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: