Endelyn rubs her skeletal hands together as Greg gets involved in the negotiations, and answers him with her soft motherly voice.
Ah, my dear, acting in the play was enough to earn you this courtesy... her gesture takes in the chamber... your fortune revealed, an offer extended. No more, no less. If you wish to remain in my castle, to enjoy my hospitality... that must always be on my terms. A brief smile. As for my little errand... my dear sister Bavlorna has taken something dear to me: my little cat, Gloam. She keeps him close to her, I'm sure. At her cottage, in Hither. Should you return him to me, I would of course make your trouble worthwhile.
At Barria's mention of Hurly, Endelyn turns to face the dwarf. She doesn't even look at the bugbear, but simply replies in a much less kindly voice: Hurly and I have already agreed on terms. He has nothing more to bargain with. Then returning to her gentle tone, she continues: As for the rest of you, perhaps I might offer... Oh!
As Endelyn's gaze passes again over the group, she notices the gem on Greg's lap for the first time. Her gaze lingers on it for a long moment, and then she looks again into Greg's face. Her expression is difficult to read behind the black gauzy veil, but though her words carry pity and maternal concern, Barria senses slightly restrained excitement.
My dear gnome! What a burden you carry! A dark wish stone in the land of the fae... is not a treasure. It is a lodestone of misfortune, a millstone of misery. I could... relieve you of this tribulation, for surely it is drawing such toward you as long as you keep it. How about this: if time here in my castle is what you desire... Abide here in my castle, as my honoured guests, for three days. Walk my halls, watch my plays, rest yourselves. Meanwhile, I will do what must be done to lay that awful burden to rest.
Then, opening her arms wide again, she adds: Of course, you are free to refuse. Fate is ever so patient.
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How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Mulligan thus responds to G'ReG via the Group Chat.
I just want to be clear on what we are trying to accomplish. And how.
Rowan is right, perhaps we do not need to kill this Hag. But we can not trust her, that is for sure. We trust one another and maybe that is it? Though the bee and the flower seem trustworthy enough as well, I suppose.
Right, the twins. Defeat her, kill her, whatever, the twins we believe are the key? So we need to free one from the jails, and the staff should do that. So perhaps we do need time in the castle? G'reG - is this stone something you can part with? Or perhaps you can convince her you need a day to consider?
Greg listens to the words in his head communicated by Mulligan and his stoic face gives a slight curl of a smile at the corners. He then addresses the hag once more, "oh this? No no, this is mine, quite easy to carry and not at all a burden, I find the hue ever so pleasing, don't you? Of course I'd be willing to part with it, if that is what you want, but you'd be doing me no favours in that regard.
I would however, happily accept the invitation to freely roam all of the rooms in this lovely Motherhorn of yours, but I would ask a small token extra, nothing outside of your powers I assure you. A little information if you will along with the free roaming that you so graciously offer" He lifts the gem and lets the candle light cast purple reflections dance throughout the room, giving her a tantalising taste of her desires and then snatching it away as he leans forward, "what did hurly agree to, exactly?"
Turning to G'reg, Barria answers for the hag, "Hurly gave her his shadow for the allotted 3 years and he is absolutely miserable. Has no idea if it has been 2 years or 10 minutes. Poor guy." She turns to Endelyn, "When did you make this deal with Hurly? How long until he gets his shadow back and can leave? His brother misses him."
Then to the group chat, Well, we have several missions here do we not? Get the twin Gleam out of the cage, Charmay wants to escape this place, we have the little mouse guy to free (brigganock? can't remember the name)... this place is just awful. If we don't kill her, how else would we defeat her? Not that I am for killing.. I just can't see another way? Oh.. and are we going to entertain getting her cat back? Or just use that information when we visit Bavlorna?
You've made a fine choice, dear, the hag replies, holding out a bony hand for the gem. Your wish stone in exchange for three days as guests in my home, for you and your three friends, and your question answered. Endelyn doesn't look at Barria or acknowledge her response, focusing only on Greginald. Hurly himself shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable to have his predicament become the topic of conversation.
Greg hands over the purple gemstone, which Endelyn promptly tucks away in one fold of her great bless dress. She claps her hands together and says in a warm tone: Welcome, once more to Motherhorn. I ask only that you please not disturb those studying in the library, or approach too close to the orrery, for your own safety. I shall have rooms arranged for your stay. If, during your stay, you find other desires growing within, you need only ask, and we can meet once more.
