Empirical Gnollage: Installment 82 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment082.png]

There seemed to be no objections as Al's companions moved to follow him back down the steps.

"This could be a chance for you to do your first rescue as a sword-hero!" Wikwocket enthused.

"I'm not really an anything hero, it's just common decency to try to help people," Al scoffed.

"One might argue that considering the urge to rush to help someone to be simply common decency is itself an obvious indication of heroism," Bote argued as they reached the landing at the bottom of the steps.

"If you say so," Al replied skeptically. He leaned into the hallway to his right and listened for any further sounds. As he listened, a bestial fuzzy head leaned over him on a long fuzzy neck, ears twitching.

"Do you hear anything?" Al asked. "I think I hear water."

Gruntle grunted. "Moving water." The gnoll listened for a few seconds more. "Brushing. Maybe a quiet voice."

"Brushing?" Al asked, imagining some mysterious person dealing with hair. To demonstrate, Gruntle swept his hand across the wall as if to brush off dirt, making Al wince as he scraped away the flakes of delicate ancient pigments from the mural.

"Is the voice saying anything?"

"Too quiet to hear."

"Would the brave hero like to lead the charge?" Wikwocket teased.

"I don't know, would you?" Al retorted.

Wikwocket grinned. "Very well, I shall!" she said, drawing her dagger and BiteySue, and striking a dramatic pose. She opened her mouth as if to shout for everyone to follow her into danger, but then smirked and quietly set off down the hallway to scout. Gruntle followed. Al and Bote followed Gruntle. The hallway turned left after about five paces and continued about ten more. Al noticed that the amount of clothing on what was left of the Elven figures painted in the wall murals seemed to be steadily decreasing as they reached the end of the hall. The wide door to their right was better preserved than the other doors they'd seen so far, treated with some sort of oil to prevent harm from the dampness. An intricately carved scene on the door seemed to depict a long room, with long rectangular baths along the left and right walls, and a wide circular pool at the far end. A sort of open window along the wall to the right above that pool seemed to have clothed, seated elves, watching the bathers. Carved representations of a few nude long-eared people lounged in each of the depicted pools or were scraping their skin clean with some curved instrument like the one the statue in the entry room had held.

The sounds of flowing water were obvious here, and Al could finally hear the muttering and gently swishing sounds coming from beyond the door. He looked up at Gruntle, who seemed to be more fascinated by the bas-relief carving of on the wall at the end of the hallway more than the door. It seemed to show an overflowing fountain. Markings carved into it seemed to depict some sort of writing around the edge of the fountain. They were too small and worn to tell what they were supposed to mean, but something about the arrangement seemed interesting to Al. He couldn't tell why, though.

"You like the carving?" Al asked the gnoll, never having seen anything to indicate he had any interest or appreciation for art.

"Water," Gruntle said quietly, pointing at the wall.

"Um...yes. Yes it is."

Al shook his head and turned his attention back to the door. He pointed at it with the tip of Purgatio and gave Wikwocket a questioning look. She nodded and put her rapier away, then gave the door a careful examination. She ran her dagger around the edges and underneath. Finally, she looked up and shrugged. There was an empty sconce for a torch next to the door, so he put his there, and reached for the door latch with his left hand. As quietly as he could, he lifted the latch and pushed the door slowly open.

The hinges seemed to be in as good a condition as the wood of the door, and it swung silently. Al hesitated as he spotted something just to the right of the door inside - a small pile of dirt, and a dead goblin. The goblin was withered like an old, mummified thing, and its face was stuck in a stiff expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed terror.

Now Al could hear the words of the feminine voice inside, though he couldn't understand them. The quiet brushing sound was there, too.

"Ego sum Cleodora. Debeo emundare. Reficio. Ego sum Cleodora."

Al slowly pushed the door further open. The flickering torchlight revealed that the portion of the room that Al could see actually matched the depiction on the door. He thought he could just barely see the nearest edge of the round pool at the far end. Unlike the rest of what they'd seen so far, this room both looked and smelled clean, though Al could see some cracks in the stone walls.

The elf who crawled along the floor away from them seemed not to have noticed the door opening nor the torchlight. She was muttering to herself as she brushed the ground ahead of her, as if trying to sweep the dust from the floor with her hand. She continued patiently along and beyond where Al could see.

In the darkness at the far end of the room, the voice cried out again, frustrated and angry.

"Debeo emundare! Ego sum Cleodora! Debeo emundare!"

...and then all was quiet.

"What was that about?" Al asked quietly.

