Innocence Lost

Lamenta’s beloved and kind-hearted mother, Lady Dulcetta had died at just thirty-three years of age. As cruel fate would have it, precisely the same age as Lord Urdurel had been when they’d first met and fallen in love. Since her death though, everything had changed dramatically for the worse.

Life in a cage, no matter how gilded, is mere existence. Since her Mother’s premature death, her Father, Lord Urdurel had cut her off from everything and everyone she’d known, except for her Mother’s now, long-in-the-fang, deer-hound; Belvedere. Her Father treated her as if she were suddenly too delicate to face the world, as if she were made of the fragilest crystal. A situation that had only grown more wretched since her Father suddenly remarried a woman with obvious evil intent, even though he seemed completely incapable of seeing it. He was infatuated with his dark-locked and voluptuous new bride, to the point that he hadn’t even seemed that interested in her newborn half-brother; Briefadel.

Lord Urdurel, under the thrall of Hetzabah, had returned to his warring ways, blind to the objections of his advisors or the suffering of his own people.

Lady Lamenta’s life had been reduced down to that of little more than a prisoner, kept hidden away in her dead Mother’s tower under lock and key. She was sixteen now but there was nothing sweet about her situation.

The Commander of the guard; Captain Aglet had recently halved her protection detail, on the instructions of her step-mother but then immediately reinstated it, on the orders of her suspicious Father, with twice the number of men as before. He’d even stationed an armed guard immediately outside her bedroom chamber door. 

This was the second week and there was a change in soldiers. Her new door guard; Padrik, was fair-haired, fresh-faced and handsome, perhaps only a year or two older than herself. Even though she knew he was instructed to keep his eyes to himself, she couldn’t help teasing him with glimpses of a bare ankle or an, accidentally revealed, shoulder.

That night though, something was wrong. She’d changed into her nightgown and stepped over the multiple, concentric, magical protection circles etched around her Mother’s old bed and wriggled under the silk sheets. With her big, old dog lying at her feet, her dreams were no longer haunted by evil witches or giant, shadowy horses, but Lamenta still felt a cold wave of anxiety in her stomach as Belvedere abruptly twitched awake and started to growl. 

Slipping quietly out of bed and heading to the iron caged balcony, she thought of the young man standing guard just outside her door. She knew he wasn’t allowed to leave his post but she needed someone close. Then, in the darkness of the walled garden below, she saw a flash of a steel blade and could hear someone beginning to scale the wall. The balcony was protected and her windows were barred but certain magics could easily overcome mundane iron, no matter how thick.

Paralysed with fear, she tightly clutches her loyal hound in fear and calls out.

“Guard! Guard!”

Almost immediately, Lamenta sees the shadow of her young protector fall across the frosted glass panels of her bedchamber door and she hears him whisper…

“My Lady?”

Then, before she can reply, another shadow looms up behind him on the other side of her bedroom door, followed immediately by the splatter of Padrik’s dark arterial blood across the glass. 

This is when the sixteen-year-old Lady Lamenta screams, 

Despite his advanced age, the boney but still pony-sized Belvedere stands bravely, fangs bared and hackles raised, between his young Mistress and the door, but when the two black-clad Assassins pass like smoke through the, still locked, barrier, there’s nothing the dog can do beyond dying by their wickedly curved blades.

Lasting barely a few moments longer than her slaughtered dog, despite her pleading, Lamenta‘s pitiful screams are quickly silenced by the merciless killers.

The kind-hearted and innocent young woman’s last words are…

“Father!”

The Final Session

As promised, the warm evening is full of wild music and wilder dance, with Fey wine flowing freely and both savoury and sweet treats laid out on every raised surface. Rifkin adds his voice and music to Magritte’s melodies and the Fey adjacent Arowe enjoys the wanton dancing and uninhibited ‘gifts’ of the Dryad women.

Despite his deep-rooted suspicion and rejection of the aromatic wines, Fortu still finds himself intoxicated by the charm and warmth of these strange woodland creatures. Creatures that he would have considered dangerous enemies just a month ago.

Liga Bur too enjoys the sudden change of pace and environment. Regardless of his ghostly guard; Padrik, the Halfling hadn’t slept easily in weeks, ever since he was first targeted by the nightmare Hag. Here, surrounded by enchanting pixies and nixies, he finally feels safe.

