She sighed and raised her hand to her forehead as a visor against the glare.

Mollymauk's words hadn't merely been about his dream. He had a soul fit to come up to his knees and no further. Sure, he had plenty of charm and earnest passion, but the truly arcane thrumming of his soul felt as terribly faint as the finest of gossamer. Empty was awfully befitting considering that fact. Had he been subject to an incomplete revivification spell? Some sort of undying curse? It wasn't often in her experience that people crawled out of their own grave without the help of the supernatural and only a third of a soul... And he hardly reeked with the sulfuric scent of Avernus. Whatever it was, it seemed to manifest itself as a deep regret, a past he could not recall catching up with him to extract a debt or penance he lacked all context for... And how could one ever truly repent without knowing the nature of their crimes?

Perhaps a tarot reading tonight at dinner could reveal some answers to them. She had taken sharp notice of how he'd tapped and flourished his cards for dramatic effect while recounting his nightmare, but she hadn't caught a glimpse of any of their faces. She planned to ask him about that sometime tonight as well, but she pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind as they arrived before the gatehouse door. It was already standing open.

"Can't see nothing of its former glory in the burnt tatters..." Mister Krotgrim, the weathered and downright ancient groundskeeper remarked with a sigh about something as he sat at his desk. The white furred canine woman stood before him, gaping in shock or awe at the large unfurled parchment on display Nalaia couldn't yet tell. They must have been talking about the burnt up tapestry in the grand hall.

Nalaia gave a light knock on the wooden doorframe. "Excuse me, Mister Krotgrim, me and my acquaintance were stopping by to--"

"We wanted to see your books and records on the history of the abbey!" Jester proclaimed, butting in and interrupting the other cleric before noticing the parchment roll. "Oh, hey! Is that that big burnt tapestry hanging up in the hall? I was wondering what happened to it." Her large pink eyes beamed curiously at them both as she closed the distance to get a better look, Nalaia trailing behind like a shadow.

The first thing the Oghmanyte noticed upon entering the room was the uncomfortable way the canid held herself, shoulders drawn in, eyes turned down, back slightly hunched. She must have suffered nightmares just as intensely as the others had, for she looked as if she held the weight of a great burden on her back, a burden that threatened to snap her flat to the floor under itself. Nalaia studied the woman for a moment, gauging her, but unlike Jester she did not encroach on her space. Instead she simply waited patiently for a moment to get a word in edgewise.

"Mister Krotgrim," Nalaia started once more, Jester having finally paused to take a breath and think of her next lines of question. "I'm sorry to be a bother, but I what I mean to ask you is this: does Heaven Abbey have any sort of history with the supernatural, or other arcana, in your experience?"​

 

[Arbiter]

INVESTIGATE ACTION

Mollymauk would like to INVESTIGATE the cellars, trying to hunt down any wine or ale that might be hidden down there.

Passed Investigation Check...?​

Mollymauk Tealeaf took one slow, loping step after another down the ominously long, coiling stairwell from the Great Hall.

With each subtle descent he felt a darkness closing in around him, the atmosphere of the abbey's depths seeming to fall across his form like a thick fog. He eventually passed by the kitchens, where only the tumultuous clashes of pots and pans filled the air, clanking and clattering like swords in battle—a noise that should have offered some comfort, the warmth issuing forth from the many stove-tops inside bolstering the bold tiefling along.

The hunter tiptoed down the timeworn stairs, venturing deeper and deeper into the abyss of the cellars in ardent search of wine, ale or any other spirits to sate his thirst. He expected to find dusty larders, barrels of stored ale, and other forgotten 'treasures' in the unplumbed darkness.

But when Molly reached the bottom step, all that awaited him was a smooth, lightly dusted grey floor, barely illuminated in the darkness. He could not tell where said darkness ended or began, but his unease was palpable as he stepped down into the cellars, the echo of his footsteps reverberating endlessly outward as soon as the soles of his shoes graced the cold, hard floor.

At the center of the chamber, a lone wine bottle sat, as if waiting for him.

Mollymauk stood frozen in the murk of the cellars, the musty silence pressing in on him. After a lengthy moment, he stepped closer to the bottle and examined it curiously, quirking an eyebrow at it.

