Rise of The Runelords Chapter 9: Fox in The Hen House

The undead are roaming Sandpoint's countryside, threatening not just the town, but also their ability to feed themselves. If the ghouls aren't killed soon, and the ghast that created them stopped, then it could spiral out of control to threaten Magnimar, Riddleport, and the other prominent cities of Varisia. It was after slaying a pack of the creatures that our heroes found a key... a key that might unlock what's been going on out in the farmlands.

If you need to get up to speed, the previous installments include:

- Chapter 1: Blood and Butterflies
- Chapter 2: Murder and Glass
- Chapter 3: The Sin Pit
- Chapter 4: Tussles in The Tangle
- Chapter 5: The Assault on Thistletop
- Chapter 6: Secrets Behind The Curtain
- Chapter 7: Murders At The Mill
- Chapter 8: Halflings and Ghouls
- Chapter 9: Fox in The Hen House
- Chapter 10: Something Rotten in Magnimar
- Chapter 11: The Crumbling Tower
- Chapter 12: Demonbane
- Chapter 13: Trouble at Turtleback Ferry
- Chapter 14: The Taking of Fort Rannick
- Chapter 15: Water Over The Dam
- Chapter 16: Mad Lovers, And Lost Captains
- Chapter 17: The March of The Giants
- Chapter 18: The Taking of Jorgenfist
- Chapter 19: The Secrets Beneath Sandpoint
- Chapter 20: At The Gates of The Runeforge
- Chapter 21: Storming The Halls of Evocation
- Chapter 22: The Bowels of Necromancy's Tomb

- Chapter 23: The End of Runeforge

- Chapter 24: Preparation For The Final Journey 

- Chapter 25: The Hunger in The Mountains 

- Chapter 26: The Gateway to Xin-Shalast

- Chapter 27: The Path of Temptation

- Chapter 28: The Three-Fold Challenge of Xin-Shalast

- Chapter 29: Crossing The Barrier of Greed

- Chapter 30: The Fall of Karzoug

Caught up? Lovely! Because today our heroes get to the heart of the matter with...

The Horror At Foxglove Manor

Foxglove Manor, an aging mansion down a narrow and twisting walk from Sandpoint, was the ancestral home of the Foxgloves. Aldern, though, barely went there at all (or so he'd told the heroes when they rescued him), and spent most of his time in Magnimar. When they approached the house, it was easy to see why he preferred the city life.

"Haunted?" Haunted. "Weapons?" Weapons.

Foxglove Manor, a sagging edifice looming over a cliff face like it was considering jumping, reeked of the haunted, and the unnatural. The front door yielded, the lock recently oiled, but inside the smell of decay, and a kind of sweet corruption, hung in the air. Tapestries moldered on the walls, the boards threatened to give way underfoot, and it seemed like whispers shushed from every darkened room.

The house knew they were inside, and it was not pleased.

The manor seemed a thing alive, haunted by a thousand little furies. A stuffed firepelt cougar that seemed alive, but which hadn't moved at all after Mirelinda blinked at it. A portrait above the fire that seemed to wail sorrowfully, making Zhakar's cursed right hand clench. A woman's scarf that rose from a chair to try to strangle Thokk. Enemies not of flesh and blood, but of malicious spirit flooded the place as murders of crows gathered about the eaves.

As they went room to room, they began to build a picture of what had happened at Foxglove Manor. They found symbols of an esoteric order related to a strange, 7-pointed star. They also found hidden keys that led to a basement replete with arcane and alchemical workings. Someone, likely a previous generation of the Foxgloves, had tried to conquer death by mixing the draught to become a lich. They failed... but perhaps not entirely. Their soul lingered, after a fashion, in the very stones and wood of the house. Turning the crumbling manse into a kind of phylactery.

But worse things were found below.

Down In The Depths

Beneath the basement of Foxglove Manor there was a hole that led to a tidal cave. Though the cavern was filled with terrible creatures, including several more ghouls, it was what lurked at the bottom of the spiral stone walkway that was truly a horror. Aldern Foxglove, dressed in ragged finery, and whispering to himself at a fever pitch as he stared at his sallow reflection in a huge, polished war razor.

