There he sat, atop that hill that overlooked the manor and the fields.

There he sat, atop that hill with a watchful eye casting an insidious gaze upon the family there.

There he sat, atop that damnable hill to cast his curse upon all who worked the fields and all who slept in that accursed manor.

Twas the Hanged Man, mocking the Lochborne family as the wind brushed against the body ever gently and a blackened sky casting even further frightening messages to the nobility. His glowing gaze stared into their hearts and knew their intent to cut him down from his tree, to end his most insidious curse. Yet, none had been able to make the journey, none has been able to reach the swaying corpse and none have escaped his curse without madness and despair. Ever so, the Hanged Man brought with him a fog, to surround him, but not to obscure his view of that damnable manor. He held the desire of watching their downfall first hand.

---

Malcast’s days have been deteriorating, becoming a squalid city of hopelessness and diseased despair as the curse crept through its streets. The curse took the children, gently and silently into the night was their life extracted. Such was the way of the Hanged Man’s curse and, perhaps, it was some modicum of mercy for the children so they would not have to suffer through what plans the corpse had. Such thoughts were the ones working through the mind of the Lord of the city, unable to bear the thoughts of his own coming struggles with the peasantry and freemen becoming hopeless to work and leaving the city in destitution. He could not bear to think of what monstrosities could have taken hold of his illustrious manor and he could not bear the thought of that Hanged Man, swaying ever gently in the breeze within his dreams.

He could not remember the last time he had slept nor did he care to remember what had kept him from sleep, but it was taking its toll upon the man. The life was draining from his skin, leaving him pale and disheveled as he shut himself away from even his family, hearing conspiracy around every corner. It was the grip of that lamented man, turning everyone against him and bringing his wrathful plight to those who were undeserving of this torment.

Hedlef ran a hand along his chin, feeling the pricks of his hairs along his coarse fingers. He stared out into the darkened city that was Malcast, from his manor within this city of which he ruled. And from his window, he could see a small crowd of peasants demanding answers to what was happening and why rationing of food had been called into effect. The nobleman let out a sigh as they rattled against the iron fence around his home, guards keeping a watchful eye to make sure none tried to enter. They could not be allowed to know unless a panic ensued, he could not allow it for such suffering and violence would only provide more fuel for Hanged Man.

Then, for once in a long while, he allowed a smile as he saw a carriage, drawn by four horses, come along the cobbled road to his city manor. It was carrying those friends of the family that he had sent for, perhaps his last hope to end the blight that afflicted the crops, the cattle, the people. Hedlef watched as the guards pushed through the crowd of the peasantry, swords drawn and shouting orders for them to move or die. Normally these fine guards would not have been treating these people in such a way, but tensions had spiked dramatically and even the orc slave would rise in protest over the mysterious happenings. However, these were tragic days and any means needed to be taken to keep the peace, even if it meant that a man needed to die for sticking his nose in his business.

A peasant shouted the words rang out clearer than any he had heard in a long while.

“What have you brought upon us?! Why has the Maker forsaken us?! Why have you forsaken us?!”

His answer was a sword through the back, Hedlef watching emotionlessly from the safety of his manor as the peasant dispersed and ran screaming from the guards. At least now there was silence in the stone streets as the carriage was pushed through the gate of the manor and brought to the courtyard. Hedlef could not see them all, but he knew who had answered. The Lord turned from his view and made his way to the entrance hall of his home, knowing that the family was likely preoccupying themselves somewhere else along the grounds of the manor. The candlelit halls were dreadfully silent and as he passed by portrait after portrait of familial members, he could feel their long and forgotten gaze along his back.

He brushed off his worn down coat, gray and being torn in some places to reveal a blood-red undershirt. The entrance hall was dark, only illuminated by what little light came through the stained windows, standing as one last means of nobility that have yet to be turned against him. The servants rushed forwards passed him, moving to the doors and awaiting their lord’s command to have them opened. Hedlef knew that these people had come a long way and that they had likely come to the walls of the city only to be detained before the others arrived and checked for any sign of corruption. No risk could have been taken, no exception could be made, not even for friends of this once noble family.

With a silent nod, the servants opened the doors to reveal those that have arrived to him, and there he stood with a smile as warm as he could muster upon his worn face. Hedlef saw the guards behind them all, motioning for them to go back to whatever task they had for the day before the servants ushered the group in and closed the door behind them.

“Welcome to House Lochborne. I am sorry for the long wait to come here, but things are dire,” he hoarse voice stated. As he examined each of them, the elven cleric, the Taran scholar, a dwarven warrior, and an outcast. A motley crew but one he appreciated to have.

A servant came to him and whispered into his ear, and the smile that had been on his face dropped as he looked to the servant with a confused expression. Hedlef looked to the group before clearing his throat and speaking in a solemn tone, “I must apologize, but I will have to wait on explaining the situation to you all, but if you would like to wait in the dining hall then I will be with you all momentarily.” With those parting words, the noble turned away from the group and followed one of the servants out of the room and allowing the others to be led to a dining hall, lit by candle and adorned with great shelves that housed many books.

However, a feeling of dreaded corruption was in the dining room even though symbols of the maker had been plastered around the room and those books appeared to have gazing eyes on their spine, though looking at the books made the eyes disappear. The servant seemed skeletal out of the corner of the eye, and he looked to be plotting in silence as he drew chairs for each of the guests. The additional silence made the room all the more ominous as a fog crept to the window only for the servant to close a crimson curtain and keep the dreaded fog out of sight.