The label was weathered and illegible, but seemed to grow more vivid with each passing second. Molly could just barely make out some strange crest scrawled upon its oblong side, yet he hadn't the slightest notion what it might mean.

He sank to one knee as his long, thin fingers reached for the neck of the bottle, as if he planned to twist the cork and sniff its contents right then and there—

And then the floor directly before Molly's feet shattered and fell away, yawning wide open as it crumbled into nothingness.

An abyss opened up before him, clods of dirt pouring into it until the hole seemed to take on a dismal silhouette, forming a pit that was as deep as a freshly dug grave, its gritty sides rough and hewn as if someone had carved out a resting place for a body.

A distinctly Mollymauk-shaped body.

The sinister glass wine bottle sat perched precariously at the edge of the grave, as if just one little prod would be enough to send it spilling down into the roomy darkness below.

 

[Arbiter]

INVESTIGATE ACTION

Nalaia would like to investigate/read over whatever records or accounts that Krotgrim points her to regarding the Abbey's history with the occult, supernatural, or otherwise arcane.

+

Using the information about the burnt end of the historical tapestry, JESTER decides to investigate the Gatehouse's library and begin looking for the scrolls and archives; she is looking specifically for anything that details the history of the abbey, especially anything supernatural.

Passed Investigation Check!​

"Does it?" Mr. Krotgrim huffed, incredulous, his bushy eyebrows shooting up towards his liver-spotted, regrettably scarce hairline. "Does a fish get thirsty?"

Before Nalaia could offer an answer to that truly befuddling question, the grizzled old man, with what appeared to be an utterly unmoving frown etched into his gruff features, waved his flailing, arthritis-ridden fingers in the direction of the pair of tieflings. He huffed and grumbled in a disgruntled manner, about how it was far too early for such visitors to be knocking on his door and that if they wanted to pay him a visit, they should at least wait until after lunch time.

Shuffling determinedly, Mr. Krotgrim trudged towards the right-hand corner of the room in a rustle of his robes, where heaps of scrolls were stacked against the wall. He grumbled and wheezed as he dragged a ladder mounted on groaning wheels to the spot, hoisting his creaky legs onto its rungs to begin his climb up the dizzying height.

He rummaged and dug through the scrolls, a task that had perhaps hardly been attempted since Haven Abbey was founded—and with the incredible age of the man before them, it seemed possible he'd been present for said founding. When some of the scrolls were finally freed from their confinement, it seemed almost as if time had stood still—they were almost perfectly preserved, with barely any fading or discoloration in the ink, practically aglow, though the parchment itself was yellowed with age.

After a few moments of digging through the archives, Mr. Krotgrim eventually let out a gruff, sharp 'Aha!' that startled even Nalaia, who had been silently waiting for him to provide his answer, her heart galloping like a frightened horse at the sudden exclamation.

The ancient man proceeded to make his way back down the ladder far more nimbly than one would expect from an elderly gentleman such as himself, a triumphant glint in his misty, rheumy old eyes.

He strode forward, a parchment roll held aloft. Upon it was painted an image of the heroic figure who had come to Haven Abbey's rescue years ago, when it was threatened by evil forces beyond comprehension—alongside numerous lines of text scrawled upon the yellowed page in tiny, darkly inked letters, detailing the hero's many adventures.

"The most extensive supernatural occurrence related to Haven Abbey, of course," Mr. Krotgrim began, spinning the yarn of the abbey's supernatural secrets. "Has to do with our noble hero—whose story is written across the tapestry in the Great Hall."

Raising one arm, the old man gestured grandly toward the carefully rolled parchment that painted the original tapestry image that he had shown to Aster, now spread across his desk. He paused for a moment to take in the beauty of it before continuing.

"The ancient tales tell us of the day our determined hero ventured forth into the unknown depths of the wilderness, hungry for a weapon to defend Haven Abbey and unlock an era of peace and prosperity," Krotgrim stated, with an air of solemnity. "And so, amidst the shadows of the dark forest on a moonlit night, they happen to stumble upon an ancient sword—steeped in powerful magicks that would aid them in their mission. This legendary weapon has become synonymous with all of Haven... proliferating in renown through stories told, carvings etched and images painted."

