The staircase is a task to descend for the six, even though it is thankfully short. The heavy darkness completely swallows the light sources once inside, making it nearly impossible to see anything more than a few inches from one’s face; it also seems to have some effect on sound, muffling any kind of noise made within it. Even shouting and less than a few feet from one another, the group strains to hear anything within the oppressive void.
The stairs themselves are uneven, seemingly intentionally so, as if to make it all the more difficult to traverse safely. Thus, walking down the few dozen steps is a slow, arduous process, devoid of most sensory input. The corridor itself isn’t wide enough for multiple people to stand shoulder to shoulder, so the group quickly figured out a marching order: Cashew in front, trying to feel around for anything that might stick out as dangerous; Kaz next, though her glowing armaments do little against the dark; Wren right after, though their moon-lights also struggle to cut through the shadows; Dahlia fourth, the only one who seems largely unperturbed by having to stumble down the stairs in the dark; Addy fifth, who holds onto UNA for balance as she keeps slipping clumsily; and finally Demy bringing up the rear, nose wrinkled at the musty smell of the dead air.
Cashew has lost count of the steps, not due to how numerous they are, but because some of the steps are cut out in such a way as to barely count as one: Some were best off just ignoring, while some were so close to the previous step in height that calling it more than just a slightly uneven path would be an insult to the very concept of a step.
Whoever made this needs to be stabbed. It was probably the old bastard, he’s lucky he’s already dead, Cashew thinks to himself, sneering a little. He takes another step, and–
Suddenly the darkness is lighter. Sound isn’t as muffled. His eyes, already adapted to the dark, take in the last couple of steps and the rectangular opening just in front of them, which seems to open into some kind of stone room.
“Well that sucked,” Cashew grumbles, looking back at the strange barrier where the normal darkness becomes something deeper.
Like the sun itself cresting over the horizon at dawn, Kaz’s shield passes out of the wall of shadow, blazing brightly with pure light. The bottom section of the stairs is easily illuminated by the glowing shield and, a mere moment later, the glowing sword as well. Cashew’s pupils shrink in reaction to the sudden brightness and he flinches away, covering his eyes with the hood of his cloak.
“Fuck the Nine that’s bright!” He seethes, seeing flashing stars of light behind his closed eyelids.
“Language,” Kaz warns, wincing a bit at the brightness. “You’re not wrong, though.”
From behind Kaz, Wren steps out into the now-bright area and cries out, “My eyes!”
This pattern continues as the other three venture into the light as well. The six mill about the bottom of the steps, eyes slowly acclimating. The wall of shadow is behind them now and in front is the open doorway that leads into the large, dark room. It’s impossible to tell how large the room is from here, but the light cast into it shines on nothing but stone floor, giving the impression that it is either quite large or quite empty.
Considering the lengths taken to hide this basement, odds are that it’s not just an empty room.
Demy moves his hand into and out of the wall of murk, amazed. He asks, “What causes this? Some kind of magic?”
“Yeah, it must be magical darkness,” Wren answers. “A lot of it. I would dispel it, but to get rid of that much would take me a few days.”
“Kind of a silly trap,” Kaz says, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, waiting for everyone to be ready to move forward.
“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Dahlia says.
“C’mon, nobody would make stairs like that on purpose,” Cashew argues.
“The stairs could be a kind of trap, to slow down anyone who comes down here. But the darkness is for something else,” Dahlia says.
Addy’s eyes widen and she snaps her fingers, saying, “You’re right! It’s not the only failsafe, either, is it?”
“‘Failsafe?’ What’s that?” Demy asks, frowning.
“Dahlia and I were looking at the sundial before we hopped down into the pool. It’s set to only rotate between a certain time frame, meaning it can’t be used otherwise,” Addy explains.
“It rotated right about dusk,” Kaz says.
“That’s when the mechanism unlocks to allow it to rotate. It stays open until sunrise, when it locks again,” Addy says.
Demy’s eyes widen a little as he mutters, “It won’t open during the day. While the sun’s out.”
“Wait, then the magical darkness is actually to make sure that no sunlight shines down here?” Wren surmises.
“Mmhm,” Dahlia hums knowingly.
