Troile made her way to the marina, knowing that it would be mostly deserted in autumn except for the commercial boats out on the water. She expected fishers, a ferry or the usual idiot speedboating late at night. Drunkards and drug users with some technical skill. Dangerous, very dangerous. They think they are capable of doing anything regardless of their mental state. Good thing the professionals are used to dealing with their kind. So Troile's only concern was the occasional citizen she might happen upon this evening, out for a stroll. I will find an isolated spot. I must not be interrupted. Interruption in this task is very unfortunate for all concerned.
She quardoned off a large block of space with rope, securing the perimeter with large driftwood stakes. This was not a barrier to movement, but a reminder that space was relative. Movement on this mortal plane of existence could be miles behind the shroud, depending on the vantage point. Stray too far in the Shadowlands, and never return. Setting up a perimeter is setting up a safety net. Her heart beat tremulously in excitement as she began the most tedious part of the work. A fine weave of cheap cloth, which, when the correct thickness was achieved, would act as a conduit between the planes. This was dyed a bright red color, from the red fall flowers she found on the way over here. Her spidery hands tied the appropriate knots, which acted as glyphs. Danger was very near, growing closer and more deadly with every knot and fold. When at last this was done, the product was tied around her neck.
At this point there was no going back. The connection was made, the barriers to her sight were up. Troile need only close her eyes to see beyond the shroud. The Spectre I seek is near. Along with the relic. Gaius said it would be here. Steady, Troile. Stay steady. Prime your senses, lest they feed.
With an unintelligible cry, she shut her eyes and invisioned the darkness. Her body shook as she underwent the paradigm shift, felt herself fax* into the Shadowlands. A true ghost in the land of ghosts. Shuddering, Troile fought against the all consuming, terrifying darkness. This saturnine world was bereft of hope. The few spirits she had spoken to her were more than unhappy-- they were incapable of comprehending anything but suffering and pain. Even the memory of happiness was extinguished in this place, and visitors felt all their memories of goodness drain away.
The first sound to pierce the gloom was a low pitched wailing, coming from all directions. Behind the mournful calls lay the river Nemo, the nameless river of sound. An action taken in this plane-- and sometimes the mortal planes and umbral planes connected to it-- was remembered forever, passed down through the Shadowlands. Some necromancers claimed to read the stream, most notably Gaius of Throedale. This Troile couldn't believe, hearing only a mad gushing sound when she concentrated on the stream in the background. Everything is so mixed together in a caucophony of horror, Troile noted, the scientist in her taking control from the scared elf. She felt herself push on, as if she were watching a movie of her own actions. I can't see anything yet, but that will come in time.
Gradually, Troile's eyes adjusted to the gloom, acquiring a red glow. As the darkness peeled away, she could make out ghostly architecture, and animal spirits in the distance. Everything was decayed, echoing the effects of oblivion. Gasping, she noticed that thousands of ghostly insect scrabbled at her intangible feet, trying to attack the interloper. Sensing movement, Troile's head snapped up and she looked forward, knowing that she was to confront something that shouldn't be. Bracing herself for the shock, she watched as the door to the nearest shack creaked open, and a figure emerged. Faceless, with empty eye sockets and twisted limbs, great unearthly jaws formed out of a projection on the top of its chest. Ichor flowed out of these jaws, and from its eyes, and the two projections that served as its arms enlengthend and drew scythelike claws. The creature emitted an enraged hiss which lengthened into a snarl. Words formed inside Troile's mind, words spat with so much pain she recoiled. This must be a Spectre. So tormented by rage and grief, this creature has lost the battle with its baser self and is now just a sentinent mass of hatred.
"Ten minutes, necromancer! Ten minutes until you are drawn inescapably here and I shall rip you asunder! Your soul will be so destroyed not even the smallest shred will remain to writhe in agony! I will enter your mind and extract the name of your--"
Already she could feel it "reading" her-- unable to actually effect her physical form, the ghost analyzed her shadow duplicate** to get her signature, so that it could track her from beyond the shroud, and harm whatever she valued most. Troile saw herself reading the tome back at the library again. A Mortwight is recognizeable by its extreme anger and malleable visage. Having died an extremely violent death, the mortwight seeks to wreak hell upon whatever and whomever it can. Use extreme caution when dealing with this Spectre-- it is vital not to engage spirits on their own plane, but never engage a mortwight when fully corporal. To do so is suicidal. The best course of action is to restrain the Spectre, for those who have learned how to torment ghosts. Setting up an effective defense will also decrease susceptibility to their powers. The necromancer should complete his business as fast as possible, exit the Shadowlands, and destroy any remaining conduits immediately.
What sounded like a gasping hiss left Troile's lips as the steel within her acted. "Behave yourself," she replied in the lifeless tongue, staring at the mortwight in grotesque fascination. "You have more worthy prey elsewhere."
Violent sounds issued from the mortwight's body: as Troile moved forward, the mortwight covered her with its ectoplasm, obscuring her sight. Giddy, Troile knew that she couldn't be harmed while her true form remained on the mortal plane, but face to face with a sadistic amoeboid bent on her own destruction was something completely different. Troile the scientist fought to concentrate by focusing on the Spectre's form, the color and scent of the ectoplasm, its degree of tangibility. Get this off. Get this off of me! Think! she commanded herself, wanting to throw this away and return to the safety of the mortal plane. Her eyes glowed momentarily as she sought to take more information in...and two pinpricks of light appeared through the mortwight's body.
Infravision?
Immediately she widened her eyes, putting all her energy into her visual senses. The pinpricks bored into two large holes, and the shadowscape appeared before her again--rotting buildings and all. She moved forward, seeking the shack the mortwight came from, and laughed maniacly when she realized the mortwight still traveled overtop her, as if I were wearing a sheet over my body... with two holes cut out to see.
Unable to control herself, Troile warbled "Boo!" in the lifeless tongue, a joke to which the mortwight resumed its cursing and graphic descriptions of sadistic torture.
"Trick or treat," she said tamely, as she drew near the door. Unable to manipulate the architecture itself, Troile slid inside the slit the mortwight had left as it exited. Inside lay a rickety set of chairs and a plaque on the wall.
cineri gloria sera est
Staring, Troile drew closer and saw a small subscript, apparantly unconnected.
Gustibus mens dat incremntum***
Beneath that, was one final word.
Meliora
This was what she had come so far to find! But it made no sense to her at all. Briefly she memorized the contents of the room, the positioning of the plaque, the mortwight's actions, and the shack itself.
This is all very important but I don't know how.
Ready to leave at last, Troile grasped the woven red cloth she'd attatched to her neck, and ripped it away. Forcing her will to the mortal coil, she felt herself fax back, felt her body return to the shell. Gasping, she immediately set to burning the cloth conduit, rubbing pitch into its creases. She gathered the driftwood stakes and rope, and wrapped the string of cloth around them all. Then, Troile set everything ablaze.
As the fire burned, she scribbled all of her observations into her journal, taking particular care to note her experience with infravision and the strange writing inside the shack.
Meliora. Better. Gauis' writing said that the first line would be there. The second, I don't understand. And the third...?
Relaxing for a moment after this was all done, Troile gazed up at the stars wistfully.
What secrets are you hiding from me now?
----------------
*Fax-- Necromancer's term for shifting planes without completely commiting the physical body to the new state of existence.
**also called a Fax
***Glory paid to ashes comes too late. (Martial)
Knowledge enhances sensory perception.
(Always) better.
Feel free to enter after this event, but please PM me with intentions if you want to enter it before or during.