Saralas: The Feywild Chapter 13

The Bazaar

“If it’s an open market,” I mused, “then maybe we can pretend to be customers for the moment while we scout the place.” I looked around. “Which way is the attic?”

“Up,” Clapperclaw replied, not helpfully, pointing towards the enormous tree. We were outside the main tree, and from our location I could see a few windows open to the interior. Unfortunately they were too high up for me to see anything through them. I turned my attention to the market.

This market, this bazaar, was familiar and yet not. There were market stalls all around, manned by all manner of creature. Goblins and other creatures I didn’t immediately recognize were moving around, buying, selling, carrying parts, and generally ignoring us.

“I don’t think we really stand out here,” Karthos said. "There are just so many oddities and it’s an active market."

“Let’s pretend to be first-time buyers,” suggested Korag.

“Can you offer any pointers?” Resda asked Clapperclaw.

The scarecrow made a show of thinking. “Refuse to pay full price for anything. Disparage the quality of everything you see, and above all be cruel. You’ll fit right in!” he said. Lovely.

I began walking through the market, looking around at the stalls like a casually disinterested buyer. The stalls were varied in contents. One was cluttered with all sorts of doll parts, some intact, some splintered, piled atop greasy boards. Glassy eyes glimmered faintly under lantern lights. Another held a collection of copper gears and broken springs. Rusty surfaces etched with strange runes. Under this a delicate porcelain faceplate with a cracked smile seemed almost serene. Around me the market was filled with whispers.

The people working here were unlike anyone I’ve seen. Most were small, hunched and twisted, moving jerkily as they worked. Some appear to be children, but with wide, glassy, oddly empty eyes. Some were small automatons. I had a feeling all were slaves, souls stolen, not unlike Bun and Clapperclaw.

The customers were all manner of creatures, some humanoid, some not. Some didn’t match any creature I’ve known. It was disorienting. The market seemed aware, hostile, but at the same time ordinary to everyone here.

In the shadows I caught sight of a drow. I moved closer, casually, to get a better look, but they slipped into the shadows before I could get close enough to make out their face. I looked, but could find no trace.

The market was clearly off to the side of the tree, and I wondered if there was any way into the main complex from here. I kept walking, looking, hoping to find something. The market was contained with a large fence connected to the fence near the gate. To one side were seemed to be massive doors which lead into the factory from the market. A closer look showed they were loading docks, chained and locked. The air close to the building was thick with the smell of saltwater and rust.

The locks were enchanted, etched with runes that pulsed with a faint glow. “These are alarmed,” Karthos said, joining me. “I imagine they will make a terrible ruckus if we try to break in this way.”

I sighed. “I don’t think I need anything else here,” I said. “Do you think we can move inside?” I paused. “Do we need to try to disappear?”

“Bun, Clapperclaw, do you need anything here?” Resda asked before we left.

In response, Bun pulled out his dagger and practiced his stabbing.

“Are there any windows?” Karthos asked.

“There are a couple above us,” I replied, “but too high for me to see through.”

“Let me take a look,” Karthos said, and then transformed and climbed up to look through a window. After a short while he returned, and described what he saw. Past the window was an enormous factory floor. Hundreds of figures were working at tables filled with parts. The air inside seemed to shimmer with a faint metallic haze. The scale of the room was almost disorienting, as if the room was bigger than it could possibly be. Bigger on the inside. He also said that a shadow bigger than a person, something huge, seemed to move past the window from time to time, and as it moved it made a huge booming sound, like a massive creature walking. The factory did not seem at all inviting, and I was not eager to meet whatever unseen creature Karthos had described.

“Clapperclaw, how did you and Bun escape?” Resda asked.

“We hid in a delivery”

“How often do they go in and out?”

Clapperclaw scratched his head, uncertain. “Every now and then,” he said uncertainly.

“Are people other than workers allowed in the factory?” Resda asked.

“Sure, customers,” Clapperclaw replied. “Placing orders.”

“Where do customers go, where is the service desk?”

In response he just pointed towards the front door.

“Well then let’s go in the front and pretend to be customers. Maybe we’ll see more when we get there,” Resda suggested.

Reception

We headed back to the front door. There was music is in the air, a tune for children, but off somehow. Wrong. There was a garden, but it was too colorful, almost painful to look at. There were figures in the garden, and their eyes seemed to follow us. They moved unsettlingly in the breeze.

The front door was unlocked, and opened into a cozy-looking sitting room. Or it appeared to be so. I thought it was probably not so cozy in reality. From inside the room it appeared to be daylight outside despite the darkness, and sunlight painted the walls in pastels, like a cheery sunny morning had been borrowed. But things looked wrong. A cloying perfume lingered in the air. A crackling fireplace cast shadows through the room, but gave no warmth.

