Chapter 1: "A Beginning"

"Kill them!! The womans screams shatter your thoughts. Kill the

Tormentors! Witness the signs - they are here for all to see!" Warm blood,

your own, lifeblood, trickles down the palms of your hands and down your

fingers. The womans mad glare strikes you hard. Worse than her screams is

the fact that the people around you begin to react to her pleas. The blood

flows from a score of wounds - the pain is intense. "Strike them down!!

Blood and roses!", the hag howls. How did you get into this mess? Your mind

races as the events of the morning flit across your mind.

The morning for Rubix started much like any other over the past three

years. Service to a patron as wealthy and influential as Sir Havenshaw is a

profitable venture, if not a bit dull. The Havenshaw estate near the south

wall of Port-a-Lucine sprawls for nearly two acres. By far the largest of

its kind in the whole city. The only structure in the entire domain of

Dementlieu to top it in terms of shear size is the cities own fortress in

the center of town. Not even the Temple of Ezra or Lord Governor Guignol's

estate could match House Havenshaw.

Henri Havenshaw made his fortune early in life when he took his small

mercantile company to the seas. He was only a young lad when

Port-a-Lucine's tiny harbor on the shores of Parnault Bay expanded to make

room for the larger and more profitable merchant schooners. At that time,

Henri stocked his huge triple-masted trading vessels with leathers, venison,

timber, fish and fine textiles - much the same as any merchant of

Dementlieu. But it was a stroke of luck when on a chance visit to northern

Lamordia he discovered the odd obsession those hearty people had for

potatoes and there were plenty of potatoes to be had in Dementlieu! Soon

the Havenshaw Mercantry ships were ploughing the stormy coasts of the Sea of

Sorrows bringing loads of Dimentlieu's tubers to the port of Ludendorf, then

inland to Neufurtenburg and even as far north as icy Martira Bay in the

domain of Necropolis. He wasn't sure what those people did with all of his

potatoes, all he knew was that the northerners couldn't get enough of them.

When Sir Henri Havenshaw arrived at his estate this morning accompanied by

his cabby Faulkenroy, he was in a frightful mood. The old man (he must be

in his nineties!) thrust his soaking tailed overcoat, black top hat and

gnarled walking stick into the ever-patient arms of Fosdick, his dwarven

majordomo. You could tell by the trail of thick mud from his leather shoes

as he stomped through the main hall that the master had been to the shrine

again. Every street in Port-a-Lucine had long been paved or cobbled and the

Governor made sure they were kept clean. Sir Havenshaw never visited the

fields outside of town and the only other place with that much mud was the

Ezran shrine in the city park.

Havenshaw was a pious man and loved his morning worship in the park. Even

in the foulest weather he would choose to worship at the public shrine

rather than waste his time with those fool jack-abouts at the temple.

"No!", he would often shout, "Those charlatans in town are merely pretenders

and there's no better way to run afoul of Ezra than to pay your respects in

that house of jackals. There isn't any other church than the true Church at

Mordentshire!" But why the foul mood this morning was still a mystery to

you.

Soon Agnus and Bertie were at the old man's side, waiting on his every whim

and offering any that he couldn't think up himself. "Get ya some hot tea,

suh? Warm ya right up it will!". "Heavens, suh, yer soaked to clear

through! You'll catch a deadman's cold if yer not more careful." The two

sisters were not as old as Havenshaw but they treated him as if they were

both his equal mothers. Agnus and Bertie rounded out the staff of house

Havenshaw which also included Faulkenroy, Fosdick and yourself, House

Captain -- otherwise known as chief of security.

Your chores are simple. Make sure nothing is stolen and no violence is

committed within the house or upon the grounds (except for the occasional

whack from Sir Havenshaw's gnarled cane). Three years of service to the

ancient entrepreneur has seen very little action. An occasional petty

burglar, a few busted raids on a shipment of goods, and once every month the

old geezer throws a huge celebrity social function in which everybody who is

anybody in Port-a-Lucine is invited over for dinner and you get the task of

making sure no theft or murder takes place! So far your record is perfect.

So far.

But on this particularly drizzly and grey morning, the old man had something

else in mind for your talents. "CAPTAIN!!!", he shouted as if you were

somewhere outside the city walls, "Oh, there you are! Stop sneaking around

like that, you're likely to scare the ghost out of me one of these days!

Now listen here, Captain. I've got a job for you. Faulkenroy took me out

to the shrine this morn', you know how I like to get there before the day

breaks, well, we took the carriage to the city park and all was just fine.

The constable had his men all in place and nothing looked out of the

ordinary. We rowed out to Isle d' Faux and when Faulkenroy helped me off

the raft my eyes saw the most terrible sight! The shrine of Ezra was

desecrated! Those beautiful columns had writing all over them, in blood I

think, and the slab was knocked clean over. Whoever did this must be

punished and severely! I need you to find out who did it." Sir Havenshaw

slumped into his favorite cushioned chair and clutched at his chest as he

finished speaking. The old man did not look well at all.

"That writing was like something I've never seen before", he continued with

a wheeze. "Get yourself over to the Academy and see if you can't find one

of them bookworms to go with you. Maybe they can help figure out what it

says. Here . . ." he handed you a fat purse that jangled healthily when

you shook it. "This ought to help convince someone to go with you."

"And you need to find someone to consecrate the place, too. I heard Dr.

