The Tale of the Party

Dangerous are the times when the extraordinary becomes ordinary.

The sight of an eight-foot goliath squeezing herself through a doorway meant for humans was one such extraordinary sight: skin the color of granite, long braided hair the color of moss on an ancient oak, leather armor the color of night. What followed was the goliath’s polar opposite, a gnome no taller than three feet with a laurel of three fronded leaves around the crown of head and carrying a wooden staff. The dwarf was next, clad in steel plate armor and wielding a sword almost as long as he was tall, which was only about a head higher than the gnome. And finally the elf, carrying a banjolele and wearing a silk shirt of scarlet and boots of leather so fine they were almost reflective.

In the small town of Cradwick inhabited almost entirely by humans, this was an extraordinary group of adventurers.

None spared them even a glance.

Save one.

The tavernkeeper.

“Nanu, glad you’ve finally arrived.” He called out from behind the bar.

The goliath raised her hand to acknowledge him, promptly ramming it into the ceiling. Hissing with a mixture of annoyance and pain, Nanu approached the bar, the others following in her wake. She was used to the world of humanity being far too small to accommodate her. Ever since she’d left the Godsknuckle Mountains, she’d gotten used to a near constant claustrophobia in human cities. But this small building was the worst example of human engineering by far.

Narrowly avoiding smacking her head on one of the molding wooden beams holding the ceiling up, Nanu finally reached the bar.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the work Ivan, but perhaps next time you’ll meet us outside.” Nanu said.

“Sorry.” Ivan said, smirk pulling at the edge of his thin mouth.

“What do you have for us?” She asked.

“A messenger arrived. From the Marrow Estate.”

The tavernkeeper let the words hang in the air for a moment, as if they had any significance to Nanu. Finally, tired of waiting for the pregnant pause to give birth, Nanu prodded:

“The Marrow Estate?”

Ivan’s eyes fluttered, as if pulling him out of some kind of trance.

“Aye, the Marrow Estate. The Marrow family is… well, let’s call them eccentric. Reclusive. Maybe even…a dash mad?” The tavernkeeper’s mischievous smirk returned.

“And what did this messenger have to say?”

“Don’t know the specifics, but I heard they needed a healer. Knew that Wrolin there was one of the best.”

The gnome practically jumped out of her skin at the mention of her name.

“What? Me? No, no, no. I dabble in the medicinal arts… but healer? No, no, no.” Wrolin said, rubbing her hands nervously on the wood of her staff.

“From what I hear, it may not be a physical ailment she needs saving from.” Ivan said.

“No. Even less qualified for that. Nanu, let’s go. We can find another job.” Wrolin said.

“Steady sister, let’s at least hear what this is about.” The dwarf behind her said, placing one of his gauntleted hands on her shoulder.

“You would say that Thrum. It’s not you they want.” Wrolin said, batting the huge armored mitt off her shoulder.

“The Marrow’s are the richest family in the region…” Ivan offered out of hand.

The group paused.

“Rich you say?” The elf spoke up now. “Well, I suppose we do at least owe the courtesy of hearing this poor messenger out. Perhaps there is a plight we can assuage.”

“Right you are Gen!” Thrum barked. The elf’s obvious ulterior motives flew right over the dwarf’s head for reasons that were not related to his height.

“Genhice! Gen-HE-ce! The G sounds like a J!” Genhice said. “Twenty years, you’d think you’d know how to pronounce my name properly!”

Genhice was still mumbling to himself as the group worked their way over to a dark corner, where a robed figure sat.

The figure looked up, but the dim candle on the table was no match for the shadow of the hood. From the void came a voice like paper ripping, at once delicate but harsh.

“Are you the ones that Ivan spoke of?” The figure asked.

“We are.” Nanu said.

“Good, we should be on our way.” It said, standing up. It swayed as it found its feet, threatening to topple for a moment before steadying itself.

“Wait. Tell us of what’s happening.” Nanu said

“The lady’s ward is ill.”

“With what? I don’t even know if I can help if I don’t know what’s wrong.” Wrolin spoke up, hopping from foot to foot. An old habit she’d developed trying to make herself seen in a world that often looked right past her.

“You can help.” The figure said.

It turned to face her.

“You’re the only one who can.”

Each had a reason for following the figure from the tavern that night. Curiosity. Fellowship. Righteousness. Greed. Even as they followed the mysterious figure in utter silence through woods the color of shale, trees long since dead with branches like shattered bones, those reasons held fast.

Yet if one were to ask, none of them would be able to explain why they went into the Marrow Estate that night.

It was a manor house of massive proportions, making even the substantial hill it was built upon seem small by comparison. Dozens of windows stared at the group like the compound eyes of some predatory insect. The fountain in the courtyard that would have once run with clear water, lay dormant and forgotten, mildew and sludge coating it. Even the cobblestones beneath their feet were caked in moss, mildew, and mud.

Genhice was the first to break the silence.

“My boots!”

The elf began trying to kick off the mud clinging to the once pristine leather.

“I-I have a bad feeling about this, Nanu.” Wrolin said. “We can’t go in there.”

“You will go in there.” The figure stated.

“Why?” Wrolin asked, wringing her hands on the staff again.

“Because you must.” It said.

The figure turned and began walking away.

“Plain to see this place has fallen to evil.” Thrum announced. “Let’s see about casting it out!”

To say Thrum was not frightened would be untrue. The forbidding dark surrounding the estate seemed to seep into the very bones of those who stood in its shadow. The smell of decay was thick in the air. And the silence… that was the worst part. A thirsting, ravenous silence that seemed to devour the sounds around it. Even the wind stood silent. Despite this, Thrum, who had survived a hundred battles, did as he had always done.

He moved forward through the fear.

The sound of his fist against the wood resounded through the courtyard, the sound travelling through the house and out the nearby windows one by one until it was like a ghostly choir.

A moment passed.

The door opened.

The man who answered was unremarkable. An old man with a neatly trimmed head of silver hair and a waxed moustache. Dressed in a fine, if old and unwashed, black suit. A manservant like dozens that they had seen before.

