---

---

Anala let out a muffled noise, wrinkling her nose as the troll roared at them and causing the putrid smell of death and decay wash over those who stood near it. The undead had no finesse to them, they were disgusting and stank far worse than any chamber pot the noble woman had ever come across. Taking advantage of the roar, she sent a bolt of fire down it's throat, ceasing the action almost immediately. At first, the Troll staggered, looking as if it may fall as the fire took it's toll on the insides, but it seemed that the moisture of such a disgusting thing stopped the fire from taking alight and burning the thing from the inside out. Instead, an attack that was meant to kill the beast, was barely beaten by the creatures fortitude alone. What a sad thing indeed when it should have perished where it should, alas, those who have mastered the Arcane do not always win the victory of the last blow at every turn.

>Anala casts firebolt for 8 dmg, Troll barely passes its save with a 14 (DC 13) leaving him standing with 1 health.

---

---

She lashed out with her scourge, the blades themselves singing as they swung through the air. The blades dug deep into the troll's chest, and she laughed in satisfaction as she ripped it out. There was a spray of foul black blood, and the troll stumbled a little... But there was no rush. No return of her vitality, and she could feel her curse still focusing the individual down. It hadn't... It hadn't died?

"WHAT?" She looked at the creature, furious. Cracking her weapon, the blood spattering down onto the sleet-covered stones, she began spinning it idly around. They had to finish this creature before it overwhelmed them.

>Mhyrienne barely scratches the troll, and once again it passes the save and fails to go down for good.

---

---

Thunder thrice asunder belted and swept over the rogue, gurgling time as the afternoon beamed and the sleet burned. The usual tragedy of a restless slumber, without rotten lily nor pushing daisy, in the resilient mold of those that were never satiated, prompted a sneer across Zaerith's cheeks. He too was hazily familiar with the enterprise of an undead fortitude all too well, never encountering a graceful planar stairwell into the afterlife.

Oh! To adjourn from the mortal cares of one’s existence, to be ruled by grace and justice in the next.

No...

His lips were soon adorned with a lurid blue, as the curdling ocean of color washed from his smile, throned on the overthrown setting of Mhyrienne's laughter. His remnant exhalations were mild cemeteries, full of bones which jostled when the tomb of his face, resurrected a wind, every now and again, that howled in and out, between the teeth of his living corpse. The foul fragrance of death which filled his final inhalation coerced hungry feet to become limp, as the rapier pierced the penetrating white dampness. The commerce of constitution amongst the zombies retaliated as the absence of their ids briskly fought off sleep, imparting a neglected tranquility of souls obscene.

>Zaerith casts Sleep. Zombies 1, 2 and 3 have the lowest HP in the 20 foot zone and altogether are cumulatively exactly 30. Zombie 1 - 16 HP. Troll - 1 HP. Zombie 3 - 13. However, Zaerith was not aware the Undead are in fact immune to Sleep. Since Orhvin has 17 HP and Zaerith is of elvish heritage, the monk becomes a little too tipsy.

---

---

Something right peculiar took place just now. Despite the heavy beating aimed towards the giant among the enemy, it refused to go down. And the last of it all, as another spell was launched, it only managed to fell an ally... or perhaps the drunkard was simply too drunk to stay on his feet even at a time as stressful as this. Indeed, seeing hunters drunk on gin falling asleep mid trigger pull had been the source of great amusement for the puppet wielding man once upon a time, but right now? Things were a fair bit too rotten to draw fun out of such matter.

No, it would be better to simply see this to an end. With all the battering the largest opponent had already taken, it was only a matter of time before it would truly succumb. And where there was a will, there was a way. "You are right George, as always. It must be done", the man mumbled as the purple eyes flared ever brighter. But there was nothing to be seen flying. Only once the creature's head burst open and a few stray globules of their brain burst out of the shell was any actual effect seen.

But alas, no such luck as to succeed. "It will be broken next time George, it will...", the puppeteer nearly drew blood as their sparse teeth dug into their lip. It was only a matter of time. It could not endure an endless onslaught.

>The Unnamable uses three (3) psi on the Psionic Assault discipline once more, now invoking forth the Psionic Blast. It hits automatically for 15 damage, but regrettably the target saves exactly against the damage with their Undead Fortitude. His Bonus Action is expended on Mystical Recovery once again, recovering him to full HP.

---

---

Blow after blow the troll was struck by, be it physical or no; and yet, the damnable thing simply wouldn't perish! Yet a glance told him Sebastian was moving quickly enough that he and Lucian would escape the acidic downpour, just before the boy fell afoul of it, with time enough for Talran to head to them and secure their safety after the fact. Which left the imperishable undead to the tender mercies of the group...

He knew what he had to do.

'My god is not merciful to your kind, fiends!' he cried, feeling his strength welling within him, a power he'd known lurked ever since he could remember, just waiting to come forth. 'I bring Helm's word with me - and that word is "Begone"!'

And with that, Talran's angelic heritage burst forth, light pouring from his eyes as two wings flared out of his shoulderblades, propelling him about the troll's mass to match the threat - specifically, that which concerned the downed drunkard's safety, for Egil now proved himself more than fit to protect himself.

And that familiar voice, normally only heard in his dreams, spoke: Bring low that which ought to die yet.

>Divine power wells forth within Talran, and he has used his action to activate his Radiant Soul racial ability. For the next minute (ten turns), he has a flying speed of thirty feet, and can deal extra Radiant damage equal to his level once per turn when dealing damage. He has also flown around the troll to just below the zombie targeting Orhvin, an effort to safeguard him from both the regular zombies and the troll, and will use his reaction to inflict Disadvantage on the next attack targeting Orhvin.

---

---

The sudden luminance of an angel blinded the champion, erring a misplaced strike. Such a radiance belonged to Talran, the Aasimar knight of Helm, revealing its brilliant radiance as he beckoned his deity's promise. To rid of the profane facsimiles of life and virtue.

Then, the paladin ascended impressively.

Only to land near the napping roof lounger. The glowing wings guaranteed protection and fury against any that would lay a wicked hand upon the now powdered monk, the acid settling now on his breezy skin. The caustic snow threatened to increase its increment, whilst the boy and his chaperone bolted to the owner of the moans.

“My Geeeeeeertrude! Whyyyyyy? Ohhhhhhhhh.”

The enunciation of the dwelled consonance chilled the child’s spine, as the pony and its saddled duo hurdled beneath the frosty awning.

>Egil misses. Sebastian and Lucian arrive at their destination.

The lessers of the trio swiped against the paladin and the trickster to no avail. The sleet did not deter the famished threesome, however, as the largest amongst them tore into the thorny vine of Vaasa, felling the fighter onto stones cobbled with snowy silt. Just as in the expired Vistani, the troll followed in kind and mounted a licked bite upon Egil, hoping to garner two meals in this stormy battle.

>The Troll saves against the Acid Sleet and is again at 1 HP. The other zombies take their damage, but miss their targets. The Troll then downs another NPC. As a consequence, Egil has 2 failed Death Saves.

---

---

She was tired of the troll managing to get up and shrug off attack after attack, it was infuriating and frankly? She was ready for these things to be done. Ignoring the monstrosity for now, she struck out at the two Zombies that had come with it, her firebolt smacking them both squarely, which was a relief all on it's own and she was pleased to see that some further damage was being done to the slightly less worrisome creatures that the rain was beating down. It wasn't as wonderful as taking out a Troll, but it was something, even if she didn't kill these things.

