The Gallery

Sensing the peril of the oncoming darkness, Orthos readily agrees to Salbadore's suggestion that they follow the hallway in the hopes of finding a place of refuge.

The main hall terminates in a large archway. Passing underneath it, the party finds itself within a spacious gallery. The illumination, they discover, comes from a skylight, through which they can see that the day is waning fast. Very soon it will be night, and then...

The walls are lined with portraits of the Sudlow lineage. As Orthos examines the names and stern countenances of his ancestors, his eyes happen to fall upon a painting of a young man, his wife, and their infant son. He gasps, recognizing them immediately; intense, unexpected memories and emotions well up within him as he looks upon the smiling faces of his father and mother, and sees himself as a babe.

Orthos' mind brims with questions: if his parents hailed from such wealth as this, why were they living as commoners? Did they chose such a lowly life for themselves, or had it been imposed upon them? Had they shamed or transgressed against the family somehow? He notes that his parents’ portrait has been relegated to an obscure corner of the room, and supposes this is not a coincidence.

Otherwise, the most conspicuous feature of the room is a large, rounded nook in the middle of the westernmost wall of the gallery, in which four paintings are prominently displayed. Unlike the other works hanging here, these appear to have been carefully maintained, touched by neither dust nor time. They are unsettling for both the realism of the artist’s hand, which conveys a remarkable sense of depth, as well as the strange ugliness of his subjects.

The first painting depicts a bucolic scene of a herd of innocent lambs. Unbeknownst to them, a cross section reveals that they are being led one by one into a slaughterhouse, its walls spattered with gore, while a frenzied butcher gleefully hatchets them into juicy mutton cutlets. A placard beneath the painting reads: “As are we all.”

The second painting is that of a great shaggy wolfhound, its jaws wide and slavering hungrily over a crying baby on a platter, as if intent on devouring the defenseless child. A placard beneath reads: “Man’s best friend.”

The third is a portrait of a woman cradling a spellbook in her arms. Her mousy hair and fine clothing are dirty and disheveled, her jewelry is tarnished and dull; the cruel pucker of her lips suggests jealousy while her wide eyes hint at the depths of her inner depravity. A placard beneath reads: “Pride and joy.”

The fourth and final painting depicts a middle-aged man in a black robe, holding aloft a golden bastard sword in one hand while fending off a fierce black dragon. The placard beneath this one reads: “The summit of his power.”

In addition, two archways in the northeast corner of the gallery open into an adjacent chamber, though the mist remains too thick to see into it with clarity.

The Haunted Stairwell

Opening the door reveals a narrow set of stone steps leading down into what you presume to be the cellar. The dark passage is blocked by thick, ropy strands of magical webbing: yet another of Lothar’s protective measures against intruders. But there is something else here besides; you cannot see it, but every nerve in your body can sense it with a certainty so profound it turns your skin to crawling gooseflesh.

There is something utterly unnatural and fundamentally wrong about the darkness cloaking the stairs; it devours the light of Mercurio's torch greedily, causing it to flicker and wane while seeming to expand ever more around you, and you’re sure that you can feel the insatiable void siphoning away the warmth in your body, the vigor in your muscles, the very essence that sustains your life the longer you stand before it.

Yet it is difficult to tear your eyes away from that dreadful black pit of despair. Then, you see shapes emerging from the perimeter of the darkness: humanoid silhouettes, withered and emaciated, their arms and clawed hands reaching out toward you. In your ears, their ghostly voices murmur...

“...thosSudlowOrthosSudlowOrthosSudlowOr…”

“…OneofusOneofusOneofusOneofusOneofus…”

“…SohungryComecloserSocoldComecloserSohungry…”

For the moment, the despicable wraithlike things do not seem either capable or willing to stray beyond the inky blackness that shrouds them. But any comfort this limitation offers is short-lived as you become certain that the void is slowly spreading, and you realize that it is only a matter of time before night comes and the whole manor is plunged into darkness.