Unremarkable.

Save for one thing.

His eyes.

At once blank, yet aware. Like a painting the eyes followed their movements. But they didn’t truly see.

“Ah, you’ve answered Lady Marrow’s summons.” He said. “I am the lady’s steward, Silas, come in.”

Silas threw the double doors of the entry wide open, stepping to the side and bowing deeply at the waist until he was at a 90-degree angle from the floor. Thrum stepped across the threshold, weapon raised. The others followed.

The interior of the house was, if it was even possible, worse than the outside. What was once probably a beautiful antechamber now stood in ruins. Tattered strands of vaguely purple cloth were all that remained of what were once beautiful tapestries. The crown molding was crumbling and covered in creeping black mold. The tile floor was shattered, like a mirror thrown to the ground.

“Please, follow me.” Silas said.

“I’ll say again… this is bad. We should not be here.” Wrolin whispered even as they continued following the strange steward.

“This is what we do, Wrolin.” Nanu whispered. “If things were good, they wouldn’t be hiring us.”

“Speaking of… no one has told us what the reward for this job is yet…” Genhice offered.

Genhice received no response save the distinct feeling that Nanu was rolling her eyes.

Silas led them through the antechamber, down a few winding hallways, before entering a sitting room. Genhice was pleased to find that at least this room was slightly more presentable. He could at least tell what color the carpet was supposed to be. A fire was burning in the hearth. Well, he reflected, perhaps burning was a bit of overstatement. Smoldering was a better word for it.

A wingback chair of peeling leather sat in front of the fire. From their position at the door all they could see was the back of the chair and a thin pale hand on the right armrest.

“Is it the doctor? Silas, have you sent for the doctor?” A woman’s voice, the words scratching their way across old or otherwise seldom used vocal cords.

“It is my lady.” Silas announced.

The man extended a hand forward, beckoning the group forward. Genhice stayed well at the back of the group as they moved forward. An attack from an old woman was unlikely, but never an impossibility. He then decided that being at the rear in a clearly haunted manor was not the safest place either, and closed up next to Thrum. The dwarf was a pigheaded moron, but he was HIS pigheaded moron.

And goodness knows, he was good in a fight.

The woman in the chair was dressed in what would have been a fine purple dress had it not been covered in a thick coat of dust. Her makeup was impeccable however, rouged cheeks, bluish blush around the eyes, a dabbing of light pink upon the lips. Her eyes were brown, watery… sad.

“Oh do forgive my manners. I’m afraid I’ve no tea or biscuits to provide today…” She said, staring into the fire.

“Quite alright, my lady.” Genhice said, stepping forward. For a moment, thought of reward was washed away. The river of his memory swept him onto the rocks of another time, another old woman, another pair of sad eyes. The elf stepped forward and kneeled at the woman’s side.

“Tell us how we can help you.”

Nanu regarded the elf curiously. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard Genhice speak with any hint of authenticity to a potential client.

“My ward, she’s very ill.” Lady Marrow said.

“What ails her?” Wrolin asked, cautiously stepping forward from behind Nanu.

“I do not know. She has fever. Delerium. Doesn’t sleep, but is also not awake.” Lady Marrow dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief that was probably once white, but was now grey and tattered. “Please, help her.”

“We will do what we can.” Nanu promised. “Where is she?”

The Lady Marrow lifted her hand, her rail thin arm shaking violently with the effort, pointing to a door at the right side of the room.

“Through there, up the staircase, left at the top. First door on the right.”

For some reason that boggled the gnome’s mind, Wrolin found herself heading for the door first. She opened it to reveal another large chamber. A huge staircase dominated the center of it, reaching upwards to a large landing where it branched into two more staircases leading to the left and right. But on the landing was a figure.

She was tall and thin. Skin the color of moonlight. Hands clasped in front of her. Her face was obscured by a thick black mourning veil.

But Wrolin could feel the eyes upon her.

“Look!” Wrolin pointed, turning around to alert her companions.

In the fraction of a moment it took to look back around, Wrolin found herself pointing at nothing but an empty landing. Thrum surged forward regardless, sword above his head, ready to strike.

“What? Where?” He asked, head darting from side to side as he looked for the danger.

“I saw someone. A woman in a black veil. She was right there on the stairs.”

She had no fear of her friends not believing her. They had encountered many strange things over the years. A specter vanishing in a haunted manor was one of the least of them.

“Be at the ready.” Nanu said, drawing a pair of daggers from the cleverly hidden sheaths on each thigh. Wrolin held her staff up, ready to draw on her magic, but also ready to crack a skull if it came to it. And it had. Far more often than she liked.

They made their way up the stairs, Nanu and Thrum in the lead, Wrolin and Genhice walking backwards up the steps guarding their rear. Yet as is the way of the world, being prepared for an ambush meant that there was no ambush forthcoming. They arrived at the top of the landing without incident and then made their way up the left staircase.

At the top they found themselves staring at a large portrait. Unlike everything else in the house, it seemed mostly intact. The gold of the frame still shimmered even in the dim light cast by the dying torches on the wall. It depicted a young woman with cascading auburn hair that fell elegantly across narrow shoulders. Wrolin thought it looked like a younger version of Lady Marrow, but the nose and chin were just slightly off. Perhaps it was a relative of hers?

They moved down the hallway to the first door on the right. The sound of a soft sobbing was audible beyond the door. Nanu placed her hand on the doorknob, staring at the others and nodding.

She swung the door open, stepping back as Thrum stepped forward to confront anything that might be waiting on the other side. But all that greeted them was a small four post bed, its canopy of purple drapes drawn shut. They moved into the room cautiously, but there was nothing unusual about it.

Wrolin moved up the bed and drew back the drapes. The bed was not a large one, but it looked huge compared to the small, pitiful creature that lay upon it. It was a girl of maybe six or seven. Her brown hair was matted to her face by a thick layer of sweat, her pale lips were parted sucking in halting gasps of air. Her eyes were open, staring up at nothing. She began whispering.