As for your token, dear gnome... Hurly's terms were clear: One, three years service in my theater, and Two, his shadow. In exchange, I agreed to make him more likable before sending him back to the carnival.
The hag then finally turns and addresses Barria. She doesn't answer the dwarf's questions but instead says: You would wish to alter this arrangement? This can be discussed, of course. What would you offer in exchange?
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How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
G'Reg can't help himself but snort slightly in derision at Hurly's deal, likable? G'Reg has never seen the benefit of being such a person, and isn't likability merely a matter of confidence?
He tosses the stone to the hag and stands up, though now off the chair he is shorter than he was sitting up on it, "I'm done here." He states nonchalantly and walks out.
"Do you know what an orrery is? Hopefully it's labeled," Rowan says. "It's quite difficult to not get too close to something if you don't know what the something you're not supposed to get to close to actually is."
He pauses for a moment to let the others catch up.
"She didn't say stay away from any prisons or jails though did she?" Rowan muses. "I imagine Gleam would be in some sort of prison. Or a jail. Or a room with a lock. Or maybe just wandering around lost. But she's a twin right? So we look for somebody who looks like Glister. But not Glister."
While waiting, he looks around at the room/hallway that he finds himself in with G'Reg - reorienting himself as to where they are in the Motherhorn.
At a guess I would bet the Orrery is the large multi-level contraption of spinning spheres and such. I myself don't really know what it is but it definitely seems the type of thing one wouldn't want people who don't know what it is to touch.
Mulligan provides this guess over the group chat in response to Rowan with a smile and a slight shrug.
I did see a hallway with two rusty suits of armor at the far end, a large stone door without handles, hinges, or decoration behind them. That could be a prison?
Mulligan is uneasy with... Well, everything. The "deals" and the possibility of accidentally finding themselves ensnared in such in particular though. "Three years service" and "more likable" and such just seem so easy to be slippery and dependent upon whose definition one is using... He finds himself strangely attracted to the idea of violence as a solution. He usually prefers to avoid such "back home" in the "real world" but here he feels that it is at least a universal language with clear rules and outcomes.
But, for now, he keeps that view to himself and follows where G'reg and Rowan lead.
Barria looks to Hurly with the question written all over her face - what do you want? - honestly, she doesn't want to give this hag any more, but she hates seeing this bugbear in such a state.
She then follows the rest out, "Yes, we need to find Gleam, I think that is priority one." she looks behind her to see what Mulligan is planning to do. Seeing that he is following them, she lets out a sigh of relief. and to the group chat, If that is what the orerry is, we passed it on the way here.
"the orrery is above the library, I was there before when Mulligan and I were unconscious in the tunnels. But we'll just be drawing attention if we go there now. We get gleam before Charmay starts her play and do what we need to, we improvise if Charmay betrays us..." G'Reg communicates to Mulligan to silently communicate to the group chat, in answer as they leave.
Greg then beckons Rowan to lean down, as if passing on a secret. But as the elf doe lean down Greg instead takes Rowan's face in each hand squashing his cheeks together and making the kid look like a fish as he says, "Rowan, you probably hear this all the time but I need you to understand it, you need to get your head in the game, you know what gleam looks like, we all saw a picture of her at the carnival, I pointed it out to you... I know it might be hard for you but these things when they're important need to find a place in your mind and not keep falling out all the time." It is very apparent that G'Reg is angry, not at Rowan specifically but the wood elf seems to be bearing the brunt of G'Reg's irritation as the closest outlet.
With negotiations concluded for now, Endelyn glides to the back of the stage into the alcove. The black curtain closes fully of its own accord, and the hag suddenly vanishes, leaving Mulligan, Barria, Rowan and Hurly in the small auditorium. Joining Greginald out on the main orrery floor, raised voices can be heard from the passageway nearby: standing just within the chamber, Charmay is in a heated conversation with someone in the passage, blocking their path into the chamber, and countering their angry demands with her usual calm and authoritative tone.
If you don't stand aside, I'll have to... You'll just have to wait, my dear Stagefright. We mustn't disturb Her Ladyship while she is holding audience with guests. You know this. I need it back now, Charmay! The show can't go... Come, come! Surely one with your experience can organise the next session without waving a silly stick around. The actors respect you for who you are, good sir. Enough of your flattery, woman! You're up to something, I can... Oh, look at the time! Isn't the next performance due to start soon? My, my, we must be getting ready! Imagine what Lady Endelyn would say if we were late!