The old man nodded, evidently satisfied with his tale. "A true symbol of the strength and courage of our people; though you'll be hard-pressed to find any stories of ghosts, ghouls, and what have you skulking about within our walls..." his brows furrowed, a twist of displeasure worming its way across his dry, cracked lips. "Until now, with these blasted nightmares and mirages, at least."

Slowly, Krotgrim hobbled over to Nalaia and Jester, passing over the visibly antiquated piece of folded parchment with one gnarled hand.

But just as he was about to hand it over, he stopped abruptly and fixed them both with a stern glare, his misty eyes almost glowing beneath the tufts of grey hair that marked his eyebrows, glinting like two shimmering bits of steel.

"Be careful with it!" he croaked, wagging one long bony finger at them. "If you damage these ancient abbey records, I won't suffer it lightly!"

Thinking quickly, Nalaia daintily accepted the folded parchment before Jester could get her crumb-dusted hands on it.

Nodding in satisfaction, old Mr. Krotgrim turned away.

Jester leaned excitedly over Nalaia's shoulder, examining the parchment as the other tiefling unfurled it with a light crinkle of the old, yellowed paper.

Evidently, the arcane sword of moonlight had been buried with the storied hero somewhere, in a long-forgotten tomb on the abbey's grounds. The legend foretold that only a truly brave, noble warrior would find the hidden blade, and only in times of great peril for Haven Abbey...

 

[Arbiter]

INVESTIGATE ACTION

Brass would like to try to Investigate the back darkness of the kitchen and the pantry, making sure to let Miss Meow know beforehand and assuring she'd stay out of the way of staff. she's absolutely focused on those dark void-like bits in the back. and not breaking anything.

Passed Investigation Check...?​

Madame Meowsequivitch the Fourth, otherwise known as Miss Meow, swiveled her portly figure around towards Brass Belle with a wide, toothy grin on her whiskered muzzle. The elder calico-furred feline gingerly patted Belle's hand, and although her squinted eyes were hidden by the soft roundness of her amused cheeks, they seemed to sparkle with delight.

"Go on, go on!" the feline chef meowed in her sweet yet aged voice, a purr underlying her words as she gestured grandly to the cracked pantry door with a spoon. Her ears flicked and her whiskers wiggled in delight. "Investigate away, do not hesitate to sample the stores! You may purr-use some ingredients that tickle your fancy!"

Obeying the friendly cook's invitation, Brass Belle wandered towards the pantry door; it was like a yawning, dark maw that beckoned her inside, far more interesting than anything else about the kitchen... other than the food, of course, but lunch hour was apparently happening shortly, judging by the carnage currently occurring in the noisy, smoky chamber behind her.

She peered into the pantry's inky depths, illuminated by a single sunray piercing through a crack in the kitchen's lofty walls. All manner of peculiar jars and boxes lined the shelves, along with fragrant spices, crunchy dried fruits, and questionable looking bits of herbs and roots tied up in musty sacks. But that certainly wasn't all!

A diminutive young woman stood with her back to Belle, conversing agitatedly with Trevor, the other investigator who had been present last night. The woman was as pale as a ghoul's skin and wringing her hands in distress.

As the door opened behind her, she spun abruptly around to look upon Belle, all wide green eyes and wild brown hair.

"Oh, no. Not another one," the young woman muttered, then raised her voice, planted her hands squarely on her hips, and addressed the pair of them together. "Listen here! There's certainly nothing unusual going on in the larder, so make haste and be off with you!"

But Brass Belle's intuition was buzzing like a swarm of angry bees, and her gaze narrowed as she looked around the room. Then, her focus inevitably became fixated on the shadowy depths of the pantry, where dark shapes seemed to swirl with an almost malicious intent.

A stack of barrels stood squarely in the way of any further inspection, so she ventured determinedly closer, braced for anything.

Trevor tensed up like a coiled spring as the sound that had previously tickled his eardrums came again, more insistent this time. He turned his head to observe Belle's progress, the other investigator taking several determined steps into the shadowy depths of the pantry.

Brass Belle held her breath, rounding the stack of barrels with an abrupt leap, hoping to catch the source of the noise!