>Anala hits the normal zombies with firebolt, 2nd Zombie takes 6 damage while the 3rd takes a piddly 1.

---

---

Clack... The blades reformed themselves around the central whip.

Clack... She spun the scourge around slowly, but building up more and more speed.

Clack... The blades themselves stiffened in their position as the weapon swung around
towards the undead titan that the group had been battling.

Clack clack clack clack... The first blades bit deep into the flesh of the creature's neck, but then they began... Locking themselves into its putrid hide. The scourge curled around the throat of the creature, and even in its undead form, it realised that something was badly wrong. Fingers came up to tear the weapon away, but as soon as they made contact with the blades attached to the whip, it let out a howl, fingers spattering black fluid down onto the ground.

Then she whipped her arm back. At first, the pressure strained against her, but she persevered. The troll itself was spun around, its back facing her, and she planted a leg onto it. Pulling harder, the pressure mounted... Mounted... Mounted... Then like a broken dam, unable to hold back any longer, it was released. The head of the creature came spinning off like a hurled discus, and the weapon she was carrying made a bullwhip like crack.

She wanted to make sure the creature was dead however. The blades of the scourge twisted themselves around, the glasslike substance reforming itself into a blade almost as long as the woman wielding it was formed. Placing a foot over the gurgling stump that had been the head of the creature, the elf plunged the blade down into it's chest, and twisted hard.

The undead abomination let out one last great twitch, and then its arms fell still once more, the bindings of her hex were released, the energy that the creature once had flowed into her, and she felt the bubbling of her skin that had been brought on by the accursed sleet here fade from her.

Now. Who was next to fall?

>Mhyrienne finally gets to actually kill something using her warlock powers. The Undead Troll takes 14 damage, failing its Undead Fortitude roll and dying for good. Her Hexblade's Curse activates, and grants her six life, and her longsword changes forms into a longsword.

---

---

Perpetual insomnia plagued these silhouettes of false life. Zaerith could smell that now, as the other elvish caster decapitated and impaled the mutilator of Markus. The severed head rolled, due to a mystical momentum still from the warlock's malleable weapon. Its pupils still possessed no fear nor apprehension.

Just ravenous hunger.

The trickster's sword pirouetted, slashing the next victim, with its lethal pitch. Yet, the frayed flesh of the zombie withstood the resurrected rogue's bladesong, deaf to mortal wounds and Death's subpoenas. The verdict was delivered with the wizard's razor sharp gavel, but the defendant seemed only to be shackled by its starving undeath.

>Zaerith 'kills' Zombie 3, but it makes its Undead Fortitude CON save, keeping it at 1 HP.

---

---

It would have been a lie to say that the pace of things one had never seen before appearing right there in the field of view of the puppeteer would have slowed down. No, there was more and more one did not quite understand, but amidst all of it a few realities reminded everyone of their existence. The biggest monster was down, even if the means it had been handled by eluded the understanding of both George and their human. A weapon that shifted so freely in the hands of its wielder? One would have thought they'd seen it all with the outlandish approaches back... no, this was no time to fall upon memories and wonder. There were still two lesser threats to quash.

Having once retreated, close combat could not be avoided any longer. The man rushed down the street for those few steps that needed to be taken. A cudgel was raised, and then lowered onto what was left of the head of the opponent already sporting an open skull. Just like back on the docks, with the notable exceptions of brains already running wild and none of the strikebreakers having been quite this ugly. Not to mention the nauseating puff of fumes that thanked the assailant for this effort. And despite the fact this... creature was now missing more than half of its head, its eyes seemingly ready to drop out of their sockets at any given moment, it refused to go. "These are quite worrisome George, not that you would not have said so by now..." the cudgel wielder would mutter to their companion.

>The Unnamable moves to flank Zombie #3 with Zaerith, hits his attack with a total of 20 and deals 4 damage is foiled by Undead Fortitude.

---

---

Hells. What was he doing? He'd let his anger get the better of him, his desire to see the undead brought low; and for that, one he'd thought was safe enough found himself nearly dead, nearly a repeat of the loss of their guide. And who noticed? He alone, it seemed; the rest remained absorbed in the destruction of the dead, those he'd thought to end with his outburst of power, even as the prime danger was brought low by Mhyrienne - right next to Egil, no less! Was she so concerned with the glory of the kill that an ally dying right next to her was of no concern?

Follow her lead. You alone can destroy these undead with certainty.

'Silence,' he bade under his breath, to himself rather than to any others. Markus' end had come swiftly, with no warning and no means of prevention without foresight; by contrast, if he allowed Egil to perish in this heinous rain, or worse to the undead that sought his end, his blood would be on his hands forever more. Knowing full-well that it'd draw attention, he broke free of the battle against the undead the drunken monk dueled, its foul claws scraping off of his mail, and he rushing on swift wings to Egil's aid and applying a dose of healing to him, enough to cure his wounds and bring him back to consciousness. Though if the rain had any say in the matter...

'Seek shelter, now!' he implored, pointing Egil toward the cover Sebastian and Lucian had taken. He would not allow Egil to risk his life further against the undead, nor to perish himself in this acidic rain when he could hardly bear the wounds to begin with. The dead could wait, especially when others could take them down in their time.

>Talran moves below Egil, provoking an attack of opportunity from Zombie 1. He uses Lay on Hands upon Egil to heal him for 5 HP, bringing Egil out of unconsciousness, and leaving himself with six points of healing until after his next long rest. He will use his reaction to guard Egil or Mhyrienne from the first attack made toward either of them, if Egil does not move toward Sebastian/Lucian's shelter.

---

---

He felt woozy all of a sudden. Very, very sudden. That wasn't the alcohol hitting him- passing out thanks to booze was an old familiar friend, no, this was something else. He had barely time to react to the claws of the zombie raking into him before he fell down to the ground, head hitting the cobbles with a nasty sounding thump.

When he awoke, it was because his face was burning. The freezing cold acidic weather had shocked him into awakening... And that zombie was reaching down to claw him in the face again. Oh no. He didn't scramble so much as he did lurch forwards, placing a foot on the undead creature's knee. Then, using his quarterstaff to spring himself upwards, he placed another foot on the creature's stomach, and finished the maneuver with a kick upside the creature's jaw, snapping its head back with a spray of gelatinous black fluid.

It wasn't down yet, but he didn't care. Using the momentum that he had gained from running up the creature, he pushed down hard on the top of his quarterstaff, launching himself upwards into the sky. He had to time this perfectly, and whilst he would have liked to have done something fancy in its stead... He didn't trust his injured body to work for him like that.

So instead, he did what he was good at. Which, in this case, was coming down, knee-first, on the head of the creature below him now. Having sailed over the head of the sorry individual that had magically knocked him out, he felt the skull of the second zombie cave in beneath his knee, the magic and matter that held it together falling apart at the concussive force. With a shudder that ran through the Genasi's teeth, he looked at the zombie that had succeeded in mauling him.

