Let Sleeping Dwarves Lie

Forward
Dear journal, this will be my last journal entry for a long time because this chapter in my life, the Haunting of Harrowstone, is ended. By now I have made new friends to converse and commiserate with, and even as I write upon this last journal page, it warms me to know that I will hereafter share my new adventures with real companions, not merely the hempen pages of a lonely book.

*          *          *
The Final Days

One attribute of a proper druid is the wisdom not to disturb a sleeping animal, or so they often say. My friend Gregor is one such druid (and one such animal), but until now I thought quite harmless; last night he gave me witness to his first transformation into a hunter cat, a majestic leopard-animal with fierce claws and eye teeth that our foes will soon witness as well. There is much more to this grave-digging commoner than meets the eye, he has become a trusted ally and friend.

I stood at the side of Luther's well-crafted coffin for hours, pausing only to check on Agile, my young companion, whom I've advised to stay on as a bookkeeper in Kendra's mansion. After all, a fine library like Professor Lorimor's should not be left to disuse. His books will continue to feed Agile's mind with things I could never offer him. And in return, Agile will attend to Kendra's needs, making my departure from Ravengro easier knowing Kendra has not been left alone.

At some point during that long day, Zarkendraal explained he has returned to his old ways, and his old name of Urgilash. I could see the way he eyed Luthor's coffin jealously, wishing it were he laying in repose instead. As a follower of the Gray Lady, I can only imagine that She feels Urgilash has much to learn yet from this life, and through our travels with him, that he must continue to live and learn his lessons before She will be ready to send him to the Boneyard. In fact, I doubt he will learn these lessons any time soon––for he professes a dwarven righteousness and all-knowingness about matters that could even rival the bold arrogance of a paladin. In fact, he even scoffed at Gregor's profession of moving dirt and snubbed our original internment site for Luthor, stating that any good "clan" would see fit to have stone worked instead to honor such a friend.

This gave me pause.

I took to heart this idea of interning our friend Luthor in stone rather than dirt. I humbly prostrated myself before brother Grimbarrow one last time to beg the full rights of ownership for the false crypt at the corner of The Black Path and The Eversleep within the grounds of the Restlands. When Grimbarrow agreed I suddenly regretted all the bad things I'd said behind that man's crooked back. For some reason that old codger always unnerved me with strong suspicion of malintent. Thus, we'd turned Urgilash's insult against Luther and the party's burial plans into a catalyst for upgrading Luther's internment. It is now a fine, clean crypt with room for others, such as Urgilash, when the time comes!

Although he tried, Father Grimbarrow was not powerful enough to remove Fr. Charlatan's chains from me. Gregor's great wisdom prevailed to interpret the spirit planchette when it had suggested Charlatan's spirit was hiding within Urgilash's symbol of Torag. Planfully, we leveraged Tythanis' sleep spell and Mstislav's sleep hex against Urgilash so we could quietly remove his holy hammer symbol and smelt it down within the walls of the holy church. Thus we found it abundantly wise to let this sleeping pseudo-dwarf lie. The stone name above the archway required alteration, a job one would typically find easy in the hands of a dwarf. Urgalish wrote, "Here lize sum elf". Later, when I had learned of Urgilash's unseemly stonework upon the arch above Luthor's crypt door, I suddenly found myself being equally careless with the recasting of the Torag symbol prior to its return to Urgilash. Apparently neither he (nor I for that matter) are craftsmen. Oh well, I say. For as much as that arrogant dwarf, er... twice former-dwarf, boasts about his clan's dwarven stonework, he possesses neither the skill nor patience for such fineries. I say it is befitting that a limp lopsided hammer remains as an icon of his ironic deficiencies. I understand now, only too well, why he is again called "he who walks the surface without honor."

We left Ravengro behind, and kissed the morning road toward Lepidstadt. En-route, we encountered "The Crooken Kin––Ustalav's Greatest Traveling Cabinet of Curiosities." This amounted to little more than nine covered but gaudily painted wagons belonging to a band of gimped cripples and freaks. There were thirteen performers in all, with exotic if not frightening appearances: Hap Tarvin, the Flea Man; Kaleb Hesse, the Ringmaster; Lidia Gerod, the Bearded Lady; The Pinheads, Lettie and Poppy, Prince Zar, the Human Caterpillar; S'jeer, the Vudrani Princess (with 4 arms); The Swarm of Clowns, Gerik, Josef, and Tam (each with an extra limb); Trollblood, the Giant Man, and The Wolf Child (named for obvious reasons).

We offered to find Aleece, a pinheaded sister who had gone missing. After a swift battle with a phasing spider who mimicked the lost girl's voice, we found her remains and returned them with remorse to the traveling carnival's ringmaster. Even unto death I loved my child, as I still do. And so I now empathize deeply with the grief this traveling troupe must feel at the loss of one of their own.
Even if my own little girl had three arms or three eyes, I would have loved her all the same... ... this is why I lashed out at the inquisitors so many years ago when they said my daughter had been compromised the undead. I would have loved my daughter even if she had become a vampire's thrall. If it were not for the Esoteric Order of the Palantine Eye, I might not have escaped the inquisitors' wrath at my defiance of their judgments... but I could not stand idly by and watch my wife and daughter be put to death before me. If news of what I had done and the lies I told to save my family were ever told, I would surely hang from the gallows in Lepidstadt Square. But I never truly saved my family... and so I travel, forever moving to new locations, familyless in the company of friends and freaks, not unlike the Crooked Kin.