A chubby ball of fluff stared up at her with a cheeky glint in his bulbous, amber eyes. The creature was roughly the size of a housecat, with russet fur as smooth as velvet and a face that seemed caught somewhere between a pug and an otter in resemblance. With not so much as a twitch of bashfulness, he perched on his haunches like some kind of mutated amphibian, dearly clutching a greasy cheese pasty about the size of his head between his cute wittle paw-like hands.

The little fellow promptly stuffed the pasty into his mouth whole, then spoke fervently around it, spraying crumbs everywhere. "Miff's nomff whamph imph looksmh woike?"

Anna, the kitchen worker, palmed her face with a harsh smack. "Falk, you dummy! You're supposed to stay out of sight when you get your food—you know Miss Meow doesn't like it when you visit, not after last time."

Falk choked down the pasty, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously as he attempted to swallow the seemingly rock-hard pastry. With a harsh, dry gulp, he began to speak animatedly. "Out of sight, was I? Which meant I was out of mind, or at least I thought I was... Then back in it, suddenly! What am I, a mouse to be played with?"

"You will be if Miss Meow finds you here!" Anna bemoaned, dragging her hand down her face.

Meet Falk, as mentioned in the NPC listing.

 

[Sigmund Vrell]

Still shaking off the disturbance of last night’s nightmare, Sigmund had taken to wondering about aimlessly in an attempt to take his mind of off it. In his ambling, he found himself unintentionally eavesdropping on Daniel’s recollection of his encounter with the… ‘troll’.

Shuffling closer to quietly announce his presence, mostly to ease his own conscience, Sigmund furrowed his brow slightly. The cultist couldn’t exactly dismiss his story out of hand, the crossroads was a constantly unpredictable place, but it this didn’t sound like any troll he had ever heard of.

Ranvian trolls were stumbling, night-immortal brutes who ate anything they could get their hands on. They weren’t the type to lure someone in, take one bite, and then stalk them back to their home without anyone else spotting them. Sigmund could only assume that either the boy was simply confused or, more insidiously, that something had pretended to be a troll to spread misinformation and dismissal for the boy’s concerns.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Daniel choked out as he looked at Sigmund’s furrowed brow. “Just like everyone else, you guys just think I’m crazy.”

“On the contrary, I believe you all too well.” the psion replied, doing his best to give a reassuring look despite how grim the situation was. “I know crazy, and you’re not crazy.”

“Second opinion - I also think you’re not crazy.” McNinja said, raising his hand. “Of course, I haven’t given you a full diagnosis, but I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

Sigmund nodded before turning his gaze to the good doctor, giving a small nod in the opposite direction. “Would you mind just stepping aside with me for a moment? I’d like to have a word.”

Dr McNinja hesitated for a moment before briskly nodding and following the cultist, briefly giving Daniel a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Be back in just a second. Peter, could you keep the kid company for me?” he asked his assistant before turning to his fellow investigator. The vampire nodded, distracting Daniel by asking him about the tastes of the various breakfast foods that he didn’t eat.

“Dr McNinja, isn’t it?” Sigmund whispered as they stepped just out of earshot of Daniel. “We fought Saren together at the end of Dante’s Abyss. Back in 22’.”

“I remember. Sigmund, right?” the good ninja nodded. “What’s up?”

“Well… I have some concerns, concerns that I’m sure you share, and I didn’t want to scare the boy.”

“Mmm, always a catch 22 with these things.” McNinja sighed, crossing his arms as he stared off into the distance. “You don’t want them to know that they might be possessed before you’re sure of it, but they’re left sitting there wondering if they’re possessed, or if it’s a curse, or if it’s diabetes, or… you get the point.”

“Right.” Sigmund said, slowly nodding while peering confused at the peculiar man. “Well… what do you think? Do you believe it’s actually a troll? Personally, I’m inclined to believe that it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“No, I don’t.” Dr McNinja said, giving a small nod to affirm his agreement with Sigmund’s proposal. “I’m thinking it’s a mirage more than anything else. Lots of people have been reporting hallucinations, as you’ve seen. This could easily be just a more intense example.”

Sigmund paused for a moment before nodding. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered the possibility that the troll was simply a particularly violent hallucination, but he couldn’t count the possibility out.