That kick hadn't taken him out of the fight. This would. Darting past his ally, seemingly swerving around them, he used the momentum from his circular motion to spin, extending his foot as he did so. The creature, hit again in the chest by his foot, was sent backwards into the wall of the house letting out a foul screech as it did so.

It was finished, he knew it. Snatching his quarterstaff, which hadn't even finished falling from where he had powered himself off from it, he turned to his opponent and bowed down in mock-respect, just as the creature fell forwards in a pile of rotten limbs.

>Orhvin finishes things. End of Combat.

---

---

He gasped for life. Once more.

The champion's filthy fingers clenched a groundful of burning powder as he rose to his aching feet, savoring the same abandoned world.

Again. But now with an angel?

It had been a hellish eternity since Egil had awakened from that butcher's block, eartagged and covered in stained rags. He traced the incisions on his face that this nightmare, mystically disecting from Old Svalich Woods to Barovian Village.

Remained veracious. Just as clear as the heavenly command.

"Seek shelter. Now!"

His body heeded this beckon, following the connaissant movements of a previous villainous occupation. That ever familiarity of streets and their imputrid kind burdened him with the title of Vine of Vaasa, a gradual vigilantism that bore no fruit amongst the forsaken nation of his birth. The bestowed moniker became a mockery to the famous noose he had knotted for the many that refused to devoutly bend the knee to the corrupt theocracy, his lips swore to protect. Egil betrayed the office of state executioner, sensing the cumulative turmoil of innocent blood on his unclean hands. However, no amount of righteousness would rid the sands of sin that blinded his soul's eye.

Until now.

The fighter accepted the unwelcomed redemption, dashing furiously to the moaning house, where Sebastian and Lucian curiously entered. The relinquished pony whinnied, urging him also unto inner safety.

>Each player gains their next level's max HP before suffering acid sleet x 1, in the assumed lieu of reaching the destined canopy. The Tavern likely appears to be across the road from where they are, about another 120 feet away. Anala's manservant has taken the child inside to tend to his wounds and to escape from any possible further threats in the streets of the village of Barovia.

As each party member enters, there is a foyer with a spiral staircase. Many rooms are boarded and barricaded except a second story where an incessant wail of melancholy ignores the below barge of all.

---

---

It was over. Finally so. It was over. "Good things come to those who wait, patience is rewarded", the man mumbled to the puppet sitting on the hand concealed within it. George turned his head towards his handler and nodded, the hunched form of his handler swiping the newly blood covered cudgel on the at last unmoving corpse, removing the worst of it before placing the instrument of directed violence back under the tattered coat. Now that the immediate threat was dealt with, there was more that needed attending to. One of these things would be their guide.

It had been awfully inconvenient of the man to die, that much had to be said. "Very well George, if you say a closer look is in order", the puppeteer would confirm with the raven haired doll and walk onward, checking the extent of the wounds on the man laying in the dirt and stinging sleet. "Not too good, but not too bad. You are correct George, you are correct indeed", the man resumed rambling and grabbed the deceased by the collar, starting to drag them towards their haven of safety.

The act of dragging was slow, and with the ever looming threat of falling to the acidic rain alternative means for this act were called for. With the broken rows of teeth bit together, the mind behind those purple eyes focused on a matter it had not bothered with for quite some time now. And the pathways of this reality were open to it, to both traverse and alter as seen fit. A foot was brought forward, and a piece of the road from several feet away rushed under the man's foot to carry them onwards, thrusting them to the hands of another piece. To those watching, the sudden burst in speed would be difficult to even follow, but what little could be made out was a blurry figure of both the puppeteer and the man being dragged, only with the slight sensation of something being wrong. But it was over soon, and the man would open the door and enter the building Sebastian had already brought the kid in.

Ignoring any adverse reactions of the child, the corpse of the guide would be dragged away from the door to make space and flopped off to the side. There had been no suspicious flashes in the mirror. There was a quick look around, but with no imminent threats remaining, the puppeteer would allow George another look at the corpse. "Yes George, all in due time. Good things come to those who wait", the puppeteer would confirm, before turning to face the spiral staircase. "But you are right, those crocodile tears are most infuriating."

>The Unnamable uses three (3) psi to use the Nomad's Step discipline, teleporting for 60 feet after dragging the corpse of the guide for 30 feet. With his focus having been shifted to said discipline, he gains an additional 10 feet of speed which is used to enter the safety of the building walls. Bonus action goes to mystic recovery once more. The Unnamable and the corpse of the Vistani guide Markus are now inside, near the door.

---

---

Anala rode up to the building and found a place to stash her horse where it would be safest before stepping inside, an almost annoyed expression on her face. No one had told her that she would have to deal with Acid Sleet in her travels. Then again, no one really knew what she was doing anyway so it wasn't like she had given them the chance to tell her what to expect from the places outside of her home. Letting out a sigh, she went over to Sebastian and Lucian to check on the child, he was badly injured but he would live and that was more than she could say for Markus. While he had been a great friend, maybe it was best that someone who truly knew her was no longer around, even if his death did hurt.

"Think there is a way to make them shut up?" she asked with a raised brow, "Maybe would should see what those crocodile tears are all about in a village that is supposedly high on Dream Pastries." She made a face, such disgusting things those were, stopping people from facing the reality in which they needed to see. There was no point in hiding from something that would never go away and it was cowardly to do so.

Then there was the fact that the strange man who had offered no name but his puppet's was dragging the corpse of their Guide. No one had been able to save Markus and by dumb luck the Paladin had been able to save Egil before he died. Maybe it wasn't dumb luck though? She shook her head, no use thinking about how things could have gone if that was not the way they had went. For now they needed to nurse wounds and figure out what exactly was happening is this strange place.

---

---

Your companions have slain the dead in your stead. Why falter from your purpose?

'Why let a man die needlessly?' Talran murmured under his breath in response. The drunken monk, despite appearances, managed quite tactfully to put down both remaining zombies in a single blur of motion, and Egil was already looking more put-together for having been healed before his impending doom arrived. Equally, the others all seemed to be alive and well, their unfortunate guide excepted; yet even he was being brought into the building by the nameless owner of George the puppet, a process Talran made an effort to assist with, at least before the man in question apparently teleported a significant distance.

There were many matters to address in the near future, such as Zaerith's nature and Mhyrienne's priorities. First and foremost, though, Lucian's health. The moment Talran entered the building and espied the discarded guide, he moved into the air, swooping over the boy's head on his wings of light in a way that he hoped drew attention away from the mauled body, and landing deftly before him and the Lady Anala's manservant. The voice seemed to want to press him further, to address the boy's weakness directly, but with screwed-up eyes and a focused effort, he pressed his angelic heritage back into himself, contained and, as he generally found, unable to rise again for a while yet.

'Ah... tell me, lad, are you faring decently?' he asked the boy whilst kneeling down to match his height, again an effort to draw his mind away from the trauma of the guide's desecrated corpse. Part of his to-do list would also involve bearing his sympathies to Anala, for she seemed to have been good friends with Markus, but that ought to come later. He recalled, too, the lock of hair Morgantha had stolen from Lucian; that, he felt, might be the more important matter, if she did in fact utilize it the way he thought she would.