No, she was singing.

“The walls can see, the walls can hear…”

Wrolin had seen many curses in her life. They all presented differently, each cruel in their own unique way. She’d helped a few. She’d lost many.

“It’s a curse of some kind.” She told the others. “I can try and break it.”

“Do it, drive the evil from her body.” Thrum said grimly.

“I sense some hesitancy, Wrolin. What is it?” Nanu said.

“It might kill her. Sometimes a curse is the only thing keeping the victim alive.” Wrolin explained.

Genhice sat on the bed next to the child, taking her small hand in his. He was singing something. She didn’t understand the elvish language, but it didn’t stop a warm sting in the corner of her eyes. It was a gentle melody, meant to soothe, but there was a melancholy note as well. The song brought more emotion from the elf’s voice than she’d ever heard before. His casual indifference was broken, revealing something raw. A ragged, scabbed wound in his soul Wrolin never knew existed.

When he finished, he placed the girl’s hand back on her lap gently.

“I think…” he said, voice catching for a moment, “we must release her from this curse. Even if it means we must release her from this life.”

The others nodded their agreement.

Whispering a prayer to herself, Wrolin extended her staff, gently chanting in her native tongue. Motes of green light began to fall from the tip of her staff like flakes of snow, landing on the girl’s small body and melting into her. An aura of green energy began circling around her.

The girl’s entire body went rigid.

The scream that tore from the girl’s throat was like the shattering of a thousand panes of glass. The window at the far side of the room was flung open by the force of it, all the air in the room rushing out of it in a howling rage that carried her scream out into the night air.

Wrolin fell to her knees, her throat making a horrifying sucking sound as it attempted to draw in air that was no longer there. She stared up at the window.

A veiled face stared back at her.

She could not see the woman’s eyes, but nevertheless, she felt their eyes meet. Wrolin felt something. She wasn’t sure what. It was like an emotion, but detached, like a leaf falling from a tree. Like a fish wriggling against the fisherman’s hands, it wouldn’t hold still long enough for her to grasp what she was feeling.

The veiled face vanished.

Air flowed back into the room, and into the starving lungs of Wrolin and her friends. The child was unconscious now, her chest gently rising and falling, looking not quite so pale. She didn’t look well, but nowhere near as ill as before.

“Did it work?” Thrum asked, sword raised, glancing around the room.

“No…” Wrolin said. The curse was still there, she felt it like bits of cobweb sticking to her skin. “I took away some of her pain, but the curse still holds her.”

“Poor child…” Genhice said, gently dabbing the sweat from the girl’s brow with one of his silk handkerchiefs.

“Seems we need to find the source of this curse.” Nanu said.

“Agreed.” Thrum said.

“Let’s return to the Lady Marrow. If I can ask her some questions about how this happened, I might be able to determine what kind of curse it is.” Wrolin said.

Leaving the room, the group began walking down the hallway towards the stairs.

And walking.

And walking.

No stairs appeared, just more twisting corridors.

“Well… seems the evil now has us in its claws.” Thrum said.

“Yes, but is it changing the shape of the house, or our perceptions of it?” Genhice asked, banjolele in one hand, rapier in the other.

“Doesn’t matter. Either way, we shall chase away whatever evil we find.” Thrum growled.

The old dwarf led the way. More corridor unravelled itself like thread from a spool, seemingly infinite. Just when Thrum began to suspect the curse would simply leave them to die of thirst and hunger in a neverending hallway, he came to a door. It was just like the door that had led them to the child. Had they looped back around?

He held his palm up to the others behind him, leaning his ear against the door.

There was a soft crying, but not a child’s.

A woman’s.

Nanu pulled out her lockpicks, from seemingly thin air, and checked the door for any traps. She gave a curt nod to Thrum indicating it was unlocked and untrapped. Thrum placed his hand on the ornate golden doorknob. The rest took up their positions. No words were exchanged. They knew exactly what to do.

Thrum opened the door.

No woman waited within. The crying vanished.

It was an old study. The air was cold, and thick with the stagnant dust of a room left empty for many years. The shelves of the bookcases sagged, the book covers long faded and their pages disintegrating.

A heavy oak desk dominated the right side of the room. A single candle sat upon it, its flame impossibly steady and its wax unmelted. The desk’s surface was buried beneath letters, wax seals, and one journal that was left open.

The ink upon the pages was still wet.

To the left was a massive full length mirror, its frame made from beautifully moulded gold, untarnished by dust or wear of any kind. The glass, however, was shattered but still, impossibly, in place. The myriad cracks made a pattern like a spider’s web across the surface. Yet it stood as solid as if it were still whole. As the group looked into it, they saw their own reflections.

They were crying…

Thrum blinked, turning from the strange reflection. His eyes returned to the journal. Was it his imagination?

No, new words were appearing on the page.

“Look, the journal.” Thrum said, pointing.

The group walked up to it and read the words as they appeared:

She knocks at the walls each night,
Asks why I buried her beneath plaster and prayer,
Sealing her name away has not ended the grief,
I thought silence could buy peace,
But she remembers,
A cruel memory of life,
Roses, hymns, fire,
All of these I have offered,
None satisfy her,
Only remembrance can,
If anyone finds this,
Light the candle,
Look into its flame,
Speak her name aloud,
When the candle flame trembles,
Give her something of your own,
To carry into the dark,
A secret, a memory, a piece of warmth,
If the flame flickers twice,
And tears are upon cheeks,
Forgiveness is granted.

The script was ornate, deliberate, clearly made by someone well educated with an attention to detail.

The words that came next were scrawled quickly, ink running from the words like tears down the page.

If she smiles,
Run.

A chill ran from the base of Thrum’s neck to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Look.” Wrolin said.

Thrum turned to see the gnome standing in the center of the room, staring down. There were stains on the floor. Stains that Thrum had seen far too many times.

Dried blood.