It’s Arowe though, who notices that there’re only three Dryads present, and casting around, he sees for the first time, that one of the four large oak-trees in the glade is dead and withered. He also realises that a new sapling is growing in its shade and beside that sapling is a shy little dryad girl. She appears to be about eight-years-old but Arowe knows well enough to understand the different growth rates and life expectancies of certain Fey.

The three Human mercenaries though are quieter, well aware that they’d attacked their hosts (and killed several of them) the last time they were here. One thing is certain though; all seven of them; Human, Elf and Halfling, are changed men. How could they not be? They’ve explored strange new worlds together, encountered bizarre creatures and discovered new civilisations. They’ve seen horrors and wonders beyond their imaginations and travelled to where few men have ever been before!

Fire and Water

The last few days travel pass uneventfully and the Party finally get to within sight of the doubly-dead; Zephir’s oasis. It’s withered and browned a fair bit since they were first here but, considering it contains their way back home to Fissa, it’s still a very welcome sight.

Scattered prone around the outer periphery are several tall, multi-limbed bodies though. Several dead, tall, multi-limbed bodies. The corpses of about a score of the nomadic, insectoid Tri-Kreen. The skilled Liga Bur initially suspects another zombie trap but, after ‘careful’ inspection with a ten foot pole, he’s relieved to find them merely mundanely dead. Probably innocent desert travellers exploiting the free water supply here and killed needlessly and mercilessly by Sir Briefadel, his Mother and the dark horse they rode in on.

Scouting ahead and grateful to find no opposition guarding the inner oasis, Liga Bur cautiously approaches the top of the central stone well. Once there though, the fiery Dijonn on realising what’s happening, suddenly flares wildly atop his torch perch.

“Oh No, Oh No, Oh No! Please Master, don’t put me down the well! Leave me here; I can guard the oasis for you. I can easily survive on just the dead, dried out bushes and trees. I promise I won’t burn the living green stuff!”

Rifkin’s slightly-almond eyes also flair, but far more subtly as he hears Dijonn’s terrified hisses and crackles. Why hadn’t he thought about this before now? There’s no way that the flame-bodied Dijonn could survive for even a second underwater and there’s no way to protect him from it for anything more than a few moments.

Arowe immediately comes to the little elementals defence and Liga Bur has no interest in extinguishing his spluttering servant. The canny Halfling had noticed that Dijonn always shrank to his smallest, unnoticeable flame whenever Ghostly Pardrik was on guard or when the Hag had visited. The fire elemental was definitely hiding something, but what?

Still, whatever that ‘what’ is, it’s no reason to kill him. The rough Halfling had begun to question his own cynicism of late. He hadn’t trusted Fortu, Arowe or Rifkin when he’d first met them on the road to Scar Borough, and now he’d trust them with his life. He had been trusting them to protect him from the protracted attacks from the Hag and they’d not let him down. Considering his past losses, it’s hard to have faith in people but perhaps it’s time to change that mindset. Perhaps he could have faith in something bigger than himself. Something deeper. Perhaps he should choose to believe that Henshaw and Doberman weren’t secretly plotting against him… Barbella would be more of a stretch though.

After making Dijonn swear on his favourite fire gods not to burn down the entire oasis, Liga Bur frees the tiny elemental by gently transferring it from his torch to a dried out bush on the dead outskirts of deader Zephir’s oasis garden.

Immediately growing larger, as he consumes the dry and brittle bush, Dijonn smirks as he wavers the Party goodbye.

“Good luck skin-wearers!.”

The ‘Night’ Watchmen

The ghost of the young Cottisonian soldier; Pardrik sways easily, as he shimmers in the bright sunlight. His form and features have become clearer somehow, after each completed guard duty. More defined and in focus after each re-emergence, even though his spirit form had been shredded, defeated and dismissed several times by the ethereal but still vicious Hag and her phantom steed. Regardless of that though, he’d always reformed by the next shift. Despite their pitiful existence, ghosts are notoriously hard to actually ‘kill’ again. 

