- [An Adventuring Party] -

Mist drapes over jagged peaks, curling around ancient stone in a cold embrace. The chill bites at exposed skin, leaving a thin sheen of frost on the rough-hewn steps leading down from the groaning wooden doors of the Banshee’s Blood. The scent of damp moss fills the air, mingling with distant hints of extinct fires.

Avorna adjusts the strap of her satchel, her fingers numb despite thick gloves. It’s always so cold up here in the mountains. She steps forward, boots crunching softly on the nearly-icy path. Behind her, Fenchel, their party archer, whistles a low note, eyes scanning the twisted treeline below. “Another lovely day in paradise,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Markus and Salzil, their group’s melee fighters, shove past each other, each eager to take the lead. Not so much because they desire the role of leadership, but because they just don’t want the other one to have it instead of them. “Last one to the castle owes everyone a drink!” Markus declares.

Salzil snorts. “You couldn't keep up with me if you tried.”

Their rivalry flares anew, but Avorna pays it little mind. The quiet dark-elf’s gaze drifts toward the looming silhouette of the Vampire Lord's castle, barely visible through swirling, ever-present fog. A familiar tug pulls at her — a quiet yearning she can't quite place. Maybe it's the mystery of the place, or perhaps it's something more. There’s always been an odd air to the castle that a lot of adventurers report, a feeling that is… unsettling in a base, primal way. It’s like something in your body tells you that this is a bad place that one shouldn’t be in. However, every logical sense appraises it to be perfectly fine.

In fact, it’s probably the safest dungeon in the world, since you can’t actually die here.

She pulls her cloak tighter. The journey ahead tonight promises the usual danger and opportunity. Each of them seeks something within those forsaken halls. For her, it's a chance to test her abilities — to see if her inner talents within can stand against the darkness waiting there. If she’s strong enough to handle this place, then she’ll be strong enough to become a real, high-ranking adventurer in one of the world’s core dungeons. But fat chance she’ll risk ever trying to even get near one until she’s maybe level eighty or so and has a fortune to fall back on if she gets maimed. She only has one life to lose, after all. She plays it safe.

The young man, Fenchel, nudges her shoulder. “Ready to make some coin, ears?”

She nods slightly. “As ready as ever,” replies the dark-elf plainly, without much emotion.

He grins. “That's the spirit.”

Her eyes drift to the woods they walk through, looking at the hollow shadows between the gloomy trees. They appear to be eyes, watching them from insets deep in the old forest. “A poor choice of words in a place like this,” she mutters as the archer paces ahead of her, trying to catch up to the other two men.

They set off, descending the narrow path that snakes down from the guild. Fog thickens, swallowing the world around them. Sounds become muted; distant bird cries and rustling creatures fade into background whispers.

Avorna focuses on the rhythm of her steps, the crunch of gravel beneath. Cold air fills her lungs, sharp and invigorating.

Their venture is born from necessity. Each of them seeks something at the castle — wealth, glory, perhaps redemption for some others in the guild. The Banshee's Blood itself offers no shortage of quests in and around the area, oddly enough, but the lure of the Vampire Lord's domain itself is irresistible. Tales of hidden treasures and powerful artifacts draw countless adventurers into its depths. People have begun coming from cities much further away than just Schwarzmond as word has begun spreading far across the nation. The good times are almost over, she can tell. Soon, there will be such an influx of outsiders to the region trying to make a fortune that the dungeon will become saturated.

It’s a good thing that the castle is nestled so deeply in the nation’s empty, outer heartland. If it were near a border, there would certainly be a war between countries over such a valuable place. A cooperative, safe dungeon that offers, in essence, an endless mine of treasure, gold and power. Any king would rightly be frothing at the mouth to have such a thing in their territory. Dungeons are rare across the world, with only forty-nine known to exist at any time all together. Across the span of every country there is, there aren’t that many to go around when you really break it down. Let alone ones so… unique. Most dungeons have no hesitation about taking lives for good.