Epilogue
So now ends a chapter thusly of my early scholarly learning, academic ledgerdemain, banisteria, and reverent pretense toward authority. Like Luthor's reposed corpse, and Urgilash's song-and-cackle-induced torpor, my own secrets must also sleep quietly for now. Each time I see a dead child like Aleece in the swamp, or Cynthea of Harrowstone, I increase the desire seek to one day become the Black Abbot of Caliphas and wear the powerful robes of holy office. Only then will I finally punish those who took my family away from me and change the laws of the church. Then and only then will I cease to fear the inquisitors who have cheated the innocent of their lives. Until that day I will miss Matreya and my beloved wife, B'Elanna. Until that day when I see them again, I embrace the adventure that awaits our modest group of friends and freaks upon the open road to Lepidstadt and beyond. For only death will be the rest of these travelers - the end of all our work.

"Mors est quies viatoris - finis est omnis laboris"

–––αєтєяηυм ναℓє,
ρнιяσz ιяαℓη σƒ ¢αℓιρнαѕ

 





The Dying Of The Light

Our friend, Luther, was not among the hundreds of inquisitors some would love to throw into a torture device. At one point in my life I would have lined them all up in a row, and one by one shut the lid closed with their pleasant screams of torture soothing the painful memory of the loss of my daughter at the hands of overzealous inquisitors! Ironically, Luther's name was not on the long list of fork-tongued judges I would have placed upon an altar of blood. He did not deserve to die wracked by pain, pierced by the destructive phantom iron spikes of the haunted iron maiden. Luther was... reasonable. He was truly a white sheep amongst an otherwise dark flock of misguided lynch-men. And now, we solemnly carry our friend's body back to Ravengro, back to another dark flock of priests who should thank Luther for giving his own life to lift the town up from this bleak miasma of supernatural horrors.

We had returned that day, once again, to the haunted halls of Harrowstone, seeking out the Mosswater Maurader. Thanks to Thythanis' possession of the key ring, we unlocked the captain's office, wherein we spied fractured skulls on a table with a heavy hammer–the telltale sign that the mad dwarf known as the Mosswater Maurader would be near by. Suddenly, a sobbing dwarven spirit rose up wielding a ghostly hammer and waded into melee with us.

But the most frightening moments were just before the death of our friend Luther, when he and Mstislav scouted amongst the numerous grisly tools of torment in the room beyond the portcullis. Hidden from undead, they slowly stepped steadily about the cages, toward hanging chains, past the twisted skeleton upon the stretching rack, around the large wooden tank, and dodging the fire pit in the room's center. The large, bloodstained wicker basket which sat at the head of the rack seemed to stir, rattling a bit of their courage, and shaking a bit of their resolve if not nerves.

To the east stood the grim iron maiden that would soon seal the doom of brother Luther. The lid appeared closed at first, and presented a stern decoration of a tormented woman upon its face. Perhaps, in their fear, they imagined the illusion of Kendra within it, for they ran toward it as though to save someone. And one by one my friends were mauled by the ferocious blood-thirsty haunt. First Luther, then Mstislav, next Zarkendraal, and finally my own earth elemental all took turns bleeding within the maw of the wicked device. Yet, it was brother Luther who could not shake the illusory spikes–for him, they continually inflicted great wracking pain unto the final release of his spirit to Pharasma's Boneyard.

And you, my brother, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Indeed, I would see Luther breathe again! I shall rage against the dying of his light. If not today then one day soon, or on some distant dawn by my own hand. I swear it with my life! For what little meaning... worth... or sense can be judged of a world... that keeps alive all the depraved inquisitors who vaingloriously impose iniquitous judgments upon little girls––and yet sentence to a torturous death (by means of a grisly iron maiden) the sole inquisitor in all of Ustalav who possessed fair-minded and rational good judgment?  

Fortunately, we recovered the Warden's badge of office and returned it properly to Vesorianna, symbolically transferring enough power of office to allow her to banish the haunts from Harrowstone for good. In turn, she also departed for her own journey to rest in the arms of the Gray Lady, Pharasma. We rest now too, comforted in the success of our mission to rid Ravengro of the Haunting of Harrowstone.

The Lopper

Luther listened at the door. The surmounting evidence had warranted an official inquiry and yet the inquisitor wasn't ready to pass judgment on Mstislav.

"Bash it in!" he cried with fervor, but the door was unlocked and easily opened, just as promised by our mysterious yet conspicuous companion.

We were mesmerized by his eerie, white, pupilless eyes. He was eye-locked with his pet, or should I say his master, the small dragon companion Tecsok. Once inside Mstislav's room we heard the droning of a foreign tongue which our dumbek-bonging cohort claimed was draconic. Indeed it was! I had only heard similarly parsed words once before, long ago when Master Angelo read from the Book of Days, a recounting of a fallen soldier's tale from his campaign against the great monster, Iythuzach.

I was deeply impressed that Luther's judgment was based on sound evidence that Mstislav was merely exercising his mnemonic spell-witchery for the day, in preparation for our return to Harrowstone. Although the clatter of draconic words was marginally quieter this morning, I was relieved to learn Mstislav had not been compromised by the spirit planchette as Gregor and I had previously suspected. Moreover, I now question my own resolute distain for inquisitors–in this case against Mstislav, Luthor had acutely demonstrated sufficient adherence to enough empirical evidence to exonerate him. This is the first time since the death of my beloved daughter that am I willing to look upon an inquisitor without seething rage. Thus I am most glad, dearest journal, that in the mid-years of my life I have not yet become too soundly set in my ways, and that I still demonstrate the very open mindedness that I claim is an essential component of ecclesiastical empiricism.

Once more inside the prison, we entered a large chamber lined with iron doors. In its center was a hinged metal grating over a dark pit and rope. Zarkandraal took the lead this time to jump down and recover the body of a serial killer known as The Lopper.

Back at the mansion I reviewed Mstislav's research notes on the Lopper. Apparently that block of cells was used to house the most violent murderers in Harrowstone–killers who couldn't be trusted alongside even other prisoners. The grating in the middle of the room was once kept locked with lengths of chain, but today the grating was unlocked. The pit below dropped 30 feet into a deep oubliette–a cell from which its occupant's release was never intended.

According to the prison records, despite the indisputably violent nature of his crimes, a number of bureaucratic complications kept pushing back The Lopper's expected date of execution–unable to proceed with what he felt was a simple judgment, the warden instead had the Lopper dropped into this pit. With both of his legs broken, the Lopper malingered in these depths during the months prior to the great fire of 4661. It was said that he also decapitated the prison guards during his attempted escape.

Our party confronted him! Taral's holy attacks, Zarkendraal's raging prowess, Mstislav's cackling witchcraft, and my own positive energy radiance were no match for the Lopper–and his wraithlike soul swiftly retreated into another room where it confronted the very guards he had decapitated 50 years ago. Engulfed by the sonic thrumming of Tythanis' dumbek, and sundered by Luther's harsh judgments, the incorporeal undead monstrosity finally succumbed to one final slicing blow by Zarkendraal.

As an afterthought, dearest journal, I find it unusual that I've learned more about the character of dead murderers from 50 years ago than I have about some of my own adventuring companions! I believe this is nobody's fault but my own–I shall be mindful to further press each one to explain more about themselves with each passing day. We can hope, dearest journal, that they possess at least some semblance of a story of their own to tell; we shall see if they are more interesting than decaying corpse shells. Dearest journal, I cannot help but * laugh with ye, out loud.* LWYOL!

Pig Iron Unexpectedly Forged Into Steel

Tythanis Tendertomb thrummed his doumbek steadily as we entered The Nevermore. Rusted iron doors lined the walls of this ruined cellblock and partially burnt wooden support timbers held the ceiling precariously in place. Rivulets of water dripped down the wall, creating a shallow pool and filling an oubliette hole in the middle of the chamber. We could only imagine the grisly punishments administered in this horrible place as we experienced an eerie, debilitating haunting by its final inhabitant, Professor Hean Feramin, the so-called Splatterman.

But the day began solemly as brother Gregor made arrangements for the funeral and visited the jewel merchant parents of the deceased to deliver the sad news and bring closure to them. During the previous night, our dwarven companion previously known as Urgilash announced that he is to be known by a new name, "pig iron unexpectedly forged into steel", and this phrase is pronounced, "Zarkendraal." Indeed–he is a dwarf of unexpected actions, and keeps us guessing often. The presence of Tythanis, however, seems to be one that we can count on, for he is a delightful companion socially, and in battle seemed to provide the luck Zarkendraal needed. Together these two seem to balance one another, as balance is the way of things–the way of Pharasma.

And of companions, I cannot speak more favorably than about Gregor whose great wisdom I have come to know as my cornerstone of decisions. He explained to me privately that he noticed my discomfort at Cynthea's death, perhaps intuiting my deep grief and sorrow over the loss of my own daughter. He advanced our friendship greatly, by offering an ear to my woes at such future point when I am ready to disclose the source of my pain.

That morning I set out to free Gibs, and found him slumped in the squalor of his internment. Gibs does not seem to be guilty of splattering blood letters upon the town's memorial statue. I was reticent to challenge the authenticity of his confines in front of the head jailor and thus freed Gibs, returning him comfortably home, with only a stern warning of distrust. Gibs must now fight against any threat of possession by spirits again, lest he find himself relaxing six feet under the Restlands. I told him I know the quality Gregor's shovelwork all too well, and I won't be as discerning next time Gibs raises force against us. When a priest of Pharasma becomes close friend with a gravedigger, our enemies should be wary what lay in store for them!

And Harrowstone awaited us. We returned to slice through googantuan extoplasmic creatures. The likes of their sticky, shifting shapes I've learned through academic study, but it was a treat to finally see them up close. Dear journal, I'm including some hand-drawn sketches of what I witnessed to further the study of their form and substance, for although drawn from the Ether, they appear substantively like thick tangles of grotesque slimy linen. And what skeletons reanimated in the subsequent room were of no consequence to us.

Our day concluded with Tythanis' thrumming doumbek, and the Splatterman's mental assault upon us, whose psychic conflagration seemed to burn away the very wisdom from our minds. Thus, having splattered the Splatterman, we no longer fear his blood-splattering timeline, and proceed with cleansing Harrowstone, and the town, of its undead manifestations.

