Scrivener's Prophecy

Week 2

Ravengrow, Day 8

Another dawning day to the prison, this time with each of us in tow. The disgusting pallor of ick I initially felt upon breaching the gates initially was gone. I chalk it up to the experiences of the day prior. I refuse to believe in silly ghost stories, despite everything that’s happened thus far.

This bout about the prison, we were much less delicate. Having negotiated with the ornery slamming doors of the front foyer, we chose instead to simply ignore the entire thing and deal with it via iron pitons and our brawn. Well, the brawn of others, my shoulder was still sore from the branding the day before.

Careful searching about the judges’ chambers allowed us to discover some pretty things, and we uncovered a room full of rotten items with even more rotten descriptions. All seeming to be belongings of the Notorious Five: the prisoners that the melancholic ghost the night before had requested we dispatch.

We distributed the items equally to those who might find them most interesting: an axe to Viktor, the spellbook to Iamjos, the tangle of holy symbols to the dwarf, and to Tinklelad the gnome – a flute. The fifth item I cannot recall at this time, but considering what’s come of the items and their bearers, I’d rather not remember.

Bravely we sauntered through the ruined prison, until we haphazardly discovered a giant murderous furnace, Hell bent on burning us alive. While all of us fled for cover, the brilliance of Iamjos stood there like an idiot, wiggling his fingers at it until the thing cowered in fear of his blatant display of stupidity. Then, like the fool boy he is, he went digging through the ashes, throwing bones and detritus into the water. Claiming something about a sea burial.

What does he know about the relevance of a sea burial in a puddle? I am the pirate here.

By the way, there isn’t one.

After that ridiculousness was over, we continued on our destructive way to a stairwell to a sound dampened second story. Noting the muffled sound of the place, I pulled out my prized marble and dropped it to the floor … no echo. Perfect gunfire.

Which proved to be somewhat useful, as we were beset upon by winged things … quickly done away with, and then continued on our sacred quest to defile the place by walking into a cell of a dead man wrapped in chains. After much coercing of gods and blasphemy (on my part), Tinklepot the gnome became bored with the game and left the cell – Viktor following close on his heels (something about Paladins and their need to protect the stupid).

I opened the door of the cell belonging to whom we assumed was Father Charlatan, to hear flute music. This could only be horrible. And then it was … cell doors opened, producing the walking dead, and other mobile dead reached out from their cages, clawing at my coat.

I did what any sane woman with a loaded firearm does when confronted by ambulatory corpses: shoot them. This was apparently not a wise decision, as Tinkledork the gnome pulled out the flute and began to play a merry tune, very well. Well enough to make him bleed – from everything. The dead were entranced, easy targets, sitting ducks. Sitting dead ducks.

The cleric came clomping out of the dead man’s cell to discover exactly what was the matter, and to wreak his vengeance upon the multitudes of undead now invading his beard-space, and quickly fell over.

So I went through his things.

Smelling salts did no good. The man was far too unconscious to smell things; either that or the amount of alcohol soaked into his mustache overpowered even these potent salts. So I continued to rifle through his things, all while Tinkletwizzle played away and Viktor’s ego grew to twice it’s size. Trig and Iamjos? Stayed in relative safety in Father Charlatan’s cell: would that we all were such cowards.

Retrieving the Haunt siphon I was looking for, I activated it, and with a flash of green light, the mood was lifted and Tinkledazzle was able to stop playing the flute – which I took from him.

This is why we can’t have nice things.
That and Viktor has a growing affinity for that bloody axe of his.

The walk back home will be interesting enough, with how Viktor was eyeing Tinklegiggle’s neck.

Besmara help us all. Well, no: just me.
Let the other sods drown in a puddle. It’s a sea burial, haven’t you heard?

Ravengrow, Day 7

We left for the prison at dawn. Not exactly my cup of bourbon. Being one who stays up late in the night, I was not eager to wake at first light, eat a hearty breakfast, and witness Kendra and Iamjos in all of their “bliss” waving to us from the doorway as we trudged off to the disgusting structure.

It was like a death march.

At the gates, while everyone marveled at the towers and walls like ninnies, I entered – immediately regretting it. The feeling of the place was disgusting. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t just turn around and do so. I remained, standing there like a fool, waiting for the others to stop remarking on the color of the stone to see the ruin inside.

The house was a ruin, the gnomes confirmed it so. After their foray into the house, the two of them – the musician (I think his name is Tinkle) relentlessly flirting with Trig – decided to go for a swim. While Tinkle has proven himself relatively adept at everything, his swimming leaves much to be desired. Two steps in and he flailed about as if drowning. Trig proved to be much more professional, until we saw the pool of blood, and the rope we were holding go slack.

We yanked her out, and she brought her new skeleton friends with her. My forboding feeling of the prison was justified. I did what one does to skeletons. Shoot at them, and miss horribly. Everyone else flailed about like ninnies, I eventually hit one of the bastards, while Tinkle danced around trying to put his clothes back on.

After Trig and Viktor (who’d been slashed by one of the scum) recovered, we toured the perimeter of the facility, following a flight of steps after deciding not to mess with a pit of refuse. We were delightfully greeted by a scythe that seemed to be moving of its own volition. As with the skeletons, we flailed at it some more, ineffectively. Witnessing this, I ran up and took the scythe in my own hands, ending up in a bizarre wrestling match with an stubborn weapon, taking eventual attacks from it, and the kobold’s dragon friend.

I am embarrassed to say that the scythe was not very quickly dispatched.

Because we seem to have some sort of death wish, we entered in the prison, getting into a fight with the front door. Luckily the dwarf has a brain and used iron pitons to keep the damn thing open and we explored the interior of the building by knocking doors off their hinges. A museum, this place is not.

I was branded by some sort of flying hot iron, I am loathe to say. I too busy reloading my gun to notice the damn thing flying at me. It got me in the shoulder; poor Trig has an H on her forehead. My coat will require some repair.

And then there was the disappointing and revealing conversation with the overly depressed and annoying Vesorianna or whatever the Hell her name is. Literally any question you asked her was answered in the most dire and depressing way possible. To hear her tell it, we were doomed.

I wrestled a scythe, ghost lady. My day has gone from forboding to ridiculous. I am immune to your litany of emotional pain.

We returned to the house at just before dusk to find more horrors. Kendra and Iamjos seemed to be getting along quite well, better even than before we’d left. My mood darkened considerably. So much so that after everyone had gone to bed, I opened that damn scarab book to find it completely illegible.

Unfortunately, the only person out of all of us who speaks every damn language ever is Iamjos, so I woke him up. He was fully dressed, and dour as ever. We poured over the book. Boring text of dullness. All it revealed was that there was some secret society of people about.

All three of my dead parents were a part. Perhaps future dead parents will be a part as well.
I am collecting them after all.


Grimburrow Azwaithe

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