The well-trodden path to the castle looms ahead — a tangle of gnarled trees and twisted roots seem to try and hide it, but have been trampled flat by many travelers. The scent of damp leaves and rich soil pervades the air. A faint glow filters through the canopy, casting eerie patterns on the forest floor.

Fenchel pauses, eyes narrowing. “Hear that?”

Avorna listens. Distant laughter — high-pitched and unsettling — drifts on the breeze. Dark fairies. They seem to be playing cruel games as usual.

Markus tightens his grip on his sword. “Those pests won't slow us down tonight,” he says.

Salzil smirks. “As long as they don't steal your coin purse again. I won’t waste a second night trying to chase them down.”

“Once was enough,” Markus mutters, annoyed.

Fenchel draws an arrow, nocking it loosely.

The forest feels alive, branches swaying despite the stillness. Shadows flicker at the edge of vision, whispered words dance just beyond hearing. Avorna feels the hairs on her neck rise. Magic pulses faintly around them. A sudden chill sweeps through the trees, colder than before. Fog wraps tighter, obscuring the path.

Salzil shivers.

Markus nudges him. “Don't tell me you're scared.”

“Hardly,” Salzil replies, eyes darting nervously. “Just hate fairies, is all.”

They cautiously press on, weaving through the trees. Ahead, flashes of light and bursts of sound signal unfolding battles. Other adventuring parties clash with creatures of the night, their struggles hidden by mist. But it’s clear that they’re the ones the dark fairies have found, given the abundance of empty buckets, tripped rope snares, and heaps of feathers littered all around the area.

Fenchel gestures aside. “Let's avoid that mess.”

They skirt around another clearing where feral wolves snarl at a group of unfortunate souls, destined to respawn in the guild. They’ll have to walk all the way back again, a full twenty minutes. Grim. The scent of blood hangs heavy.

Markus glances over. “We could jump in, grab some loot.”

Salzil shakes his head. “Waste of time. Schwester won’t give us much for some wolf pelts,” he replies. “Maybe if we head down to the village and hawk them there, but that’ll take us a whole day.”

Avorna agrees silently. Their real goal lies ahead; distractions could prove costly.

The forest parts suddenly, revealing a vast expanse of dead trees. Branches reach upwards, twisted against a sky painted in bruised shades of purple and gray. Ground crunches underfoot, littered with brittle leaves and shards of bone. An unnatural stillness settles, broken only by distant echoes of combat and the soft whisper of wind. The scent of decay mingles with the crispness of frost. Light dims, swallowed by heavy clouds gathering ominously. A sense of foreboding settles in their chests, tight like an unseen grip.

They’ve arrived at the castle. You can tell, even with your eyes closed, because of the sinking sensation that the body involuntarily produces in one’s guts.

Fenchel rubs his arms. “Didn't think it could get any colder, but somehow it always is. What I wouldn’t give to be back down in the south.”

Avorna's eyes drift to the castle towering ahead, dark spires piercing low-hanging clouds. “A few more weeks and you can retire there,” she notes dryly, her eyes scanning the battlements — destroyed. Markus cracks his knuckles.

They approach the outer gate, shattered — heavy iron doors hanging limply from twisted hinges. Scorch marks and deep gouges mar the stone walls. Salzil whistles softly. “Looks like someone had a party without us.”

Fenchel steps carefully over rubble. “Means less resistance for us.”

Avorna senses lingering magic — chaotic and spent. Whoever breached the gate met significant opposition. There was a hell of a fight here, but her group has set out somewhat later tonight. The castle’s defenses are regenerated regularly, so the gatehouse or some wall needs to be breached each night. But if one just sleeps in five minutes longer and has an extra drink, the dirty work will be done by the time you get here by some other group. Of course, this means less loot for oneself, but her group has come to the agreement that the outer walls and garden area are a real ball ache. It isn’t worth it for them unless they can simply stroll right into the inner castle without too much resistance.

Markus grins. “Easy pickings again tonight, then.”

Salzil smirks. “Good for you, since that’s the only ones you can get,” he says, shoving Markus with a hand. Markus stumbles and then shoves him back.