“That’s a valid proposal. Still, even if the odds are slim, I’d rather be prepared for some elusive creature to come for him.” the cultist murmured. “I believe we should ask for someone to keep an eye on him. Preferably someone who can fight, just to prepare for the worst-case scenario.”

“Sure, can’t hurt.” the doctor nodded. “Who should we ask, though?”

Sigmund hmm’d and haa’d for a few moments, pressing the spine of his tome to his forehead in deep thought.

“Maybe… we can report it to either Jo or the Abbess? They seem the most capable of organising someone to guard him.” the scion suggested. “I haven’t gotten a read on the detective and, as much as I admire Father Gascoigne, this isn’t exactly his speciality. He’d be more likely to go out and hunt the thing himself...”

Sigmund trailed off for a moment, as if considering that idea.

“Anyways… how about I watch Daniel while I consult my codex for any potential suspects.” the cultist said, brandishing his book. “You can either join me and we let Jo know at our evening report or you can look for someone to inform now. It’s up to you. Then we can head out and investigate the path Daniel took on that day, see if we can find any clues.”

“Sounds good to me.” Dr McNinja nodded before pausing. “You got a lot more serious since last night. Did you… have them too?”

Sigmund gave a small nod, struggling to meet the doctor’s gaze as images of his nightmare flashed through his head again, opening those old wounds just a little further.

“They made it personal.”

 

[Mollymauk Tealeaf]

“...Well, that’s a mean trick ta be playing on dear ole Molly. I just came down here for a spot o’ booze, and if yer were not wanting me down here…all you had to do was ask," Molly started, his voice spilling out into the cellar, eyebrow still raised and hands held out open, just ever so close to the swords at his side. This lower level under the kitchens was too small and the ceiling too low to create an echo, but his words could still be felt hanging heavy in the dampness. He scanned the ancient walls with their brick and stone perfectly placed, and the mortar expertly filling in the gaps to keep out the draft and rain. It was a wonderful prison he had found down here, or an even better resting place. The coldness down here in the barren cellar was such a contrast to the warmth and business happening above him, Molly was almost tempted to call out for a moment to see if he would be heard from down here.

“That’s right, Molly. Come down ta the cellars alone while yer here investigating strange happenings. Nothin’ bad will happen at all, it will be fine, ya thick-headed bastard…” He chided himself, then scoffed and shook his head. The jingle jangle from his horns was a comfort in the darkness and cold and he relaxed a bit. He had tangled with dark forces before and it wouldn't do well to be intimidated so easily. Not after the weeping angel and dreams had already gotten him both times. His blood started to get up, and he could feel the heat of it starting to tingle his toesies inside his thigh-high boots as he focused on the bottle.

The lone bottle. It seemed nefarious, sitting at the edge of the grave, and Molly was still tempted to snatch it; feeling he knew full well where he would end up if he got closer to the edge of the shallow void. It seemed…fine, though? Just an ordinary dusty bottle, with probably some of the best wine that had ever graced his dark purple lips. He licked his fang a bit, as his fingers joined his toes in tingling. Danger from beyond the veil was down here with him, and it was prominent. How much of it was concentrated near him he could not tell, but it was enough to set his senses on edge as he took a step closer, then another. The feeling of dread was starting to creep on him again and he decided to rely on the only other weapon he had apart from his swords to protect him from the ever creeping onslaught of unease: extemporaneous rambling.

“Alright, so yer a bottle, eh? My desire. The reason I came down here…laid out before m'own eyes and mine fer the takin’, amiright?” Molly asked the vintage, starting now to circle it, carefully making sure that nothing was going to push him into the void as he gave it a wide berth.

He continued his interrogation. “So’s I'm just supposed ta snag ya without falling into this hole, or am I meant to run away an’ be leavin’ this cellar alone...I bet you’d like that wouldn’t ya? Ya’d love fer Ole Molly ta go on about his business with his gorgeously long and elegant tail, tucked right between his legs! Well!” Molly rambled on, coming back to the starting point in his long arc around the bottle, then turning his back on the bottle, acting as if he was going to start walking back towards the staircase. The staircase had given the occasional creak since he'd come down, as the morning warmth expanded the wood even down to this level of the Abbey.