It’s the end of his and Arowe’s seventh eight-hour guard duty, and Pardrik notices that his Elven partner seems finally, to have calmed down. The ghost hovers over the still sleeping Halfling, but thanks to the clever positioning of his bones, he’d been able to move freely around the marquee and act as an early, though imminent, warning system for all his new friends. Now though, a feeling of anxiety runs through him. Like his ghostly form, his mind had become less clouded after each successfully completed shift, and now he wonders if the Halfling; Liga Bur was correct in his assumption about fulfilling his previously failed duty. He was cursed on the orders of Lord Urdurel to exist forever, tortured by the unending sight of the young Lady Lamenta’s dying moments. A testimony to his failure to protect her. 

Now though, after serving those seven nights of duty, that he’d failed to give her, was his curse truly over? The last three days had been spent just quietly standing, as the Hag and her badly injured Nightmare steed hadn’t reappeared.

As if in answer to his silent thoughts, a beam of bluish light, despite the natural brightness around him, somehow seems to illuminate him from above and he feels a pull upward.

“My friend! It appears you were right and, in protecting you, my curse has been lifted. I didn’t dare believe it but, after a century of suffering, I’ve served my penance and can finally return to the afterlife I deserved.”

Liga Bur, who’d suspected as much, quickly summons his teammates to say goodbye to their insubstantial ally. Pardrik takes the opportunity to thank them all in turn but deliberately finishes on Arowe.

“It is you, that I’ve spent the most time with over this last week. The magical hand you possess, your sharp Elven senses and your uncanny trancing ability have made you the ideal partner. While I stood guard on the ethereal plane, you guarded the material one. Now though, from now on, I’m afraid you must guard alone.”

The ghostly soldier instructs Arowe to lay the ornate, magical rapier he’d gotten from Magritte on the warm sand before placing his own immaterial longsword overtop it. The two swords exist in the same space for a moment before the spirit sword fades from existence, leaving only Arowe’s rapier behind. It looks different though in some way. It’s magical glow has turned from an orangey gold to a blueish silver and the blade, despite the warm sand, is unnaturally cool to the touch.

As Arowe turns, he sees that Pardrik too is fading, but rather than a feeling of sadness, now that his anger is no longer magnified by the Oath-bow, he shares the smiling teenager’s joy.

Arowe’s bejewelled +2 Rapier (that he was given by Magritte in exchange for his sinisterly intelligent one) has now been further enhanced by the parting gift of the ghost; Pardrik and now has a +3 bonus on attack and damage as well as having the ‘Ghost touch’ feature! 

Death Wish

Unimpressed by the impotent threats of the ghostly guard/prisoner Pardrik or the pitiful statues of the teenage Lady Lamenta surrounding him, Fortu instead examines the solid cold-iron door and its full sized representation of, who can only be, the wide stanced, hands-on-hips, eye-patch wearing Lord Urdurel.

Reaching for the Snatch

It's the fifth day of travel and so far, so good, with the Party making fair time and managing to stay on the right desert ‘path'. The repellent nightmare Hag, (who somehow, simultaneously seems to also be the toe-curlingly hot; Hetzabah} has ‘visited’ four times, attempting but failing each time to invade the dreams and corrupt the mind of the phenomenally skilled, Halfling tracker; Liga Bur.

Despite their open space, temporary tent living, their defences are sound. After carefully and evenly spacing Pardrik's (two-hundred-and-six) bones, carefully all around the marquee, the Elven Arowe trances while his companions set up and organise for the next day. This way, Pardrik can roam freer than he’s been able to do in a hundred years and Arowe can stand watch over his Halfling friend, undistracted.

A few hours later, as semi-expected, Arowe feels the, now familiar, twitch of the enchanted, mummified hand draped around his neck, signalling the phantom Hag's appearance. Gracefully, spinning around, he sees the revolting looking old woman and the pitch-black, bat-winged horse drift through the canvas wall, but the (clearer-than-he's-ever-been) ghost of Pardrik is already standing/floating in the way.

"Begone wretched Hag! I won't let you have this one!"

Arowe’s and the ghost guard's echoey shouts rouse the others from their slumber and Liga Bur finds himself awake and instantly immune from the Hag's dream haunting. Poor Pardrik though, is ‘killed’ yet again, but this time by the Nightmare horse’s flaming, ethereal hooves, rather than the terrifying Hag herself.