On a much lighter note, I recall from years ago my master Angelo's loathing of Doumbeks. He would, at every turn, insult Doumbek players as having no rhythm, intelligence, nor sense of musical taste. For example, one sunny Oathday, during a lecture on Thassilonian algebraic mathematics at the University of Caliphas, through his tall lecture hall window came the incessant thrumming of a Doumbek (back then it was spelled Dumbek). Then, after a rather long pregnant pause, he turned to his students and asked three questions, answering them himself after each one:

• "What do you call 500 dumbeks at the bottom of the Inner Sea?"
• "A good start!"
• "What is the difference between an onion and a dumbek?
• "Nobody cries if you chop up a dumbek."
• "Why is a dead kobold in the road more tragic than a dead dumbek player?"
• "The kobold was on its way to a paying musical tributum."

Still smiling at his own wit, he then slowly shut the tall lead glass framed window and laughed uproariously. The students wanted to hear more. So, at the risk of his own reputation as a serious scholar, he caved to their request:

• "You're in a room with the Splatterman, The Lopper, and a dumbek player and your quiver has only two sheaf arrows left. What do you do?"
• "Shoot the dumbek player twice just to make sure."

And with that, he ended the lesson early, still chuckling as he exited the lecture hall.

Wait Brother, It Will Change.

As I watched Gregor the Wise untwine the child's lifeless body from the thatches of the giant stirge's nest, I was reminded of the death of my own child, Maitreya, and the life I once knew...

But today began with a return to the town's stone memorial statue whereupon was written in blood, another letter in Vesorianna's name–a sign that Gibs may be innocent of making the markings.

Tarl was suffering an interdict of his powers, and sought out atonement in the Tower of Prophesy under the more powerful hand of Brother Grimbarrow. I have come to rely upon Gregor a great deal and Gregor reminded me of our shared distrust for Father Grimbarrow, and we are now watching Tarl very closely for any indication that he may be compromised. After spending a full day with that old codger, I wouldn't be surprised if the paladin's feet rot out from beneath him. Gregor and I still hold that Grimbarrow has something to do with Harrowstone, if not the professor's death. Time will tell. Thus I waited the evening for Tarl's safe return to the manor.

That eve I indulged in some toothsome rabbit stew cooked by Kendra's house servants, during which I conversed with Urgilash to gain a better understanding of our quasi-dwarven companion. The dwarf believes he is "he who walks above ground without honor" and acts mostly as if he has a deathwish.
Sure enough, the following day Urgilash met his doom whilst falling from atop Harrowstone's decrepit balcony down to an impaling death amidst heavy beams of shattered wood. He returned to us divinely healed and bespoke in staccato stretches of seemingly incoherent statements about a Boxite mineral and of the dwarven god, Torag. He appears to have been relieved of his deathwish, and no longer considers living as a human dishonorable. This event reminded me of an old saying in Ustalav, "Wait brother, it will change." as testament to just how much can change in one day. Urgilash's death was, perhaps, the best possible outcome for all of us.

I had to laugh when the adventurer, previously known as Urgilash, finally entered the room for which he gave his life:

 "What?!", he said, "There is nothing in this room!"

  Gregor replied, "Sure there is. One would suggest–salvation."

                                                                *     *     *
Today I also had my own atoning to do–I visited the shut-in, Gibs, only to find that in my drunken stupor I poisoned his body with negative energy. I must remind myself, dear journal, not to drink heavily before administering curatives. To avoid the eye of inquisitor Bolivar, I quickly sought the aid of brother Librei who arrived to Gibs' cell at my behest to grant him divine restoration. I will return tomorrow to release Gibs, since his imprisonment has removed his name from the list of suspects presumed to be possessed by the spirit of the Harrowstone prisoner known as The Splatterman.

In the morning, Mel, our resident bard, disappeared, along with the flute belonging to the Piper of Illmarsh. Gregor, Tarl and I agreed that a message should be sent posthaste to the town of Illmarsh:

"People of Illmarsh, apprehend and arrest the bard named Mel on sight, for he may be possessed by the devil. Seize from him his flute, which may carry the evil of the spirit of the Piper of Illmarsh. Be warned, he traveled from Ravengrow this past night."

Fortunately, amidst all this chaos we've kept Kendra's mind at peace. Gregor explained to her that her "dream" was only her longing for her father, manifesting itself in the subconscious symbols of her dreaming mind. But we all know the truth–and the truth that we battled Professor Lorrimor's ghost is stranger than fiction.

But the most relieving part of our day, that part which affirms we are making good progress against the dwelling malignancy within the old prison, was our discovery of the skeletal body of Father Charlatan, slumped against his prison wall, wrapped in numerous emblazoned chains.

Tarl could sense the impostor priest's spirit still lurking within the cell. We attempted to free the hunchbacked friar's spirit by first removing his bones from the chain shackles, and then removing his remains from the cell. Tarl and I prayed for his soul and I consecrated the area then blasted out a channel of positive energy which we believe released the haunt from the area.

And thus we finally made it to the stirge nest high atop Harrowstone, and slew the bloodsucking beast in flight. Of all the horrible events of this day, it was this final visage of the blood-drained child, Cynthea, being pulled from the nest that gave me a chilling stir, and opened within my mind an old wound that I've kept buried deeper than any grave in the Restlands. Watching Gregor carry the limp, desiccated child-corpse back to town caused a swelling of tears, and a flashback for me of a happier time of life and love and family. But the story of the death of my own child is one I shall tell another time–not this year, not yet.

Tarl vs. Vesorianna

Part I:
To understand the conflict involving our stalwart paladin, Antonio "Tarl" Gregorio II, I am carefully reviewing all my journal notes about the prison, and about the warden's wife, Vesorianna.

This conflict has damaged Tarl's connection with the Empyrial Lord he follows, a powerful angel named Lymnieris. It should be our groups number one endeavor to see that Tarl's proper righteousness is restored, for if we let him fall in disgrace of his demigoddess, then surely we shall all fall with him.

On Harrowstone and the Fire
Harrowstone Prison and its supporting town, Ravengro, were established in 4594 AR by Count Eigen Lorres, ruler of Tamrivena (Tamrivena is the area now known as the county of Canterwall). The count hoped to use the prison to increase his standing in Tamrivena and beyond and to provide a good income by taking major criminals from all over Ustalav. Harrowstone became the home of Ustalav's most infamous prisoners; they were collected twice-yearly from other prisons in every county to either spend the rest of their days there, or to be executed, usually by hanging. The idea was a profitable success for the count and Ravengro town.^[4][5]

In 4661 AR, the summer prison convoy brought five exceptionally wicked prisoners, listed here with their full names as requested by brother Gregor: Hean Feramin, aka the Splatter Man; Ispin Onyxcudgel, the Mosswater Marauder; Vance Saetressle, called the Lopper; Sefick Corvin, or Father Charlatan; and a man only known as the Piper of Illmarsh. These prisoners, led by the Splatter Man, seized control of the prison and killed the prison warden, Lyvar Hawkran. Before his death, the warden managed to thwart the escape of the prisoners but, in the panic that subsequently ensued, the prison was set ablaze killing all the prisoners and many of the guards. Additionally, the warden's wife Vesorianna Hawkran perished in the event. A statue, called the Harrowstone Memorial, stands in Ravengro to commemorate this event.

On Vesorianna Hawkran
Vesorianna Hawkran was the wife of Lyvar Hawkran; her husband was the head warden of Harrowstone prison near Ravengro, in Canterwall county, Ustalav. They both lived together in a house within the prison grounds. Crushed down flat by our collegue, Shale, this domicile is now but fragmentary timber and dust in the front courtyard of Harrowstone prison.

On the day when her husband bravely died in a great fire in 4661 AR, after preventing a mass prisoner escape, Vesorianna came to the prison to look for her husband. Discovering the chaos at the prison, in her fear, she exacerbated the problem and was restrained. Tragically, she then lost her own life in the smoke caused by the fire, as she was held by her restraints. Her death is commemorated on the Harrowstone Memorial in Ravengro.

Upon meeting her spirit, she expressed a deep sorrow for the loss of her husband, and explained to us it was the presence of she and her husband that kept the restless spirits in check, ever since the great riot 50 years ago. Now that the spirit of her husband is gone, she explained she doesn't have the strength to hold them back, and the spirits of the undead grew, especially amongst the five most notoriously evil of them.

Perhaps now that Taral has done his sworn duty to attack Vesorianna, ... just perhaps I can still contact her privately back in the room where we first met her. Now that Tarl has attacked her and believes she has been banished from his sight, perhaps he can seek and achieve atonement while the rest of us, who have not sworn such a demanding oath, surreptitiously keep in touch with Vesorianna.

Part II:
Tarl vs. Vesorianna
Sadly, we were unable to coax Tarl into leaving Vesorianna's spirit well alone until we admonish the five evil haunts within the prison. At first it seemed Tarl would go along with Gregor's plan to move forward, leaving Vesorianna to hold back the other spirits and await news of our success. Unfortunately, Tarl was left no choice but to seek atonement by attacking her on sight. This, of course, was his only option–having felt the cold severing of the silver chord to his demigoddess' powers. It would not be right for our group to allow Tarl to suffer the loss of paladinhood at the skeletal hand of Harrowstone! Now that Tarl has thrown down the gauntlet we must and will stand behind him in his crusade to destroy Vesorianna and every last undead encountered. This is a tall task, one that borders on the uncomfortable absence of patience, logic, and caution. Thus, our band must throw caution to the wind and fight alongside Tarl now, in an almost frenzied reaction if we are to help brother Tarl restore his deity's faith in him. And perhaps a visit to that old codger, brother Grimbarrow, is in order. Since he is aligned with the Paladins of Lastwall, he may absolve Tarl of his transgression.

Thus our day consisted of:

• Cleaning the spiders from the inner prison chapel
• Discovering bonded prisoner items
• Disregarding the animated hot poker room
• Traveling upstairs
• Witnessing Tarl's lost powers
• Destroying ten skeletons and the Piper of Illmarsh along with his three stirge-minions
• Attacking Vesorianna's apparition until she fled back to her room on level one

I shall resign to omit my usual anecdotes in this journal entry today, for so much of what transpired seems to pale in comparison to the urgency of aiding Tarl in the restoration of his paladinhood. And for the safety of my companions, I shall write nothing disparaging about our new colleague, the inquisitor Luther Bolivar, to avoid altogether the judgment of the inquisition.

The Professor Returns! OR "It's just some zombies."

Mel's silver tongue leapt into action! He gently persuaded the lovely Kendra that the apparition of her father, now clawing at the gate along with three zombified townsfolk, was nothing more than a personal delusion of loam and brain. Mel sprung into action to coax our buxom hostess into returning to her bedchamber with the idea that the manifestation of her beloved father was a supple longing for his return in the form of a vivid dream.

And with that, our resident hexmaster, Mstislav, enchanted the girl with the sands of sleep.