With a grumble, the goblin appears to give up and soon his shouts of instruction echo out into the orrery chamber even as his voice fades. Charmay follows after him, disappearing from view. The group converse briefly, but it is just as Greginald is giving Rowan a talking-to that the weasel returns, flooding the gnome's mind with information about his exploration...
The Weasel - and the Rooms That Should Not Be
His instructions received, the weasel begins by going upstairs.
He pads softly onto a narrow balcony that overlooks the great whirring machine. Light glints off spinning rings below. To his right looms a tall double door, dark wood banded with iron. Curious, the weasel rises on his hind legs and nudges it with his nose.
The door does not open.
Instead, a giant spectral hand surges outward from the seam between the doors, fingers splayed, translucent and furious, sweeping across the balcony with terrible force. The weasel flattens himself instinctively, and the hand whooshes just above him, close enough that the fur along his back prickles with cold. Had he been even an inch taller, he would have been hurled into the void below.
The hand vanishes. The door remains closed. The weasel decides, wisely, that this door is not meant for him.
He scurries up onto the balcony rail and circuits the void, then slips into another passage, nudging open a door on the left. This room is smaller, quieter. A writing desk sits beneath a dim lantern. Beyond an arched opening lies a theater balcony overlooking empty seats. From one of the rafters hangs a small cage, inside which three birds flutter: delicate things, folded from paper, wings creasing softly as they beat against the bars. They make no sound. The weasel tilts his head. This is strange, but not a prison. He leaves.
The opposite door opens onto a similar chamber, though this one is bare save for a hulking metal contraption of rods, coils, and gears whose purpose is utterly lost on a creature that understands the world mostly through scent and teeth. Again: not a prison.
Frustrated but determined, the weasel returns to the stairs and descends — one level, then another — until he reaches the library floor. At the end of a passageway stands a closed door, and from behind it come muffled sounds: A whimper, a metallic clink. The weasel noses the door open a crack.
Inside is a room that smells... sharp! Wooden masks cover the walls — dozens of them, hanging from hooks or stacked in careless piles. Each mask is carved with painstaking detail, each depicting a goblin’s face frozen in a moment of terror: eyes wide, mouths twisted mid-scream. The expressions are all different. The fear is not.
Two iron cages sit against the far wall, padlocks heavy and real. One contains a trembling goblin, clutching the bars and rocking back and forth. The other is empty. Hope flickers... perhaps this is where the elf is kept!
Then the weasel sees the center of the room. A thin metal chair stands beneath two copper poles suspended from the ceiling, each ending in a polished copper sphere. A goblin is shackled to the chair, struggling weakly. Looming nearby is a tall, impossibly thin figure, half lost in shadow. The weasel cannot understand what it is, but it knows enough to recognize danger. Beneath the cowl, a wide rictus grin gleams.
The figure pulls a lever jutting from the wall. Golden lightning leaps between the copper spheres, screaming silently through the air. It strikes the shackled goblin, and in an instant, the goblin is gone. No body. No blood. Only a sharp crack and the smell of burnt ozone.
A new wooden mask clatters to the floor. The weasel does not stay to see more. He bolts, claws scrabbling on stone, heart hammering like a trapped bird. Whatever this room is, it is not a prison. It is something far worse. Still, the memory of the gnome’s scowl presses on him, and so — shaking — the weasel tries once more.
The library. Bookshelves loom like cliffs. Dark, cloaked figures move quietly. A narrow passage off the library leads to a small, dark theater. Rows of ancient seats face a modest stage. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, illuminated by a single glass sphere hanging above the stage, pale and moon-bright. Wooden silhouettes of trees frame the stage, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
The weasels’s instincts prickle. He turns to leave. Then he feels it. Movement.
The weasel freezes, every muscle locked. He sniffs the air. No scent. No breath. He is certain he is alone — and yet, again, something shifts at the edge of his vision. A shadow moves where nothing stands.
He waits. Seconds stretch.
Another movement. Then another. Shadows sliding, stretching, changing shape. Slowly — terribly — understanding dawns in the weasel’s small mind.
These shadows have no owners.