---

---

Her companions... Were running off. No need for her to stick around then. Flicking her arm out wide, she let the black blood of the giant zombie clean itself, before watching as the blade dissipated. As it turned out, the monk seemed quite capable at what he was doing, despite the copious amounts of imbibed alcohol, and she rapidly found herself having to hurry along with the group... With the strange man who talked to his puppet managing to cross an extraordinary distance in the blink of an eye.

Perhaps he was less crazy than she thought he was. Or maybe he was just extraordinarily good at concealing his wisdom behind a veneer of insanity. Either way, she was now sprinting as fast as she could, long legs meaning that she was more than capable of matching pace with the rest of the group. They burst into the building, the elf finding herself a little rattled.

She had realized something, on that street. The connection between the mysteries of this town. Running a hand through her hair, which the accursed sleet had done nothing to help her with, she checked herself down, making sure that she hadn't been too bad. Now then.

What was this place doing as boarded up and abandoned as it was?

---

---

The child looked at the kneeling knight, no longer armored with an angelic ambiance, as another motherly moan belted from the second floor. Lucian quickly covered the final patch of burned skin, now bandaged by the lead manservant of Anala. A little of the Sithican salve crept away beneath the cloth turniquet as Sebastian finished the last tie, spilling the ointment on the metallic shoe of Talran.

"I'm good. Thank you, sir. But can we get out of here? Mad Mary's screams scare me. My parents say no one can help her."

At that juncture, another wail befitting a banshee loomed into the foyer.

"My Gertrude! Wheeeeeerrrreeee arrrrrreeeeee yoooouuuuu?"

The partly mummified boy appealed to everyone else's caution.

"See what I mean. She can get really loud for hours."

---

---

Orhvin twitched a little. Not at running or the sleet, or really much of anything, but because he was paying attention. This place gave him the creeps, that was for sure. Examining the room, he dragged his eyes across each inch, and then knelt down to tap the floorboards a few times. Shuffling to one side, he continued to tap, and then raised his arm up high.

The first punch against the floorboard caused a chunk to shudder and break off. Reaching down, he flicked away the chunk of wood and shook out his hand, pulling it back. Another thundering punch, but although the wood shuddered at the impact, his first came out worst off. Another punch, and that too resulted in bruised knuckles, but the fourth punch bore fruit again, the monk feeling the wood out of sight of his fist creak and weaken.

One more punch. Ok, maybe the one after? He slammed his fist back down, and felt as the wood gave way, splintering underneath his arm and his entire forearm vanishing into the floor. Pulling his arm back, he blew on his bruised knuckles, and peered down into the hole.

The eyes of the Genasi came across stalactites and stalagmites underneath the wooden flooring and further below in a claustrophobic chamber, dimly lit by eerie glowing orbs, in all eight corners. The exitless room, twenty feet down, bore a large, decorated stone chair, as well as a fountain, dry but without dust, and a well-stocked wet bar. Treasure, books and bottles were strewn about, collecting curiosity and intrigue afore the drunk monk.

>Orhvin has muscled his way into the basement. A lot of noise has transpired.

"Well would'ya look at that?" The monk raised an eyebrow. Taking a knee, he placed a hand underneath the hole he had smashed open, and lifted the plank aside. Underneath, he indicated for the party to come over. "Someone's been doing some renovations here..."

He continued to peer down, assessing each part of the subterranean room, and then dropped down. He was glad he was slender, since it was a fairly tight fit to take him and his gear down there with him, but as soon as he began to fall down, he felt the air around him thicken.
The balls of his feet lightly touched down onto the floor, and he rocked back and forth a little bit, running a hand through his slightly rumpled hair. On the one hand there was the bar, but the only thing he could see were a few bottles of old Marrivy Red, and he had drunken that so many times that he wasn't even sure if he truly enjoyed it, or it was just familiar to him.

No, the loot on the ground was a lot more interesting to him. He used his quarterstaff like a makeshift stick, prodding at one of the necklaces there. Then, he hooked the end of his quarterstaff through the loop that formed the neck, and tossed it up into the air, catching it with his crown and letting it slide down onto his neck. Comfortable. He had seen a few of these carried by a few Genasi- especially helpful when you could hold your breath like he could.

"Seems safe enough, although no guarantees. Any of you guys got rope up there? If not uh..."

The looter fumbled around a bit in his sack, and then produced a spool of red silken rope. "I've got something for you guys hah!"

---

---

She had barely had time to react from coming in from the freezing cold when she was confronted by the place... And the wailing. Sighing, she looked around, and was about to take a step forward when she heard a distinctive 'crunch'ing noise from the floor. Turning her head, she saw...

"What the fuck are you doing? You'll draw the attention of everyone here?" The elf hissed out, but the monk wasn't stopping... Fine.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU"

Another large scream, but this one didn't come from the wailing woman. No, instead the warlock was plugging her fingers in her ears, eyes directed on the room that she could hear the noises coming from. It wasn't much, but it should ad least give the idiot some covering noise so that they weren't sussed too easily.

>Mhyrienne casts Minor Illusion and ramps the volume to max to cover up Orhvin's actions.

When he was done, she had the voice trail off, looking around. Perhaps he hadn't been noticed? Small blessing in that case. Watching as the monk pulled off the plank, she hurried over and peered down, eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom.

Looked pretty safe. Just the loot and the booze. Drunkard would probably be going for that, but she had her sights on something else. Almost as soon as the Genasi had touched down, she nodded at the group and folded her arms, taking a backwards step and plummeting through the hole.

Just as she was about to crash onto the bottom, hair streaming upwards, she suddenly, and dramatically slowed down, until she was hovering just a few inches off the ground. Then, without any other motion, she let herself fall the last inch, landing neatly on her feet with just the slightest billow of her cloak.

Then, she looked around. Books and so on around here, and she hadn't seen anything that would indicate to her that there would be issues... She stooped down and picked one up, leafing through it. Almost as soon as she saw one of the pages, she scowled and hurled it down onto the ground, turning her attention to the other items littered around.

She stooped down as she made her way towards the robe, fingers sweeping along the ground. She hadn't seen any traps here, which was good enough for her... And the robe seemed to be magical. Picking it up, she examined it. Patches, all over it.

She knew of these robes.

"Don't suppose anyone's going to mind me taking some mouldy old clothes," she muttered underneath her breath, sweeping it into her rucksack in a small bundle, and watching as the monk threw up a line for the others.

Cracking one of her fingers, she looked at another one of the books, opening it up. It was the... The same one as the other one. Little fuckers. "If you don't come down, I'm taking all the loot."

---

---

Mad Mary, hm... delusion could explain her howling, though perhaps that delusion was caused by some aspect of Morgantha's cruelty? If she'd taken Gertrude, and the madness had come about afterward... somehow, the thought of contemplating this was uncomfortable. Like another was watching them, judging them.

A drunken fist smashing into wood broke him out of his considerations, and he began to tell Lucian, 'We can leave as soon as the rain ceases,' only to be rendered unable to say more than this by an impossibly loud, piercing howl; immediately clamping his hands over his ears, trusting that Lucian would have the same reflex, he glanced around to try and figure out who in Helm's name was doing this.

His eyes ultimately landed upon Mhyrienne, the Elven woman nothing like as shocked as the others at the noise, and staring directly at the apparent source of the hollering. He wasn't sure whether this was her doing, but he could hazard a guess at the matter.