*****

MANOR MAP:

The House of Sudlow

The group thanks Henricus for his hospitality and proceeds to the manor. Though you lack the words to articulate why, a sense of revulsion and dread begins to bubble upward from the deepest recesses of your mind. The house grows less and less inviting the closer you approach; Mayna and Mr. Nibbles make avian hissing sounds and refuse to go any further without considerable encouragement from their respective masters.

Through sheer force of will, Orthos shakily inserts the brass key into the lock on the front double doors. He depresses the corroded latch and the doors squeak open at a light pull, revealing a long, darkened corridor within.

The heroes enter.

The darkened entry foyer is roughly 15 feet wide and appears to extend 50 feet or so before opening into another chamber where some daylight can be seen up ahead. Suits of armor stand along the walls like silent sentinels, their shine long eroded by oxidation and dulled by a fine layer of dust. A tattered, faded tapestry of the Sudlow crest hangs from a rafter, undulating lazily in a current of air stirred by the opening of the front door. The party proceeds cautiously down the corridor, their boots clicking against the marble floor, nerves on edge from an unknown source of foreboding.

Without warning, you are entombed in near-darkness as the front door suddenly slams shut with a crash! To your profound dismay, the exit vanishes from sight alogether, and a large, wicked mouth materializes on the wall in its place. As the magic mouth utters a chilling rhyme, the entire area is eclipsed in a fog so dense that you can barely see beyond two arms’ lengths in any direction.

“Who is that there who comes intruding?
A Thief, or Robber! Perchance he’s seeking
some Treasure or Wealth thus far eluding.
Whilst he proceeds with churlish sneaking,
poor Fool, mayhap he doth not perceive
that grisly Doom for him awaiting!
Or, this Warning he dare not believe,
a Madness of his own creating:
within the Dark all Heartbeats still,
as all Hope dies and Blood runs cold,
for all Futures do the Shadows kill;
and there will end your Thirst for Gold.”

*****

MANOR MAP:

Dale-Town and beyond

Since it is already late in the day, the party reluctantly agrees to spend one more evening in the shelter of the cave, with the plan being that they will head back to the road at first light. Orthos invites Rolf along to see the estate he has inherited from his great uncle, and the Dwarf (having nothing better to do, apparently, nor anywhere else to be) agrees.

At dawn, the group enjoys a quick breakfast of fish before extinguishing their campfire and bidding adieu to the waterfall cave for good. They retrace their steps along the path upon which Ereazaru led them, and reach the forest road still early in the morning. Their spirits buoyed by their recent gains, and glad to be traveling again, the group is unusually lighthearted and mirthful as their journey carries on into midday.

The party reaches Dale-Town early in the afternoon. It is a rather small community whose main form of commerce involves timbering and harvesting other commodities from the woods and the river. Taking a brief respite at the Lazy Beaver inn, the group treats itself to a well-earned meal and some refreshing pints of stout ale. The other patrons stare unabashedly at the Dwarf among them, and some of the less considerate laugh and make conspicuous remarks about his beard and height, but fall silent as Rolf sternly fingers the handle of his spiked mace.

As Orthos asks the barkeep for directions to Sudlow Manor, Laurie overhears some gossip about dragonslayers. Introducing herself as a traveling songsmith in need of fresh fodder for a good tale, she learns that a group of dragonslayers was hired to deal with a green wyrm that was menacing the town, but the dread beast seemed to have moved on and was recently seen in the skies above Corcoran, and the slayers had gone in that direction in pursuit. Laurie relays this information to her companions, who deduce that Ereazaru had likely made herself conspicuous elsewhere in order to lure the dragonslayers away from her nesting site.

Orthos returns to the group with directions, having learned that Sudlow Manor lies well outside of the town proper, in a hilly area near the southwestern edge of Lakewood Forest. He guesses that only another hour or two of walking will be required. The party, energized by their late lunch and eager to complete their journey now that they are so close, agrees to press on.