The wallpaper seemed to shift in the corners of my eyes, and the chandelier seemed to look at us through watchful eyes of reflected firelight.

In front of us was a tea table, and an invitation card inviting us to take something. There were no people other than us. There were a number of teatime treats lined up on the table.

Taking the card at face value, Karthos picked up the blackberry jam and dipped a mushroom into it. As he put it in his mouth, shadowy tendrils began to emerge from his mouth and eyes, circling around, attacking him.

“Ouch!” he cried.

“Karthos are you OK?” I asked, though I could see he wasn’t.

“The jam hurts!” he said, setting the jar back down, though the shadowy tendrils kept attacking. He cast a minor spell and the effect stopped.

He moved to examine the card more closely. It was magical, and the other side of the card said “please take only what you are offered.”

This seemed like a waiting area, or place to make business arrangements. Everything appeared to be quite nice, but I was certain this was an illusion meant to hide the horror of the factory itself inside.

At the back of the bright cheerful parlor, a heavy cream-painted door stood quietly, almost blending in with the walls. Its surface gleamed, but it seemed strange. It seemed to hum, the air around it seemed heavier and charged, as if the door was listening. A soft, barely audible melody drifted from the grooves in the door. It was a haunting sound, tugging at distant half-forgotten memories. The door seemed primed to respond to sound. I shared this with the others as I examined it.

“Do you remember any songs Nightshade sang?” Korag asked Clapperclaw.

“There was the nighttime lullaby,” Clapperclaw said, then chanted quietly:

Hush my darling do not weep,
I’ll hold you safely while you sleep.
Soft as silk and pale as cream,
I’ll stitch you gently in your sleep.

It went on in much the same way, seemingly gentle but truly not.

I turned back to the door and carefully inspected it. There were roses carved around the perimeter into the wood. Back on the table there was a rose on the marzipan music box. Perhaps this was the key.

“The music box seems to match the carvings on the door,” I said.

“It says ‘take only what you are offered’,” Resda said. “What if I gift it to you?”

“I’m willing to try if you’re willing to undo whatever horrible thing happens,” I said wryly.

Karthos picked up the box and offered it to me. I accepted it and took a bite. As the sweetness melted through my mouth, a faint sound stirred in my mind, like the echo of distant wind chimes. They resolved into a lullaby, soft and lilting, as if sung by a mother who did not actually love me. Each verse was gentle, comforting, but somehow sinister. Like something had been bent. With every bite it dug deeper until I was not sure if I was remembering the melody or was being taught for the first time.

I turned and sang the rhyme Clapperclaw had chanted with this new melody at the door. It responded with a shimmer, a shudder, and a faint click as the lock unlatched. The door seemed to sing back, a large sound, like a chorus of children. I felt a lingering sorrow in my mind. The door glowed around the edge and then swung open, revealing the room beyond. The song was indeed the key.

“Should we try the other things here?” Resda asked.

In response, Karthos offered Resda the candied violets which she accepted.

Karthos then offered the crystal sugar apple to Korag, who politely (and wisely) refused.

Resda offered Karthos the apple instead. He took it and bit down, but the shell was actually glass, and blood started pooling out of his lacerated mouth.

“Korag looks smug,” Skant said.

I cast cure wounds on Karthos, and suddenly my shadow disappeared. I remembered something like this happening to Resda once, and hope it’s temporary.

“Let’s go,” Karthos said mushily through healing wounds.

Factory Floor

We headed to the open door. Beyond it was a space that should not have fit within the walls we saw outside. Rows and rows of tables lined up endlessly before us. Children staffed the tables, assembling toys. Gears above moved items along conveyors. The air smelled of scorched sawdust, oil, and something sickly-sweet, as if sugar had been burned to ash.

We could hear heavy deliberate footsteps that appeared to be patrolling the area, or pacing like an animal in a cage.

“We should try to avoid that,” Korag said.

“It’s the shadow,” Clapperclaw said, taking his meaning. “It’s not like a person; it’s huge, hollow. It moves slowly but you can feel every step. It doesn’t chase, but sometimes it stretches. It seems to know when you’re there. I ran once, and got away, but I could still feel it following me. It’s patient, and it’s big.” He shuddered. “No one can stop it, at least not alone. You have to be careful. It’s always waiting. Always.”

“Does it hear?” Korag asked.

“It just knows, I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s purpose is to keep the children from escaping. Maybe it won’t care about us going in.”

“Where should we go to find the items we seek?” I asked Clapperclaw.

“The loom is located deeper in the factory. It’s several chambers down across the other side of the factory. This place is… different inside than outside, but it still follows the same shape.”