Once the Genasi's punching ceased, and the screeching noise abated, Talran removed his hands from his ears again, frowning at Mhyrienne for causing it, before returning his kinder attention to Lucian again. He reminded himself that he had to ask Lucian about a certain matter...

'Child,' he started, 'just so you know, I get the distinct impression that Morgantha isn't done with you yet. In the near future, if you have any... how can I put this, odd dreams, dreams where she or another in her stead try to convince you of anything, or dreams that seem designed to try and terrify you, and in any case are recalled perfectly afterwards, do feel free to come to me about them, if you wish to see them sorted.'

He felt his speech was less persuasive than he was hoping, but hopefully, he wouldn't need to say much to convince the child to talk about it, especially with a paladin. Once he received an answer from him, he nodded and stood, ready to move to the next item on his list.

'Lady Anala,' he called, stepping over to her, his face twisting into a bit of a frown as he considered what to say next. She had been good friends with Markus, or so he understood from how she reacted to meeting him again. So, then, she'd be grieving his loss, and a few kindly words might be of use.

'I, ah... feel I ought to say, I'm so dreadfully sorry for what happened to Markus,' he began, tone slightly sorrowful, but largely remorseful. 'I truly wish I could have done something to save him, and- well, I'm sorry for your loss, my lady. If you'd like to talk further, I'll always have a shoulder or two for others to lean on,' he offered. Naturally, he felt that it'd only be right for her to take on Markus' possessions. He imagined it'd be what he'd want in this situation, and until further notice, he'd make sure to the best of his ability that no others filched them from his body.

Not that they'd be interested for now, given the antics the Genasi and Mhyrienne were apparently up to in the hole Orhvin had punched his way into. The man's rope throw had been quite exceptional, and the Elf was consequently taking advantage of it to take a large portion of treasure. Hrm. Let her have it, then, for now at least; he had more important matters to attend to.

---

---

The boy covered his ears, upon the incessant sounds of the intense strikes and howls. After the duo floated into the hole with the wooden floor, the child dropped his bandaged arms to the side.. "Dreams? Why would Grandma do that? Never mind." Another moan, matching the ferocity of Mhyrienne's minor illusion, bellowed out. "Oh no! I believe Mary's getting madder. I have heard Mom tell stories of her anger, because children hide instead of doing what they are supposed to." Remembering the zombies and Markus' expiration, the lanky seven year old began to whimper slightly with a consequent sobbing sniff. "Mister Holy Angel Man sir, please take me out of here."

---

---

Anala reflexively covered Lucian's ears rather than her own when the howl filled the room from Mhyrinne's spell, the sound causing her to wince and grit her teeth. She understood why the Warlock had done it, but the sound had been so loud that part of her wanted to hall off and punch the woman. It was aggravating and rather annoying to say the least. She was silent for awhile as she looked around, spotting a few things she could use and contemplating a few things before she was addressed by Talran. "Just the sword," she said slowly, "Something to remember my dear friend by. Maybe one other thing, but other than that he needs to be buried with what he owns, as is their custom."

After that, she listened to Lucian ask to be taken out of there and she frowned, she didn't want the child to get hurt. "Lucian dear," she said to the boy, crouching down to his level and resting a soft hand on his cheek, "I know it is scary in here, and we can hide you if needed I am sure, but it is far too dangerous to bring you outside right now. Look what the sleet did to you in the short time you were out there, I would hate for you to get further injured or possibly killed because whichever God Grandmother was cursing decided it time to punish the land. I understand that this is a scary place for you, but you are with us and we will keep you safe the best we can. Now, why don't you help me find you a safe place to hide just incase?" She smiled at him and offered to lift the boy up if he so wished it. While she was not the strongest out of those here, a 7 year old was rarely ever too heavy for her to pick up.

Lucian seemed troubled for a moment, but eventually put his arms up to be lifted by the Sorceress, to which she did so with little difficulty before plopping him on her hip. With the child holding onto her, she went to join the other two in the lower level and rummaged around a bit, Lucian on her back now rather than her hip so she had use of her arms as she picked through things. First she took a look at a few things with mild interest before grabbing two books, a necklace, one of the potions, a handful of gold that seemed to be laying about and then stared at a lined necklace. She tapped her chin in a thoughtful manner before nodding her head and grabbing that too. After a moment, she studied the mug that she had seen, curious about it but not really having the desire to keep it as it filled with a beautifully colored red wine. Curious, she sipped at it and found the liquid to be rather delicious. "Hey Mhyrienne, you should try this, it's really good," she said.

"Also, Talran, get down here, I have a book for you that you might like," She called up, "And you should prolly try this drink too, it's surprisingly sweet actually." She held the cup out to Mhyrienne and waited for the woman to take it as she waited for the... well she thought he was a cleric but maybe he wasn't? Regardless, he needed to get down here so she could give him things.

---

---

Not much time had passed at all, and already everything was descending into madness. First someone breaks through the floor, then the loudest scream the puppeteer had had the joy of witnessing through the auditory sense screamed out... but there was something wrong in it. For something so loud, it felt flat. Must be the fact how the woman consumed by her madness could not hold a believable note in the first place. But not only was it enough that one nut-job would break through the floor, there would be more. People followed the drunk like he was some well versed guide instead of more likely doing something in his impaired state.

Despite all this, the puppeteer made honest attempts at focusing on doing a quick patch job on the rips and tears on the Vistani guide's body, only to fail as now people began to start hollering out from downstairs. Good heavens, why couldn't they just... George crossed his arms across his chest, and one could swear the expression of the doll twisted towards the pouty side, though that might simply be mirroring the expression of the handler on the non-living thing. The barefoot man approached the broken hole in the floor, face slowly contorting to that of anger.

"Why yes, it is perfectly reasonable to break through the floor of an inhabited house, be it the inhabitant is not quite sane. And you would seek to plunder everything not nailed down too? George would like to point out that your behavior is nothing short of silly!" the man's voice carried an irritated message, followed by a puff of air through the nose. "And you would do so in front of not only the watchful gaze of the mirror, but the many painted eyes just as well! Were you raised on the rooftops, or perhaps in a barrel full of salted fish?" With that, the man puffed again and began turning back, before realizing that something else of importance was spoken.

This would require a bit of thought, it would. Why would the guide be buried? Would they not rise anew? This place could not be... The man pat a few spots of his body with the free hand and shook his head. No, that was not the case. So why? Crouching back down and looking to resume with what had already been underway, those thoughts raced free. Why was a burial in order? Was it the will of the victim? Or perhaps a decision of someone else? Were the Vistani unwanted rebels?

---

---

...honestly, Talran was wondering if the Lady Anala was somebody he ought to look up to when it came to good will. For starters, she'd covered Lucian's ears without a second thought for her own hearing, which Talran would generally consider noble, if unnecessary. Were that all, he'd have naught to worry about, but she went on to explain more plainly than he had exactly why heading back outside was infeasible, and further comforted the boy in a way he'd perhaps failed to.

Then again, she was now looting this basement, the same as Mhyrienne and the newest, most drunken party member - something that George's puppeteer plainly explained wasn't exactly good-hearted. What followed was not necessarily sane, but his prime point remained valid.