“The master will be with you all in a moment,” the servant said before retreating to a corner of the dining room, only to stand there and gaze forwards in an unblinking gaze.

Aemma gave a small nod toward the servant as he helped her to her seat. Her gaze lingered with him for a few seconds too long. He seemed, almost ghastly, like a sort of phantom. Far too skinny and too pale by the elven doctor’s estimation. Her aged body shuffled against the satin trying to find a comfortable position. The carriage ride was not kind to her aching bones. In her weariness she couldn’t bother to force herself further under the table. Her wandering eyes traveled to each of the other guests for a moment. Perhaps under normal circumstances she would have made conversation on the ride through town, but the sights were far too distracting for Aemma. There were sick and starving children tucked away in dank alleyways, and what few doctors she saw seemed to be touched with a hint of madness. No doubt a case of overexertion on their part. Throngs of sickly denizens walked the streets, and there was a tension in the air nearly as thick as the ominous grey clouds painted in the skies overhead. The guards had resorted to brutality to maintain order; an unfortunate scene, to be sure. Her mind couldn’t help but drift back to the sounds of someone being gutted after an outburst. She could hardly see it, thankfully. Her position within the vehicle obscured the attack, but the familiar squish and ensuing panic did little to assuage her growing trepidation.

It was all somewhat bewildering. She had seen the rot of plague in other cities, but the sickness that haunted this city felt, almost, sentient. There was a malaise about the air that bore down on her upon venturing beyond the edges of the mountainside into Malcast. The fog was heavy, but the curls of smokey air moved with a sort of ferocity. It contorted with every step she took, and it carried the stench of the city with it. Years of hard lessons left Aemma without much room for superstitions, and in her old age there were few things that surprised her. A noble family spending resources to send for a fugitive; a fugitive who most old enough to remember, would’ve presumed dead? That was perplexing. But, the contents of the letter the Lochborne’s sent were even more so. The letter was written feverishly, or at least, the sloppy handwriting and stained parchment seemed to suggest it was. It wove quite the grizzly epic about monstrosities of flesh, and an evil encroaching on the town. The Lochborne family had little choice but to call on the help of foreigners and outlaws; outcasts and old men.

Her eyes studied her would-be companions again. Of them, only one looked to be as old as she was, at least relatively speaking. She’d not spent much time in the company of the insular dwarves, but knew they lived far longer than elvenkind. He was built broadly, and seemed quite physically capable despite this. It was the other two she paid particular mind to. If the Lord of Malcast spoke truly of the horrors plaguing the area it seemed unwise, at least to her, to call on children to solve the problem. Still, she wasn’t here to make demands or pass judgments. They were likely just as capable if Lord Lochborne arranged for them. Then again, that’s what she feared more. To see youth twisted and bent by the 'unpleasantries' of life made her more than uncomfortable.

Stirring from wandering thoughts she gave a smile as her eyes fell on each member of the party. “I suppose that’s enough silence for a lifetime,” she posited to the group. “My name is Aemma.”

---

---

Thadurim opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the fog of sleep that had fallen upon his mind. He could still hear the monotonous noise of carriage wheels and horse hooves on the cobbles and was immediately relieved he had not quite slept for the entire journey. The trip from the walls of the city to the manor at its centre was hardly a long one, but it didn't take a scholar to know that it would probably be the last decent sleep they'd have for a while if even half of the ramblings in Lord Lochborne's scrawled letter were true. There would be plenty of time to make friends while the four of them were mopping up whatever mess it was that Hedlef had made for himself.

The old dwarf's arms were folded tightly across his chest, nestled in the thick white fur of his beard as he had slouched back into the carriage seat in as comfortable a position as he could manage. Yawning loudly, he straightened himself and laid his hands in his lap, looking around at his travelling companions with a lazy and still-half-asleep smile. It was an odd mix to be sure, the kind that set alarm bells ringing in the back of Thadurim's head. Hedlef had never been hesitant to call on others when he needed something done, but it looked like he had dragged up everyone he could muster. The situation must have been dire indeed.

Looking around the carriage, Thadurim tried to get a better look at his new companions, although it was difficult in the dimmed lighting. One was a woman, with skin kissed by the sun and raven black hair, shrouded in a cloak. His eyes fixed on the tattoo that swirled over her sharp features, unlike any even he had ever seen. To her side sat a younger man, akin to a brick in his shape, his hair a crisp white and a perfect antonym to the coal-coloured hair of their female companion. The final member of their bizarre travelling group was buried in robes and pouches. Thadurim guessed from her narrower frame that they were a woman, but with her hood drawn and her facing elsewhere there was little more he could decipher. It was only when her attention turned and Thadurim got a better look at her that he was able to spot a pointed ear and aged skin; an elderly elven woman.

Thadurim spent a few long moments trying to think of something witty to say, but ultimately could manage little more than a smile, hoping to invite someone into conversation. Nevertheless, the solemn atmosphere remained. No one smiled, no one spoke. It was clear everyone was thinking the same, wondering what they'd been sucked into. This wasn't a bandit job or lost livestock, it was serious. How does one initiate a conversation in circumstances like these? Hello, it'll be a pleasure dying with you. Somehow, he didn't think that would help lift the mood in the slightest.