One is tall and hulking. Another is slender and nimble. A third spins as if dancing. Soon a dozen shadow-figures prance silently through the theater, leaping, bowing, cavorting in an unseen performance. A shadow play without puppets, reveling in the absence of light.
The weasel trembles, crouched low, tail tucked tight. This place is not a prison. It is a stage for things that do not wish to be seen. That is enough.
The weasel flees — back through the stacks, up the stairs, into the relative safety of the auditorium — carrying with him no answers, only dread. Whatever has become of the elf acrobat, the truth is worse than bars and locks. And some doors, he now knows, are mercifully still closed.
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How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Rowan looks very seriously at Greginald as the gnome holds his face in his hands. He's about to comment that G'reg's hands are a bit rough and scratchy and it's hard to listen when all his brain notices is the coarseness of the hands holding his face, but something in G'reg's eyes get through to Rowan that this might not be the time to mention that.
Finally, when G'reg stops talking, Rowan stands back up. Then he leans down a little again and pats, rather awkwardly, the gnome on his shoulder.
"There's so much in there that it's hard to keep straight. I don't seem to be able to screen out the unimportant like you can. My brain thinks everything is important. So it's a bit of a jumble." Rowan says. "But yes, I'll try."
He turns and slips the jester's sceptre into his pack, to make sure it's out of sight. When done, he looks back at the gnome. "You should put some oil or something on your hands. They're quite rough."
Rowan then adjusts the straps of his pack, the weapons at his side and back, and then looks at the others.
Mulligan, having no idea of what the weasel saw or discovered, shrugs at Rowan's suggestion of the door without handles and gives him a nod. Unless others suggest otherwise, Mulligan will then lead the way, best he recalls, to the door with the two rusty suits of armor in front of it...
Barria puts her hands on her hips and stalks over to G'Reg. "Don't you dare condemn him for who he is! First of all, no one here is as laser focused as you are - and it's making you a disgruntled, grumpy fussbucket! Rowan is trying to keep on task, and who knows - he will probably see something you don't!"
She finishes with her chin in the air, noting that she is actually taller than the gnome she is admonishing and using that to her advantage. She then raises an eyebrow to Rowan, "Door without handles? But yes, let's head to the door with the suits of armor.. that does seem to make sense."
G'Reg blinks as his vision returns to him and he releases Rowan's face. Looking down at his hands he is momentarily filled with the dread felt by the weasel before that feeling passes. He looks to barria as she scolds him and then over to Rowan commenting on his rough farmers hands. "Hmmmm, sorry rowan... You'll know gleam when you see her, for now I don't know where she is, but I just saw what the weasel did and I sure as shit know where gleam isn't... That at least narrows it down." He casts a squinty eyes scowl at Barria before following Mulligan and directing the man to the more unknown locations within the Motherhorn hoping to find gleam as soon as possible... And at the same time the little gnome becomes overly aware and concerned about his hands as he makes use of them fussing over his beloved weasel as he walks, thanking and petting the thing in an attempt to comfort it from it's recent traumas.
Immediately, a large, face appears in the door... a skeletal version of Endelyn's gaunt visage. The face opens its mouth and shouts: "You shall not pass! Back! I command you!" As it speaks, it is possible to see through the mouth and catch a glimpse into the room beyond, which appears to be an empty stone chamber... although only part of the room can be seen.
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How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Rowan cocks his head to one side and looks through the gaping mouth for a moment then straightens up as the mouth closes.
"Do you think when the door said that 'you shall not pass' it meant me specifically? That are some 'yous' that could pass? Or it was a plural you meaning all of us could not pass," Rowan says. "Someone must be allowed to pass or there wouldn't be a door here."
He reaches out and gives the door a good push to see if it reacts again (Athletics: 26)
"If it is a prison, do you think Endelyn would bring prisoners here herself? She seems like the kind that would have someone else do that. So there must be some sort of key."
"try the staff? We never got told exactly how it works. Maybe I could take a look at it and well see if it'll be useful here hm?" G'Reg asks Rowan, his gnomish hand already out ready to receive the item. If it is passed along Greg will give it a once over relying upon his education and experience with arcane items (21 history check, with his artificer's lore feature.)
Endelyn rubs her skeletal hands together as Greg gets involved in the negotiations, and answers him with her soft motherly voice.
