“That was quite a leap.” Erik comments on his teammate's finishing strike as he approaches the giant, motionless body. Zyra is accompanying him.
“And those were quite some shots.” Atticus returns the compliment.
“Are you alright, Kellar?” Veros asks, assisting his companion to his feet.
“Absolutely fuckin' not.” Kellar groans with a painful scowl, gently clutching his upper left arm. “My left shoulder is already dodgy as hell. I didn't need it to get all fucked up like this again.” He looks to the shoulder in question, and his upper arm is certainly not in the spot it's supposed to be in.
“What do you want to do?” Veros asks, unsure of how to treat the injury.
The rogue heaves a long sigh. “We gotta pop the bastard back in. Can you do that for me?” He asks with a certain tone of familiarity that suggests this has happened before, maybe even multiple times.
“I can, but... are you sure? That'll be as painful as it was when it dislocated, if not more so.”
“Trust me, I know. Just give me a second.” Kellar detaches his dagger's leather sheathe from his hip and places it in his mouth. He closes his eyes and takes several very deep breaths. Then, he nods nervously. “Go.” He says, his voice heavily muffled by the small scabbard tightly clenched between his teeth.
Veros sighs, showing a hint of reluctance. “Alright...” He gently grasps Kellar's upper left arm, and takes a deep breath himself. “I'll count down. Three... two... one...” Veros jerks his hand up and resettles Kellar's shoulder with a grotesque snap of his arm resettling into its proper position, causing everyone to wince and the rogue himself to let out a fierce, neck-straining scream.
“Aaagh! Fuck! Fuck!” His muffled curses echo throughout the empty foyer. He punctuates his profrane tirade with several continued loud groans before finally calming down and removing the leather scabbard from his mouth.
“Will you be able to hold a shield, at least?” Royd innocently asks.
Kellar looks up at him with a scornful glare. “No, you undercooked roast, I fuckin' won't.”
“We don't know what's behind that door.” Veros remarks, looking at the tall double doors leading into the congregation hall. “Don't overexert yourself, okay?”
“I'll just stay in the back and let everyone else do the work.” Kellar facetiously responds, however there's little else he can do, considering his injury.
“Let's finish this, then.”
After their brief rest, the Mistwalkers proceed to the northern end of the foyer, and up one last case of stairs that lead to the towering wooden threshold that grants entry to their final destination. Similar to the iron ones they've seen throughout the castle, the double doors here are covered in more intricate carvings and molds of weaving patterns and symmetrical borders, with two large vertical metal handles near the center. Veros stares at the crack in the center, separating the two sides, and takes a deep breath.
“If anyone has anything to say, now's the time.” He announces without turning around. “The source of the mist is beyond these doors, and we don't know for sure if we'll have another chance to turn around.”
The six journeyers are unable to come up with any final words, their minds preoccupied with the mere fact that they're at the last door of their dangerous, long, grueling quest. They've narrowly escaped multiple deadly ambushes, some of them have suffered injury, and they're half-starving due to five days of strict rationing. None of them can conjure the right words to punctuate their arduous mission with; only a looming sensation of anxiety hangs over them as they nervously await their last obstacle, which lies beyond this threshold.
“Let's just finish what we've started.” Atticus bluntly comments, breaking the uneasy silence with a voiced desire to charge ahead.
Veros gives a small chuckle, amused at his comrade's bluntness. “Right.” He heaves a sigh and grasps the two handles and pushes forward with his entire body, slowly budging open the doors. Another blast of cold air is felt, and as the two tall doors spread open more and more, the source of the grey miasma comes into view. The audible hum of the eruption that they heard outside of the foggy wall near the entrance also returns.
The interior of the congregation hall is another atrium with incredibly high ceilings and domed glass roof, and more limestone pillars along the east and west walls. Another black rug rests underneath the long, sturdy wooden table in the center of the chamber, surrounded by ornate chairs meant to rest the bodies of nobles and the archduke's personnel who would partake in the meetings here.
“There it is...” Zyra utters, in equal parts amazement and intimidation.
At the opposite side of the hall, on a raised platform ten feet high, was a glowing black crystal, suspended about four feet above the platform floor, blasting the endless stream of mist up and through the shattered glass dome above.
“So it really is a black arcane crystal.” Veros comments, unsure of whether he should be surprised at the revelation or not.