I looked through the room again. It was huge, full of movement. “If all these people were to come after us we should probably just run,” I said quietly.

“How many did you say were here?” Korag asked.

“A dozen!” replied Clapperclaw.

I looked again. “A dozen?” I could see many many more. Were they all real?

“Yes, a dozen. Isn’t that a dozen?” He paused for a bit. “Actually I don’t know how many that is.”

“It’s twelve,” said Korag gently. “This many and two more,” holding up both hands, ten fingers.

“Oh,” Clapperclaw said with realization. “It’s many, many more than that. But they probably won’t follow us or bother with us because they have quotas to meet.”

We moved forward as quietly as we could through the endless rows of tables. Things seemed to blur into one suffocating hum. Then suddenly the roar of the factory cut off. All the machinery, all the workers, stopped mid-motion. The silence was so sudden it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

We stopped and tried to stay silent. A massive shadow peeled away from the beams, impossibly tall and thin, with limbs that dragged along the floor. It wasn’t walking, it was gliding, but each step came with an echoing boom. The shadow leant low over us, close enough to feel the cold of its presence. A suggestion of a face hovered near ours, staring.

Then without a word it drifted past, sliding through walls, pillars, and machinery like smoke. The children returned to their tasks like nothing happened. The noise returned among our new terror at this apparition. After a moment we recovered ourselves, and continued on our path deeper into the factory.

Eventually we found ourselves in front of another door, similar to the door we entered at the other side of the room. Beyond we could smell the faint smell of herbs. Carved on the door were rose thorns again. The pattern was similar to the first door, but different. There was no visible keyhole on the door.

The vines seemed oddly fresh compared to the corroded metal around them, and the green enamel looked almost wet. The vines were not flat to the door, and they seemed like they might be able to move. There was a thin bead of sap on the handle with a sharp herbal smell; the same kind of resin found on poison darts. “This is a trap,” Karthos said.

“I’d like to harvest some of that, for reasons,” Resda said. “Does anyone have a vial? I’m fresh out.”

“Should we disarm it?” Karthos asked, looking at Kaira.

She moved forward and inspected the door for a little while, then pulled out her tools. She deftly pried one of the tendrils out of its groove, and snipped it. She then turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

Flowers and Prisoners

Beyond the door was a strange garden. Rows of thorny hedges twisted in tight spirals, moving as if they were aware. The air shimmered with motes of silver light which never quite touched the ground. At the center of the room was a sculpted hedge like a tower of bells. Every so often a breeze stirred, filling the chamber with delicate, discordant bells. It was if the room was listening for intruders.

I entered quietly to get a better look, taking care not to touch anything. Inside the room I could see low on the ground neat rows of flowers swaying gently in a wind that wasn’t there, disconnected from the gentle breeze that occasionally moved through the chamber. Each blossom was made of metal petals painted in garish colors, stems rooted in packed sawdust. A faint tinkling came from the flowers, as did the ticking of clockwork, like dozens of tiny hearts.

I squat closer, nose almost touching the nearest flower. The blossoms were metallic, seemingly hammered from brass or silver foil. I noticed a delicate, hair thin filament connecting each flower to the next. It seemed that disturbing one would disturb the whole patch, and together they would act like some large alarm.

I couldn’t see a clear path through. There was a door on the far side of the room, and next to me some stairs going up. It was too far to misty step across the room to the other door, and the room was too large for a silence spell to keep the flowers from going off. We could probably cross with great care, but it would be slow and take a lot of effort.

I turned to the stairs. A quick search for traps, tripwires, or loose steps turned up nothing. I headed up slowly, and found myself outside the tree, climbing a staircase that was now carved into the outer wall. At the top I found myself at a door into a branch coming out of the trunk where the tree had fallen over.

The others had followed. Before trying the door I inspected it carefully but noticed nothing at all. “This looks safe,” I said confidently.

Karthos had come up behind me and seemed skeptical. He leaned in to inspect it himself, not trusting me apparently. Then he stood up and said “yeah, it seems OK.” I rolled my eyes. He opened the door and looked inside.

Behind the door was a long, suffocating chamber lined with bunks. The bunks were little more than boards nailed to the wall. The air was rank with damp straw and sickness, heavy with the smell of too many bodies. Small bodies lay all around, some looking like the tree was reclaiming them. The walls were scrawled with drawings; children being crushed, ground into dolls. Drawings of the hag were also around. A children’s bunk, a cheerless place.

Along the wall, between and over the drawings I saw one phrase repeat over and over again. “Don’t stop working. Don’t stop breathing. Don’t stop or she’ll hear.”