Eventually their carriage crawled to a halt, all the while in stony silence. The thick wooden panelling of the coach muffled the noise somewhat, but everyone exchanged nervous glances as a member of a shouting mob was slain, prompting screams and a rush to flee. The metal gates groaned open once the crowd had dispersed and the carriage crept forward into the shadow of Lochborne's manor. Thadurim's knees weren't best pleased with him as he made the leap from the carriage to the cobbles; human carriages gave little thought to the plight of Thadurim's short-legged kind it would seem. The old dwarf rubbed his left knee absent-mindedly as he gazed up at the familiar shape of the manor, wondering if it looked half as foreboding to someone who wasn't the size of a child.

The opening of the manor doors snapped Thadurim out of his daze and he waddled after his companions, making an extra effort to keep the pace that the younger group members had set. Hedlef greeted them. An uncomfortable smile had been forced upon his lips and it was far from reassuring among the bloodshed at the gate and the ominous fog that had seemed to follow them since they reached Malcast. Ultimately, however, Lord Lochborne dismissed them. He had summoned them all from gods only know where and upon their arrival had basically told them he was too busy to talk to them right now. It irked Thadurim, but he held his tongue. First impressions and all that.

The four of them were ushered by a servant into a dimly lit room lined with bookshelves. Hedlef's dining room had hardly ever been a comforting place at the best of times, but now it seemed ominous, like the shadows in the corners might take up the cutlery at any moment and begin their assault. The stony silence remained. Thadurim circled the ornate table in the middle, casting a lazy eye over the rows of dusty books without actually seeing them, just relieved to be out of the carriage and on his own feet again. “I suppose that’s enough silence for a lifetime.” A woman's voice cut through the eerie silence like a hot knife. Thadurim snapped round on his heels to look at her, relieved at last to discover he wasn't lumbered with three mutes. “My name is Aemma.”

"Thadurim." His name burst from his lips as he took the seat opposite the elven woman, the chair squeaking against the floorboards as he tucked the chair in. He let his signature grin split across his face, glad to just be chatting to anyone. "I'd say it's a pleasure but," he glanced around the dark room and at the fog visible through a crack in the curtain and waved at the grim-faced servant standing in the corner of the room. "I think we both know I'd be lying."

---

---

The journey was a downcast, quiet affair. Javiyah had expected no less. Were it that the three she had now found herself sharing a carriage with had been shuttled for as long and as far as her, it would not be a stretch to assume their spirits were equally sapped. Though she prided herself on her cartography, she gave up on identifying villages, and now this city, long ago. She knew where she was going. That was enough. Javiyah glowered out through the murky view to observe the city as they rolled by. Once, a new city would have made her breathless with anticipation and wanderlust. Now she could only make out the indications of unrest, of squalor, and neglect. Indeed, rolling through the urban scenery gave no new inclination for conversation, and Javiyah eventually turned away from the torrid sight, no interest left for the hardships of the commoner in the street.

She felt as much as saw the gaze she received from the passenger opposite her but made no immediate attempt to meet his gaze or retort. Everyone stared. Some in intrigue, some in revulsion. Eventually, everyone wondered. He was a dwarf, and presumably used to stares himself if travel was in his blood. Javiyah pressed forward a distant smile as she considered the first time she met a dwarf. She’d asked him so many questions that she was now sure he would never answer a question again. The novelty was not quite so high, anymore, but she nevertheless felt the urge to question who he was, where he came from, and what he had seen.

The cowled woman on the other hand; what was her purpose? Another like her, perhaps. Surely. The way that the squalid conditions of their vista seemed to grip her on their ride, she was either a champion of the simple folk, or woefully out of her element. There was something strange about her – the way she moved. She was old, but Javiyah paid it no more mind. She would learn more if they remained this close in proximity. Javiyah rubbed her arm in idle fidget as she cast a glance to final member of the carriage crew. A burly, dirty fellow with the tale of war and battle written on his skin. The letter calling her here had been vague, at best, but with this sour young warrior at her side, she could better imagine the exact nature of the Lord’s request.

The plights of the common man stiffened her heart as they rolled into a manor courtyard, watching the chaos spread among the masses as they fled their own protest. This was the way of life. Cause and effect. The next time, the peasants will have prepared. Ushered along with the others into the chambers of Lord Malcast, Javiyah remained quiet and observant, simply bowing her head to the Lord himself as he welcomed them. Now they would discuss the purpose of their journey in full, at last. Or not. Javiyah frowned as the Lord vanishes away to some distant part of the mansion. Another crisis?

They were taken to some manner of dining hall, which reminded her of home. Opulent, but forgotten. Magnificent, but troubling. She moved to examine a bookcase as the others toured the room and seated themselves in equal measure. Many books she had not read – some in languages she did not know – but judging from the dust, neither had the Lord of the house. A voice she has not heard previously breaks, and Javiyah turns to spectate the introductions. Aemma. Thadurim. Good names. Giving the warrior among them another glance, she takes the chance at speaking next, taking a step away from the bookcase and laying a hand on the back of a chair. She will not sit immediately, but she has at least claimed space by the table. “In the presence of nobility, sometimes lies are all we have.” She feels eyes on her, and quickly adds to her retort. “I am Javiyah. Although I feel as though we know each other already, after such a journey.”