Ah, my dear, acting in the play was enough to earn you this courtesy... her gesture takes in the chamber... your fortune revealed, an offer extended. No more, no less. If you wish to remain in my castle, to enjoy my hospitality... that must always be on my terms. A brief smile. As for my little errand... my dear sister Bavlorna has taken something dear to me: my little cat, Gloam. She keeps him close to her, I'm sure. At her cottage, in Hither. Should you return him to me, I would of course make your trouble worthwhile.
At Barria's mention of Hurly, Endelyn turns to face the dwarf. She doesn't even look at the bugbear, but simply replies in a much less kindly voice: Hurly and I have already agreed on terms. He has nothing more to bargain with. Then returning to her gentle tone, she continues: As for the rest of you, perhaps I might offer... Oh!
As Endelyn's gaze passes again over the group, she notices the gem on Greg's lap for the first time. Her gaze lingers on it for a long moment, and then she looks again into Greg's face. Her expression is difficult to read behind the black gauzy veil, but though her words carry pity and maternal concern, Barria senses slightly restrained excitement.
My dear gnome! What a burden you carry! A dark wish stone in the land of the fae... is not a treasure. It is a lodestone of misfortune, a millstone of misery. I could... relieve you of this tribulation, for surely it is drawing such toward you as long as you keep it. How about this: if time here in my castle is what you desire... Abide here in my castle, as my honoured guests, for three days. Walk my halls, watch my plays, rest yourselves. Meanwhile, I will do what must be done to lay that awful burden to rest.
Then, opening her arms wide again, she adds: Of course, you are free to refuse. Fate is ever so patient.
How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Whilst we work towards what?
Mulligan thus responds to G'ReG via the Group Chat.
I just want to be clear on what we are trying to accomplish. And how.
Rowan is right, perhaps we do not need to kill this Hag. But we can not trust her, that is for sure. We trust one another and maybe that is it? Though the bee and the flower seem trustworthy enough as well, I suppose.
Right, the twins. Defeat her, kill her, whatever, the twins we believe are the key? So we need to free one from the jails, and the staff should do that. So perhaps we do need time in the castle? G'reG - is this stone something you can part with? Or perhaps you can convince her you need a day to consider?
Greg listens to the words in his head communicated by Mulligan and his stoic face gives a slight curl of a smile at the corners. He then addresses the hag once more, "oh this? No no, this is mine, quite easy to carry and not at all a burden, I find the hue ever so pleasing, don't you? Of course I'd be willing to part with it, if that is what you want, but you'd be doing me no favours in that regard.
I would however, happily accept the invitation to freely roam all of the rooms in this lovely Motherhorn of yours, but I would ask a small token extra, nothing outside of your powers I assure you. A little information if you will along with the free roaming that you so graciously offer" He lifts the gem and lets the candle light cast purple reflections dance throughout the room, giving her a tantalising taste of her desires and then snatching it away as he leans forward, "what did hurly agree to, exactly?"
Turning to G'reg, Barria answers for the hag, "Hurly gave her his shadow for the allotted 3 years and he is absolutely miserable. Has no idea if it has been 2 years or 10 minutes. Poor guy." She turns to Endelyn, "When did you make this deal with Hurly? How long until he gets his shadow back and can leave? His brother misses him."
Then to the group chat, Well, we have several missions here do we not? Get the twin Gleam out of the cage, Charmay wants to escape this place, we have the little mouse guy to free (brigganock? can't remember the name)... this place is just awful. If we don't kill her, how else would we defeat her? Not that I am for killing.. I just can't see another way? Oh.. and are we going to entertain getting her cat back? Or just use that information when we visit Bavlorna?
You've made a fine choice, dear, the hag replies, holding out a bony hand for the gem. Your wish stone in exchange for three days as guests in my home, for you and your three friends, and your question answered. Endelyn doesn't look at Barria or acknowledge her response, focusing only on Greginald. Hurly himself shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable to have his predicament become the topic of conversation.
Greg hands over the purple gemstone, which Endelyn promptly tucks away in one fold of her great bless dress. She claps her hands together and says in a warm tone: Welcome, once more to Motherhorn. I ask only that you please not disturb those studying in the library, or approach too close to the orrery, for your own safety. I shall have rooms arranged for your stay. If, during your stay, you find other desires growing within, you need only ask, and we can meet once more.
As for your token, dear gnome... Hurly's terms were clear: One, three years service in my theater, and Two, his shadow. In exchange, I agreed to make him more likable before sending him back to the carnival.