His eyes traced its path and realized it wasn’t just random spatter. On the floor, drawn in ash, was a large circle. A single line cut through it diagonally, dividing it in two. One side was empty, the other completely filled with dried blood. Whoever had done it had been careful, not even a single drop of it had gone outside the circle.

“I’d say we’ve found the source of the curse…” Thrum said.

“Or at least, where it began.” Wrolin added.

“Well then, let’s break this curse!” Thrum shouted.

He held his blade up, tip pointed down towards the center of the circle. Speaking the words of dwarven power a golden light began radiating from the blade.

“Wait! Thrum!” Wrolin called out as the blade descended.

The sword cut easily through the rotting wood.

The circle exploded.

A shrieking howl and a flash of green light left Thrum blind and deaf for a moment.

But he felt himself falling through the air, felt wooden splinters bouncing off his armor. He landed heavily on his back. Fortunately many decades of being knocked on his ass allowed him to resist getting the wind knocked out of him.

From the hole in the floor ascended the translucent figure of a young girl. Her hair was wild and unkempt. Tiny hands clenched into fists, arms trembling with the effort. Her face twisted into a mask of utter fury. Her mouth opened wide. Impossibly wide.

She began to scream.

Their bones began to vibrate in their bodies until they felt as if they were about to splinter like a crystal glass exposed to a high pitch. Their eyes felt as if they were boiling in their sockets and burning needles were boring into their eardrums. Their noses ran with torrents of blood.

They were all on their knees.

But Wrolin managed to lift her staff.

A blast of golden light shot from the knobbly wooden head, and struck the spectre in the chest.

She vanished in a blast of green light.

Blessed silence.

“Did you destroy it?” Thrum coughed, wiping the blood from his face.

“I doubt it.” Wrolin said sadly. “It was a simple banishing spell. At best she won’t be able to return to this room for a while.”

“For now that will be enough.” Nanu said, clambering back onto her feet. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Well, my shirt is ruined.” Genhice whined, looking down at the blood that had stained his silken shirt and vest.

The silence that had been such a relief a moment ago, deepened. An unnatural stillness came over the room. The temperature dropped and they could see their own breath in the air. It grew darker, the edges of the room vanishing into shadow. The shadows seem to twist and undulate, pouring from the cracks in the floor like smoke.

The shadows took shape, growing into horrors.

Claws.

Fangs.

Too many arms.

Not enough legs.

Multiple heads.

They didn’t so much move as they spasmed, twitching their limbs at strange angles. Yet they also flowed like smoke, passing through one another and pieces of them drifting off to join with another. Their forms were in a constant state of flux.

Thrum lashed out with his sword as they closed in from all around them. The blade didn’t pass through the shadows, the shadows parted and allowed the blade to move through the gap. He struck again, and again, thrusting and slashing. Each time the shadows simply parted.

“What do we do here, Wrolin.” Genhice asked, not even attempting to hide the panic in his voice.

“Buy me one minute, I need time to recite this spell!” Wrolin said, dropping to her knees and holding the staff out in front of her. She began chanting loudly in gnomish.

The other three closed up around her in a circle.

The shadows closed in, creeping forward by inches. They were a tide, their movement almost imperceptible and their arrival inevitable.

A hand sprouting twelve fingers with curving fingernails like scythes emerged from the wall of shadows around them. Nanu slashed at it with her daggers, but the smoke merely moved around them. The palm of the hand grew to abnormal proportions, enveloping Nanu’s face, the fingers curling around her head…

“What a sight! Tales shall be told of this day!”

The half-orc threw his head back and laughed from deep in his belly, sounding like an avalanche crashing through a narrow canyon. His long braided black hair dancing with the shaking of his shoulders.

“It wasn’t that funny!” Nanu complained, but still found herself grinning.

“‘Course it was! You shoulda seen yer big arse tryin’ to fit through that window! Thought you’d get wedged and never get out.”

Motus was such an ass. And Nanu loved it. When she’d come to this land of humans she found them a surly and humorless lot. Motus made her laugh again. Even after a narrow escape from the city guard, Motus found a way to love life. She admired that.

“Human windows were never meant to accommodate goliaths!” Nanu protested.

“Never used to be a problem!”

“Never used to be seven feet tall either. Grown a foot-and-a-half in the last year alone.”

“Ha! Told ya ye eat too much!”

Nanu smiled, shaking her head. Oh, if only she could stay in this moment forever. Her dear friend. Her only friend.

Before it all went wrong.

Wait, what? Nothing was wrong. She was here, sixteen years old, loving life with her best friend.

“Nice story, isn’t it?” Motus’s voice grew deep and flat, accent vanishing. The half-orc turned, regarding Nanu with a cold stare, eyes now black voids.

“W-what?” Nanu’s voice wavered.

“This.” Motus gestured to the world around them. “It’s a nice story. You and me. Best friends. Having adventures together. Of course we won’t talk about the man we just killed. You don't want to remember why we were escaping those guards.”

“M-Motus this isn’t funny.”

“Oh, but it is.” Motus said. “Funny how memory shapes us, and how we shape it in turn. Twist it so that it fits into the narrow container of our identities. Do you remember what comes next?”

“Y-yes…” Nanu whispered.

“The blood. The betrayal. The hate.” Motus said.

Motus walked closer, placing a hand on Nanu’s shoulder.

“We will kill each other one day.” He whispered.

“I know…” Nanu rasped, a tear pouring down her cheek.

“This story has already been written. We have no choice but to play our roles to the bitter end.”

Motus stepped back.

“I'll see you there… at the bitter end.”

Motus vanished in a blinding flash of golden light.

Nanu saw the floor hurtling towards her face far too late to do anything about it. There was a sickening crunch and the taste of blood. White hot pain flared through her face, stars dancing in her eyes.

“Nanu!” Wrolin’s voice sounded very far away.

“Quick, roll her over.” Genhice said.

Nanu felt the strong hands of Thrum on her shoulder and then her limp body flop onto her back.

“Nanu! Are you okay? Hold on.” Wrolin cried, sniffing back tears.