With the attack upon the manor put down we vested ourselves in the task of reburying the four corpses. This required splitting the party, a dangerous notion that suddenly came to me out of the bottom of a whiskey jar. It was, nonetheless, successful. Gregor, Urgilash, and I dodged the town watchmen, ducking down dim, dreary streets only to happen upon a mad minded Griggs who displayed symptoms of possession. In my inebriated state, I fancied the unorthodox solution of funneling a potion of Haunt-Be-Gone down the man's gullet. Only time will tell the effect, or whether he is the fabled Splatter Man.

In the peep of day, Mstislav, Urgalash, Mel, and Taral paid a visit to that old codger, Brother Grimbarrow. Thanks to the tenuous agreement with the Paladins of Lastwall, Taral called upon the head Friar to administer healing to the party, and we all chipped in to purchase a rather nice healing wand. Thus, better prepared to take on the denizens of Harowstone Prison.

And thus it was that upon our return to the haunted penitentiary, and after a battle with animated manacles, that brother Gregor in his wisdom declared we shouldn't waste resources attacking the "bull-sheet" but rather focus on the root malady that underpins the profligacy of evil that threatens the people of Ravengro. On this point–we are all agreed.

As a pinnacle to our morning, we encountered none other than Vesorianna Hawkran, the wife of the former warden. Her spirit explained to us that if we defeat the ghosts of the five most dangerous criminals of Harrowstone, she can help contain them and thus aid in the banishing of all the haunts within. Only this will also free her... and put an end to all the haunting of Harrowstone.

Company Of Six

It's plain to see I am in good company for the paladin, Antony Toral Gregorio II has joined my group, and has to a strong degree endeared me to his righteous cause to vanquish the abominable denizens of Harrowstone Prison.

Rinleeze has agreed to stay on at the mansion, protecting the late Professor's daughter with his life. The rest will return to Harrowstone after some healing and sleep.

We are a company of six men:

• Brother Phiroz Iraln of Caliphas (a black friar of Pharasma);
• I am, after all, a man like other men but gifted with a love of science, scholarship, and devotion to the goddess of death, the mother of souls.
• Mstislav (a warlock with a pet dragon named Tecsok (Tea-chalk));
• Somewhat reclusive, but altogether competent, Mstislav is an enigma, but one that I would always want beside me in battle, and frankly not a bad conversationalist, especially under the influence of fine spirits.
• Gregor (a man from the most noble of professions, a grave digger);
• Gregor's logic is admirable, and on more than one occasion has proven himself wise in the way of choices that matter. I shall keep his advisement under advisement.
• Antony Toral Gregorio II (a determined paladin of Luminares);
• I can only assume from my scholarly reading in the old religion that he means "clarissima mundi lumina", the world's clearest light. Thus I must inquire whether he is a follower of a moon goddess. Either way, his righteousness is nearly infectious, and it is inspiring to be in the company of such a stalwart defender of faith.
• Mel (an inspiring if not quiet bard)
• I have moments when I forget Mel is there, but then suddenly feel inspired by his... er, what exactly does he do?
• Urgilash (a deathwish barbarian);
• I've met his kind before. He presents as strong, protective and helpful, but in a pinch when confronted with death--he chooses death. And frankly, my goddess wouldn't advise me to meddle in his quest to join her. I shall, instead, be supportive of his noble mission, but as we Black Friar's often say, "not this year, not yet".

Our direction has been to clear Harrowstone of evil. Most recently a ghastly fight with an animated furnace has left us beaten, burnt, and depleted of resources. I shall update my journal again tomorrow, once we have learned more of this macabre institution.

Pharasma

Pharasama: "Ah, Phiroz, you have arrived right on time. Take thee more care henceforth that you worship the goddess of the grave, but not seek out the grave itself. Your time will come, but not this year, not yet."

With a great gasp of air, as though he had just surfaced after having been submerged for a time underwater, Phiroz breathed again. Mstislav rushed over to administer a healing spell, and in that instant, the ghostly scythe construct clanked to the stone bulwark floor under a poof of rust.

"To say that I am happy to be back is misleading," said Phiroz. "Thank you Mstislav, your quick wit I shall endeavor to repay some day. In fact, thank you all–for no priest is an island, and I should not have survived at all without each one of you."

As though his senses were sluggish in returning, Phiroz felt a sudden rush of fatigue. He stood up unusually straight now, and unbeknownst to him his own wry smile expressed the pride of narrowly escaping death. He turned to the group, pausing frozen for one small moment with a transient blank expression upon his face. And in that flicker of time, he forgot his encounter with Pharasma.

"May I suggest some respite and drink?" he suddenly said with his usual intonation and pace. "I feel compelled to celebrate with some life-affirming activities. Let us away from this maleficent ruin, as Gregor suggests. I do not know what sudden surge of boldness came over me a few moments ago–I was drawn toward that headman's scythe as if it had my very name upon it."

And thus, this was brother Phiroz's first forgotten encounter with Pharasma.

It. Was. Inevitable.

The Headman's Scythe
The west balcony was haunted no doubt long before the fire. And today I stepped upon it and side by side Shale and I fought a most magnificent creature. It may have been my marveling in amazement that distracted me from taking more cautious steps. The being was resonating with the power of undeath--a fact I learned simply too late in this battle. For of all the executions that must have transpired in this keep, of all the blood that had been spilled so long ago, I stood and marveled there for a moment too long at this residual spiritual vengeance that swiftly manifested before us.