Avorna rolls her eyes. They’re always like this. Unfortunately for her, even if they are idiots, they are exceptionally useful ones.

They enter the castle grounds, shadows deepening around them. The silence is palpable, broken only by distant drips of water and echoes of their footsteps. Far off in the gardens, behind the wall of fog, some troop is fighting, as evidenced by the sparks of wildfire that light up the near horizon through the mist.

She tightens her grip on her staff, alert for any movement.

Fenchel peers into darkness. “Stay alert. No telling what's hiding in here.”

They move deeper into the core castle itself now, corridors lined with faded wall hangings and crumbling stone. Shadows dance along walls, cast by flickering torches burning with unnatural light. It’s different tonight than it was yesterday. It changes its layout every single night, which is rather troublesome.

Salzil shivers again. “This place always gives me the creeps.”

Markus scoffs. “Afraid of a little darkness too?”

“Just cautious,” Salzil retorts. “If you were actually smart, you’d be too,” he notes. Markus shoves him. Salzil shoves him back.

Avorna pauses, sensing movement ahead. “Something's coming,” she whispers.

Fenchel draws an arrow; tension is palpable. But only a single skeletal figure emerges from shadows, bones creaking, eyes glowing sinisterly.

Markus charges forward. “Mine!”

Salzil laughs. “Too slow!”

They rush, nearly colliding as they hack at the lonesome skeleton. Blades cut through bone; the creature collapses into a heap.

Fenchel lowers his bow again. “Show-offs,” he sighs.

Avorna watches the undead remains, noticing a faint shimmer. As the others run off ahead, she kneels, picking up a small coin — a single Obol. She pockets it quietly. The others are only interested in ‘big’ things, like rare weapons or materials they can sell for a good amount at once. But she has no qualms pinching every last Obol off of the ground and stuffing it in her pockets — of which her robe has many, hand-sewn herself. She’s better than the rest of them; she’s sure of it. But at the same time, even she is sure that she isn’t good enough to turn up her nose at money the universe is literally giving her. Life is complicated like that.

They continue, fighting off more undead — zombies, animated armors clanking from side passages. The group moves in rhythm, each playing their part despite occasional stumbles. Markus and Salzil compete, tallying kills, their rivalry intensifying. Despite having only organized themselves together into a party a few weeks ago, they’ve become well practiced in fighting with each other.

They eventually reach a grand hall, ornate yet in disrepair. The ceiling rises high above, lost in darkness. The floor is lined with intricate mosaics, cracked and faded. Several of the tiles are obviously raised and out of place. One of them even seems to vibrate, as if laughing quietly to itself in eager anticipation. That one is clearly a mundane mimic of some sort. The castle loves them.

Fenchel examines a nearby wall. “Looks like a trap.”

Avorna nods. “Best be careful.”

They navigate carefully, avoiding pressure plates and suspicious tiles. By fortune or perhaps unseen guidance, they bypass the traps unscathed.

Salzil grins. “Luck's on our side.”

Markus slaps his back. “Good for you, because without it you’d never make it ten minutes in.”

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They press on, sounds of battle growing louder ahead. Fenchel perks up. “Sounds like a big fight.”

Heading down a spiral staircase, they enter a massive, underground chamber where several adventuring parties engage in combat with a towering figure — a giant skeleton composed of countless bones woven together. It’s a boss monster. How fortunate. Usually it’s one of the first things the castle’s adventurers attack, since it’s tactics are well known now and it is a strong source of dropped items. So they’re making good time if they got here while it’s still ‘alive’ tonight.

The towering creature's form shifts, bones snapping into place as dozens of its smaller, skeletal limbs are severed. It swings massive arms made out of countless lesser skeletons, sending adventurers of other parties scattering in all directions.

Markus grins wickedly. Salzil draws his weapon. “Let's get in there!”

While they have arrived at the fight, it is considered extremely poor etiquette amongst adventurers to take or harvest anything from a battle if one hasn’t directly participated in the matter. The practice runs under many names, all unfavorable. But as long as a person is seen to have at least engaged in good faith during any part of the encounter, the unspoken guidelines amongst adventurers dictate that this is enough to entitle them to a share.