Nanu wanted to say she was okay, to get up and wipe off the blood, get her people out of this damnable place. Yet for a moment her body wasn’t her body, and her memories weren’t her memories. It was as if she was trapped in someone else’s life.

Then she felt Wrolin’s soft hand on her cheek. The warmth of her hand against her cheek made Nanu’s heart ache, for it was a sensation that Nanu had never expected to feel again. She looked up into Wrolin’s eyes, brimming with tears. Wrolin was chanting in gnomish. Wrolin’s hand began glowing and a tingling sensation ran through Nanu’s face.

Her broken nose set itself, her broken front teeth growing new enamel, and the cold detachment from her body melting away.

“I-I’m okay Wrolin.” Nanu groaned.

“You scared me!” Wrolin snapped angrily while biting back a sob.

“Sorry…” Was all Nanu could think to say.

“What happened?” Genhice asked.

“I’m not sure exactly…” Nanu murmured. Even now the experience was fading like a dream. “What happened? How did you drive the shadows back?”

“A warding spell. Drives off evil spirits, undead, that kind of thing.” Wrolin said, finally composing herself. “Seemed to work for now…”

Nanu could see the fatigue in Wrolin’s eyes, the way her little body was now slouching, limp fingers barely holding her staff. The gnome was pushing her talent too far, any more spellcasting and she might lose consciousness.

“Look…” Thrum’s voice came from behind them.

They turned to find Thrum looking into the smoking hole in the floor. Nanu struggled to her legs, still shaking beneath her, and they all walked to the edge.

Inside the hole was a small skeleton.

A child’s skeleton.

Genhice kneeled at the edge of the hole, bowing his head. He held his hand up, making sweeping motions with it, like a conductor with an orchestra. He was whispering something in elvish. Nanu recognized it; the death mediation of the elves, allowing them to speak with their dead.

“Speak to us, child…” He whispered in Common.

Tendrils of energy emerged from Genhice’s hand, descending downward to gently envelope the skeleton. Like tucking in a child. Then the silver energy began to coalesce, forming into a child that began rising into the air.

It was the same child whose scream had almost shattered them like glass. Her face was sad though, no longer twisted in rage. It was a face they recognized, and each of them felt the sharp ache of grief in their hearts.

The girl from the bedroom. The ward they’d been sent to save.

“Who are…who were you?” Genhice asked softly.

“A daughter who was loved. A sister who was cherished.” The girl said, voice like a mourning dove’s call. “Then I was buried here. Alone. Cold. And then forgotten. She’s forgotten me.”

“Who has forgotten you?”

“My sister. Evangeline. She has to remember me. She has to. I-I can’t be all alone. I can’t be forgotten…”

“And what is your name?” Genhice’s question was spoken with a voice as soft as the petals of a flower.

The girl’s spectral eyes seemed to grow wide.

“Clara.” The word came from her lips like an exhalation of breath that had been held for centuries. “My name is Clara.”

“We will find this Evangeline. And we will tell her of you, child. You will not be forgotten, Clara.”

And with that Genhice let the magic tendrils fade and the ghostly child evaporated like mist in the morning sun…

The group was accustomed to expecting the unexpected.

They were still caught off guard by the appearance of Silas outside the door.

“What were you doing in there?” Silas demanded. “You were to see to the lady’s ward, not intrude in the old master’s study!”

Thrum stepped into the man, forcing him back against the wall.

“The lady’s ward is dead. Has been. For a long time.” Thrum growled, letting the tip of his sword rest against the bottom of the steward’s chin. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“W-What are you implying?” Silas stammered, trying to arch his head back to get away from the blade.

“I imply nothing. I am asking if you killed her.” Thrum pressed the blade against Silas’s exposed throat.

“Thrum.” Nanu said, placing a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. He scowled over his shoulder at her, but stepped back.

“That child in the bed, her bones are buried in that room back there.” Nanu said, a tad bit more gently than Thrum had managed. “Do you know what happened?”

“No, of course not. You must be mistaken, the lady’s ward is in the bedchamber as she has been for…”

Silas’s words trailed off, his eyes becoming vacant and glassy. Genhice stepped forward now, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“The lady’s ward… was her name Clara?”

The old man’s eyes snapped to Genhice’s face, pupils going wide, light returning to them in a flash like the birth of a star.

“C-Clara…”

The eyes now filled with tears that poured down his pale, clammy skin.

“Clara… that was her name. I-I remember now. How could I have forgotten? She was such a beautiful child, so full of love and wonder. Through her eyes even the mundane became magnificent. She and her sister were so close, never out of sight of one another.

But their father. He was kind once, but he grew strange and began practicing forbidden magic. Death magic. He wanted to be released, he said. He kept saying how he was trapped. He needed to be free.

I don’t know what happened, but one day there was an explosion in this very study. I remember seeing Clara’s broken body. Her father holding her, screaming in grief and horror. After that, I don’t remember.

I feel like I’ve not been remembering for a very long time.”

Wrolin tapped her staff against her leg idly, then spoke.

“He must have cursed this place to make you all forget his crime, and in doing so you have forgotten Clara. Her only desire is to be remembered by her sister, Evangeline. If we can get her to remember, perhaps we can break the curse.”

“The Lady Marrow,” Silas said,

“Her name is Evangeline.”

The Lady Marrow, Evangeline, sat in exactly the same place and in exactly the same pose as she was before. As if she’d simply frozen in place the moment they’d left, and now resumed as they returned.

“Ah, you’ve returned. My ward, is she better?” The Lady Marrow asked, absently staring into the fire.

“My lady,” Genhice said, kneeling at her side as he’d done before, “you have no ward.”

“What do you mean? Silas, what are they talking about?” She asked. Silas simply stood back, shoulders caved in and head bowed, wiping his eyes with a dusty handkerchief.

“Evangeline.”

Genhice’s whisper caused the old woman to suddenly sit upright in her chair, her hands clenching on the armrests and nails digging into the leather. There was a sharp intake of air. Her eyes grew light again.

“You never had a ward, Evangeline, you had a sister.” Genhice gently pried one of her hands loose and held it. “Her name was Clara.”