The hag then finally turns and addresses Barria. She doesn't answer the dwarf's questions but instead says: You would wish to alter this arrangement? This can be discussed, of course. What would you offer in exchange?
How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
G'Reg can't help himself but snort slightly in derision at Hurly's deal, likable? G'Reg has never seen the benefit of being such a person, and isn't likability merely a matter of confidence?
He tosses the stone to the hag and stands up, though now off the chair he is shorter than he was sitting up on it, "I'm done here." He states nonchalantly and walks out.
Rowan bows and follows G'Reg out of the room.
"Do you know what an orrery is? Hopefully it's labeled," Rowan says. "It's quite difficult to not get too close to something if you don't know what the something you're not supposed to get to close to actually is."
He pauses for a moment to let the others catch up.
"She didn't say stay away from any prisons or jails though did she?" Rowan muses. "I imagine Gleam would be in some sort of prison. Or a jail. Or a room with a lock. Or maybe just wandering around lost. But she's a twin right? So we look for somebody who looks like Glister. But not Glister."
While waiting, he looks around at the room/hallway that he finds himself in with G'Reg - reorienting himself as to where they are in the Motherhorn.
At a guess I would bet the Orrery is the large multi-level contraption of spinning spheres and such. I myself don't really know what it is but it definitely seems the type of thing one wouldn't want people who don't know what it is to touch.
Mulligan provides this guess over the group chat in response to Rowan with a smile and a slight shrug.
I did see a hallway with two rusty suits of armor at the far end, a large stone door without handles, hinges, or decoration behind them. That could be a prison?
Mulligan is uneasy with... Well, everything. The "deals" and the possibility of accidentally finding themselves ensnared in such in particular though. "Three years service" and "more likable" and such just seem so easy to be slippery and dependent upon whose definition one is using... He finds himself strangely attracted to the idea of violence as a solution. He usually prefers to avoid such "back home" in the "real world" but here he feels that it is at least a universal language with clear rules and outcomes.
But, for now, he keeps that view to himself and follows where G'reg and Rowan lead.
Barria looks to Hurly with the question written all over her face - what do you want? - honestly, she doesn't want to give this hag any more, but she hates seeing this bugbear in such a state.
She then follows the rest out, "Yes, we need to find Gleam, I think that is priority one." she looks behind her to see what Mulligan is planning to do. Seeing that he is following them, she lets out a sigh of relief. and to the group chat, If that is what the orerry is, we passed it on the way here.
Rowan now very much wants to get close to the orerry to see what the spinning balls and gears and everything does, but first the strange door.
"To the door then," Rowan thinks to the group chat. "Do you remember where it was?"
"the orrery is above the library, I was there before when Mulligan and I were unconscious in the tunnels. But we'll just be drawing attention if we go there now. We get gleam before Charmay starts her play and do what we need to, we improvise if Charmay betrays us..." G'Reg communicates to Mulligan to silently communicate to the group chat, in answer as they leave.
Greg then beckons Rowan to lean down, as if passing on a secret. But as the elf doe lean down Greg instead takes Rowan's face in each hand squashing his cheeks together and making the kid look like a fish as he says, "Rowan, you probably hear this all the time but I need you to understand it, you need to get your head in the game, you know what gleam looks like, we all saw a picture of her at the carnival, I pointed it out to you... I know it might be hard for you but these things when they're important need to find a place in your mind and not keep falling out all the time." It is very apparent that G'Reg is angry, not at Rowan specifically but the wood elf seems to be bearing the brunt of G'Reg's irritation as the closest outlet.
With negotiations concluded for now, Endelyn glides to the back of the stage into the alcove. The black curtain closes fully of its own accord, and the hag suddenly vanishes, leaving Mulligan, Barria, Rowan and Hurly in the small auditorium. Joining Greginald out on the main orrery floor, raised voices can be heard from the passageway nearby: standing just within the chamber, Charmay is in a heated conversation with someone in the passage, blocking their path into the chamber, and countering their angry demands with her usual calm and authoritative tone.
If you don't stand aside, I'll have to...
You'll just have to wait, my dear Stagefright. We mustn't disturb Her Ladyship while she is holding audience with guests. You know this.
I need it back now, Charmay! The show can't go...
Come, come! Surely one with your experience can organise the next session without waving a silly stick around. The actors respect you for who you are, good sir.