Looking around, I noticed that some of the children seemed more alert. I later learned these were those who had escaped before being dragged back. They were longer fully under Nightshade’s spell, but pretending to be to stay alive. They saw Clapperclaw and moved closer.

“Are you here to set us free?” a small girl asked.

“If we can manage it,” Korag said, uninspringly.

“Yes we are,” confirmed Karthos.

The children seemed uncertain, and I tried to explain why we were here and that we needed to find the four items that bound them to destroy them so we could free them. The little girl’s eyes brightened, and she started talking to herself, wanting but not daring to hope.

“We could use any help you could give,” I finished.

From the children I learned that the attic, which contained the Dream Spindle, was above the Loom. The Vault of Names could be found before the Loom. The Loom itself contained the third item, and of course the last, the Marrow Key, was with Nightshade herself.

The children were getting agitated and more anxious to leave than to help. Resda asked the girl if she knew Lady Resda Highgrove. She did, and Resda said that was her, and we really needed their help.

“What kind of help?” the girl asked.

“We need to get through the roses,” Resda said.

“Nightshade just walks through them,” the girl answered. “She walks a funny way, and it’s different every time but she always knows the way.”

“So it’s kind of like a dance?” Resda said.

The girl looked thoughtful. “I guess so, but it’s not really fun,” she said.

Resda asked if there was anything else she could do. They begged for us to take them with us. I couldn’t stand it. We could not, not until we could break their bonds, but it hurt to look at these innocents and break their hearts.

“We cannot, now, we have to stay quiet,” Resda said.

They begged and pleaded to come with and seemed agitated that we would abandon them.

Resda asked Clapperclaw to reassure them, and he tried but did kind of a terrible job, describing our failures first, rather than how we helped him.

Eventually Clapperclaw managed to soothe the children, telling them they just have to wait a little longer. He promised he would be back, and looked back at me with an expression on his stag’s head that clearly said “we need to get out of here before this becomes a thing.”

We left the miserable children, promising again to be back to free them, and headed back down to the flowers. I inspected the flowers again, using the information the child had provided, trying to see how Nightshade could move through these flowers.

After sitting for a while taking everything in, I noticed that the motes of light in the air floated in some places, but not others. The spaces where the motes looked like they were not looked to form a path from here to the far door.

I took a breath and moved forward carefully, trying to to follow the path. I deftly weaved my way through the flowers through the void in the air where the motes were not, and made it safely to the other side. When I got there the motes moved and shifted, making a new path. This explained why the child said Nightshade’s path was always different.

“Watch the light, follow the path where the motes of dust are not.” I called softly to the others, then watched apprehensively as each crossed the room one by one.

I turned to the door. It was framed with thick twisted iron vines, tipped with razor sharp rose petals. Sap seemed to pulse faintly with teal light. The handle was a rose stem with thorns, sharp and menacing. Faint chimes seemed to drip from the buds as I approached.

Like most of the doors we had come across I suspected another trick or trap. I inspected the door, and realized that the tinkling of the rosebuds reminded me of the notes from a music box. They seemed to play a melody. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the melody, trying to fix the notes in my mind. Once I was sure I had it. I sang the notes in a wordless song back at the door.

As I sang, the thorned roses began to quiver in time with the melody, trembling with a faint musical ting, in harmony with each note. The tension in the vines eased, and with each measure the thorns retracted slightly. Tiny blossoms opened, releasing a soft fragrant mist., and as the last note echoed, a handle slid into my hand and the door fell ajar, the roses now fully blossomed but no longer threatening.

The Stable

The air now smelled of rose blossoms and honey. With a small smile I stepped into the next room, and found myself in what appeared to be a stable. Rows of cracked wooden rocking horses lined the walls. Each horse rocked on its own, a horrible suspicion in my mind that these were the souls of real people, bound to the rocking horses. The air was thick with the scent of old hay, and a faint metallic tang like blood on splintered wood.

In a shadowed corner of the stable, nearly hidden, lay a magnificent wooden unicorn. It’s paint was fading, but its eyes gleamed with intelligence. Its horn has been severed, a small empty spot on its forehead where it should have been.

I moved quickly to the unicorn and softly asked “Are you Elidon?”

The unicorn couldn’t speak, but could I feel enthusiasm radiation from it. I was sure it was responding positively; it was Elidon.

Karthos pulled out the horn he carried and tried to stick it back on. It fit into the empty spot on its head, but when he let go the horn clattered to the floor. “I think we need to destroy the anchors to free him.” Karthos said.

We promised we would do what we could and come back. He seemed agitated, as if he’d heard the rumor that we never came back. This time we were coming back if we could at all. Korag and Resda were quite vocal about it.