'I'll try to prevent as much of the theft as I can,' Talran told Egil and the nameless puppeteer, a bit of annoyance on his face at the whole scenario. He was also being specifically called down by Lady Anala, anyway, so it was a doubly-good reason. 'If you spy anything suspicious, just call for us.' With that said, he clambered his way down the rope too, landing next to the others as they engaged in their looting and passing-around of items. Oh, this wouldn't do, not at all- and right, he still had to discuss Mhyrienne's behavior earlier!

'Alright, let me make this clear to you all,' he uttered, talking to all three of the would-be thieves. 'I understand that these items might not have been in use, but they are technically still owned by somebody, presumably whoever owns this house. Things might be different if the owner had nefarious ideas in mind for them, but so far as I can tell, her only crime is a loss of sanity due to grief. And you'd steal from a poor mad woman? For shame.' Frankly, he didn't expect to get through to these people, but the effort was important in and of itself. Following through after the fact, he pondered, might be a touch more difficult, but he'd have to see how that turned out as it happened.

---

---

The elf looked around now that the noblewoman was talking. In her hands was an ornate cup, with a rich, full bodied looking wine inside it. She may have been a lot of things- thief, potentially a murderer depending on how you looked at her actions, undoubtedly a less-than-profitable member of society, but she wasn't a sucker, and that was begging for a sucker to be reeled in.

She held a hand up and shook her head, turning away from the mug. There was a nice warm, rich-looking drink she was far more interested in, the woman sweeping up a potion and stuffing it in her belt, before pocketing a number of yellow-white gemstones. A few coins as well, just for good measure... But then the paladin had clambered down, and was chewing the trio out. She sighed, half-swearing in elvish, and turned to face him properly.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, with your armor in the way, but this isn't a normal house. No insane woman has a basement with magical jewelry and gold in it completely unused. This place has been visited recently, and frequently, and not by someone shuffling." The woman looked around.

"In other words, I believe that all we're doing is... Liberating this from the original thieves." She brushed her cloak down a little, and then walked over the hole that she had descended down. Just as she was about to rocket up, she realized something. The kid was on the woman’s shoulders.

She walked over to Lucian, reaching up. "Here. You might not be able to read Elvish, but the pictures are still there." She placed the children's book in his arms. “You should be grateful- I wish I had that sort of thing growing up." A slight smile crossed her face, although it was instantly crushed what she realized she was doing.

---

The moaning sob no longer floated through the vibrant foyer, coloring the thoughts of Egil with renewed sadness. The harrowing howl, which spiraled from the second story of the adorned and barricaded townhouse, stifled into a dark somber emptiness. A final whimper exalted into silent, slothful footsteps emanating from the master bedroom until a pair of shoulders and a shawl crept into view, staring at the serrated floor, circumscribing four burglars and their child.



>The once previous entrance/exit has now mystically become a wall, now bearing a matching mirror, harkening the beckon of the woman.

---

---

Oh dear. Well, here they were. Steps descended the stairs. The man with the puppet would bolt up from the floor, leaving the task of mending the worst of the wounds on the deceased Markus unfinished once again, and quickly bow at the figure descending the stairs. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and by extrapolation its owner just as well. They were under her roof, and a fair bit of respect was in order. There was no immediate reaction from her it seemed, though once she saw just what had happened to her floor the reaction was... understandable. "Yes George, we ought to...", the man mumbled, glancing around worriedly. Doors were not a thing to usually run free, they were not. Now they were missing one. Most inconvenient, even annoying.

Slowly approaching the side of this 'Mad Mary', it was left to George and his voice to try and salvage what was salvageable of all this. "Indeed, most unfortunate, George does very much agree. It is with great reluctance that he admits these people who have quite thoughtlessly broken beneath your flooring are travelling companions of his... but he hopes there may be some olive branch to be extended here. Perhaps there is something you would require, he inquires", the puppeteer explained perhaps long windedly, shaking George just a bit every time he was mentioned in a sentence, "in order to set things right again?"

---

---

Before the woman had come into the room, Anala practically shoved a book and the necklace she had picked up into Talran's hand. "Take these, you could make better use of them than I possibly can, also... you should try this drink it is amazing!" she said as she wiggled the cup a bit. However, when she heard movement above the hole she made sure Lucian still had a grasp on her before she climbed up with some difficulty. Everything was harder with added weight and while she slipped a few times she managed to pull herself out, leaving the cup on Orhvin's hand seeing as he seemed more than pleased to try it. "Oh look! Company."

Anala was being rather sarcastic as she looked around and ushered Lucian somewhere that he would be safe. "You stay here my little one," she said to him, tapping his nose before going over to where George and his puppeteer were standing. She did not exactly feel bad for taking some of the things that had been left to gather dust, but she was a bit on edge now that their exit was gone.

---

---

Ach. Clearly his new travelling partners weren't fun at all when it came to looting. Apart from a few of them, that was always cool. Just as the Genasi was about to continue looting, his ears pricked up. Wine! Didn't look like the cheap stuff in the shelves either. Taking a swig of the cup, he felt the warmth of the alcohol run through him, smacking his lips. "Yeah, really good." A few nods and he drained the rest of the cup, idly swinging it back and hooking it to his belt.

There was more to loot though! He chuckled a little and looked down, frowning for just a moment. He could have sworn that there had been a ring here, but apparently that had not been the case. Or maybe someone else had picked it up... He couldn't tell. Sweeping up the obsidian in one smooth motion, he twisted his way through the air and let his quarterstaff rap upon the cabinet door. Sure, it wasn't anything special, but wine was wine! He stuffed five of the bottles into his sack, and as for the sixth... Well...

"You and I are going to become good friends!" A grin crossed his face and he uncorked the bottle with his teeth, idly pocketing a few bottles here and a lens there as he glugged down the first few mouthfuls of the rich stuff.

Just as he was about to be comfortable however, he... Ah, that was an issue. The woman seemed to have been attracted to them, and whilst Mhyrienne had put up an admirable technical defense of themselves, he doubted the woman would see it that way.

Unfortunately, this was a problem he could not punch his way out of. Especially since there was now no door to speak of, and without a door, no way to get out of the building. Ah well. He swigged the wine some more, ruminating a little as he did so.

Before he could really react, Talran found himself with a religious book in one hand and a set of prayer beads in the other. It was immediately obvious what exactly those beads were, but not what power they bore; sighing dejectedly, and glancing over to the unfortunate drunkard as whatever concoction Anala had handed him was chugged down, he placed the beads round his neck and stashed the book in his belt pouch, and began making the climb back up to the ground floor.

On his way up, he heard a lot of things. First, the arrival of Mad Mary herself, and her request for the child. Second, as he hauled himself up to where she'd been stood, the smell of sulphur crossed his nose, and the presence of very many tendrils of something leading out of her back; a manifestation, yet not demonic or undead so far as he could tell, swiftly ended by the nameless puppeteer's action.

---

---

And then the warning not to gaze into the mirrors. A warning his first companion failed to heed. The man vanished, puppet and all.

Talran found himself emitting some wordless noise of horror after a moment, for he didn't even have a name to utter. His climb concluded, he followed Anala over toward the mirror in question, keeping his body out of its reflective form and his gaze slightly averted at all times to ensure the mirror did not steal him away as it had stolen his ally. The wall next to it seemed a good place to look.