“Fenchel,” says the dark elf without much candor. The other two meatheads charge forward, joining the fray. Avorna focuses, calling upon her ice magic. She raises her staff, releasing a blast of frost that coats one of the creature's giant legs. Fenchel's arrows find their mark, striking the now vulnerable joints. While bone is very hard and arrows would be useless, the ice magic makes them brittle and allows the sharpened, high-pressure needle impacts of the arrows to hammer through the material. By coordinating their attacks, the two of them can be an effective tool against this particular enemy.

Markus lunges, swinging wildly. “Out of my way!”

Salzil blocks his path. “You're in my spot!”

Their movements tangle, causing both to stumble.

“Watch it!” Markus snaps.

“You watch it!” Salzil fires back. The two of them are stuck together, their gear having caught on the other's.

Their distraction forces other adventurers to adjust hastily, disrupting coordinated attacks as they stand right in the middle of an attack pathway. An adventurer nearby scowls. “Get out of the way, assholes!” yells the stranger, diving out of the way as a massive bone hammer smashes down where they were a moment ago, sending a different group flying.

Frustrated at them, Avorna calls out. “Focus on the boss!”

Fenchel grimaces, sighing. “Those two will be the death of us.”

The wizard lifts her staff again. “Well, I’d appreciate it if they died without me,” she notes without remorse, channeling a new spell.

The battle wages on, the giant skeleton weakening under combined assault. Despite chaos, the adventurers press the advantage. Then, finally, with a resounding crack, the massive creature collapses, bones scattering across the chamber.

Cheers erupt, relief washing over exhausted fighters. Twenty or thirty people hollar around the room, starting quick work and finding items that rain down from the crumbling monstrosity as it falls down into the heap of scattered bones that make up the arena floor.

Markus and Salzil stand amidst the remains, both grinning. “Guess I got the final blow,” Markus boasts.

“Dream on,” Salzil retorts. “That was all me. You didn’t even hit it once.” Avorna shakes her head. Fenchel pats her shoulder.

They begin gathering spoils — Obols, rare items, monster scraps. Avorna picks up a peculiar bone, etched with runes. She turns it over, pondering its use. Other parties start to disperse, eager to explore before anyone else beats them to the best spots.

Fenchel stretches. “We should move on too, before the others get everything else.”

Markus scoops up a handful of gems, almost purposefully avoiding the actual heap of coins they’re stacked on top of. “More treasure awaits.”

Salzil pockets a shiny pendant. “Try not to slow me down, fat-ass,” he remarks, ducking as the other man throws a few coins at his head.

They’re so annoying. But, despite their quirks, they're a good team.

As the others leave, she makes sure to scour the ground, shoving every coin she can into her robe’s jingling inner pockets. Why does everyone here seem to think they’re too good to pick up money off the ground?

She just doesn’t get it.

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Stale air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of centuries-old stone and lingering dampness. Flickering torchlight casts dancing shadows along rough walls, illuminating faded murals depicting long-forgotten tales of grim legends. The quiet shuffle of footsteps echoes; Avorna and her companions make their way deeper into the castle's labyrinthine halls.

Fenchel adjusts the strap of his quiver. “So, first thing when we get back — drinks on Avorna,” he says. “She was the last one to get the gate like we agreed on.”

“Now you're talking,” Markus replies, grinning. He glances back at Salzil. “Unless Salzil here wants to admit his place as a repentant bottom feeder and buy the next round?”

Salzil shoves him into a wall.

“There will be no drinks on me,” says the dark elf in an emotionless voice. “Although perhaps I will consider strapping you to the trough outside like the animals you are,” she notes.

“Cold as always,” sighs Salzil.

Markus looks at him. “You’d think you’d be used to women being cold around you; started with your mother, after all,” he quips, shoulder-checking the other man as he walks past him.

“Please,” replies Salzil, pushing him aside as he steps past him. “My mother was twice the man you are,” explains the swordsman, shrugging, unimpressed. Avorna listens to their banter with a half smile. Idiots.