On the other side of the hall was a heavy wooden door banded with iron. It looked ordinary, except a tiny groove running from the handle to frame. In the groove was a kind of resin, almost like congealed sap, linking the handle to the door to the frame, past some runes. Another trap or puzzle lock.

“It seems like the remnants of an impure oil,” Karthos said after a brief inspection.

“Do you set it on fire?” I asked.

“Impure like evil, or dirty?” Resda asked.

“Like contaminated,” Karthos answered.

“Is Squirt still with us?” I asked.

“Yes,” Karthos said, and pulled the oil can out of his pack. “Can you oil this groove?” he asked.

“Just let me at it,” Squirt said.

The Vault of Names

As Karthos poured the oil along the groove the runes flickered. Slowly the shadowy tendrils retreated into the groove, and a faint metallic hiss escapesed the door followed by a delicate click. The air seemed lighter, and the door was unlocked. As with the others it seemed almost grateful, the faint scent of oiled wood mixing with the mustiness of the room.

Behind the door was a room. Shelves and cupboards lined the walls, and books and jars filled with powders lined the shelves. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and tang of preserved ink. In the center of the room was a vault-like cabinet taller than any of us. Flickering candlelight, or something similar, cast long shadows between the shelves. Tiny mechanical constructs perched amongst the storage. The room hummed with latent magic, expectant and unnervingly aware of us.

“This must be the vault of names, surely?” Karthos said to Clapperclaw.

“It sure is,” the scarecrow said slowly.

To get to the Ledger of True Names we first had to open the vault, and Clapperclaw warned that we’d need to defeat the protector.

“I can’t make any of this out,” Karthos said, peering at the runes.

“I can only read some of this. Maybe names?” Resda said. After a while she stepped back, looking unsettled.

Trying to help, I also looked and noticed that several of the runes seemed to be repeating. I didn’t recognize what they were, but they were visually similar, the curve of one fitting to the curve of the next. I traced one to the next, trying to follow the thread like a sentence.

“It might be music,” I said finally, “but I don’t recognize the notes.”