---

---

The young warrior felt his age sitting here in this carriage as the miles slipped past. He knew this country well, had been witness to events as for the last few years the country had slowly slipped into a dour mood. He had been to villages suffering under the strain of demands from the capitol. Though so far he had not yet observed the source of those demands. The hours near these strangers had thus far dampened any curiosity that the mercenary had felt towards the journey.

As the carriage approached the city however Auric was beginning to understand the tragedy growing here and to see how it had poured over into the surrounding country. An eerie mist seemed to shroud the walls of the capital city. The gloom seemed to Auric to be overbearing, however, it was more than just the fog, a palpable weight seemed to fall upon them as they entered the gates. Were his spear not packed on the upper luggage racks of the carriage he would have adjusted his grip on it subconsciously. Instead, his fingers drummed on the pommel of the sword sheathed against his right calf, the long handle bringing the pommel several inches above his knee.

It was clear the young man felt uncomfortable with the atmosphere of the city. Though, he bore a thick coat of grime on every surface of his skin you could see. You might be forgiven had you mistaken him for an outcast, a savage living out of the wilds, except, that every single piece of his gear, even his armor was cleaned, polished for metal fittings and fixtures, and otherwise in exquisite shape. As his mood grew heavier a thin shimmer began to gather in his eyes as his magic tried to feed off his mood. It wasn't that the young warrior was trying to cast or had particularly failed in some way at managing his emotions, instead, it illustrated the toll this atmosphere could take on unguarded emotions.

As the power began to gather an audible exhale could have been heard in the carriage, the only severe sound in the otherwise silent ride. It served to mark the warrior centering himself and grounding his mood, a somber look settling on his face. It was well that he had done so during the ride to the lord's manor too, for the death of the peasant to a sword in the back could have caused that power to snap unexpectedly. Instead, however, Auric looked on resigned to the fate of the man as they rolled through the gates.

Departing the carriage last, Auric retrieved the metal spear from the roof of the carriage. He then turned and took one long look back at the threshold of the manse, a sense of instinctive foreboding settling into his bones along with the well-known feeling of being watched. His eyes shifted, but from his vantage, he could find no one watching him. With a sharp turn that caused the armored leather coat to whip around him and his hood to fall away revealing his snow-white locks of hair he pushed off his back heel and hurried after the others entering only a moment behind him.

Entering the mansion did not lighten the mood or the atmosphere. Instead, as Lord Locheborne greeted them it seemed that at least some clarity might finally be within reach. That hope was soon dashed, however, as the lord seemingly frantic hurried off to some new crisis. So the guests were ushered into a dining room outfitted for the conference to come. Auric noted the curtain had been drawn, as had all the other curtains, as though their host felt at all times the uneasy sense of being watched. It gave the hunter in him pause, a moment to worry about the almost caged existence of his oft times employer.

Once they arrived in the dining room, Auric moved to a corner propping up his spear safely out of the way. It was poor manners in his experience to hold in ones hand bared steel at such a gathering. So with the spear set aside, he examined his compatriots as introductions were provided. The first of them to speak was an elder woman, an elf marked first by her size and build, but then as well by her ears, she named herself Aemma. The second to speak appeared to be a dwarf, though he would serve as the first that Auric had ever met. Another who you might call experienced in life, he provided his name as Thadurim. Turning his gaze on the last of their number, another woman, her jet black hair, and heavy tan assured him that she was from further afield. She had called herself Javiyah, and the way she spoke and commented on what might be expected of nobility might yet mark her either as one learned, or perhaps instead experienced in dealing with them.

Auric found a seat close to the corner where he had left his spear. He pulled the chair from the table and settled into it not waiting for the others. Instead, he appeared to sink into it as a lounging predator might, seemingly relaxed, but giving off the impression that he might spring like a trap at any moment. Into the long pause after the others finished speaking he decided to share his name, now that he was settled and more at his ease. "I am called Auric," a simple statement with no elaboration is all that he provided by way of introduction as he leaned back into the chair to await what was to come.

Hugon watched the carriage make its slow way through the crowds and the bleak city. The paladin was out of his plate armor, dressed in light furs to combat a chill he could not seem to shake, and armed with a dagger at his side. There was a symbol of the maker hung around his neck that he idly played with, partly out of habit and partly out of reassurance. He had arrived a few days earlier, exploring the town a little before making his way to the manor. It was a dark place. Hope was nowhere to be seen, faith in the Lochbornes was gone, and faith in the Maker was all but faded completely. The people were beaten down by the evil that had crept into the land, the air, the water, the very soul of Malacast itself. They felt, no , they knew that there was nothing to be done about the curse and that anyone summoned by Lord Lochborne would just be driven mad or cut down like all the others before had been.

Hugon had done what he could to ease the suffering, but there was only so much one man could do against such darkness, especially a man such as Hugon. His talents had never laid in healing or aiding those harmed by magic, but in cutting down the creatures and villains who had harmed them. The paladin's thoughts turned to the Hanged Man, and he felt a damnable, irrepressible, shiver go down his spine. He had only seen the cursed cadaver from a great distance, swaying gently from his tree on the hill, but he had been certain that the monster was looking right at him, cutting through his armor and demeanor to leer directly at Hugon's soul.