Ghostly skeletal arms wielded a rusty scythe, perhaps the same scythe the headsman once used himself. And so it was that I, Phiroz Iraln, became the executioner's newest victim as the blade cut me down in my prime. There was no time to stitch the wound that mortally cut my body and exhumed my soul from its mortal coil. Within a mere blink, my essence belonged no longer to the company of friends of professor Lorrimor, and in that moment all romantic connection ceased between his lovely daughter Kendra and I. It was a most swift and painless death, for suddenly all my woes and concerns spiraled outward into entropy, until their very signature meant nothing to me anymore.

Why Me, Why This Year? Why Now?

It. Was. Inevitable.

I had simply come too close to the haunting of Harrowstone–too close to the macabre and malign. I was not unlike a moth that is quickly burned by the firelight that compels it to entreat more closely. I simply stood to firmly between Ravengro and the evil of the past who's hunger for blood had not been slacked in more than 100 years. It was inevitable that I, a cleric of Pharasma, the goddess of death, should be the next unwilling victim in a long line of persistent meals consumed by the insatiable haunts left behind by the villainous, murderous, members of the Whispering Way. An ancient organization of evil like theirs can hardly be cast asunder by one humble friar from the city of Caliphas.

Indeed, it will take a group of men including my companions Shale, Mstislav and Greggor to forcefully cause the cacophonous tumult that is needed to unveil the obfuscated machinations of that dread cult of necromancers. It will be much like the upturning of an earthen grave to uncover what is buried deep below, as so far this is what our research has felt like. Yes..., it will either be more digging in the dirt to uncover secrets of the past and the upturning of the earth in favor of the living, or, as in my case and the case of Professor Lorrimor, it will be the upturning of earth to dig our own graves. Professor Lorrimor was wise to begun the study of the Whispering Way, and I have oft noted the similarities between the good professor and myself but he could not withstand the dark power of its secrets alone. And similarly now I, like he, lay dead.

The Last Will and Testament of Brother Phiroz Iraln of Caliphas
In the wee hours this morning, whilst I waited for my companions to awaken, I jotted the following into my journal.

I, Phiroz Iraln, do hereby bequeath all my worldly possessions to the church of Pharasma except the following:
To Gypsy - Faithful steed, I give you a new master. You are now the possession of Agile Kearn (the orphan boy from Caliphas who possesses the biggest heart I've ever seen). He will treat you with more respect than an animal deserves.
To Agile - Young boy, you are given the rank of Initiate of the First Spiral, well ahead of its time. Always stay loyal to the church, regardless of the path you choose to walk. You receive my holy symbol, 40 gold pieces, my battle and traveling gear, and my horse, Gypsy.
To Kendra - Beautiful woman. You receive the burden of losing another one close to you. This pain I cannot lift from you, except to inform that I am now with my goddess in death's loving embrace. There is nothing of value I can leave for you except my encouragement to move forward with your life, to quickly find love elsewhere, and anywhere you can, for life is fleeting and brutish in Ustalav.
To Shale - You receive my reading tutorial books. These will help you learn to read–which is a gift you give yourself to illuminate all future days of your life.
To Mstislav - You receive all my books, my writing paper, my inkpen, sealing wax and my black ink. These are many both in Ravengro and in Caliphas, should you ever venture there. You also receive my astrolabe, and my magnifying glass.
To Gregor - You receive my potion of cure light wounds and my sacred ceremonial shovel, it is a masterwork item worthy of a noble gravedigger such as yourself. Please use it for my internment.

*     *     *

Phiroz: "This is just as I imagined it! Here atop an impossibly tall spire, Pharasma’s Boneyard awaits me and all mortals. I am standing in a great line, waiting to be judged and sent to my final reward. Only the unworthy end up in her graveyard, their souls left to rot for all eternity. I do not believe I will be rotting."
Pharasma: "Ah, Phiroz...; You have arrived right on time."

Session 1: Funeral For a Friend

There is a spark of adventure in the air that cannot be dampened by the fog nor rain in this small town of Ravengro, and it begins with the arranged meeting of four unique souls at a funeral for a friend. In a short time I've come to learn a great deal about these three men:

Gregor is a calm, polite, well spoken young man with a background in the noble profession of grave digging. His reason and logic impress me already.

Mstistav demonstrates knowledge of the arcane and his pet dragon "tea-chalk" seems a valuable companion. His investigative skills and research into the arcane are impressive.

Shale guards and acts with a singular focus, great will, and determination. Without his aid, I'm not sure we can get far, as evidenced by our poor display against the giant centipedes. I'm impressed with his faith-like connection to the earth and compassion for others.

And thus serving as pallbearers in dreary Ravengro we met Kendra Lorrimor the 25 year old daughter of the late professor. We spent the evening drinking Petros' liquors before investigating his journal which led us to The Restlands. Therein we discovered a false crypt filled with useful items to combat the undead, and our expert gravedigger helped us exhume Petros to confirm his demise.

In the morning we investigated a blood marked "V" upon a town statue, and we wonder if this marking might be tied to the old fire that burned down Harrowstone prison so many years ago? We wonder what danger Kendra might be in and how we can best protect her over the course of this month as Petros asked us to do? And lastly, we wonder about the strange markings along the wall of Harrowstone prison that the professor mentioned in his journal, and whether any of this has to do with the cabal of Necromancers Petros called, the Wispering Way?