Raw Notes

• I look around for where the attic might be, which Clapperclaw says is up. We are at the side of the large tree, there are some windows to the interior.
• Around us are various stalls, goblins and other creatures are moving to and fro, carrying parts and such around.
• Karthos looks around, and sees there are many people who appear to be here on business. He thinks we probably do not greatly stand out, but we’ve of course never been here before
• “Let’s just pretend to be first-time buyers,” Korag said.
• “Can you offer any pointers?” Resda asked clapperclaw.
• “Refuse to pay full price for anything. Disparage the quality of everything you see, and above all be cruel. You’ll fit right in!” he answers
• I look around the stalls. One is cluttered with all sorts of parts, some doll parts, intact, some splintered, piled atop greasy boards. Glassy eyes glimmer faintly under lantern lights.
• Another holds a collection of copper gears and broken springs. Rusty surfaces etched with strange roons. Under this a delicate porceline faceplate with a cracked smile seems almost serene. The market is filled with whispers.
• The people here are unlike anyone I’ve seen. Most are small, hunched and twisted, moving jerkily as they work. Some appear to be children, but with wide, glassy, oddly empty eyes. Some are small automons.
• The customers are all manner of creatures, some humanoid, some not. Some which don’t match any creature I’ve known. It’s disorienting. It seems aware, hostile, but at the same time ordinary to everyone here.
• In the shadows I catch sight of a drow. I try to move closer, casually, to get a better look, but they slip into the shadows and I can find no trace.
• The market is contained with a large fence connected to the fence near the gate. There are what seem to be massive doors which lead into the factory from the market. They are actually docks, which are chained and locked. The air close to the building is thick with the smell of saltwater and rust.
• The locks are enchanted, etched with runes that pulse with a faint glow. “These are alarmed,” Karthos says.
• “I don’t think I need anything else here,” I say. “Do you think we can move inside? Do we need to try to disappear?”
• “Bun, Clapperclaw, do you need anything here?” Resda asks
• Bun, in response, pulls out his dagger and practices stabbing.
• “Are there any windows?” Karthos asks.
• “There are a couple above us,” I reply, “but too high for me to see through.”
• Karthos transforms and heads up to look through a window. When he comes back he describes it to us:
  • Past the window is an enormous factory floor, hundreds of figures working at tables filled with parts. The air shimmers with a faint metallic haze. The scale is almost disorienting, as if the room is bigger than it could possibly be.
  • Shadows bigger than a person move past occasionally, accompanied by a large boom.
• “How did Bun and Clapperclaw escape?” Resda asked.
• “We hid in a delivery”
• “How often do they go in and out?” she asks.
• “Every now and then,” he isn’t sure.
• “Are people other than workers allowed in the factory?” Resda asks.
• “Sure, customers,” Clapperclaw replies. “Placing orders.”
• “Where do customers go, where is the service desk?”
• He points to the front door.
• Resda suggests going in the front and pretending to be customers.
• We head back to the front door. Music is in the air, a tune for children, but it’s off somehow. There is a garden, but it is too colorful, almost painful. There are figures in the garden, eyes which appear to follow us, and they move unsettlingly in the breeze.
• The door is unlocked. It opens into a cozy-looking sitting room (or what appears to be). Inside the room it is daylight outside, and sunlight paints the walls in pastels, like a cheery sunny morning has been borrowed. But things look wrong.
• A cloying perfume lingers in the air. A crackling fireplace casts shadows through the room, but gives no warmth. The wallpaper seems to shift in the corners of my eyes, and the chandelier seems to look at us through watchful eyes of reflected firelight.
• In front of us is a tea table, and an invitation card inviting us to take something.
• There are a number of teatime treats lined up on the table.
• The room is otherwise empty.
• Karthos picks up the blackberry jam and dips a mushroom into it. As he puts it in his mouth, shadowy tendrils begin to emerge from his mouth and eyes, circling around, attacking him.
• “Ouch!” he says.
• “Karthos are you OK?” I ask
• “Ow, the jam hurts!” he says, setting the jar back down.
• He casts a minor spell and the effect stops.
• He moves to examine the card. It is magical, and on the other side of the card it says “please take only what you are offered.”
• This seems like a waiting area, or place to make business arrangement. Everything appears to be quite nice, but I am certain this is an illusion meant to hide the horror of the factory itself inside.
• At the back of the bright cheerful parlor, a heavy cream-painted door stands quietly, almost blending in with the walls. Its surface gleams, but it seems strange. It seems to hum, the air around it seems heavier and charged, as if the door is listening. A soft, barely audible melody drifts from the grooves in the door. It is haunting, tugging at distant half-forgotten memories. The door seems to respond to sound.
• Korag asks Clapperclaw if he remembers any songs Nightshade sang. He remembers the nighttime lullaby.
• “Hush my darling do not weep, I’ll hold you safely while you sleep. Soft as silk and pale as cream, I’ll stitch you gently in your sleep.” it goes on.
• I carefully inspect the door. There are roses carved around the perimeter into the wood. There was a rose on the marzipan music box. Clapperclaw didn’t really sing the rhyme, he more chanted it.
• I investigate the music box. It is marzipan and looks delicious.
• “It seems to match the carvings on the door,” I say.
• “What if I gift it to you?” Resda asks.
• “I’m willing to try if you’re willing to undo whatever horrible thing happens,” I say.
• Karthos offers me the box.
• I eat it.