“Hard to believe how easy it's been lately,” Fenchel continues. “Remember the old dungeons? Barely scraped by most days.”

Markus nods. “Yeah, but this place — it's almost generous. Kinda weirds me out, you know?” he asks. “It’s weird when someone is too nice sometimes.”

Avorna raises an eyebrow. “I've heard stories though,” she says quietly.

Salzil glances back at her. “Stories?” asks the man.

She hesitates before speaking, lest she devolve to their level. “Some adventurers… they say not everyone comes back from the castle,” explains Avorna. “There have been a few cases of adventurers who are reported to have actually died. Some groups are missing members.”

Fenchel chuckles, adjusting his bow. “C'mon, Avorna. Probably just rumors,” he says, tapping the side of his head. “I got stabbed right here just yesterday,” he notes, making a circle over his temple. “Feel right as rain now though.”

Salzil shrugs, nodding along. “Yeah. They probably found some rare item, made their fortune, and moved on before someone tried to take their cut. Not everyone likes to say goodbye.”

Avorna's gaze drifts to the shadows. “Perhaps. Just something worth considering,” she notes, never being too eager to die. Her eyes scan the floor as they walk, watching for out-of-place tiles.

The air grows colder, a chill that even she feels despite her control over ice. A musty smell hangs in the corridor, mixed with the faint scent of decay. The silence presses in, broken only by distant drips of water and the soft creak of their gear. Nearby, there is the heavy tone of patterned clockwork as they pass by the long elevated bridge corridor that leads to the clock tower. Their party usually avoids it and sticks to the more classical undead areas, as the clockwork monsters are more trouble than they’re worth if you don’t know what you’re doing. The drops are more particular and specific there as well, and only good if you have a use for them.

They continue onward, the corridors twisting and turning. Occasional distant sounds — chains rattling, eerie whispers — add to the unsettling atmosphere. The stones beneath their feet feel uneven, worn by countless footsteps over the ages.

A sudden glow catches Avorna's eye. She pauses, narrowing her gaze toward a side passage. “Wait,” she says. The others halt.

“What is it?” Fenchel asks.

Avorna points. “There. Look,” says the dark elf.

From around the corner, a faintly glowing figure emerges — a ghostly apparition clutching a bundle of gleaming treasures. Its eyes dart nervously; it glides along, muttering incoherently to itself. Still unseen, they watch as it picks up the visor of a suit of, presumably, decorative armor and stuffs a bunch of trinkets into it. It looks around itself, trying to find more hiding spots for the bundle of random things in its arms.

“Is that…?” Markus begins.

“A bundle of treasure, delivered right to us,” Fenchel whispers, eyes widening. “Talk about luxury.”

Salzil grins. “Now that's a find.”

The ghost spots them, its translucent face twisting in panic as they all collectively make eye contact. Clutching its hoard tighter, it turns and bolts down the corridor.

“After it!” Markus shouts.

The group sprints forward, boots pounding against stone as they run after a trail of lost coins and baubles — only one of them stopping the chase to pick up every last bit of it. The chase winds through narrow passages and grand halls, past crumbling archways and lurking monsters.

A horde of skeletal warriors rises from the floor ahead. Without slowing, Fenchel looses arrows, each one finding its mark and dropping the undead foes. Avorna summons a blast of frost, freezing a cluster of zombies in their tracks. The hungry undead reach out, trying to grab the group as they run past, never stopping their tempo. “Keep moving!” Salzil calls.

They dodge and weave, leaping over pitfalls and skirting traps. The ghost remains just ahead, its spectral form slipping through the castle as it tries to escape. But given its physical treasures it refuses to drop, it is bound to take the same passages and ways available to them rather than just phasing through a wall. “It's too fast,” Fenchel gasps in a pant, drawing another arrow as he fires it off toward the end of the corridor. The phantom dodges to the side, the arrow clattering uselessly against the wall.

Markus growls. “Not faster than us.”

They emerge into a vast chamber, the ceiling lost in darkness above. Pillars line the space, casting long shadows. The ghost hesitates, realizing it's cornered.