The paladin had made sure to avoid looking at the cursed creature ever since.

He looked on impassively as the crowd was ruthlessly dispersed by the guards. Fear lead to madness, and madness had to be repressed at any cost, or all would be lost. Hugon turned from the window and made his way back farther into the house to prepare for the meeting with Lord Lochborne and the rest. Hugon had not been told anything by Lochborne since he had arrived at the cursed city, simply told that he would be told more when the rest of the Lochborne family's friends arrived. That time had arrived, and despite a feeling of relief at finally being able to begin taking action against the curse that hung so heavily over Malacast, Hugon felt a growing sense of dread at what was to come.

The dining room only made the feeling worse. The symbols of the Maker, usually symbols that brought comfort, seemed to bring the hint of hysteria and despair by the sheer amount present in the room. To say nothing of how the books seemed to watch his every move with a disturbingly predatory gaze. Hugon entered the dining room right as the last of their number finished introducing himself, a young man covered in grime and dirt from the road with a heavy gaze and a scarred visage. The man seemed ready to leap out of his chair at any moment. At least he kept his gear well maintained and clean. That, Hugon supposed, was a small blessing. The other warrior of the group was a dwarf, one of the few Hugon had seen in his travels. A friendly face covered in wrinkles and a large white beard, with a stout frame and scarred face. Hugon hoped that the dwarf's age meant he was someone to be relied on when they undertook this cursed quest, for the Paladin didn't see things in the others that he trusted.

The other two were less reassuring. One was a human woman, with strange facial tattoos and jewelry on her clothing. Her clothes were at least practical, but something about her made Hugon's skin crawl. She looked like someone who had delved where she shouldn't, and that was someone to be wary of. The other was an elf, whose face and skin was as gnarled as the dwarf's was. Dressed in tattered clothes with a seemingly endless number of pouches and pockets, she seemed kind. What was more concerning was the bandages that could be seen, peaking out of her torn gloves.

Strange company the Lochborne family keeps.

"I am Hugon. I arrived here a few days ago at the same request of Lord Lochborne's as you all. He has told me nothing more than what he has told you all, I'm afraid, so we will simply have to wait for him to return."

As the group began its introductions, awaiting for the lord that had summoned them without so much as an explanation, the feeling of dread that came upon them all began to intensify. The fog that had been blocked away from sight, had come back as the crimson curtains slowly began to withdraw to reveal the eerie nature of the darkened outside. The rings that held up those curtains scraped alongside the bar, letting out a small, yet noticeable, noise. The two servants in the room were nowhere close to the window, and they looked at each other in confusion before one stepped forward to inspect the window. He stepped with caution, only looking to the group before continuing towards the damned window.

As he neared, his eyes widened as he saw something that brought fright and fear into a mortal man, as if he saw the embodiment of evil itself. His lip quivered as he took one frightful step back before collapsing to his knees and letting out a wail worse than even a dying man could muster gripping the sides of his head. The other servant, an orc with short hair and tusks filed down, turned to try and retreat from the room grasping the door handle of the great wooden walls that refused to open despite even the power of an orc. The orcish servant pulled with all the might such a beast could muster without even so much of a budge before he too collapsed and began screaming.

The screams echoed through the room, amplifying the screams further as the two servants cried their anguish and fear. The candles that once lit the room blew out one by one until they reached the doorway opposite of either of the servants. Amidst the screams, a door creeped open slowly and deliberately as a decrepit, skeletal hand appeared to grip the side of the door and push it ever so gently. Thus appeared a being beyond what any of the group had encountered, a floating specter shrouded in darkness and madness. In its left hand it held aloft a noose, dragged along the floor. The hooded figure did not move, making no sound.

A hand crept to the blackened head, and held up a singular finger before both the servants stopped their screams in a sudden fashion. Then their eyes rolled back and they slumped to the floor bringing a damned silence to the room beyond what a normal man could bare. Was this the Hanged Man? Was this the cursed being they had tasked to kill?

A being of complete darkness beyond whose power overflowed into the minds of these mortals, bringing a sense of primal fear. A true fear.

The symbols of the maker clattered to the floor, an unknown force breaking them to splinters or melting them down. Only then did the being enter the room to look down upon the group, who had not yet suffered the same fate as the servants had only moments ago.

“Ye will all die,” a withered voice spoke directly into their minds, leaning down to first look to the paladin.

“A being of righteous violence, soon to lose faith and be damned”

Then to the elf.

“A mother of the dead, defying my wishes and bearing the scars of those I have yet to claim.”

The dwarf.

“A man of the abandoned, attempting to be friends to all only to be friend to the dead.”

The white-haired one.

“A hunter whose emotions blind him, death following for each he kills.”

Then finally, the taran.

“A heretic, far from home and in a land of damnation.”

The cloaked figure straighten its posture before spreading its arms, holding the noose forward where each of the group would see their own form swaying there gently. It held the noose high for all to see, darkness coming from it before the rope dropped onto the table they were seated at. The table disintegrated as it decayed into mere sawdust, the nooses then rest gently on the tiled floor of the dining room.

“A perilous journey ye shall take.
Faith and heresy be one in the same.
Look forth, past the lake.
See who takes aim,
Upon the rolling hills,
That which kills.”

It recited its word before once more looking on the group.