After this though, something else unexpected happens; something different. Previously the Hag would flee frustrated at this point, but this time Arowe suddenly feels real heat and smells the smoke and fire issuing from the hellish horse, before he even realises what's occurring. Both the Hag and her large Nightmare actually materialise physically within the tight confines of the sectioned off tent, instantly hemming Liga Bur and his riding dog in, as well as Arowe himself. And then they strike! Not at their original Halfling target, but instead at his vigilant Elven guard!

Arowe weirdly feels no rage towards the Nightmare horse or the Hag though; it’s as if every ounce of his anger is still reserved for his ‘oath-bow’ sworn target and he has none left over. The only emotion he can dredge up is disappointment that he’s not facing Sir Briefadel. This soon changes to genuine fear though, as the massive horse's fiery hoof smack down on his shoulder and the hideous Hag's maw widens as she advances on him. The battle is, thankfully for the Elven archer, soon joined by the armed but uncharacteristically unarmoured Fortu as well as Henshaw and Barbella. Flashing sword blades and reckless crossbow bolts fill the crowded, suddenly claustrophobic space.

Unaccustomed to fighting within such close quarters and choking on the acrid smoke bellowing from the black horse's mouth, Arowe only manages to get a few, ineffectual feathered shafts off before he realises that he's in serious trouble! The two powerful supernatural creatures are solely targeting him and they want him dead! Using the slight flexibility of the tent walls, he manages to slide past the constrained horse-bat-thing and flee to the healing, harmonious words of Rifkin in the next tent section, while Fortu, Barbella and Henshaw hold the Hag and the demon horse at bay and continue to defend Liga Bur.

The Halfling's also desperate to flee but he can't easily escape the tent or get past the Nightmare horse or Hag. Mir Hundur finds his natural claws and jaws ineffective against the Hag and Liga Bur looks at his small, silver Kukri with concern. Can he even hurt her with this?

Inspired by some inner voice, Fortu shouts over at him.

"Forget the knife; Grab her magical ruby heart! Snatch it from her!"

Two things instantly happen. Liga Bur, though appreciating the good idea, realises that, although the chain the ruby hangs on isn't that secured, considering the height difference between the Halfling and the Hag, it's a hard ask. The Hag though, still senses the potential danger and fearfully grips the large ruby to her plump breast, before she and her evil mount fade back into the ethereal plane and escape.

The keen sensed Arowe realises that he’d also spotted something odd in the confusion...

"You were right Rifkin. The Hag's precious ruby does contain a Human eye! It’s hard to tell through the red of the ruby but I think it was a blue one!”

The Cost of Confrontation

The long anticipated battle at the top of Dulcetta's slowly rotating tower had been shockingly and frustratingly brief, with Sir Briefadel literally choosing flight over fight. Doberman had barrelled in before Sir Briefadel had the opportunity to properly speak and, in the cramped observation deck, Fortu and Arowe were unable to properly utilise their magical weapons.

After just a few scrambled and confusing moments, Sir Briefadel and his Mother, realising that the adventurers weren't going to be persuaded to change sides, chose to step back off the ledge and escape into the darkness far below. Fortu, almost immediately dived after them, followed by the now oath-enraged Arowe and then by the more restrained Liga Bur and his big dog, but to no avail. The third, hidden enemy made itself known and carried the others away to safety. A huge, bat-winged, black horse, seen only by Liga Bur before, and even then, only in his nightmares.

It’s only after the Party members had all clambered out of the swirling darkness below, and everyone is reunited, do they realise the full cost of that brief encounter. They’re all injured to one degree or another. Cuts and scrapes mostly; easily fixed with a few days rest and some magical healing. Some of the others though, are carrying far more serious afflictions.

The musician; Rifkin seems, much to his horror, to have been permanently deafened by the armoured Sir Briefadel’s somehow silent and motionless spell.

Arowe’s recent ‘vacuumed’ blood loss is still apparent and the activation of his Oath-bow, but failure to actually kill Sir Briefadel, seems to have enraged him to a state of barely contained frenzy.