“End of the line,” Salzil says, catching his breath. Avorna steps forward, staff glowing with icy energy.

The phantom shrieks, attempting to flee, but a well-placed arrow from Fenchel pierces its form, destabilizing it.

“Now!” Markus yells. Avorna releases her spell, shards of ice erupting and enveloping the ghost. It wails, the treasures slipping from its grasp and clattering to the floor. With a final, echoing whisper, the phantom dissipates into the ether.

Silence settles, broken only by their heavy breathing.

Markus strides forward, picking up a jewel-encrusted chalice. “Would you look at this?” he asks, examining the fine thing.

Salzil lifts a golden necklace, admiring its craftsmanship. “We're going to be so rich,” he says, biting into the necklace’s talisman to test the metal. Avorna raises an eyebrow skeptically, watching as he bites into a chunk of ectoplasm without a care in the world like an animal.

They gather the treasures, spirits high. The phantom was carrying all sorts of very unusual things. With the tips of her fingers and a small cloth, she lifts up, in disgust, what looks to be an entire roasted chicken, still fresh. Making a face, she sets that away to the side, not wanting to think about how and why that was here.

“I think this is a sign from the powers that be, boys,” says Markus, grabbing as much as he can into his bag. “Let’s get out of here before we step into a pit and lose all of this.”

“That’s maybe the smartest thing you’ve ever said,” notes Salzil, getting punched in the shoulder for it.

Avorna makes no comment, but she is inclined to agree.

The journey back through the castle is uneventful. The previous dangers seem to fade in the wake of their success. With packs full of treasure in what may be the most successful run in weeks, they break off their dungeon dive early.

As they step out into the night, the fog has thickened. The crisp air fills their lungs, a stark contrast to the stale atmosphere inside the castle. The scent of pine from the forests blends with the cold, creating a refreshing fragrance.

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They make their way back to the Banshee's Blood guild, perched high amidst the peaks. Warm light spills from its windows, beckoning them inside. The hum of voices and clatter of mugs creates a welcoming din. Inside, the tavern buzzes with energy. Adventurers who died early share their stories, laugh, and clink mugs together as they restore their lost blood with food and drink. Dying causes one to lose a not-insignificant portion of their own blood. So entering the castle twice in a row is really an unwise move. Most people take the time off to just eat and sleep before trying again in a day or two. Thankfully, the food here is acceptable enough. Miss Schwester, the crowd favorite barkeeper, is a charming woman of many talents.

Fenchel pushes through the crowd. “Wait until they hear about this.”

They find a table, spreading out some of their findings as they make a tally of their big score and what they can hawk it for. Eyes around the room turn toward them, whispers starting.

“Is that from a boss?” someone asks. “Or did you guys find a new chest somewhere?”

Markus leans back, satisfied. “Trade secret,” replies the warrior.

Information is as valuable as this treasure of theirs. The peculiar phantom will likely respawn like any other monster in the castle. If they can hunt it down again tomorrow and again, they’ll have found quite the secret.

Heads turn, more people gathering to see.

Avorna notices Miss Schwester behind the bar, her gaze fixed intently on them. The barkeeper's eyes seem to pierce through the noise, observant and calculating. She approaches their table silently, almost gliding. She’s very graceful. “Quite the find you've got there. Very unusual,” she says, her hissing, undertone voice smooth yet carrying an undercurrent that Avorna can't place. Miss Schwester's lips curl into a subtle, very trustworthy, and welcoming smile that only just flashes out from below the dark shadowing of her hood over the gaunt features of her always hidden face — as, again, trustworthy people tend to do. “I'd love to hear all about it.”

Fenchel raises an eyebrow. “Interested in ghost stories, Miss Schwester?” asks the archer.

She tilts her head slightly, her long neck craning toward the table as her never-blinking, inset eyes stare over them. “Good stories are… valuable,” she says, trustworthily placing the tips of her fingers together. Her kindly glowing, lifeless eyes look at Avorna, gazing deep into the abyss of her soul as they search for hidden secrets there.