“I fear, ye not be chosen for this quest. Though, ye try and fail. All that will be found, is ye’s own mortality.”

Hugon's eyes snapped towards the curtain as it began to move by itself, his hand instinctively going towards his dagger. The hair on the back of his neck began to stand up as he heard the rings of the curtains scrapping against the rod. Something awful was coming, he could sense it. He watched the servant approach the curtain, waving the man forward. Hugon's dagger was ripped out of its sheathe as the servant suddenly fell to his knees and wailed, a sound reminiscent of the screams of the dying but somehow so much worse than any Hugon had heard in his long years of violence and war. What is out there? More importantly, what is coming? Hugon thought, tightening his grip on his dagger. Maker how he wished he had his axe and his armor, but those were both carefully stored away in the manor. He had assumed that even with how bad the surrounding area was, the darkness hadn't crept fully into the town yet. That it was relatively safe for him to let his guard down in. Now it looked like he was going to pay for that foolish assumption.

Hugon carefully began to move to check on the screaming man as the orc servant panicked and attempted to run. The door was jammed by some foul magic, Hugon could hear the desperate struggles as he drew near towards the other man. When the orc began howling as well, the paladin turned around in time to see the light in the room be snuffed out, and a creature straight out of the depths of hell enter the room. The hideous screaming of the servants suddenly ceased, and the silence that followed was thick and oppressing.

Terror raged through Hugon as all the symbols of the Maker on the walls of the room fell to the ground, destroyed. He had been afraid before. When his brother was destroying the village, during battle against the orcs, hunting rogue mages, charging into the lines of heretics during the crusade, but he had never felt pure primal terror like this before. Everything in his being told him to flee this place. Flee this town, this area, this entire country before that vile thing came any closer. But he could not. He had made a promise to Lord Lochborne, and if he abandoned his promise now, not only would he be a wretched coward but what happened in Yolocto would happen here. It took all of his might, but he managed to keep the terror from his face. He wouldn't give this creature the satisfaction of seeing his fear on his face.

As the monster leaned towards him, his palms began to burn with an old pain.

He didn't hear what the creature said to the others, too focused on standing his ground to bother paying attention to what lies it was spewing. Faith was his corner stone, and he would not lose it. The Maker provided, even in dark times such as these. He glanced down at the servant at his feet. The man was dead, that much was obvious. The paladin doubted that the orc had survived this ordeal either. Hugon's eyes widened as he saw his own mutilated corpse swaying in the noose. Then he gritted his teeth. He would not let the creature get the best of him. He would not. As the monster finished his prophecy, Hugon's free hand reached up and clutched the symbol of the maker around his neck. Courage. The Maker provided. He would not be bested by such a horror.

"Begone, demon!" Hugon forced strength into his voice, making himself look the blackened skull. He would not let fear control him, or this damned monster have its way. Righteous fury welled within, giving him strength to speak past his fear. "We may not be the chosen, but we are the ones who will succeed! We will fight our way through these cursed lands, we will cut down the monstrosity that hangs over this city, and we will send you back to hell! The Maker wills it, and it will be done! Begone! You cannot turn us away from our path!"

---

---

Auric resisted the urge to rub the tattoo and brand on his right shoulder as the paladin introduced himself. The hunter could feel the creep of anxiety as he did every time he encountered a devout member of the church. It was the anxiety of a man for whom the assessment was always guilty regardless of the actions he had taken or the burden he had shouldered. So it was with a suppressed kernel of anxiety that he greeted what was to come. The first note was the keening of metal rings on the metal curtain rod as the crimson curtains slowly parted creating an eerie noise. As his eyes turned to the sound, lurking beyond the window he beheld dreadful darkness, in the form of the supernatural fog now fully encircling the manse.

He watched as the servants with trepidation trod towards the yawning expanse of the window. Beyond shrouded in the thick fog was a sight to set the moral soul to wailing, a sound beyond even the eerie keening of the curtains withdrawing. Blood drained from their faces as the wail tore loose from their throats. One of the two with fingers curled like claws into his own skull collapsed to his knees, the other with strength beyond his ilk had turned to flee, he made it as far as the door. With all the strength of his kin enhanced by fear and the desire to survive he pried at the portal, but despite his enormous strength he too collapsed the door held fast as though by some fell sorcery.

As this was happening the hunter slid from his seat turning to the corner and retrieved his spear. With it gripped tight in his hands the unsettled feeling of the room, and the sheer dread at what they had witnessed began to creep through his tightly controlled emotions like rivers of ice down the back of his neck. He turned the spear and his body towards the window prepared to defend himself even if he could save none of the others. He turned his eyes returning to the window, the soul-rending wail of the two servants reverberating through the room. He took one step toward the window when like a fall into a cold lake the room plunged into darkness, and what warmth the light had offered was snuffed out replaced by cold dread.

His eyes strained in the darkness sudden as it had come, he found the lack of light stifling when from behind them, the door the orc had tried so hard to open let out a sickening creep. He turned and the dim light from beyond the portal revealed the sickening sight of a skeletal hand. The digits curled around the heavy door slowly forcing the portal open. Beyond the door, as his eyes adjusted the cowled form of a grisly evil now stood in their midst. At first, the figure hovered there shrouded in the dim suffocating darkness and a sense of madness given palpable form by the keening of the two servants. That moment could have lasted hours so distorted was the scene beyond the reasoning of man. Then the figure moved to raise one skeletal digit before its shrouded skull in a twisted mockery of the way one might shush an infant. As though bespelled the wailing became silence with all the suddenness of the earlier plunge into darkness, and like the darkness had been blinding this was deafening.