And poor, stupid Doberman; the surprise hag-bite on his blubbery neck that he sustained from Hetzabah, has resisted all of Rifkin’s attempts to treat it. The two opposing, semi-circular teeth marks are already inflamed and festering with some sort of foul rotting disease. A disease so vile and virulent that, even with Doberman’s ridiculous constitution, he might not survive the arduous desert trek to Zephir’s oasis portal, let alone the dimensional trip back to Fissa.

All this from less than a few dozen seconds of combat and then, after all that, Sir Briefadel actually succeeded in rescuing his Mother and escaping. Despite his (very) near death to Arowe’s newly activated Oath-bow, the annoying aristocrat actually won!

Dejected but determined to get home, the band of Adventurers gather up their belongings and head back out into the multi-sunned Calcientan heat, with the irreplaceable Liga Bur sent off ahead to recover their ugly camel creatures.

Once the last of the adventurers makes it out through its veil of illusion, the 'Lost Tower of Stowen' is finally hidden again from prying eyes. Indifferent to the escape of its prisoners, the damage to its mechanical guards and its loss of purpose, it continues to turn, and having completed its full rotation, merely turns on. 

Ghost of a Chance

Shrewd as he is, Liga Bur can’t help but notice Dijonn's flame flare back into life as he emerges from the three-foot crawlway under the iron ‘Urdurel’ door.

Glancing back through the gap, he sees the keening ghost, sobbing silently while surrounded by the seven animated statues of the murdered Lamenta. Seven statues representing the seven days guard duty he'd failed to honour.

Why did the fire elemental dim so much while within the tortured ghost-guard's well lit prison room? Was it because its light wasn't needed? If that were the case, why brighten here, where more than sufficient light is streaming down the stairs from the floor above?

Putting this worry to one side, Liga Bur feels another nagging concern take its place. He'd rescued the fire elemental but why not the ghost? Were they not both just prisoners in this accursed tower? But more; the Hag that had tormented him for the last five days was spirit in form. Spirit like this guilt-ridden ghost? A cynical thought occurs to him; could an arrangement be made? A deal that would benefit them both?

Snapping back to reality, the cauliflower-eared Halfling hears the overhead grunts of exertion from Fortu and Doberman, as the gap between the block and door slowly narrows. Leaving Mir Hundur and Dijonn behind, Liga Bur calls the lithe human; Barbella to follow him through the remaining gap. Confused, Fortu stops shoving and gestures to the stout Doberman to do the same.

The light back in the room is tinged blue, creating an eerie effect, but bright enough to see clearly by. It wouldn't be much of a punishment if Padrik didn’t have to constantly view the cringing, crying, dying faces of the teenage girl he’d failed to protect.

Examining the central cabinet, the Halfling warrior is frustrated by the obvious thickness of the glass. He knows that his fine bladed, silver Kukri won't be able to break it. Barbella though immediately finds a solution. On the opposite side to Liga Bur, the glass panel has a hinge that is secured by an intricate bronze padlock.

Noticing a couple of rats scamper up the stairs from the floor below, Liga Bur feels a renewed sense of urgency… The Blob is coming!

"Can you open it?"

Barbella smiles wryly, revealing that golden tooth again.

"Wot exactly are you implying?"

With that though, his smile broadens as he deftly twists his magical, glowing sickle tip in the lock. With a gratifying 'click', it pops open and the glass panel swings slightly ajar.

Suddenly aware of what's happening around him, the ghost rises again.

"What are you doing? You must leave, leave, LEAVE this place!"

Unperturbed, Liga Bur explains his predicament with his 'night-time’ tormenter and makes his request. At this surprising news, the shimmering, vaguely human shaped ghost, falls silent for a moment…

"You want ME to guard YOU from the spirit Hag who haunts you in your dreams?"

Liga Bur nods in affirmation and the translucent ghost of Padrik expands on his original question.

"You want me; the wretch who failed utterly to protect Lady Lamenta, to serve out my uncompleted seven days of duty guarding you?"

With a confused but hopeful look upon his wispy face, the ghost of Padrik finally nods back in agreement.

"Gather up my remains and place my skeleton where you want me to guard. I can only materialise for eight continuous hours before fading for the next sixteen. Remember though, I can’t travel more than ten feet beyond my bones, even without those statues surrounding me, so arrange them carefully."