From within the dark room, once again, the sound of movement echoes. This time it is clearly audible as it echoes off the stone walls, no longer muffled by the dampening effects of the wall of darkness.
“C’mon, this waiting is killing me,” Cashew complains, motioning toward the doorway. The group readies themselves and, still in single file marching order, step through the threshold.
The room inside is, indeed, quite large. It likely takes up a good third of the total perimeter of the manor above, all made of heavy stone. Odds are it sits under the entire bath house portion of the first floor, considering the material it is made up of.
It is cold down here and dark, though the lights from the group’s various abilities work just fine compared to the stairs. What is illuminated confirms some suspicions, but merely raises others: There are numerous small cells built against one wall, some of which have their doors wide open, but some of which are locked up still. A few of said locked cells have bodies within them; a large pile of bodies sit in the corner within a large bin. All of the remains, which are very much dead, have not decomposed in the least. But a closer inspection shows all of the ones within the bin in the corner to be desiccated; the ones in the cells however look thin and frail, as if starved.
Along the other side of the room, directly opposite the small cells, is one large cell that takes up a good quarter of the basement. Unlike the others, which are little more than cages without so much as a cot, this cell is decorated well. Comfortable-looking chairs, shelves, a table, a nice bed in the corner, the works. Though, what was once nice furniture is now scattered and broken, tossed around the cell in seeming frustration and anger. There are books askew on the floor, spilled from the battered and collapsed cases, and the table has been broken into numerous pieces, many of which rest outside of the cell.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The remainder of the basement looks like a laboratory of sorts. Bottles and various containers full of odd fluids and other materials, ingredients that should have long ago become inert or rotted away, but much like the bodies, remain free of decay as they sit on display. A variety of books and free sheafs of paper lay around, scribbled upon with ramblings and notes in the Loxian tongue.
“Everyone, be careful,” Kaz says softly, quietly. The six spread out slightly from the rigid single file they have been in: Addy and Dahlia wander toward the laboratory, while Wren goes over to look at the pile of bodies in the corner; Demy takes a long draught from his flask before walking over to the prison cells, his expression grim; Kaz stands in the center, providing as much light as possible for the entire room, while Cashew carefully makes his way over to the one large cell, curious about the once-nice things within it.
“This is an amazing alchemical laboratory!” Addy says, perhaps a bit too loud. Dahlia holds her finger up to her lips silently and Addy apologizes, “Oh that’s right sorry we’re sneaky poops right now.”
“It is, though,” Dahlia agrees, much more quietly, as she climbs up into one of the chairs and surveys the tables. She reaches over to one of the shelves and takes a few bottles off of it, turning them over in her hands. “These reagents, they come from our farm.”
“Really? Mr. Tarn must have been serious about whatever alchemy he was doing here, then,” Addy says with a smile.
Dahlia can’t help but return the smile to Addy, feeling a hint of pride.
She turns her attention to some of the loose papers and books, which appear to be journals and research notes. She scoots a pile toward Addy, who nods in understanding and begins looking through it all, just as Dahlia takes her own remaining pile and begins sifting through it.
On the other side of the room, Wren hops over the side of the large bin where the dozens of bodies rest. Careful not to step on any of the bodies, they kneel down and begin going through the mass of old, desiccated flesh. Some of the bodies wear rags or simple clothes, while others wear what look like guard uniforms or even mismatched gear, indicative of sellswords and adventurers. The gear of the latter seems to still be in decent shape: Wren considers trying to pack all of it out of here, but thinking of hauling all of this stuff up those mismatched steps makes them cringe.
Yet, a lot of the gear and belongings of these people seem to have just been tossed into the bin uncaringly. More digging yields several pouches with coin still jingling within: Nothing close to a fortune, but certainly more than the average person would just leave in a bin full of the dead in the corner of a basement.
Tarn definitely didn’t have to worry about money, did he? Wren thinks grimly as they pocket the coins, along with any bit of useful gear or jewelry they can find.
“Hey, you find anything–are you seriously looting the dead bodies?” Demy asks, having ambled over from the cells nearby. He leans over the edge of the bin, plenty taller than the container itself (unlike Wren), staring down at the Dwarf as they scramble to stand, pockets full of coin and jewelry jingling in the process.