As the silence filled the space like a physical substance the two servants could be seen collapsing to the floor, they seemed to be dead, or unconscious. But that as was about to be evident was to be the least of these would-be champion's problems. A wave of fell evil darkness to seep into the spirit washed into the room as the creature waited beyond the threshold. The first thing to happen was the destruction of the symbols of the maker all around them the metal ones turned to slag, the wooden ones shattered and snapped, and the stone ones crumbled under the onslaught. But the darkness was not meant only for the maker's symbols, nay it was meant for would-be heroes as well.

As the darkness saturated their souls, it brought with it cursed images infecting their minds like a virus as words poured from the damned lips of the black figure. “A hunter whose emotions blind him, death following for each he kills.” The words echoed like some prophetic doom, as in his mind he bore witness to a lone hillock, upon which a single great oak took root, from its branches the hell borne breeze stirred, a figure wrung from the neck by a hang man's noose secured fast to the branch above. That figure bore Auric's face, but more than that the hill below him was littered with corpses, each a man or beast, all had fallen to Auric's sword, or spear, and their dead faces in skeletal grins turned up to bear witness to his fate.

Through all of this dread, anxiety and panic had crept through the young hunters slipping control, and while he was lost in that vision eerie blue light spilled from his irises. But the sight of his form hung from that tree on that hill did not instill the hunter with raw fear, for as a young man he had faced the noose for a curse far more palpable and immediate, fear resolved into cold determination a steely feeling that despite the risk he could do anything he must, and the fell light of his eyes dimmed. As the image in his mind shattered with the fear, he came back to the paladin's righteous fury burning in the room like a source of light and hope.

As his determination manifested he slid into a fighting stance edging up alongside the paladin the spear leveled at the figure for a clean thrust if it seemed appropriate. "Proclaim my doom all you want, you are not the first to try to see me into in an early grave and by my will, you won't be the last. Now I stand by Lord Locheborne, leave or face the bite of cold steel." He lacked the fiery conviction of the paladin, but he offered steel-hard determination in his own and a measure of self-control that would make lesser men question themselves. His eyes matched his tone the blue-gray of his eyes showing all the hardened determination of a man who had for many years scorned humanity and faced the wrath of nature and outlasted it.

Aemma studied the newest arrival from the corner of her eyes. He was dressed down unlike the others; fine clothes to be sure, but not likely the furs of a nobleman. Perhaps a local or at least someone who’d been here for a time. The man was hardy and tall for a human; she figured him for a soldier. Adjusting her glance to meet his she found that he was already observing the group. She felt his gaze linger on the one called Javiyah for longer than the two men. Before his eyes could meet hers she shifted her attention away; checking pouches she’d already scrutinized meticulously. His glaring was rather obvious even with her sight obscured. It lasted nearly long enough for her to speak up. Before she could think to his eyes changed focus again, and he cleared his throat.

"I am Hugon. I arrived here a few days ago at the same request of Lord Lochborne's as you all. He has told me nothing more than what he has told you all, I'm afraid, so we will simply have to wait for him to return."

The elven medic looked to Hugon once again this time offering a small smile. Any pleasantries she could’ve offered were interrupted by the clanging of metal against stone. As if moths entranced by burning wick the servants made their way towards the window. Their screams were nearly enough to force Aemma from her seat as her attention turned to them. Only when the dim of candle fire was snuffed out did dread rise; ushered in by the darkness. Closing her eyes for a moment and taking a breath the elven woman was ready to lend aid to the two screaming servants. The creaks from an opening door were enough to keep her in place.

It was a shadow. A mass of bones and something other. It floated like some sort of apparition, but even still it made an otherworldly sound with its advance. As if by its command, the two servants dropped to the floor. By the whites of their eyes, whatever this...creature did to them might have been fatal. As quickly as they dropped, and the being drew closer, did Hugon unsheathe his weapon. The cold noise rang out as the dagger, the iron shining amidst the darkness, cut against its holster. Most of the others seemed enraptured in the horrors of the spectacle before them. Even more so when the creature began to speak.

“Ye will all die,” it uttered. The specter’s voice was hoarse; as if its throat had been cut open. For any being of this realm such strain would reveal a weakness of the lungs. But this creature still managed to echo throughout the room. As if the voice was coming from within Aemma’s very soul. Even obscured in darkness she could see the shadow lean over Hugon. It spoke again.

“A being of righteous violence, soon to lose faith and be damned.” In the mystique of the shadow’s voice, the words felt like a prophecy, but Aemma saw them for what they were. A warning.

As if stirred by her thought the creature’s attention turned to her.

“A mother of the dead, defying my wishes,” the rest of the specter’s words faded to dust in her mouth. So too did the words of her allies fade from her periphery.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

She saw the trickery before her. An illusion wearing her face. Once again the elven woman closed her eyes, but only for a brief moment. She felt her heart sinking like a sack of stones tossed to sea. The words had gripped her in a way she understood all too well. For a moment the look of despair about her face broke into some sort of contentment. Her fist tightened in the arm of her chair, and in that instant she could feel the table before her turn to nothingness. She inhaled, unintentionally breathing in bits of the floating sawdust as she returned her focus to the imminent threat.