The flame in the hearth guttered, a rush of air flooding the room as the name echoed through the house.

“Clara…”

Evangeline’s lips were trembling and her frail body began shaking violently until she broke down sobbing.

“Oh my dear, Clara. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The wails echoed through the halls of the old manor.

Genhice held her. Held her like he was the only thing keeping her body from simply disintegrating from grief. And perhaps he was.

Wrolin quietly asked Silas to bring four candles, which he brought promptly.

“If we are to break this curse, we must light our candles and speak her name.” Wrolin explained. “That’s what the journal told us. We only pray it speaks the truth.”

Gathering around Evangeline’s chair, they lit the candles.

A cold gust of wind filled the room, smothering the fire in the hearth but strangely the candles withstood. But with the candles the only illumination, the room filled with blackness. Only a very narrow circle of light was left.

“Clara…” Wrolin whispered.

“Clara…” Genhice prayed.

“Clara…” Thrum murmured.

“Clara…” Nanu breathed.

Light began to gather in the middle of the circle, in front of Evangeline’s chair. The figure of a girl began to form.

Wild hair.

Clenched fists.

And she was smiling…

She burst into the air, shrieking with a fury that shook the house. Remembrance had freed her, but so too had it freed decades of grief, pain, and loneliness. All of which was channeled into that scream. The candles flared into blue flames, radiating such intense heat the group had to hold the candles away from them.

And then the shadows came.

Everyone drew their weapons. Except Wrolin.

“No… we’ve already seen we can’t harm them. We have to finish the ritual.”

Reluctantly they put their weapons away.

“Clara…” Genhice whispered.

The spectre of the girl ceased screaming, and floated down to look Genhice in the eyes. Her fists were clenched, a mad smile was still peeling back her lips unnaturally to reveal rows of sharp teeth. But in her eyes was something more. Something approaching hope. A longing for something.

“You are no longer forgotten Clara. Evangeline remembers. Silas remembers. And I… will always remember you.” A tear ran down Genhice’s face. The girl seemed to relax for a moment, but Genhice sensed growing impatience… and fear. She wanted something more. Something important.

He remembered the journal’s words.

Give her something of your own to carry in the dark…

She’d been alone so long. With nothing to keep her company but the memories of a family that had forgotten her. No one to comfort a scared child caught in a nightmarish snare between life and death

“I know what you want, Clara. You don’t have to be alone anymore…”

Genhice closed his eyes, focusing on a memory long buried; his family. The irony of his own forgotten family was not lost on him, nor was the poetry of this moment. It would make for a grand song one day.

He opened his eyes.

His parents, brothers, sisters, and cousins stood around the girl. Clara looked around at them, almost in awe.

“Yeah, it was a big family…” Genhice laughed softly. One by one they each took the girl’s hands, each one being drawn into her small body.

And then, Genhice truly forgot his family. He’d never again be able to recall their faces, their names, or memories of their time together. But their love would remain in the dull ache of grief in his chest whenever he tried to remember them.

The candle in his hand flickered twice… and then extinguished.

“She needs memories!” Genhice choked out between sobs.

“And I need a sword that can cut shadow!” Thrum shouted back.

The shadows were close enough to reach out with their deformed, twisted limbs. Nanu, Thrum, and Wrolin were desperately trying to dodge away from them, but they closed in from all sides.

“Here!” Wrolin threw her candle at Genhice, and stepped out of the circle. Screaming in gnomish her staff began pulsing gold.

She slammed it on the ground, a pulse of radiant warm light bursting out in all directions.

The shadows were driven back several feet, but it did not destroy them.

“There, bought us a few more minutes…” Wrolin said, turning back to the group with a smile.

A long dark hand emerged from the floor below her, wrapping itself around her legs.

And Wrolin vanished.

“Wrolin!” Nanu screamed.

“Finish the ritual or we’re all dead!” Genhice screamed.

Nanu held the flame up in front of her.

“Clara…”

The girl appeared again, she looked calmer now, hands still clenched but her face no longer twisted into a cruel smile.

Nanu tried to think of what she could give the girl, she had so little warmth to offer to a girl left in the cold for so long. There was only one thing she could give, but she almost couldn’t bear it.

She closed her eyes and recalled a memory of pain and loss. The burnt remains of her village, corpses left to the carrion eaters. A raging fire in her chest. The screams of men pleading for mercy as she avenged her family. Each layer of memory more painful than the last.

Until she finally reached what she was looking for.

Her parents. Each holding a hand as they stood atop the peak of the Godsknuckle, the largest mountain in the Amberlands, her home. It was one of the few remaining memories not tainted by the pain of their murder.

She opened her eyes.

Her parents stood next to Clara. Each one held one of the little girl’s hands.

They all smiled at her, and then her parents were drawn into Clara as well.

And their memory was lost forever. Leaving Nanu with memories of murder, rage, and grief unbound to a cause.

The candle in her hand flickered twice, then died.

“Nanu!” Genhice screamed.

She woke from her stupor just in time to dodge aside from another shadowy hand. She looked over at Thrum.

His head was engulfed in shadow.

“Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!”

His brethren chanted, stomping their feet on the stone floor and slamming the mugs against the great banquet tables. Here in the Halls of the Hammer he stood atop the raised platform at the end of the hall, holding aloft the Hammer of Hemthrod.

“Now,” Thyrvold announced, “let us recount the great deeds of our brother Thrum!”

The old dwarf stroked his long gray beard as he looked thoughtfully at Thrum. Thrum’s heart was beating so hard and fast it was indistinguishable from the battle rhythm of his heart. And his cheeks heated just ever so slightly with a flush of pride.

“This man, this mountain made flesh, alone, held the pass while we delivered the killing blow! It will be some time before the trolls of Granthir attempt to leave their caves!”

Thrum remembered it well. On a snowy, windswept cliff ledge that ran along the side of the mountain, he distracted the trolls while his brethren slipped through the deep tunnels to attack their lairs. So narrow was the ledge they could approach him only two at a time. He’d lost track of how many had fallen into the abyss below.