• As the sweetness melts through my mouth, a faint sound stirs through my mind, like the echo of distant wind chimes. They resolve into a lullaby, soft and lilting, as if sung by a mother who does not actually love me. Each verse is gentle, comforting, but somehow sinister. Like something has been bent. With every bite it digs deeper until I am not sure if I am remembering it or am being taught.
• I sing the melody at the door, which responds with a shimmer, shudder, and a faint click as the lock unlatches. The door seems to sing back, a large sound, like a chorus of children singing back. I feel a lingering sorrow in my mind. The door glows around the edge and then swings open, revealing what is beyond.
• “Should we try other things here?” Resda asks.
• Karthos offers Resda the candied violets. She accepts.
• Karthos offers the crystal sugar apple to Karthos, who politely refuses.
• Resda offers Karthos the apple instead. He takes it. But the shell is actually glass, and blood starts pooling out of his mouth.
• “Korag looks smug,” Skant says.
• I cast cure wounds on Karthos. My shadow disappears.
• “Let’s go,” Karthos says through healing wounds.
• We head back to the open door. Beyond lies a space that should not fit within the walls we saw outside. Rows and rows of tables line up endlessly. Children man the tables, assembling toys. Gears above move items along conveyors. The air smells of scorched sawdust, oil, and something sickly-sweet, as if sugar had been burned to ash.
• We hear heavy deliberate footsteps that appear to be patrolling the area like a cage.
• “We should try to avoid that,” Korag says.
• “It’s the shadow,” Clapperclaw says. “It’s not like a person, it’s huge, hollow. It moves slowly but you can feel every step. It doesn’t chase, but sometimes it stretches, it seems to know when you’re there. I ran but I could still feel it following me. It’s patient, and it’s big.” “No one can stop it, at least not alone. You have to be careful. It’s always waiting. Always.”
• “Does it hear?” Korag asks.
• “It just knows, I don’t know.” He responds.
• “It’s purpose is to keep the children from escaping. Maybe it won’t care.”
• I ask Clapperclaw where we go from here to find what we’re looking for.
• The loom is located deeper in the factory, several chambers down across the other side of the factory. It’s different inside than outside, but still follows the same plan.
• I look through the room again. It’s huge. It’s filled with workers and stuff. If all these people were to come after us we would probably just need to run.
• “How many did you say were here?” Korag asks.
• “A dozen!” replies Clapperclaw.
• I look again. “A dozen?”
• “Yes, a dozen. Isn’t that a dozen?” He pauses for a bit. “Actually I don’t know how many that is.”
• “It’s twelve,” says Korag. “This many and two more,” holding up two fingers.
• “Oh, it’s many, many more than that,” Clapperclaw says
• They probably won’t follow us or bother with us because they have quotas to meet.
• We move forward quietly through the endless rows of tables. Things seem to blur into one suffocating hum. Then suddenly it stops, everything halts mid-motion. The silence is so sudden it feels like the whole room is holding its breath.
• A massive shadow peels away from the beams, impossible tall and thin, with limbs that drag along the floor. It doesn’t walk, it glides, but each step booms. The shadow leans low over us, close enough to feel the cold of its presence. A suggestion of a face hovers near ours, staring.
• Without a word it drifts past, sliding through walls, pillars, and machinery like smoke. The children return to their tasks like nothing happened. We all feel some terror at this apparition.
• Recovering ourselves we continue on our path deeper into the factory.
• We come to another door, similar to the door we entered. Beyond we smell the faint smell of herbs, and carved on the door are rose thorns. The pattern is similar to the first door, but different.
• There is no visible keyhole on the door. The vines seem oddly fresh compared to the corroded metal around them, and the green enamel looks almost wet. The vines are not flat to the door, they seem like they might be able to move.
• There is a thin bead of sap on the handle with a sharp herbal smell. The same kind of resin found on poison darts. “This is a trap,” Karthos says.
• Resda wants to harvest the resin “for purposes” but doesn’t have any vials.
• “Should we disarm it?” Karthos asks, looking at Kaira.
• She inspects it for a little while, then pulls out her tools. She deftly pries one of the tendrils out of its groove, and snip it. She then turns the handle, and pushes the door open.
• I look through the door. Beyond is a strange garden. Rows of thorny hedges twist in tight spirals, as if they are aware. The air shimmers with motes of silver light which never quite touch the ground. At the center of the room is a sculpted hedge like a tower of bells. Every so often a breeze stirs, filling the chamber with delicate, discordant bells, as if the room is listening for intruders.
• I move in quietly. Inside the room I can see low on the ground neat rows of flowers sawing gently in a wind that isn’t there. Each blossom is made of metal petals painted in garish colors, stems rooted in packed sawdust. A faint tinkling come from the flowers, as does the ticking of clockwork, like dozens of tiny hearts.
• I squat closer. The blossoms are metallic, seemingly hammered from brass or silver foil. There is a delicate, hair thin filament connecting each flower to the next. Disturbing one would disturb the whole patch. They are sensors of some kind, acting as some large alarm.
• There does not appear to be a clear path, but there is a door on the far side and stairs going up.
• We could probably cross with great care, but it would take a lot of effort.
• I investigate the stairs and do not find any traps. I go slowly up the stairs, and find myself outside the tree, climbing a staircase carved into the outer wall. I find myself at a door into a branch coming out of the trunk where the tree has fallen over.
• I inspect the door. “This looks safe,” I say.
• Karthos takes a look, “yeah, it seems OK.” He opens the door and looks inside.