Enough of your flattery, woman! You're up to something, I can...
Oh, look at the time! Isn't the next performance due to start soon? My, my, we must be getting ready! Imagine what Lady Endelyn would say if we were late!
With a grumble, the goblin appears to give up and soon his shouts of instruction echo out into the orrery chamber even as his voice fades. Charmay follows after him, disappearing from view. The group converse briefly, but it is just as Greginald is giving Rowan a talking-to that the weasel returns, flooding the gnome's mind with information about his exploration...
The Weasel - and the Rooms That Should Not Be
His instructions received, the weasel begins by going upstairs.
He pads softly onto a narrow balcony that overlooks the great whirring machine. Light glints off spinning rings below. To his right looms a tall double door, dark wood banded with iron. Curious, the weasel rises on his hind legs and nudges it with his nose.
The door does not open.
Instead, a giant spectral hand surges outward from the seam between the doors, fingers splayed, translucent and furious, sweeping across the balcony with terrible force. The weasel flattens himself instinctively, and the hand whooshes just above him, close enough that the fur along his back prickles with cold. Had he been even an inch taller, he would have been hurled into the void below.
The hand vanishes. The door remains closed. The weasel decides, wisely, that this door is not meant for him.
He scurries up onto the balcony rail and circuits the void, then slips into another passage, nudging open a door on the left. This room is smaller, quieter. A writing desk sits beneath a dim lantern. Beyond an arched opening lies a theater balcony overlooking empty seats. From one of the rafters hangs a small cage, inside which three birds flutter: delicate things, folded from paper, wings creasing softly as they beat against the bars. They make no sound. The weasel tilts his head. This is strange, but not a prison. He leaves.
The opposite door opens onto a similar chamber, though this one is bare save for a hulking metal contraption of rods, coils, and gears whose purpose is utterly lost on a creature that understands the world mostly through scent and teeth. Again: not a prison.
Frustrated but determined, the weasel returns to the stairs and descends — one level, then another — until he reaches the library floor. At the end of a passageway stands a closed door, and from behind it come muffled sounds: A whimper, a metallic clink. The weasel noses the door open a crack.
Inside is a room that smells... sharp! Wooden masks cover the walls — dozens of them, hanging from hooks or stacked in careless piles. Each mask is carved with painstaking detail, each depicting a goblin’s face frozen in a moment of terror: eyes wide, mouths twisted mid-scream. The expressions are all different. The fear is not.
Two iron cages sit against the far wall, padlocks heavy and real. One contains a trembling goblin, clutching the bars and rocking back and forth. The other is empty. Hope flickers... perhaps this is where the elf is kept!
Then the weasel sees the center of the room. A thin metal chair stands beneath two copper poles suspended from the ceiling, each ending in a polished copper sphere. A goblin is shackled to the chair, struggling weakly. Looming nearby is a tall, impossibly thin figure, half lost in shadow. The weasel cannot understand what it is, but it knows enough to recognize danger. Beneath the cowl, a wide rictus grin gleams.
The figure pulls a lever jutting from the wall. Golden lightning leaps between the copper spheres, screaming silently through the air. It strikes the shackled goblin, and in an instant, the goblin is gone. No body. No blood. Only a sharp crack and the smell of burnt ozone.
A new wooden mask clatters to the floor. The weasel does not stay to see more. He bolts, claws scrabbling on stone, heart hammering like a trapped bird. Whatever this room is, it is not a prison. It is something far worse. Still, the memory of the gnome’s scowl presses on him, and so — shaking — the weasel tries once more.
The library. Bookshelves loom like cliffs. Dark, cloaked figures move quietly. A narrow passage off the library leads to a small, dark theater. Rows of ancient seats face a modest stage. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, illuminated by a single glass sphere hanging above the stage, pale and moon-bright. Wooden silhouettes of trees frame the stage, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
The weasels’s instincts prickle. He turns to leave. Then he feels it. Movement.
The weasel freezes, every muscle locked. He sniffs the air. No scent. No breath. He is certain he is alone — and yet, again, something shifts at the edge of his vision. A shadow moves where nothing stands.
He waits. Seconds stretch.
Another movement. Then another. Shadows sliding, stretching, changing shape. Slowly — terribly — understanding dawns in the weasel’s small mind.
These shadows have no owners.