This was his moment of greatest pride. Surrounded by the Paladins of the Hammer, his friends. His family.

A moment of glory he would live in for all time.

“Glory, Thrum? Is that what this is?” Thyrvold asked, his voice growing flat and his stare turning to ice.

The entire hall, that had been raucous and excited, fell eerily still. The eyes of every single one of them boring into him.

“What is wrong Thyrvold?” Thrum said, letting the hammer in his hand fall to his side.

“Nothing is wrong, Thrum. This played out exactly as it was designed to.” Thyrvold explained. “Your plan worked perfectly. You held the pass, and we slaughtered the trolls in their lair.”

“And it was glorious!” Thrum roared, trying to excite the crowd again. They held their placid stares.

“You fought their warriors in glorious battle at the pass. Like thieves in the night we snuck in, cutting the throats of the sick in their beds, butchering mothers begging for their children’s lives… and then cutting down the screaming children as well. You don’t like to remember that, do you? It doesn’t fit your heroic vision of this moment.”

“Thyrvold…” Thrum let the hammer drop with a clang.

“You’ve always known, Thrum.” Thyrvold moved closer, almost whispering now. “There was no glory and no honor in this victory.”

“...but they were trolls.” Thrum said even as he fell to his knees.

“And do you remember what came next?” Thyrvold knelt down, placing both hands on Thrum’s shoulders, staring deep into his eyes. Thrum saw only cold void in the dwarf’s slate gray eyes.

“Yes… they came in the night.” Thyrvold was panting, his heart racing, his hands shaking.

“And visited upon us the same horrors we inflicted on them.”

At the end of the hall, the great stone doors burst open, and dozens of trolls came pouring in. They began slaughtering those in the back tables. None made any attempt to defend themselves.

“They’ve come for us, Thrum. Will you defend us again?”

Thrum stood, picking up the hammer, and began charging at the trolls.

“Maybe this time you’ll succeed.” Thyrvold whispered.

“Thrum! Thrum! Can you hear me?” Genhice said, trying to shake the old dwarf without touching the shadow enveloping his head.

Then Genhice stared in confusion as the dwarf lifted his sword above his head.

And swung down.

The blade cut through Genhice’s left shoulder, cleaving straight through his collar bone, blood spraying from the wound. The elf didn’t even scream, his whole body went numb. He collapsed to the ground, grasping the wound and staring up at Thrum, his friend, as the dwarf prepared to strike again.

“THRUM!”

Nanu dove in, shoulder checking the dwarf just in time to make his swing go wide, the tip slashing through the air just inches from Genhice’s face.

Nanu glanced around. The shadows were still closing in. She was not as powerful in the talent as Wrolin, but she extended her fingers and purple fire burst forth. The shadows withdrew outside the range of it, the fire not touching a single one of them. Still it had bought them some time.

Nanu barely swung back around in time to use her daggers to deflect another swing from his sword.

They needed Wrolin… but she was gone.

She pushed aside the grief, parrying another blow.

“I’m sorry Thrum… I’m so sorry.” Nanu shouted.

She began trying to kill Thrum, seeking out the gaps in his armor. Lashing out at his neck, underarms, and the back of her friend’s knees. Dancing around him with a speed and grace that belied her massive stature. The dwarf skillfully parried and dodged, his sword swinging impossibly fast. Jinking and shifting his body so that each slash of her dagger skidded harmlessly off the steel plate.

The shadows were closing in again.

Nanu took a deep breath.

And prepared for the end.

Wrolin looked around her.

There was nothing.

It couldn’t even rightly be described as blackness.

It was void.

The absence of everything.

“Hello?” Wrolin called out.

Her voice seemed to be absorbed.

Then she sensed something behind her.

The woman in the black veil stood before her. Staring at her again.

“Who are you?”

The woman knelt now, bringing herself down to Wrolin’s level. She reached out a hand, the moonlight white of her skin glowing against the void.

Wrolin didn’t know how, but she sensed no malice in the creature. She also sensed that taking the woman’s hand would be the only way out of this void.

She took her hand.

Thrum stood, back against the wall. All his brethren lay dead, but so did many Trolls that he’d cut down. Only Thyrvold remained, standing off to one side, staring at the unfolding violence with icy indifference.

“I failed… again.” Thrum murmured, tears streaking down his face.

“You were meant to fail, Thrum. Do you remember what happens next?”

A troll stepped forward, wielding a crude cudgel, green skin glistening with sweat. Thrum stared up into the creature’s eyes.

Eyes that had haunted him every day since.

Not the eyes of a monster.

Eyes the color of the first leaves of spring.

Eyes filled with a maelstrom of fury.

But beneath that fury, a roiling ocean of grief. Of pain unimaginable.

Thrum let his bloodied hammer drop.

The troll picked it up.

Thrum waited for the blow that would send him to join his brethren.

But the troll just gave a curt nod.

Then turned, leading the rest out of the hall.

“Strange isn’t it?” Thyrvold asked, watching them go. “For all you worshipped honor, to find it not in your brothers and sisters in arms, but in the eyes of a monster.”

“Why didn’t it just kill me…?” Thrum fell to his hands and knees, sobbing.

“You know why.”

“B-because he wanted me to live with the pain of this loss, it was his revenge!” Thrum screamed, pounding his fist against the stone so hard it cracked, bones in his hands shattering. The pain of it was nothing compared to the rending of his heart.

Thyrvold kneeled next to him.

“No. You know why.” Thyrvold said again.

Thrum stared up at him.

“Because I stood against their warriors face to face. I… I wasn’t in the caves.”

“This day might have ended differently had they known you were the one who planned the massacre.”

“I know. I should have told them. I could have been with you all.”

“You still could be, Thrum.” Thyrvold said, standing up. “Join us.”

Thrum recoiled, scrambling backwards as Thyrvold began to dissolve into utter nothingness, a tear of black pulsing void forming where he stood. And it was expanding…

Wrolin found herself back at the front door of the manor, rain pouring down on her, dawn’s light on the horizon but the sun not yet crested. The sounds of battle and screaming echoed from inside.