When he turned and saw Mirelinda, though, a change came over him. His eyes went black, and his tongue lolled obscenely from his expanding jaw. His teeth, cracked and filed to daggers, clacked, and he advanced, taking on the form of a full, mad ghast.

Undeath is not kind to the sanity of those afflicted.

While his obsession with Mirelinda was enough to drive his mad mind to the brink of collapse, the presence of such an anathema brought something out in Zhakar. That white light began to shine from his eyes once more, and the skin around those glowing orbs began to crack and flake away, revealing the gleam of steel beneath. He gripped his sword more tightly, and it burst into black flames. He closed with the creature, standing between the thing that Aldern had become, and Mirelinda. The ghast snarled and lashed out, but Zhakar turned aside his razors with his gauntlet, and the creature's teeth scraped against the steel beneath his skin. It raged and howled, slashing in a frenzy, but Zhakar barely seemed to notice as he stood his ground.

The creature's forward momentum halted, Thokk charged into its flank, driving his spear hard against it. The ghast seemed to dance away, the cuts barely harming its undead flesh. Zordlan hurtled a wing-backed chair trying to take the ghast in the flank. It hissed, snarling as it tried to dodge aside from yet another blade. There was only one of him, though, and every time Zhakar drove his longsword home, the cuts burned and bled with ichor. Aldern stepped away, trembling, and falling to his knees. He panted, and begged for mercy. He seemed, for just a moment, to be himself again. But then the madness that had consumed him reared up once more, and he surged to his feet with a roar of mad laughter.

Three blades that had been lowered pierced his heart, and left the ghast dead on the floor.

There was something else in that cavern, though. A strange, man-shaped patch of mold along one wall. It smelled... wrong. Worse, it reeked of disease, and wickedness. The remains of Aldern's elder, the ghost in the foundations, couldn't reach out and hurt those who had slain Aldern... but it couldn't be simply wiped away with holy water. It would need to be exorcised... something none present could do.

They found one other thing, as well. A letter from a mysterious contact in Magnimar. She spoke of pacts, of deeds, and of the seven-pointed star. They would need to venture south for aid in order to purify Foxglove Manor, but while they were there it seemed there would be other business to attend to as well. Business that simply could not wait if they were to get to the heart of who had unleased the undead plague on Sandpoint.

What lurked in the shadows of Magnimar? Tune-in for the next Table Talk installment to find out!

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Rise of The Runelords Chapter 8: Halfings and Ghouls

Sandpoint just can't seem to catch a break. No sooner is the threat of the goblins ended, than murderous undead begin filling up the countryside. With a handle on what's happening (if not who is behind it), or heroes mount up to try to put a stop to yet another brush fire before it can build into something bigger.

For those who aren't caught up yet, previous installments include:

- Chapter 1: Blood and Butterflies
- Chapter 2: Murder and Glass
- Chapter 3: The Sin Pit
- Chapter 4: Tussles in The Tangle
- Chapter 5: The Assault on Thistletop
- Chapter 6: Secrets Behind The Curtain
- Chapter 7: Murders At The Mill

All caught up? Good... because in this installment we're about to take another step down the rabbit hole surrounding the misfortune of one of Varisia's adventuring hot spots.

A New Friend, And A Whole Lot of Enemies

Returning from the asylum, and burying the unfortunate victim of the ongoing ghoul plague, Sandpoint's heroes found that the farmers had all come in from the outlying farms. The ghouls were rampaging, killing livestock, menacing the people they found, and it wasn't safe out there anymore. With everyone huddling behind stout walls, and the fields going to rot, it was only a matter of time before things grew worse.

Eager to set the cold thing in his guts to rights, Zhakar was only too happy to ride into the fields. Thokk came with to watch his back, and Zordlan came to help the people he'd known since they were born. Mirelinda groused about it, but her heart was only halfway in it. She knew there was no one else who could do the job, which meant she was part of the solution. The only one who remained behind was Chikara, who opted to make sure no threats attacked the town while the others went on the hunt.