“Proclaim my doom all you want, you are not the first to try to see me into an early grave and by my will, you won't be the last. Now I stand by Lord Locheborne, leave or face the bite of cold steel,” the young warrior warned as he rose to meet the shadow and stand by Hugon. His words were enough to bring her to reality. She’d let them be the ones to make their declarations and threats. They were much more convincing at it than she. Even still her aged hands moved swiftly to her pouches as she rose to join them. She looked to Auric, nodding to him; a silent vindication of his defiance.

The spectre seemed all but fazed by the words of those who spoke to it, merely letting out a disappointed sigh to the group who seemed fixated on resisting him. The skeletal hand lowered the noose. The illusion of the body disappearing before the hooded head looked to the more outspoken of the group, only darkness and dread being able to be determined inside of the hood. The dread inside the hood, made that instilled fear in the men increase to dizzying proportions, a fear almost made as solid as the grip of a blade or the oak of a door.

“If ye not hear warnings true,
Then ye will end blue.
I am no Hanged Man.
I am no living man.
Ye speaketh with Death true.”

The figure looked between the dwarf, taran, and the elf almost casting an insidious gaze at it hunched over in the normal visage of an older man. He let out clicks and sounds of indiscernible whispers came from his form, all different voices, but all of those who had been lost to those in the room. With a silent motion, the hooded spectre moved to the body of the man and reaching a withered hand into the body, phasing through flesh and bone before pulling out a faintly white light. In a swift movement, it shoved the light into the blackened void of its hood, engulfing its light with an inescapable blackness.

“If ye seeketh the Hanged Man,
I shall feast of souls plenty.
Yet, ye destiny betrays thee,
No remorse received from me.”

The cryptic figure wandered over to the orcish body and did the same process with the light inside of that butler. Only then did the posture of the demonic being straighten once more, facing the group and holding aloft the noose again, only offering one last cryptic message.

“Fall towards the sky,
Meet the ally,
Trust not grandeur and spy,
Find the truth.”

In the blink of an eye, the being vanish with the candles of the room mysteriously being relit and the symbols of the Maker being unbroken and put back into place, albeit upside down. The only thing that remained the same within the room were the two corpses and the curtains which remained open, alongside the palpable fear that lingered within the room. The temperature of the room felt cold after the visage left, no warm embrace being left for those who continued to sit within the room. The silence hung, merely waiting for someone to cut through it.

Who would be the first to speak after such an encounter?

What had the visage meant?

Was the party damned to death?

---

---

And just like that, it was over. The candles relit, the symbols that had been strewn across the floor just moments ago were mounted back in place. If it weren't for the corpses of Hedlef's servants face down on the floor and twisted into inhuman shapes. The curtains were still swept back, and Thadurim knew if he was a little taller he would have a fantastic view of the swirling fog that was choking the villa. Above all, it was cold. So, so cold. The air had an icy grip on Thadurim, rooting him to the spot. Any sort of colour had drained from his skin as soon as whatever that thing was had appeared, and he highly doubted any of it had returned yet.

Thadurim tried to clear his head but it was just impossible. The image of his own corpse swaying in a noose, his eyes bulging and the flesh of his throat twisted and bruised, was all he could think of. It had looked so real. Maybe it was an illusion or a curse or some sort of demented magic, but it had seemed so real. The desperation in his own dead face terrified him more than anything. At least he had been right about not getting much sleep after they arrived, but he had thought it would be for very different reasons. Instead, he was going to be having nightmares about his hanging corpse for the next decade.

He turned to the rest of the room. No one looked sure of themselves, but then again how could they? No one could possibly understand what had just happened. He was the only one who hadn't screamed in defiance at the hooded figure, partly due to confusion and partly due to fear. Now he wished he had, if even just to make himself feel a little bit better. Thadurim stepped towards the centre of the room and squatted down, grabbing a handful of dust and ash from the pile that used to be the table. He opened his fingers slightly, sighing as the blackened powder slipped through to the floor. This wasn't an illusion, this was all frighteningly real.

The old dwarf stood straight, as tall as he could. The sight of him standing tall and still being a foot smaller than anyone may have been amusing had the tone of the room not changed so drastically. "I..." words failed him for the second time today. He mulled the words of the visage over carefully. Trust not the grandeur. Thadurim looked around the room at the ornate symbols and walls of books, remembering where he was and suddenly feeling very, very unsure of his surroundings. This couldn't be Hedlef's doing. Could it? No, of course not. But something still nagged at him in the back of his mind. This wouldn't be a simple contract. There were no bandits or pests, no special guests to protect. It was some sort of... curse?

"What in the Maker's name just happened?" He finally let the question spill out. He said it more for himself than the others, trying to verbalise his thoughts in the hope it might help him clear his head somewhat. Obviously, no one was going to turn around and respond by explaining exactly what that thing was, where it came from, what it meant and why. Finding out, he imagined, would be part of what Hedlef had summoned them all here for. The other part would be the quest the visage had spoken of, the one that was supposedly doomed to fail. The image of his swaying corpse shot through his brain like a well-aimed arrow. The memory was almost painful.