With the ghost's permission gained, Liga Bur gathers up the tabard in the case and, using it like a sack, pulls everything inside the glass case into it. Bones, weapons and helmet etc. and drags it off the plinth.

Even as he and Barbella rush back to the, now tight, gap in the iron door, Liga Bur spots the emblem on the sack that was Padrik's uniform. It's a wavy, black bastard sword, broken in two on a field of grey (but what was probably white). A sword that looks almost exactly like the one Fortu just cut through the iron door with.

The Sword is Mightier than the Quill!

Rifkin hadn’t actually seen the unrelenting and seemingly unkillable slime creature, but he’d heard the panicked screams from the men below. Screams of true fear drawn from tested men; men of action. They'd all escaped, but somehow he just knows that the abhorrent creature is still silently searching for them, slowly oozing up the stone steps behind and below them.

Fortu, seeing Arowe, Liga Bur and Barbella examining the glass cabinet, moves straight over to the ornate metal door in the opposite corner of the spacious room.

It's large, heavy and definitely cast out of the same cold-iron that the outer doors and spears were made of. It also has a full-sized embossed image of an eyepatch wearing, crowned and bearded man, his stockinged legs planted wide with his right hand, palm out and fingers splayed. Fortu recognises the features but, beyond the eyepatch, can see some differences. The figure strongly resembles Sir Briefadel and is of a similar age, but is markedly stockier. His Father; Lord Urdurel perhaps? Something's wrong though, as the iron is weirdly discoloured and warped. It's as if the door had been super-heated and, while soft and pliant, forcibly pushed out of the way, before being wedged back into place. 

As Fortu gets to within touching distance, the iron moulding speaks... Or attempts to at least. It sounds like words but muffled and distorted through partially melted lips. The Gladiator scowls though and activates the magic mouth for a second time. Listening harder this time, he can just make it out, for as garbled as it is, it's still in the common tongue.

"Halt, whether you be friend or fiend. If you know the answer to this question, through you may go... What was my beloved Daughter's secret middle name?"

From behind the broad-shouldered Pit-Fighter, Rifkin's slightly arched, elven-ish eyebrows shoot up. After quickly rifling through his overstuffed knapsack, he starts to furiously flick through the tattered remains of the Gnome; Grimcrack’s diary. Despite the Bard not being able to actually read the Gnomish script, Arowe had underlined certain words and passages in the loose scraps that seemed, potentially important. Finally, finding the page he’d been searching for, Rifkin looks up to see the smiling Fortu cutting horizontally through the metal figure’s knees. The armoured Fighter's already more than halfway through slicing a large rectangular block out of the thick cold-iron door with his astonishing new sword. Sighing softly, and knowing it's too late to make any difference, the Bard doesn’t have the heart to announce what he’d found…

Instead, Rifkin just whispers the answer into the cool, still air around him…

“Lamenta Angela Urderal.”

‘Angela’. Clever. A secret name no witch, fiend or demon would even dare think, let alone say aloud.

Padrik’s Curse

Arowe finishes reading the engraved inscription at the base of the glass cabinet.

'... the worthless soldier, who abandoned his post and allowed my precious daughter to be slaughtered in her bed.'

So engrossed in his reading, Arowe barely notices the enchanted, mummified hand, tied around his neck, twitch and point, before a shadowy figure starts to coalesce within the glass cabinet. It's vaguely defined but it seems to be a young man kneeling. Kneeling but weeping, before gradually becoming aware of the Elf's presence.

"Go away!" It whispers.

"I failed in my duty to protect my charge but you must still leave this place!" It's voice getting slightly louder and more ardent.

Slowly rising to its translucent feet, the ethereal figure sways easily through the glass of the cabinet and brandishes what must be an afterimage of its sword. A ghostly weapon. Arowe though, has lived over a hundred years, recently faced an ethereal hag and heard enough ghost stories to be unafraid. Standing his ground against the pathetic spirit, it flinches back from the surrounding statues of the girl it failed to protect. Knowing the wretched creature has no power on the material plane, Arowe instead interrogates the tortured spirit.