“Yer gonna find me not the mewling babe that woke up in a hole very much like that one…but ya already know that…” The brightly adorned and horned peacock spun around in a flash, his robes picking up some dust as they twirled in the dim and dank cellar. His swords were out and one of them was pointing at the dusty glass at the edge of the abyss, accusingly. “Admit it!” He demanded, rigidly awaiting some semblance or form of answer, and he narrowed his crimson eyes at the wine.

He waited.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way…" Molly chimed, eyes still narrowed.

And he waited.

"I can do this all day," he warned.

After a full minute, his raised sword arm drooped and his shoulders slumped.

“Well, shit. Fry up a Chocobo and call me ta dinner, probably just a bottle, then," He mumbled. "Guess that's enough o' that nonsense," he sighed loudly to the darkness, and gave a little laugh. Then planting his sword tips on the stone grey floor, he squatted down, using the hilts for balance. The devil stared down his bottled adversary.

After a moment, he cocked his head to the side, squinted, and decided to go in for a closer look.

 

[Arbiter]

INVESTIGATE ACTION

Undeterred, Molly is going to Investigate the lone bottle and cellars further.

Passed Investigation Check…?!​

Mollymauk inched closer, feeling an enthralling magnetism. Was it his imagination, or had he heard the bottle calling his name? His lavender skin tingled as if a preternatural force was drawing him in, goosebumps prickling upon his arms in anticipation. He felt himself leaning forward haphazardly, closer and closer until the bottle was almost within arm's reach...

Until with a jolt, icy clarity flooded his mind, snapping him from the trance and driving him to yank his hand away just in time to avoid making a fatal mistake.

The tiefling carefully studied the open grave ahead of him as he tried to come up with a plan, squinting at the chasm of darkness. If he were careful enough, there was no reason why he couldn't do this without taking too much of a risk.

Gritting his fanged teeth, Molly braced the hilts of his swords against the cold, dusty floor, making sure to calculate every shuffling movement before taking it, readying each foot placement like game pieces on a chess board. His vibrant robes billowed around him like a tropical bird's wings as he slowly inched forward, but never too close to the edge, lest one misstep take him into its depths.

Crimson eyes narrowed, his extended hand inched closer to the bottle, his fingers trembling eagerly towards its smooth glass neck. The precipice of success, and possibly failure, lay just a breath away, nothing but mere inches of air between his hand and his prize.

Mollymauk's lungs filled with a jitter of anticipation. His grip tightened around the hilts of his swords, knuckles pale from exertion. With a surge of courage, he leaned forward that last tiny inch and his fingers made to close around the bottle—

He stared in alarm as the bottle of wine sloooowly leaned precariously towards the gaping maw of raw earth, the liquid inside pitching merrily about. The glass seemed to be actually pulled from his grasp, spinning as if in slow motion, like an invisible hand had reached out to pluck it away.

On reflex, Molly lunged forward, his hand reaching out to grasp the treacherous bottle in a desperate attempt for satisfaction, his fingers at last sealing around its neck in a tight grip. In that same instant, the ground seemed to give way beneath his feet and Molly felt himself slipping closer and closer to the dark depths of the grave—sliding forward on his arse as the abyss that awaited him yawned open further, gaping like the maw of a giant beast lacking in teeth.

With a mighty tug of desperation, the tiefling drove his swords into the crumbling ground behind him, finding purchase just before his body spilled headlong into the pit of shadows below.

Mollymauk clawed at the slick mud walls of the grave, his knuckles scraping against the cold earth as he desperately tried to free himself from its grasp. Inch by bloody inch, he pulled himself out of the depths of despair, until—with a final, monumental surge of effort—he emerged from the inky blackness, scrabbling his way to freedom.

The tiefling knelt, swords still buried in the hard ground, the warmth of his terror and exhaustion radiating from him as steam inside a cold, dim chamber. He stared down at the wine bottle shaking in his grip, the glass knocking rhythmically against the hilt of his blades with every ragged exhalation; quips about his current situation danced on the edge of his lips, but the raw fear and apprehension were pitilessly robbing him of his usual wit.

He clutched the bottle of wine, his ruby eyes tracing the contours of its cryptic label. An eerie image of a Hanged Man stared back at him from the ancient parchment, slowly taking shape right before his eyes, the edges of the figure's features illuminated by a sketched nimbus of moonlight like a sinister silhouette.