In due course, another appeared in the glass. And oh, how Talran was tempted to look upon her, for if she was trapped, and the puppeteer was trapped, then surely others were too? But he couldn't let himself be taken in, and it seemed the Lady had things under control after all. He merely uttered 'Try not to trap anyone forever,' before stepping away from the mirror and leaving matters to her.

In the meantime, he had other matters to consider. Lucian was well, the matter of Markus was dealt with, and he'd done all he could to prevent a lot of theft. Which meant checking other people's priorities. He could argue that many were at fault, but it seemed to him that the only one with no excuse was...

'Mhyrienne,' he uttered, stepping over to her with just a hint of foul temper, 'whilst Lady Anala seeks to free our trapped ally, would you care to explain why you weren't willing to so much as assist a fallen and badly wounded companion?' He gestured to Egil, still wounded, but much more alive than he would have been if left to his own devices. 'Egil could well have died for your choice to pursue the glory of the kill over his well-being. I hardly feel it would have been worth it, all things considered.'

---

Zaerith, entranced by the mirrors and holy symbols of Mask, stepped closer to the first looking glass, near the spiral staircase. Oddly, something could be recognized within the fogged reflection. A charred staff? Soon, scorching eyes of fire glared from brilliant robes mostly shrouded by the replicated miasma deep within the solid window.

The reincarnated wizard was somewhat startled by the now closing proximity of the shouting, as a mourning mother effortlessly descended the wooden helix, bobbing in each step as if tethered to invisible strings. Her arthritic hand clutched a malformed doll. The figurine possessed a strange leer with four arms and four legs, missing one eye, stitched on the hem of its sackcloth dress, a frayed tag. It bore the words.

Not entirely lost in her sorrow and despondency, her eyes locked onto Lucian, holding onto that familiar tome.

“Give me the CHILD. And all will be well.”

The trickster touched the unpolished surface reflexively and gazed back at the woman, with a pointy finger.

“Stop right there. What is this?”

The champion gleaned the trapped silhouette over the rogue’s shoulder, understanding its mystical purpose and the emphasis of that word. He exclaimed to the puppeteer and the bladesinger.

“Don’t look into the mirror. It will siphon your soul.”

>The Unnamable must roll a Charisma save with Advantage. Zaerith and Egil passed. The woman is near Zaerith in front of the mirror near the stairwell.

---

---

No. This was not right. It did not take long at all for the puppeteer to realize this. The smell. The holes in the doors otherwise decorated so lavishly. And the fact those holes were connected to the woman. "You are right, of course. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well..." came the answer to the demands as the free hand crawled its way back under the tattered coat. The five fingers curled around the shaft of wood kept out of view, and then, in a swift move, the cudgel was out once again. "But not for the masquerading fiend!"

The weapon was swung. Not against the woman, but in a deft step towards her back. Two tendrils that the purple eyes had seen were severed in an instant, and the woman began to melt into a puddle of ooze, her clothes, skin, eyes and hands alike falling apart, the crude mockery of what had been collapsing before the sudden assault. "The holes are the answer!" the man screamed, only to find that one fatal mistake had been made. With the weapon in the left hand, as one needed to match the strength of the blow with an equal counter of fall to the floor... a reflection stared from the mirror. One with a puppet on its right hand, purple eyes showing the briefest instance of panic, and the unkempt coat flapping ever so slightly...

And then it was all gone. All around the man was mist. There had been a tug. A tug that one had believed to never feel again. Not at the wrist, not like in the memories of past. Not by the ringing metal, even that familiarity had been denied. The stains mattered not, and here one stood, among a misty landscape. Stretching indefinitely in every direction. A chill set into the core of the barefoot body. There had to be a way out. One step at a time. Good things come to those who wait... Isn't that right, George?

>Mad Mary's semblance disintegrates as a transparent tendril retracts to the bedroom upstairs and another into the kitchen. The Unnamable and George suddenly vanish before Zaerith. Inexplicably. The eight membered doll falls face down in the ooze.

---

---

The first thought in Anala's head was that she was not about to give the Child over to the insane woman, the second was where the hell did the Puppeteer go? However, with the distraction that was around, she snagged Markus's sword and slid it through her belt where it rested rather comfortably before she peered at the edges of the mirror, careful not to look inside. She had seen what had happened to the Puppeteer and how enthralled the Zaerith had become. However, she could not help but murmur the las name on the edges softly to herself, her eyes trained on it for a rather long time. If her hunch was right, she would have to have a talk with a couple people.

Upon muttering the last few words, a woman appeared in the glass, a mask in one hand and a rather strange belt upon her. "Well hello," she murmured as she looked the woman over, "How did you become trapped within this strange mirror?" She tilted her head to the side as she continued to stare, tapping her bottom lip with a finger. So that had not been who she had thought it would be, but at the same time she was not surprised. "Does your prison intersect with the others?"

---

"You are not that cursed Oblex. Where is it? Who are you?" The pale elvish woman relinquished the blue fire within her right hand, whilst the floating mask, in her left, promptly vanished. Her buckle's eye scurried with its pupil, systematically surveying each of those afore her, including the corpse of Markus and their perceivable gear. "Kindness imprisoned me here. Never again." She pressed her face closer to the other side of the looking glass, to scavenge the clouded sight of Lady Anala. "Are there others, besides I?"

>Everyone in the foyer can see and hear Bellaq Yn Effen.

---

---

"Oblex? Well... no that is not what I am, nor do I know where it is. I am Anala Attor, I am guessing there are about 5 other people trapped within this mirror." She stared rather hard at the woman with a frown on her face, she wondered if she had time to cycle through the people before anything happened or if she would just have to shatter the mirror and lose out on what she wished to know. "How did you get trapped within this thing? What were you doing when you came across it?"

---

"I am from the town of Berez. I visited Argynvostholt, west of Valaki, for aid in saving my sister, Marina." She sighed, as the belt's eye focused on Lady Anala. "It appears there is a serpent amongst you, as well. If you cannot release me, this is a waste of time." The back of the pale elf retreated once more into the mist.

---

---

"I can release you," Anala responded with a slight twitch when the woman mentioned a serpent amongst them, was it that belt? "Give me a moment and I will do what needs to be done." Pulling back a bit before the image of the woman left, she scanned the edges of the mirror in search of another number, settling on the second number. If this one wasn't fruitful, she may just see if they new the nature of the mirror enough for her to just break it, she did not have much patience at the moment, even if there was something she was trying to find out.

Suddenly, a bright light shone forth attempting to blind those in the room.



The rogue bore a blade, dripping blood, while ogling the warlock and the paladin, bearing samples of treasure. "Oooh. People!?! Is this a party? With our loot!?!" The blade lowered itself into a scabbard, as shadows continued to smolder off his cloak and hood. "I don't see the twins among you." His sarcastic smile, dripped with satisfaction, as he understood they still remained in the predators' grasp. "If you haven't slayed them, then take a number. May I suggest cell number eleven or twelve?" A fistful of metal quickly collided with the impenetrable mirror, but to no avail. "I see. Well..." He began to kneel, then became cross-legged. "I get a front seat to this massacre."