"She seems quite maddened. She screamed angrily at the pool at the end of the room, then dove in," Bote interpreted.

"I didn't hear a splash, though."

"We didn't see one, either. Oh, she has returned."

A wordless scream of anguish echoed out from the darkness, much like the one they'd heard from up the stairs. Al felt uneasy as the elven woman strode back into view at the edge of the torchlight. She was pale and sad. Her steps made no sound at all, and Al was discomforted to find that she seemed translucent. Her face began to change as she glared at the adventurers at the door.

"Uh, sorry to disturb you, we came to help," Al called out. This did not have the desired effect. The elven woman's face distorted into a terrifying mask of anguish, rage, hate, and death as she glided swiftly towards them shrieking madly in Elvish.

"Transgressores abierunt! Ego sum Cleodora! Debeo emundare! AAAIEEEEEEE!!!!!"

Even the normally-stoic Bote let out an involuntary scream at the horrible sight. Al screamed as well, scrambling back away from the door and holding Purgatio defensively in front of himself. Wikwocket screamed, and Al saw her ghost-stabbing dagger in his peripheral vision, held out in front of her as she backed away, too.

They were all drowned out by the high-pitched shrieking bark-laugh of a completely panicked gnoll. "Hey! Let go! Let go!" Wikwocket shouted. Al risked a very brief glance back to see Gruntle crouching tightly into the far corner of the hall against the wall with the fountain carving, wide-eyed and clutching the struggling Wikwocket to himself. His feet kicked forward as he tried to retreat further despite the wall in the way. Al had no time to see more than this as the vengeful screaming spirit clawed at him from the door. Al waved his sword frantically at her, and Al was thankful to notice that she actually moved to avoid it.

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"I don't want to hurt her, she might have useful information!" Al called out over the spirit's ranting and Gruntle's noisy panic, as he jabbed at the floating madwoman with Purgatio to make her back off. Her long-nailed hands were like pale transparent talons as she nearly managed to slash his hand. The near-contact felt cold and itchy.

"She may be beyond reason, we may be forced to fight if she cannot understand," Bote shouted back, holding up the consecrated bronze scroll-case that served as the symbol of Indicina's holy order.

"Will someone at least tell her we didn't come here to fight her or loot the place, we're here to get the place ready for restoration! Stop clawing at me!" Al shouted back, dodging another swipe of the ghostly hand.

"Oh," Bote said, almost inaudibly amid the other noise. "Yes."

They stood up tall, for a dwarf, raised the scroll-case up in both hands, and spoke. The voice was Bote's, but it reverberated and echoed in a way that seemed to make the other sounds fade away.

"Nos pugnare non venimus. Furari non venimus. Venimus ad locum istum restituendum. Unguibus oppugnare non debes!" spoke Bote's voice.

The ghostly elf's face softened, inhuman anguished rage replaced by sadness, tinged by hope. She floated back a step as Bote sagged and swayed for a moment. Al kept Purgatio pointed in the spirit's direction but lowered the point. Even Gruntle's desperate bark-laughter became a little less frantic, though Wikwocket still couldn't pull away from the clingy gnoll.

"What did you say to her, I thought you didn't speak Elvish?" Al asked, panting.

"I don't speak Elvish, but the Divine Will does," Bote answered. "It seems I have earned a more direct role in the Ineffable Plans, so with the help of the divine, I was able to deliver your message."

"What message?"

"That we did not come to fight her or loot the place, that we had come to prepare the place for restoration, and that she should stop clawing at you. Just as you said."

"Ego sum Cleodora. Lavatio restituetur? Debeo emundare," the ghostly elf pleaded. Bote held up their hands to her to ask for patience.

"What is she saying?" Al asked.

"I do not know, I do not speak Elvish. But, wait a moment, I am sure the Divine Will does. Perhaps they will share," Bote answered, and bowed their head to speak a short prayer for understanding. Then they raised their head and gave the eye-nose-ear-mouth gesture of their religious faith, and nodded to the ghost to continue.

The ghost spoke a rushed tumble of hopeful words. "Ego sum Cleodora. Teneor ad hunc locum. Debeo emundare. Lavatio restituetur? Ego sum Cleodora."

Bote nodded to her, and the ghost clasped her hands together, pleading and hopeful. "Vos omnes novae species hominum. Intellexistis sermonem meum? Ego sum Cleodora."