“They actually managed to draw power from it somehow,” the pyromancer comments, “but obviously couldn't control it. How did they manage it?” She stares in total bewilderment and fascination. The Mistwalker part of her is eager to destroy it, but the arcane student part of her wishes to study it.
“Wait a second.” Kellar interjects and points to the furthest end of the the table. “Who are they?”
The journeyers look to find two corpses collapsed forward and lying over the surface of the tabletop at the opposite end, facing each other. They're the only bodies in the room that can be seen.
“Those clothes...” Veros comments, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. The corpse on the left is wearing dusty blue robes bearing intricate patterns and embroidery, similar to the monks the group had encountered on the way to Armasstadt. “Is that... Selick?” Its face is far too decomposed to be able to make out its identity; practically no flesh is left on it.
“Then could the other body be Advisor Hayne?” Atticus inquires, pointing at the corpse on the right, wearing a long black coat. Like the other, its far too decayed to be certain, but given the information they know, who else could they be? They're unsure of what to think, having expected to enter the room and find the two men gleefully controlling the mist's source.
“I'll check on the corpse on the right. Atticus, you take the left.” Veros commands, drawing his sword once more in case the cadavers reanimate.
Stolen story; please report.
The veteran slowly approaches the body in the long black coat while Atticus approaches the one in blue robes. Veros gets within arm's length distance of the unmoving corpse and kicks the foot of the chair it rests in to see if it stirs, but it doesn't. Atticus, with his shield on his arm, uses the rim of it to nudge the robed body. It also doesn't stir in the slightest.
“Strange.” Veros comments, easing his stance. “I don't see any wounds on them, but it looks as though they're dead for good.” He grabs the corpse in the coat by the left shoulder and turns it over to get a better look at its front, revealing a golden metal pin on its chest depicting a set of balance scales.
“That pin...” Erik comments, narrowing his eyes. “That's an advisor's mark, worn by every advisor to an archduke. The king's advisors wear it too, though one slightly different.”
“This truly is Hayne, then.” Veros utters, giving one last glance over the rotted remains of the shady advisor they can't even question.
Atticus, after pushing over the body in blue robes, notices something, as well. “This one's wearing a medallion similar to the ones we found on the monks.” He points to the accessory hanging from the corpse's neck.
“Does it depict a portrait of Orrith on it?” Erik asks, referring to the King of the Gods.
The knight inspects the medallion further, and notices a profile portrait of an older man with long hair and long, braided goatee. “It does.” He answers with a nod.
“Then that must be Selick. Only Grand Monks are given medallions with Elder God Orrith on it.” The noble clarifies. “The regular monks are given medallions that depict Enma, the goddess of judgement and civilization – Orrith's daughter.”
The Mistwalkers look back and forth between the long-dead and long-withered remains of Selick and Hayne, bewildered by the discovery after having assured themselves that these two men were the masterminds in control of the mist's presence. Though they might have been at some point, it certainly isn't in the way they had assumed. With both of them long dead, it will be impossible to receive any amount of answers from them, nor will they receive the just punishment they deserve under the eyes of Yhordish law.
“To whom do I owe this pleasure?” A low, commanding voice suddenly booms from above them.
The six adventurers look up at the platform that oversees the ground floor, and from behind the black crystal and it's erupting mist steps out a middle-aged man with ornate, regal clothing, short black hair, and short beard. Unlike the corpses at the table, he doesn't seem undead at all, let alone severely decayed. On the contrary, he looks quite healthy. However, one stark difference is clear: his eyes glow a sinister, unnatural yellow, similar to all the undead they've encountered, despite his appearance.
“I've known it was only a matter of time before I was reached.” The man continues, speaking mostly to himself with a disappointed expression. “I hoped it wouldn't be this soon.”
“Archduke Westshire?” Veros utters, shocked at the man's sudden appearance. He tries to grasp the right words to accompany his confusion. “What... How are you alive? Did you have something to do with all of this?” Still overcome with surprise, he asks the first questions that come to mind.
“You know of the black arcane crystals, yes?” Westshire replies, pointing toward the floating rock near the end of the platform. “We've spent so long being afraid of them – afraid of their immense power. Due to that fear, however, men have lost their ambition to learn and control them.”
“I suppose that's a 'yes.'” Kellar snidely remarks under his breath, his eyes narrowed with deep suspicion and ire.
“What the hell are you talking about, Westshire?” Veros asks, growing more impatient and angry. “Why have you done this?! What's the purpose?”