— But again, very trustworthily. This must be emphasized.

“Sometimes more than gold,” finishes Miss Schwester.

Avorna senses something enigmatic about her. There's more to Miss Schwester than meets the eye.

Markus waves a hand dismissively. “Well, maybe it’s a tale worth telling. But first — drinks! On Salzil!” Laughter erupts around the tables. Mugs are filled, and toasts are made from the groups nearby.

“Like shit!” barks Salzil, shoving a handful of Markus’ treasure over toward Miss Schwester. “He’s paying.”

Miss Schwester’s unusually long, cold, gray, and wraithly thin arms reach out from below her shroud like the limbs of the dead from the soil of their burial plots. She pushes back the trinkets toward the men. “Tell me what happened, and they’re on the house.” Miss Schwester suggests her good smile is wide and broad, reaching from eye to eye.

— And perhaps even past them.

Amidst the revelry, Miss Schwester remains a quiet spectator to the conversation, listening carefully as they recount their adventure. Her eyes flicker with something that Avorna can't decipher.

As the others talk, Avorna glances around the bustling guild hall. The warmth and camaraderie of the many adventurers contrast sharply with the cold of the region. Yet, beneath the surface, something… elusive… stirs. She can feel it in her guts. But she can’t really place a finger on what ‘it’ is.

Her thoughts return to the ghost and Miss Schwester's keen interest in such matters. She’s always buying or trading things for information and secrets about the castle. But why?

Avorna takes a sip from her mug, the ale bitter but comforting.

Maybe there's more to this place than they realize. There’s just something weird in the air. The wizard’s eyes wander over everyone. It feels like something is coming, and nobody is really aware of it. Something big.

Feeling her staring, Miss Schwester’s head turns on her neck without her shoulders following the movement. Like an owl staring down a mouse after having felt itself being watched, her enchantingly empty gaze locks onto Avorna’s as the two of them stare at each other.

An immediate sensation of inexplicable relief and comfort suddenly comes over Avorna. Her shoulders fall slack. Any suspicions she had are erased on the spot, her senses painting them over as stressed nonsense at best.

The dark elf suddenly smiles, lifting her only lightly sipped tankard. “I love you, Miss Schwester!” says the usually cold and blank dark elf abruptly in contrastingly great emotion all of a sudden. She reaches across the table to hold the barkeeper in one arm and nuzzle her face against the clammy, bone-stuck skin of the barkeeper as she raises her tankard and then takes a long drink from it. Miss Schwester rubs her hands together, cackling quietly in a very sympathetic manner to herself as cheers and hollars of agreement and some jealousy fly across the guild.

Everyone loves Miss Schwester.

“Yes… yes…” hisses the shrouded woman, her eyes moving over the crowd. “Do you all know what my favorite thing is?” she asks in a low, serpentine candor as everyone looks at her expectantly, more than eager to please her. “Hearing all of your secrets about the castle,” says the barkeeper.

Avorna stops.

“...Why?” asks the dark elf, her cheek still rubbed against Miss Schwester’s face. A sudden suspicion rises in her again.

Miss Schwester’s body cracks in unnatural ways, its bones disjointed and moving as she looks at the wizard. “Why… It’s because I am stuck here taking care of you all,” explains the woman, reaching up and pinching Avorna’s cheek with a nigh-skeletal, almost fleshless finger. “So hearing stories is exciting for me.”

Avorna’s eyes light up. “Oooh!” she says, feeling utterly foolish all of a sudden.

— That makes perfect sense.

Avorna sighs, exasperated at herself. “I’m so glad we have you, Miss Schwester,” says the dark elf, pecking the barkeeper’s cheek as a sign of affection. What is wrong with her? All of this dying and ressurection must be making her weird and paranoid. It’s not good for the mind.

“You’ll always have me…” says Miss Schwester, lowering her face, the shadows over her features drawing darker and darker until nothing is left visible apart from two glowing orbs where her eyes ought to be. “— Forever.”

People cheer wildly all around them. This is fantastic news.