Bote nodded again to her. "She says her name is Cleodora, and that she is bound to this place, but she must clean. Then she observes that we are new sorts of people, by which I presume she means not elves, and then asks if we understand what she is saying. I believe the nod-for-yes and shake-head-for-no goes back to elves, so I am hopeful I can at least communicate that much. If so, I told her yes."

"Ego sum Cleodora. Dic quid acciderit et quid futurum sit!"

Bote shook their head, and covered their mouth with their hand.

"Intellegis sed loqui non potest? Ego sum Cleodora."

Bote nodded. "She asks what has happened, and what will happen now. I believe I have managed to convey to her that while I can understand the meaning of her speech, I cannot speak it myself."

"But you just did, moments ago!"

"I did not. That was the voice of the divine, speaking through me."

"Can't the voice of the divine talk to her, then?"

"I'm sure it could, but that is not my choice. I cannot simply command the divine voice to speak through me, it is not a servant to be ordered about. It is sacriligious to even think such a thing."

"That's...ineffable," Al complained.

"Yes, it is."

The ghost of Cleodora seemed to be considering.

"Indica mihi haec lavatio restituenda. Debeo emundare. Ego sum Cleodora. Ut te credam?"

"She seems hopeful about our claim that the Lavatio will be restored, but seems to feel she has a duty to clean. She asks if she can trust us."

Bote placed their right hand on their chest and nodded deeply with a small bow.

"Ad hoc teneor. Vos venite et videte."

Cleodora's ghost turned back into the room and floated towards the pool at the far end, her feet moving as though walking but not quite matching the pace.

"She repeats that she is bound to something here. She invites us to come and see something," Bote translated, and stepped in to follow. Al took the torch from its sconce again and held it high as he followed, too.

"Come on, Gruntle, let me go! Let's go see what the dead elf is trying to show us!" Wikwocket demanded, finally pulling herself loose as Gruntle mostly calmed down. "Don't worry, I've got my ghost-stabbing knife to protect you if she tries anything!" She rushed into the room to catch up. With a small whine, Gruntle hurried in on all fours, letting Wikwocket stay in the lead.

Cleodora's spirit stopped at the edge of the round pool, and pointed upwards, indicating where a chunk of stone seemed to be missing from the ceiling. She pointed into the pool. The water would be perhaps chest high for a typical elf or human standing in it. The surface of the almost invisibly-clear water rippled gently with a current. At the bottom of the pool was some debris - a few large rocks, and Al noticed as he knelt down to look closer, some bones.

"Ibi sum. Captus sum. Debeo emundare. Non possum non esse ubi ossa mea. Ego sum Cleodora. Si sincerus es, adiuva."

"She says that is her. She is bound to where her bones are. She seems to be testing us, she wants us to help to prove our sincerity."

Wikwocket arrived, keeping her dagger out in case of emergency, and leaned to look down into the pool as well.

"So, that's you?" Wikwocket asked, pointing down at the pool and then at Cleodora's spirit. The ghost nodded.

"Ego novissimus. Ego sum Cleodora. Lassus sum et solus. In aqua quievit. Dormivi," she said. Her face grew serious. "Mortuus pollutor requiem meam finivit. Debeo emundare. Meum est officium. Ego sum Cleodora."

"That is not comforting," Bote said, "I believe she is saying she was the last one here, perhaps she was the last caretaker when this place was abandoned. She says she rested in the water and fell asleep. Then she says a dead defiler came and disturbed her rest. She seems determined to continue being the caretaker of these baths even in death."

Cleodora's spirit scowled as Gruntle creapt up behind Wikwocket. In spite of some obvious reluctance, he stood up to look around and then down into the pool. This seemed to startle Cleodora.

"Quae est haec bestia?" she asked peering closer. Gruntle cringed. "Hoc est aliquo modo hominum? Fortis videtur."

Bote nodded. "She does not seem to know what a gnoll is. She asks if he is a kind of large, strong person."

"Si adiuvabis, bestiam illam mihi dabis."

"I'm not entirely sure what she means here, she seems to believe that we can help her by giving Gruntle to her," Bote explained.

"What? No!" Wikwocket exclaimed, threatening the spirit with her dagger. "I warn you, I've been itching to find out if I can really stab ghosts with this!"

Gruntle crouched behind the much smaller Wikwocket, keeping her between him and Cleodora's spirit as best he could. Cleodora drifted closer, just out of stabbing range.

"Concede hoc. Non laedetur," the ghost said emphatically. Then she lunged forward.

Wikwocket's stab struck empty air as Cleodora's spirit vanished, and Gruntle collapsed convulsing to the ground.