"My name is... Was Padrik. I was assigned guard duty for the Lady Lamenta but I failed on my first night's watch. Seven days I was meant to protect her, just seven days... But I failed. Failed on my first night!"

Emboldened by his Elven teammates obvious lack of fear, the Halfling; Liga Bur also listens in to the ghostly tale of woe.

"Although only sixteen, she was already renowned for her kindness and beauty. Despite being a member of the castle guard, I'd never actually seen her up close, so I crept away from my post to sneak a peak through the window of her bed-chamber door. It was just for a moment and I knew there were a score of other guards outside protecting her.”

 

The ghost of Padrik pauses and his vaguely human outline sags in shame. 

"I was somehow caught by surprise and stabbed in the back. I never even saw the face of my killer. It was only when Lord Urdurel summoned my spirit back, that I learned what the consequences of my 'dereliction of duty' were. The guards outside had already been slaughtered by assassins before they'd come for me... And then sweet, innocent Lamenta. My Captain pleaded my case and begged for leniency. He argued that I’d only been eighteen years old myself and should never have been tasked with such responsibility. Lord Urderel would hear none of it though. He swore that he'd find the culprits and punish them in the worst ways imaginable... Starting with me." 

Unimpressed, Arowe yawns and turns away from the ghost’s mewing self pity, to see what Fortu is doing but Liga Bur senses something more in this bound spirit than just regret. Gesturing around the room full of statues, The Halfling squints.

"And this was your punishment? You’re just another inmate in this vertical prison?”

The ghost of Padrik fades further back into his display box of ignominy.

"I can't escape this place. My spirit is bound to my bones, cursed to witness the terror and pain in Lamenta's eyes for all eternity. Tethered to my own decaying skeleton until I've somehow fulfilled my oath to stand seven nights watch."

Marble Statues, Glass cabinets and Cold-Iron Doors

Vaulting easily up the steep stone steps before skidding to a halt, the athletic Arowe arrives at the new landing to find yet another surprisingly unbarred doorway. Despite the tower's revised purpose of being a prison, the only actual door they'd encountered, locked or otherwise, had been the huge cold-iron one leading to the grim outside. Odd to leave the levels so open for anyone or anything to move unimpeded up and down... Looking in to this floor though, he finally spots the second one, looming large on the opposite corner of the room. Like the first, it’s made of solid, Fey repelling cold-iron and ornate, but rather than traditional swirling, geometric patterns, this one represents a full sized man standing proud, both in posture and in its embossed design.

The previous two levels were booby-trapped and dark but this one is clearly lit by some, slightly disturbing, ambient light. Without stepping through the threshold, the atypically tall Elf takes in the strange tableau presented to him. A few terrified rats scurrying out of the way, draw Arowe's attention, but inadvertently lead his eyes to a large glass cabinet. It's about five-foot tall, standing atop a stone platform at the centre of the large room, surrounded by seven marble statues. Inside the glass cabinet lie the broken armour, weapons and bones of what looks like a Human soldier. Having read hundreds of adventure/horror stories in his youth, he’s immediately, and justifiably, suspicious of the statues. After Arowe watches them for a moment, he realises that their faces are indeed moving... Not alive but animated somehow by some sort of illusion projected directly from the glass cabinet itself. All of the statues are of the same young woman, frozen in various poses of fear or pleading. The beautiful teenager's seven faces wince and cringe and plead, as if about to be beaten or killed.

Still safe in the arched doorway, Arowe waits and watches the tortured expressions loop repeatedly, while his teammates catch up. The darkly stubbled Barbella and the astute Halfling; Liga Bur are the first to reach him, and the three of them enter the eerie chamber together. The light from the room almost prevents Liga Bur from noticing his fiery companion, Dijonn instantly shrink back down to a gently burning torch. At this low intensity, it’d be almost impossible to distinguish him from a normal flame on a regular torch… The Halfling shrugs, perhaps it's just to save the remains of his, already mostly used up, tar-soaked bracken torch? 

Barbella calls the Elf and Halfling over and points to an engraved bronze plaque he'd spotted at the base of the glass cabinet:

'Here lies the bones, armour and sword of the worthless soldier, who abandoned his post and allowed my precious daughter to be slaughtered in her bed.'

Finally catching up, Fortu and the others cautiously enter the room.