Game Stats:
Players: 4; Duration: 4 hours; Opponents Slayn: 2 whiptail centipedes
PC Deaths: 0; PCs Disabled: 2 Mstislav, Phiroz; Unconscious: 1 Phiroz
#20s rolled: 3
Named NPCs: Petros Lorrimor, Kendra Lorrimor, Gibs, Father Grimburrow, Councilman Vashian

Journal of the Black Abbot; Part The First

In the year 4713, in the mid-day of my life, I took it upon myself to pay last respects to Professor Lorrimor. I had been on a pilgrimage to the Monastery of the Vale in the mountains of Ustalav to show my young student, Agile, where it was that I first learned to deliver babies and to bury the dead. I made the young boy stand near the bleak stones of the monastery, in the graveyard, where I had first heard the whippoorwill's call, a psychopomp of the Lady of Graves. I had arrived at the Monastery only day's before the news of the professor's demise, and thus immediately set forth for Ravengro with Agile and my horse, Gypsy.

As we traveled the foggy moors of Ustalav, the journey to Ravengro reminded me of my youth, and thus I began explaining my memories of the professor to Agile–along with memories of my mentor, Master Angelo, and thus shared with my young student a retelling of my life's story...

Early Years (Age 1-13)
Thirty years ago my mentor, Brother Angelo of Caliphas, became advisor to the newly relocated royal court in the wealthiest, most accessible, and most cosmopolitan city of Caliphas. Within this old city is carved the grim statuary, soaring buttresses, and sharp gables that became the hallmark of my childhood and youth. It was here in Caliphas, that I, a lone orphan, was taken in and raised by Ustalav’s most intimidating embellishment—the church of Pharasma. In my twelfth year I became apprentice to Master Angelo who showed me the reality that lay beyond the grim Pharasman cathedral walls; At such an early age I learned to make this dreaded labyrinth of crime my home and embraced the truth of the city’s corruption, disease, exploitation, and its horrifying secrets. Thus early-on I learned that lives are cheap and the unwary are all too often swallowed by the fog, never to be seen again.

Pharasma and Academics (Age 14-24)
Master Angelo introduced me to the Lady of Graves at such an early age that I cannot recall a time without her, thus Her wisdom became my guide as I eked out an austere life of academics in private, beneath a gigantic dome of amethyst-veined black marble. I became a scholar like my mentor’s friend Lorrimor, who on occasion loaned precious, rare, and oft scandalous books to him which I loved to read between chores, and devotions. Thus I became aware of life beyond Ustalav, yet I learned to embrace that we are all fated to experience bad things and our role is to endure them and thus achieve fair judgment upon death. Due to my knack for balancing matters of science and religion, the cathedral’s merciless inquisitor an exorcist once commented that my "personality possesses the duality of both religiosity and academic knowledge." In my early 20s, for several years I courted the idea of becoming an inquisitor—back in the early days when inquisitors strove to guide not to punish. I have a penchant for new scientific tools and magic items; for example I travel with a magnifying glass and an astrolabe.

Barrister-At-Law and Prison (Age 25-28)
By age 25 I became learned in the profession of Barrister-at-law. However, after defending a heretic I soon found myself at odds with the inquisitors (specifically Inquisitor Gravis who did not appreciate my expansive academic knowledge) and served a sentence of several years in prison for defending a man who was later burned at the stake. Upon my release, I gave up legal practice in and around Ustalav and returned to the church in Caliphas.

Caretaker of the Chapel’s Heat within the Temple of the Maiden’s Choir (Age 29-33)
From my 29th year to my 33rd, I excelled at higher degrees of education and religious knowledge in the church and earned the title of Caretaker, a precious reward for years of selfless service and a prestigious honor as steward of the chapel’s heart. I proudly earned my vestments of black with silver trim. There, in the heart of the Temple of the Maiden’s Choir, each night I cared for the silver, mausoleum-like reliquary said to bear such holy treasures as the Sarkorin song skulls, the scroll bones of Father Gesenge, the armored Gown of Tears, and one of the steel splinter-feathers of the goddess’s own herald. Unlike the faithful who believe and have not seen, I have touched these artifacts. Thus for me, divine power feels as real as the wind and as certain as the breath of life itself.

Chance Savior (Age 34-35)  
In my 34th year when Professor Lorrimor expressed yet another need for my master to accompany him on an archeological expedition along the Inner Sea, the matter befell delegated to me, as master Angelo was physically too venerable and no longer suited for travel. During the journey, through a matter of pure chance, I was in a position to save the late scholar’s life and did so. The great chandelier of Auxius rattled and hurtled down upon Lorrimor! With a sudden burst of alacrity and without concern for my own life I knocked him to safety, whilst myself nearly dying in the process. To this day, on rare occasion my left leg suddenly numbs beneath me for a few seconds, but I am (at all other times) still quite agile and well. Professor Lorrimor’s gratitude was effusive and he promised that he would never forget me. I am unsure of the nature of the summons of his Will, but believe he may have listed me as a possible heir in thanks for saving him from an untimely demise.

My Novice/Apprentice, Agile (My current age is 36)
A young orphaned boy by the name of Agile has entered his 14th year and has been assigned to my care. As his mentor I will begin his education earlier than had been begun my own. He will travel with me to Ravengro to pay our respects to the late Professor Lorrimor who had given so much to my mentor, Brother Angelo. Agile is a novice/my apprentice and I seek to not make the same mistakes my mentor made with me.