“It’s not like they need it,” Wren argues. “Tarn didn’t either. It’s just sat down here for a whole decade, so obviously it’s up for grabs.”
“I mean, I’m not like the cop over there, but that seems kinda, you know, shiesty,” Demy mutters.
“Where I come from, scavenging is a part of life, okay? Now help me out of here,” Wren says, holding their hands up.
“I mean, we’re underground, right? This meets the criteria of a mass grave,” Demy argues, helping Wren to climb out of the bin.
“Shush it. The loot isn’t the most important part,” Wren says sternly as they drop onto the solid stone floor of the basement.
“Uh-huh,” Demy mutters, hearing the Dwarf jingle like a tax collector prancing out of an orphanage.
“They’re all desiccated,” Wren explains.
“They… pooped themselves?” Demy asks.
“So close! Those bodies, all of them, they’re dry. They feel like an old torch, parchment wrapped around dry wood. Something drank them like a good stout,” Wren says, jerking their finger back at the bodies.
The hair on the back of Demy’s neck bristles, but he says nothing.
“What about the bodies in the cells?” Wren asks.
“Nah, they look like they starved to death,” Demy says.
“Do you think after Tarn died, they just got left down here?” Wren asks sadly.
“That’s a miserable way to go,” Demy says, shaking his head. “Wonder if it was better or worse than how all those others died.”
Frowning, the two glance over at the cells then back at the bin of bodies, wondering who all of these people were before finding their fate down here in the cold, dark basement upon a foreign, empty land, potentially never to be found. Where did Tarn even get these people?
Across the basement, Cashew walks down the length of the single, large cell, looking at the remnants of the furniture inside. Whatever was kept in here at some point decided that it did not want to be kept in here.
He glances back at the other side of the basement, at Demy and Wren who stand near the individual cells, where the still-fresh dead bodies lean against the bars, reaching out for freedom that never came.
I’m sorry you never got to leave your prison, he thinks sadly, knowing to some degree how they must have felt. Despite his often cynical views, and how much shit he gives to Kaz, he silently says a prayer to Elyphiss: She who welcomes the spirits of the deceased with open arms.
He is startled out of his moment of silence by a sound, similar to the ones that the group have heard twice now: The sound of movement, followed by the sharp rattle of chains.
Cashew jerks his attention up to where the sound is coming from, his wide eyes looking toward the far corner of the cell, behind the intact, disheveled bed. A figure is standing there, a dark silhouette on the very edge of the light cast by the divine, arcane, and technological effects by the rest of the party.
“What…” he mutters, staring at the silhouette. At first, he expects it to just be another body, propped up in the corner of the cell, but he realizes that another corpse wouldn’t explain the sounds of movement. He starts to call out to the others, his eyes still locked on the figure warily, when he stops.
A pair of red eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness, stare directly back into his. He’s sure that the eyes weren’t staring at him just moments before, because he certainly would have noticed them: Wide and crazed, full of animalistic, feral hunger.
But something about them is calming. Relaxing.
Cashew doesn’t say anything as the figure slowly, quietly starts to move closer. He continues to stare at the floating red eyes, mesmerized by them. His mind screams at him to say something, to look away, to run.
I have to look away don’t look at it look away look away LOOK AWAY–
Instead, he steps forward, expression slack as he leans against the bars of the cell, reaching up to hold onto them.
The shadowy figure glides toward him, the light now faintly illuminating them. They’re a person, or some kind of humanoid at least, wearing fine clothes that hang limply off its gaunt, sickly frame. The person is pale and thin, emaciated to the extreme, and Cashew can feel the ravenous hunger rolling off of it in waves, its intent evident by its bared teeth, which include long canine fangs.
Cashew doesn’t respond at all as the thing grabs onto the front of his cloak, lifting him up and off his feet, holding him at eye level with the person–the creature. As it opens its mouth wide and leans down toward his neck, Cashew realizes in full horror what this thing is and what it’s about to do to him. All he can think as his eyes widen in fearful anticipation of the sinking of sharp teeth into his neck is:
Vampire.