Do you remember there being scarecrows? I don't remember there being scarecrows...

The first sign something was wrong was the silence hanging over the countryside... and the stink. A taint floated on the air, putting everyone on edge. There was no banter as they rode. None of the usual jibing or storytelling. Just grim purpose as they approached a scarecrow... and an ambush.

The ghoul masquerading as a farm distraction, leaped down, tongue lolling and claws at the ready. Two of its fellows stepped out of the fields, rushing into the fray. Though they were used to fighting farmers and peddlers, they weren't prepared for the assault they received. Zordlan parried the claws and fangs of a ghoul on the flank, running it through time and time again until he found the heart. Zhakar drove his fist into one's teeth, shattering them even as it tried to sink its fangs past the steel of his gauntlet. Thokk's bowstring thrummed, planting arrows into the creatures' flesh. When one fell and tried to rise, Mirelinda flicked a bone wand into her hand, and splattered its skull with a spray of glowing missiles.

When the dust settled, though, they heard another sound; a low groaning. It came from a scarecrow, but this one wasn't a ghoul. It was a halfling, tied to a crossbeam, with a bite mark at his neck. He had no fever, though, and the wound didn't seem to be festering or spreading.

Bostwick may no longer be welcome at the monastery he'd left, but disease had no hold over him. A fortunate advantage to have in ghoul country.

A Barnyard Brawl

With a new ally, and one who has a score of his own to settle with these creatures, they rode on. The oppressive feeling all around them grew, like an oncoming storm, and that was when they heard the moaning. It came from a barn, barred from the outside. There was a scrabbling, but nothing too determined. Someone had trapped a pack of the things before they fled.

Lovely... a target-rich environment.

They drew rein at the edge of the property, and Thokk reconnoitered the building. A dozen ghouls were pent up in there, listlessly shuffling this way and that. They looked half-starved, and particularly dangerous. Zhakar nodded, and drew his sword as he approached the gate. He and Bostwick would act as the bulwark, with Thokk and Mirelinda behind. Zordlan would act as support and a flanker, filling in gaps as they appeared. Once the plan was set, the bar was lifted, and the doors opened.

The ghouls snapped their heads toward the opening, charging in a single rush of mad hunger. Bostwick's fists flew, smashing a kneecap, and crushing another ghoul's pelvis. Zhakar's sword bit deep, tearing out streams of gore even as he parried claws and teeth. Every flick of Mirelinda's wand sent fresh streaks into the ghouls' ranks, and Thokk let arrows fly with impunity over Bostwick's head. Zordlan's song drove strength into his companion's arms, and his bow found more than a few marks of its own.

Beneath the sounds of battle, though, was another sound. A stranger sound; the grinding of claws against metal. Though some ghouls' blows were parried, and others turned away on Zhakar's shield, many of them struck home... or seemed to. The claws and fangs drug along the skin of his arms, his neck, and even the left side of his face, but no blood welled from the gashes. Instead, they revealed a layer of shining steel just beneath.

When the last of the ghouls fell twitching to the floor, it was Thokk who touched his friend on the shoulder. They conversed in Thokk's native language, one that Zhakar had learned during their long walks through the northern woods, but even as they talked the gashes seemed to knit themselves closed. The wounds, if wounds they were, gone as if they'd never been. Unsure of what to make of it, Zhakar rolled his sleeve down, and turned his collar up, before sheathing his sword. They needed to identify who was in that barn, and carry the news back to their families if possible. Whatever was happening to him would wait until that was seen to.

Who Is The Master?

Most of the bodies in the barn belonged to farmers and their families. But there was one that stood out... one that didn't belong. Its clothes had been finely made, once upon a time, and he still carried some of the tools of his former life. Along the figure's belt was a key wrought with a family crest... the Foxgloves.

Either Aldern was in trouble... or he was already far past saving.

That's all for this installment of Table Talk. What happens next? Well, you'll have to tune-in next month to see what happens to our heroes when they kick in the doors of Foxglove Manor!

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