“I fear death.” The archduke sullenly replies, casting his gaze down. “The cold embrace of it, the idea of being stuck in an endless nothing, the terrifying thought that my name would eventually be spoken one last time before never being uttered again. I know that I'm not the only one who fears such things.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that you're using that thing for immortality? To save yourself from life's natural cycle?” The veteran snidely predicts the rest of the archduke's tale.
“No. Not just for myself.” Westshire answers with overbearing seriousness. “I had assumed that if the the black arcane crystals were powerful enough to take countless lives away in an instant, then perhaps they are powerful enough to prolong them, too. By a stroke of luck, we were able to control it after breaking it out of its ornate housing – the ivory, jewel-covered orb it was found in. If I could save myself from the end of my mortal coil, then perhaps I could save others too.”
Atticus angrily steps forward. “You didn't save a damn thing!” He shouts with an unprecedented amount of passionate vitriol. “All you did was cause a plague! You've snuffed out hundreds of thousands of lives! How the hell can you call that 'saving' anything with a straight face?!”
“On the contrary, I'm sharing my gift with the world.” The archduke responds with such candid callousness, he seems as though his point of view is simply the most obvious one. “Obviously, when you attempt to control such an immense source of power, you can't expect to perfect things the first time. The deaths caused by the mist so far are simply collateral damage for my greater plan. Don't you also fear death? Eventually, I will be able to utilize the crystal and all of Yhordran – perhaps even the world – will enjoy the splendors of eternal youth... Eternal life. It's a beautiful thing.” The archduke rambles with a wry smile.
“Beautiful?” Veros echoes, repulsed by the sentiment. “You're turning our home into a barren wasteland. Your home! These people aren't 'alive' because of the mist, they're just shambling husks of who they once were!”
“The man's lost it.” Kellar remarks, shaking his head and scowling in disgust. “He's been stuck in here for months, staring at that crystal. His mind is gone – corrupted.”
“Fools.” Westshire contorts his face into a frown and condemning glare. “Don't you wish to escape the clutches of finality? To elude nature's mortal coil? I will the one to control the uncontrollable! I will be the one to learn the unlearnable! And it will be for the good of man!”
“What you're offering isn't a blessing, Archduke.” Atticus steps forward, growing even more argumentative. “You expect us to die, become rotting puppets, and call that immortality? What's the purpose of 'living' with no autonomy? Trading our free will to limp around as a mindless corpse isn't a trade at all. It's a takeover of our humanity.”
The archduke turns his nose up in disdain. “I don't expect a band of dogged commonfolk to fully grasp the altruistic meaning of my ambitions.” He walks away from the edge of the platform to stand behind the black crystal. “I sought to escape death, and in my success, I found a way for others to escape it, too. Together, we can all avoid the harsh ending of the cycle of life.” He raises his hands and cups them around the crystal without directly touching it. His eyes narrow to a devious leer reeking with ill intent. “But if you don't wish to accept my gift willingly, then I'll just have to force it on you.”
Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind explodes from the crystal, kicking up dust and tiny shards of glass, and pushing the Mistwalkers off balance. They lift their hands and arms up to protect their faces. The beam becomes louder, faster, and denser, pushing out the ominous dark grey fog at an alarming rate.
“Recently, I've discovered a way to directly control the undead who are under the influence of the mist!” Westshire proudly proclaims, his booming voice managing to overtake the sound of the endless eruption of miasma. “As of right now, my reach isn't terribly far, but I can still give you an example!”
“What is he talking about?!” Kellar yells, trying to maintain his footing as he resists the powerful winds.
“I don't know!” Veros answers back, similarly trying to withstand the gusts.
The Mistwalkers look around the room in an attempt to gauge whatever it is that Westshire is trying to do, but nothing seems to be happening. However, a faint, distant collection of noises grabs the attention of Zyra, who's still near the door. She turns around and peers back into the grand foyer in time to see dozens upon dozens of frantic, feral undead entering from the courtyard, pouring out from the east and west buildings they initially ignored.
“Behind us!” The mage screams and points, grabbing the attention of the others.
“Close the doors! Hurry!” Veros commands as he and the others sprint for the tall wooden threshold.
The stampede of rushing undead continue to make a beeline for the congregation hall, practically stepping over one another in a ravenous, bloodthirsty fashion. They even climb over the limp body of the giant guardian in their one-track desire to devour the six adventurers. The front-most undead manage to reach the bottom of the staircase leading to the double doors before they're finally closed.