• Behind is a long suffocating chamber lined with bunks. The bunks are little more than boards nailed to the wall. The air is rank with damp straw and sickness, heavy with the smell of too many bodies. Small bodies lie around, like the tree is reclaiming them. The walls are scrawled with drawings, children being crushed, ground into dolls. Drawings of the hag are also around.
• One phrase repeats again and again. Don’t stop working. Don’t stop breathing. Don’t stop or she’ll hear.
• Some of the children seem more alert, those who have escaped before being dragged back, no longer fully under Nightshade’s spell, but pretending. They see Clapperclaw, and move closer.
• They ask if we have come to free them.
• “If we can manage it,” Korag says, inspringly.
• “Yes we are,” confirms Korthos.
• I try to explain why we are here and that we need to find the four items that bind them to destroy them, and free them. A little girl’s eyes brighten, and she starts talking to herself, wanting but not daring to hope.
• “We could use any help you could give,” I say.
• The attic is above the loom, and the vault of names is before the loom. The loom contains the third item, and Nightshade has the fourth.
• Resda asks the girl if she knows Resda. She does, and Resda says we really need help.
• “What kind of help?” the girl asks.
• “We need to get through the roses,” Resda says.
• “Nightshade just walks through them. She walks a funny way, and it’s different every time but she always knows the way.”
• “So it’s kind of like a dance.”
• “I guess so, but it’s not really fun,” she says.
• Resda asks if there is anything else she can do. They beg for us to take them with us.
• “We cannot, now, we have to stay quiet,” Resda says.
• They beg to come with and seem agitated that we will abandon them.
• Resda asks Clapperclaw to reassure them, and he does a terrible job.
• Clapperclaw sooths the children, telling them they just have to wait a little longer. He promises he will be back, and looks back at me like “we need to get out of here before this becomes a thing.”
• I inspect the flowers again, trying to see how Nightshade might move through these flowers.
• I sit for a while, and note that the motes of light float in some places, but not others, and where the motes look like they are not, looks like a path.
• I try to follow this path. I deftly weave my way through the flowers through the void in the air where the motes are not, and make it safely to the other side. The motes move and shift when I do, making a new path.
• I am before the door on the other side of the room.
• “Watch the light, follow the path where the motes of dust are not.” I say.
• The door is framed with thick twisted iron vines, tipped with razor sharp rose petals. Sap seems to pulse faintly with teal light. The handle is a rose stem with thorns, sharp and menacing.
• Faint chimes drip from the buds as I approach.
• I inspect the door, and realize that the tinkling of the rosebuds reminds me of the notes from a music box. They seem to play a melody.faiding I concentrate on the melody, trying to fix the notes in my mind. I try to wordlessly sing the melody back at the door.
• As I do so, the thorned roses begin to quiver in time with the melody, trembling with a faint musical ting, in harmony with each note. The tension in the vines seems to ease. With each measure the thorns retract slightly. Tiny blossoms open, releasing a soft fragrant mist. As the last note echoes, a handle slides into my hand and the door sings ajar, the roses now fully blossomed but no longer threatening.
• The air now smells of rose blossoms and honey. I step into the next room, and find myself in what appears to be a stable. Rows of cracked wooden rocking horses line the walls. Each horse rocks on its own. The air is thick with the scent of old hay, and a faint metallic tang like blood on splintered wood
• In a shadowed corner, nearly hidden, lies a magnificent wooden unicorn. Paint is fading, but its eyes gleam with intelligence. Its horn has been severed.
• I move to the horse, and softly ask “Are you Elidon?” It cannot speak, but I feel enthusiasm radiation from it. I’m sure it is responding positively.
• Karthos tries to stick the horn back on, but it just clatters to the floor.
• “I think we need to destroy the anchors to free him.” Karthos says.
• We promise we’ll do what we can and come back. He seems agitated, as if he’s heard we never come back. This time we are coming back.
• On the other side of the hall is a heavy wooden door banded with iron. It looks ordinary, except a tiny groove running from the handle to frame. In the groove is kind of resin, almost like congealed sap, linking the handle to the door to the frame, past some runes.
• “Seems like the remnants of an impure oil,” Karthos says.
• “Do you set it on fire?” I ask.
• “Impure like evil, or dirty?” Resda asks.
• “Like contaminated,” Karthos answers.
• “Is Squirt still with us?” I ask.
• “Yes,” Karthos says, and pulls him out of his pack.
• “Can you oil this groove?” Karthos asks?
• As Karthos pours the oil along the groove the runes flicker. Slowly the shadowy tendrils retreat into the groove, and a faint metallic hiss escapes the door followed by a delicate click. The air seems lighter, and the door is unlocked. It seems almost grateful, the faint scent of oiled wood mixing with the mustiness of the room.
• Shelves and cupboards line the walls. Books and jars filled with powders line the shelves. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and tang of preserved ink. In the center of the room a vault-like cabinet taller than any of us. Flickering candlelight, or something similar, casts long shadows between the shelves. Tiny mechanical constructs perch amongst the storage. The room hums with latent magic, expectant and unnervingly aware of us.
• “This must be the vault of names?” Karthos says to Clapperclaw.
• “It sure is.” He says slowly.
• We’ll have to open the vault, and Clapperclaw warns we’ll need to defeat the protector.
• “I can’t make any of this out,” Karthos says, peering at the runes.
• “I can’ only read some of this, maybe names?” Resda says. After a while she steps back, looking unsettled.
• I look and notice that several of the runes seem to be repeating. I don’t recognize what they are, but they are visually similar, the curve of one fitting to the curve of the next. I trace one to the next. It might be music, but I don’t recognize the notes.