---

---

Anala shielded her eyes the best she could from the bright light for a moment before glaring into the mirror, “Not exactly a nice thing to do to someone who could let you out of this blasted mirror,” she grumbled in regards to the blinding light, “Twins? What Twins are you speaking of and what do you mean your loot? Was this a place you stayed? Is everyone in this blasted mirror part of your merry band?” The Sorceress asked, launching questions at the man as he sat, a curious look replacing the annoyed one she had had a moment ago.

---

The blade swiftly became unsheathed once more, as a tongue licked its edge, adorning a crimson hue again upon the long dagger. “I know there’s at least two of them. I can tell because they rotate us, like an eternal memory buffet.” He then, tossed the metallic medallion in his left hand, now juggling both the knife with the trinket with one swift palm. “Yes, that is my treasure. I looted from that stuffy dragon.” The rogue allowed the objects to fly high, off screen, to not return back for some time. “Merry band? Rekx is loyal, but we’re thieves. I doubt he would look for me. Especially since he’s dead.”

Upon that verbal dénouement, the vine of Vaasa collapsed, grasping his skull, ears oozing scarlet water. Unquenchable twitches suddenly overtook the body of Egil, demarcating a grand mal seizure. Soon, the ictus ceased.

“Ha! This will be fun.” The man licked his bloodied lips.

>Egil falls unconscious. Everyone rolls Perception.

---

---

Everything was happening too fast to react to things. She hated when that happened.

Jetting up to the top, she landed neatly on her feet amidst a flutter of her cloak. She swept her gaze around the group, the rogue forming and looking at you. "Yeah, our loot now." She gave a smirk, but then he started talking, and she started getting pissed off some more. Especially since as she was about to cast her spell, the rogue's eyes settled on her.

"Now that's an interesting sight to behold. It's a good look on you elf..." The man twirled his dagger in his hands, and Mhyrienne felt her gut drop out. No. No no no no. He knew.

She sprinted forwards towards the mirror, her hand running over all the options. Finally, she slammed her fist down on the number 7, and just as the bright flash would attempt to blind everyone, she squeezed her fist down tightly. A small sound, as if a glass bead had broken emanated from her fist, and the entire room was plunged into pitch, magical blackness.

>Mhyrienne jumps up, gets freaked out, changes the mirror setting and makes everything spoopy.

---

---

“I think he is stuck in here with you actually,” Anala murmured with a thoughtful look, “If I were to release you, will you accept what we took as our payment for your release?” She questioned, watching the male’s odd behavior with a critical eye. She was a bit on edge about the way that he was acting; the way the dagger twirled was strange. However, something else entirely caught her attention when Egil fell as a sense of dread rolled over her. There was no time to go too far, even more so since someone had gone and forced the mirror to change before she had gotten a bloody answer from the weirdo in the mirror. “I was trying to get some answers out of that man you impatient girl.” She snapped at the warlock, “It would have been nice to know if anyone dangerous was in the thing before I let people out.”

>Darkness bellows around the Mirror of Life Trapping, stemming from the Warlock. Zaerith, Mhyrienne and Anala are close to the mirror.

---

---

Trees. Mist. Chills down the wanderer's spine. Repeating ad infinitum. Old memories of a place long forgotten teased at the edges of the puppeteer's memory, but it ultimately failed in the task of delivery. But that was not a surprise. There were many things memory simply failed at, and trying to recall expeditions to forgotten corners of the realm were hardly the important sort. Not when considering what else was lost. There had been nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other, not until the mists suddenly began whirling, coalescing into a rectangular shape. A lone mirror stood without its frame, and through it… darkness?

"Now what is this George? If anyone would know, it would be you, wouldn't it? It looks like a mirror it does, but it is a very poor one at that. More like a window, perhaps?" the puppeteer mused to the doll, fingers idly stroking the hair of it. "Hello?" an unsure question followed, though even the new change was rapidly dropping the interest it had held. If something did not happen soon, one might as well continue on. There was not much to do here, but standing at black unresponsive rectangles could hardly be productive.

---

---

"Egil!?!" Before the bladesinger could act, a transparent thread recoiled into depths unknown. His rapier, now in hand, as he buried his back against the mirror, quivered slightly as Daud mocked Mhyrienne.

Then, a crack and blindness followed suit.

Within the charcoal void, Zaerith heard the inquisitive salutation of the puppeteer.

"It's him!"

---

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Anala was furious with the woman, so much so that she bodily shoved her away from the mirror as she heard Zaerith claim that the Puppeteer was inside. It seemed even the mirror did not know him, which was surprisingly fine by her at the moment. “Why hello there my favorite puppet,” she said into the mirror, “Such a shame I cannot see you but someone threw a bloody tantrum and has made it nearly impossible to tell if it’s safe to pull people out of this thing. Blame the Warlock, she seems to be lacking a fully functional brain between those pointy ears of hers. Now, unless you know the command word to get you out of here, which I didn’t get the chance to ask earlier thanks to the warlock I’m going to have to swap you out for someone else.”

"Favorite puppet?" came an amused response from the mirror, hidden beneath the cloud of darkness. The puppeteer knew this voice, though it belonged to someone they had not been in contact with for very long. "Sounds like you have friends out there George." But despite the almost cheery tone of those words, there would be a shaking of the dirty head and just a few more words. "George does not know what you seek. Best of luck in your search. T'is no pleasant locale." With that, as had been promised, the mist relented from its steadfast pattern, removing the rectangle of black from the scenery. Back to the lonely walk, then.

“I’m sorry to leave you on your walk,” she replied before feeling along the edge of the mirror. Once she found the number she was looking for, she pushed it, muttering the name she remembered having been engraved there. "Imma cut to the chase, I can’t see you, but I can hear you and I would like to know how to get you and whoever else is worth it, out of this blasted mirror without having to break it. Before you ask, the mirror is shrouded in darkness because my warlock… friend acts before she really thinks it seems.”

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Azah stood silently and still in the unchanging surroundings. She had long since exhausted her desire and curiosity about the misty realm that was her home. She took instead to sitting, standing, or, performing vigorous athletics in order to occupy her time. All of those activities were also spent in thought and prayer. She had bided her time for a length unknown, but, salvation came to the patient. Her host had at first tried to devour her mind as it did the many others, but, soon found her unpalatable. The Sister had not discouraged this, wreathing herself and belongings in ever burning flames and employing all manner of invocations of spark and scathing fire.

Her silence ended as the mirror appeared before her again. Her eyes snapped open at first burning with fury and vain desire, then, bursting alight with spectral flames of their own. The voice that came from the blackened pit was not of her captor though, this one was different. This one did not know the command word and had found herself in a blight of darkness, just the kind of thing Azah so desperately wished to stamp out. Her potential savior was direct, to the point, and, best of all, different.

The burning woman slammed her staff on the ethereal ground and took a deep breath powering her voice to boom like thunder for all to hear, “I am Sister Azah Rimeflar, stalwart servant of Kossuth The Ever Burning, Everpure,” she spoke firmly but her magic amplified her tones to that of a warhorn, “I hold the command word, hark, it is Reflection. Release me and this blight shall pass before you like dust on a breeze. Pay heed carefully though, lest you submit yourself to death and ruination, release only myself and whomever, the foul aberration who pretends at mastery here, has captured from among you. The others imprisoned here have earned their endless fate. She pounded her staff again like a thunderclap, “Have we an accord? Do I find you in the Flames or wallowing in ash?”