One is tall and hulking. Another is slender and nimble. A third spins as if dancing. Soon a dozen shadow-figures prance silently through the theater, leaping, bowing, cavorting in an unseen performance. A shadow play without puppets, reveling in the absence of light.
The weasel trembles, crouched low, tail tucked tight. This place is not a prison. It is a stage for things that do not wish to be seen. That is enough.
The weasel flees — back through the stacks, up the stairs, into the relative safety of the auditorium — carrying with him no answers, only dread. Whatever has become of the elf acrobat, the truth is worse than bars and locks. And some doors, he now knows, are mercifully still closed.
How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Rowan looks very seriously at Greginald as the gnome holds his face in his hands. He's about to comment that G'reg's hands are a bit rough and scratchy and it's hard to listen when all his brain notices is the coarseness of the hands holding his face, but something in G'reg's eyes get through to Rowan that this might not be the time to mention that.
Finally, when G'reg stops talking, Rowan stands back up. Then he leans down a little again and pats, rather awkwardly, the gnome on his shoulder.
"There's so much in there that it's hard to keep straight. I don't seem to be able to screen out the unimportant like you can. My brain thinks everything is important. So it's a bit of a jumble." Rowan says. "But yes, I'll try."
He turns and slips the jester's sceptre into his pack, to make sure it's out of sight. When done, he looks back at the gnome. "You should put some oil or something on your hands. They're quite rough."
Rowan then adjusts the straps of his pack, the weapons at his side and back, and then looks at the others.
"The door without handles then?"
Mulligan, having no idea of what the weasel saw or discovered, shrugs at Rowan's suggestion of the door without handles and gives him a nod. Unless others suggest otherwise, Mulligan will then lead the way, best he recalls, to the door with the two rusty suits of armor in front of it...
Barria puts her hands on her hips and stalks over to G'Reg. "Don't you dare condemn him for who he is! First of all, no one here is as laser focused as you are - and it's making you a disgruntled, grumpy fussbucket! Rowan is trying to keep on task, and who knows - he will probably see something you don't!"
She finishes with her chin in the air, noting that she is actually taller than the gnome she is admonishing and using that to her advantage. She then raises an eyebrow to Rowan, "Door without handles? But yes, let's head to the door with the suits of armor.. that does seem to make sense."
G'Reg blinks as his vision returns to him and he releases Rowan's face. Looking down at his hands he is momentarily filled with the dread felt by the weasel before that feeling passes. He looks to barria as she scolds him and then over to Rowan commenting on his rough farmers hands. "Hmmmm, sorry rowan... You'll know gleam when you see her, for now I don't know where she is, but I just saw what the weasel did and I sure as shit know where gleam isn't... That at least narrows it down." He casts a squinty eyes scowl at Barria before following Mulligan and directing the man to the more unknown locations within the Motherhorn hoping to find gleam as soon as possible... And at the same time the little gnome becomes overly aware and concerned about his hands as he makes use of them fussing over his beloved weasel as he walks, thanking and petting the thing in an attempt to comfort it from it's recent traumas.
Immediately, a large, face appears in the door... a skeletal version of Endelyn's gaunt visage. The face opens its mouth and shouts: "You shall not pass! Back! I command you!" As it speaks, it is possible to see through the mouth and catch a glimpse into the room beyond, which appears to be an empty stone chamber... although only part of the room can be seen.
How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?
Rowan cocks his head to one side and looks through the gaping mouth for a moment then straightens up as the mouth closes.
"Do you think when the door said that 'you shall not pass' it meant me specifically? That are some 'yous' that could pass? Or it was a plural you meaning all of us could not pass," Rowan says. "Someone must be allowed to pass or there wouldn't be a door here."
He reaches out and gives the door a good push to see if it reacts again (Athletics: 26)
"If it is a prison, do you think Endelyn would bring prisoners here herself? She seems like the kind that would have someone else do that. So there must be some sort of key."
"try the staff? We never got told exactly how it works. Maybe I could take a look at it and well see if it'll be useful here hm?" G'Reg asks Rowan, his gnomish hand already out ready to receive the item. If it is passed along Greg will give it a once over relying upon his education and experience with arcane items (21 history check, with his artificer's lore feature.)
Rowan digs into his pack and pulls out the sceptre, waving it around like he's doing magic with it but then he hands it to G'reg.
"Maybe it's stronger than it looks and you use it to smash the door open."