Wrolin took off at a dash.

Through the antechamber, down the hall, and smashing the door to the sitting room aside with a strength she didn’t know herself capable of. A wall of shadow stood between her and the others. She was so dizzy, her hands were cold, and she felt like her body weighed twice as much. Still, she grasped for the talent. Pulling energy to her. Her vision swam as the energy built up inside her. She saw Nanu.

“Nanu!” Wrolin screamed.

Nanu looked up, seeing Wrolin across the room, her heart soaring. The gnome needed a clear path to them, but Nanu couldn’t lower her guard against Thrum.

The dwarf let the sword drop from his hand, and fell to his knees.

Nanu didn’t have time to ponder why. She turned back to Wrolin, summoning up as much of the talent as she could and sent a pillar of purple fire surging towards Wrolin.

The shadows parted to make way for the flame, Wrolin ducking beneath the leading edge of it. As soon as it petered out Wrolin leapt forward, sprinting down the narrow corridor that Nanu had carved for her. She saw Thrum’s head engulfed in blackness. And just like she had done for Nanu back in the study, she unleashed the warding spell, slamming her staff against the floor.

The pulse of golden energy drove back the shadows once more, widening the perimeter. And the shadows around Thrum’s head dissipated.

Thrum was crying. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him cry.

Nanu picked up the discarded candle Thrum had been carrying, still burning blue despite being dropped on the ground. She shoved it into Thrum’s hands.

“Quickly Thrum, give her a memory!” Nanu shouted.

Thrum shook his head, trying to clear the memories of that day.

“Wrolin, Genhice needs help!” Nanu yelled, pointing to the elf.

Wrolin gasped as she saw Genhice on the ground, blood pooling around him, his skin pale. She dove towards him, summoning more of the talent, darkness creeping into the edges of her vision.

Thrum stood, holding the candle out.

“Clara…” He whispered.

The child appeared before him. Calmer, hands open at her side.

The memories of that day still lingered in his mind, but he pushed them aside, seeking something to give the child. He closed his eyes.

Thyrvold.

Not the eldritch facsimile of his vision, but the real one.

The one with the laugh that shook mountains.

The one who stood like granite against his enemies.

The one who had protected his whole life.

The one who gave his life to a troll’s blade meant for him.

He opened his eyes.

Thyrvold stood next to the girl, holding one of her hands, and in the other holding his hammer over his shoulder.

“Thyrvold will protect you in the darkness. You will have nothing to fear there.” Thrum said.

Thyrvold vanished into the girl.

And vanished forever from Thrum’s memory. His candle flickered twice and then died.

Meanwhile, Wrolin finally wrested enough of the talent to her hands and sent the energy into Genhice’s shoulder. The bones of his collarbone knitted together, and his flesh sealed shut over it.

Wrolin collapsed backwards, falling heavily against the side of the wingback chair where Evangeline still sat, who had been staring emptily at the violence around her. She was so dizzy, so tired. The blackness was eating away at her vision, until nothing but a small pinprick of sight was left to her.

She felt the wax of a candle being forced into her hands.

“A memory Wrolin. That’s all she needs. And then you can rest.” Nanu whispered. She felt Nanu’s massive hand on her head, stroking her hair. She had missed that touch.

Closing her eyes was hardly necessary, but she did so anyway.

“Clara…”

What memory could she offer? What comfort?

Only Nanu came to mind. Her heart began pumping needles through her body at the thought of losing the memories of Nanu. She couldn’t do it.

So she chose another memory.

Herself. In the woods. Sketching birds. Collecting mushrooms. Laying in fields of flowers. The last memory of true, unblemished happiness she had.

Wrolin opened her eyes, and through the darkness saw herself as a child, holding Clara’s hand.

“I give you who I once was. Who felt nothing but love for the world. Her memory has been a comfort to me, and so she will be to you. Her love for you will be a light in the darkness that will never dim.” Wrolin whispered with the last of her strength.

And the last memory of her joy was lost. All that remained were the broken pieces of her.

The candle flickered twice and then was snuffed out.

The shadows receded back into the walls and floors, and quiet fell upon the room.

Clara stood in front of Evangeline, flesh and blood once more. She was smiling, but it was not a smile of fury and teeth. But a smile of love so broad that it made her eyes crinkle and forced the welling tears in them to roll down her soft face.

“Oh, Clara!” Evangeline fell to her knees, hugging the girl to her. “I was lost without you.”

Clara hugged her tight and Evangeline stood, holding the girl in her arms. She looked younger now, the gray in her hair was gone. Her face flushed with color, wearing an identical smile to her sister.

Silas walked from the corner of the room where he’d stood this whole time, tears streaming down his own face.

“Oh girls… I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I should have stopped your father.”

Evangeline hugged Silas to her. All three of them together, sobbing and hugging, sharing the grief of decades and letting it melt away in love.

In the corner of the room a split formed in the air, like a torn seam. Nanu and the others pulled their weapons, surrounding Wrolin’s unconscious body. But no shadows streamed forth from the hole.

Evangeline, Clara, and Silas all looked at it. Then at each other.

“I think it’s time.” Evangeline said.

“Long past.” Silas agreed.

“I love you all.” Clara cried, her tiny body shaking with joy and relief.

The trio moved forward to the edge of the inky void. Evangeline stopped to give Clara a kiss on the forehead.

“We’ll never be apart again. I promise.” She whispered.

Together they began stepping through.

Clara’s face looked out at them from the shadows for a brief moment.

“Thank you.”

She vanished.

Their memory of her never would.

The group emerged from the house to a bright sun and a warm breeze. Too exhausted to speak. They stood for a moment basking in the sunlight.

Wrolin looked down at a puddle at her feet.

In its reflection the Veiled Lady stood next to her, holding her hand.

They all walked on.

The reflection of Wrolin and the Veiled Lady remained on the water’s surface long after they’d left…