*****

The group follows the directions faithfully, nearing their destination late in the afternoon. The path they are on winds up a steep and desolate hill, at the top of which is perched Sudlow Manor. The great stone house is as cheerless as it is imposing; the windows are barred and dark, and an unseasonably cool breeze causes the door of a dilapidated wooden gate to creak open and shut at irregular intervals. A neglected garden, which at one time must have been verdant and splendid, rustles and rattles dryly in the wind. The mood of the party has changed from anticipation to apprehension; a crow caws as it flies overhead, but does not linger.

You are greeted by a haggard old man leaning on a cane for support, so thin and frail that it seems a strong gust of wind might snap him in two. He introduces himself as Henricus Finch and, upon being introduced to Orthos, clasps his hands together as if a prayer has been answered. He invites the group into his little cottage, which could be politely described as cozy, and proceeds to pour some tea which is served with a humble cake from his meager pantry.

“How much do you know about your great uncle Lothar, Master Orthos?” Henricus asks.

Mother love

Varel continues to attend to the hatchling’s needs, being careful to keep herself out of the line of fire of any further burps. The sun has neared setting when Ereazaru finally returns, carrying a small sack over her shoulder.

“Ooh!” She coos, upon seeing the baby dragon. “I see I am a little too late! I would have preferred to be here for the hatching, but you all seem to have taken excellent care of her in my absence.” She scoops up the tiny terror and nuzzles it lovingly. “Such a darling! She is so beautiful!”

She looks at Varel. “I knew I could count on you. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Varel,” the young druidess replies quietly, with just a hint of sadness in her voice as she realizes that her days of surrogate motherhood have come to an end. “Varel Dawnsong.”

Ereazaru smiles. “Then I shall name her Ravarellzea,” she declares. “Did you know that dragons have a faultless memory? Indeed, they can recall everything, even their time in the egg. Know that this little one will never forget you, Varel Dawnsong, nor the tenderness she knew in her first days. Long after you have died, your face and name will be remembered, and perhaps your story will be passed on to her own offspring.”

“Likewise,” she adds, “I shall never forget your kindness.” She drops her sack to the ground. “Ravarellzea and I must now depart for a safer haven than this cave. Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude and goodwill.” She smiles at the party again and walks away, the baby dragon dozing peacefully in her arms as if it belonged there all this time. “Farewell!”

Her departure is followed soon after by a strong rhythmic wind that rustles the forest canopy, as if a massive creature is taking flight.

New life

Salbadore drives the ebony fly back to the cave, where his companions await. By some miracle, Varel is able to maintain her hold on the egg without mishap, and deposits it in the nest with some sadness for the other three eggs that were lost to the machinations of the pirate, Benedick.

Another day and night pass without incident. Early in the next day, however, a strange chirping sound can be heard coming from the egg. It is time!

Mr. Nibbles eyes the egg with predatory curiosity as the party gathers 'round to witness the baby dragon within fight its way to freedom, at last puncturing the leathery coccoon with a small "tooth" on its tiny snout and taking its first breath of air.

The miniature dragon is such a dark green as to appear almost black, its tender scales glistening with the leftover fluids that nourished its development in the egg. It opens its oversized eyes to view the world for the first time, revealing brilliant yellow irises that are split down the middle by the narrow black slit of its pupils.

It opens its mouth expectantly, revealing tiny bony nubs that a century from now may prove the toothy doom of young heroes such as yourselves.

Scheiss!

The group takes Varel up on her magnanimous offer to keep watch for the remainder of the evening while they retire to their bedrolls. As they slumber and snore, she lovingly oils the eggs by the glow of the dying campire, feeling like something of a surrogate mother to the dragonspawn developing within.

Suddenly, Mr. Nibbles issues a tiny warning peep: something approaches!

But Varel seems to have overestimated her wakefulness; though she knows she should alert the others, she cannot keep her eyes from closing. She slumps over and dreams of faerie cats, yowling eerily in her ears from across dimensions.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

She awakens with a start a short time later to find Mr. Nibbles hunched over her protectively. What just happened? Some kind of enchantment! She immediately looks to make sure the eggs are safe, whereupon her fears are confirmed: the eggs are gone!

Varel screams (startling her companions awake) and rushes out of the cave into the night. In the moonlight, she spies a ship sailing away downriver.