Vilhelm say the other day that a holy man from the Church at Mordentshire

arrived last week. I don't want one of those local churchmen. I think the

good priest is staying at Beaumount Manor. I'm sure he'll go with you if

you tell him about it."

Then, as an afterthought, the old man threw a second purse at you. "Better

hire some muscle, too." he said before turning back to Bertie who was

pouring the noxious contents of a black bottle into a huge cooking spoon.

"You better not be thinking I'm going to drink that, you old crone. Now get

me my pipe and a glass of rum before I have Fosdick beat your kneecaps!"

Rarely had you seen the master of the house in such a surly mood. Thinking

you had better get this mess taken care of quickly, you grabbed a few

belongings, carefully concealed a cache of weapons within your thick woolen

clothes, snagged your collection of components for a few of your favorite

magiks, and headed out into the cold and gloomy morning.

As you walked the streets of Port-a-Lucien, you took a moment to breathe in

the sights and smells of your home town. The city housed nearly five

thousand people within its high stone walls and nearly half that many

farmers and fishermen lived outside them. The streets were wide and

cobbled, people strolled along without a hint of hurry while fine lacquered

carriages drawn by teams of jet black chargers from far-off Nova Vaasa

clopped by at a lazy gait.

The buildings were tall, two or three story affairs but were generally

quite thin and all pushed in tight together as if squeezed by titanic

hands. Iron lampposts decorated each corner, the haunts of criers and

harlots at both day and night hours. Merchants stood on the streets or next

to their shops selling all manner of goods from small wooden carts and

stalls. Flowers were very popular at this time of year to brighten even the

gloomiest of days. Wool clothes, fresh fish from the seas and venison from

the thick forests, were all for sale. The smells of fresh baked bread,

pastries, meat pies, hot teas and burning tabac could be smelled at each and

every turn.

But the most common commodity on the streets was the art. Oil and water

paintings, charcoal and chalk drawings. It seemed as if half the citizenry

thought they were master artists. Women and men of all ages and even a few

children showed off their wares; set in crude wooden frames, tacked to the

sides of buildings or rolled into bundles, art is definitely for sale in

Port-a-Lucien. Landscapes were most common, portraits and seascapes were

numerous, as well. Even a few brave artists dared to show off some of the

more bawdier works, defying the Governor's decree on decency.

The people of Port-a-Lucien were nearly as varied as the vendor's goods.

Rich aristocrats with long tailed coats and top hats, ladies wearing mellow

colored dresses and petticoats, high laced boots, wide brimmed frilly hats

and an occasional parasol walked freely among the poor beggars and middle

class burgioses. Those at the lower end of the social scale mucked around

in the gutters wearing mostly articles fashioned from burlap and animal

skins while the more common citizen wore fine wools or even cotton shirts.

It was only ten blocks to the Academy, a blocky stone fortress of a building

sporting five storeys of columned balconies and buttressed lead windows.

You looked upon the guarded entryway with a fair amount of trepidation as

the college was often frequented by members of the local Guild of Magiks.

You have always preferred to keep your arcane talents your own personal

business and certainly felt your identify, as well as the steep yearly

penance, was of no concern to the bunch of parlor tricksters and fat-headed

entertainers that comprised the groupÆs members. Unfortunately,

unregistered mages often found themselves at the hands of the Governor's

advisors or worse still, a patient at Dr. Vilhelm Mikki's Sanitorium d'

Chateaufaux.

Steeling your reserves, you strode past the two local militia men located

outside the front doors and entered the quiet, dark school. Inside, a

feeling of claustrophobia threatened as the very narrow hallways and wood

paneled walls seemed to close in on you. A thin red carpet lead the way

through the maze of corridors to the reception desk and kept you from

straying down one of the many halls, staircases or doorways alongside your

passage. The reception desk sat off to the side of a very quiet lounge.

Divans and stuffed chairs were scattered around the polished wooden floor,

hunting trophies of deer, elk and black bears adorned the walls while low

lit oil lamps hung to head height throughout the room and a huge stone

fireplace was lit with a small guttering fire.

You explained the purpose of your visit to the bespectacled, waifish, bald

man behind the desk who seemed to think himself more than the desk clerk he

really was. A look of poorly hidden disgust crossed the clerk's face as you

described the bloody handwriting you wanted deciphered. He then opened a

giant leather bound book and began shuffling through dusty pages. Finally

he looked up and told you that he had just the person for the job. And

since her tuition was past due, he would take her pay up front in advance.

You handed over a satisfactory sum in gold.

Another closed in hallway led you deeper into the building. Following the

clerk's instructions, you walked past rows of small cubicles. Each one

sporting a solidly locked wooden door and paned windows looking into the

room from the hallway. The rooms to your left also had a small leaded

window view of the outside. The rooms contained a small cot, trunk, writing

desk and bookshelf. Every one of them was occupied by a bleary eyed

student. Some asleep in their cots, others at their desks. Most were neat

and tidy with what looked like up to one hundred books all neatly aligned in

their shelves. Some, however, were complete disasters. Such was the case

when you found door number 32.

The woman inside opened the door for you with a suspicious gaze. Half the

books that ever existed in the domain seemed to be piled up here. Giant

towers of stacked books, papers, parchments and scrolls littered the room.

What's more, the scent of wolvesbane and holly assailed your nostrils. Even

a hastily thrown blanket could not conceal the pewter and porcelain dishes

and vials in the corner. This woman was more than just an ordinary

scholar. She had the look and smell of something a bit more arcane.

After introducing yourself and failing to receive the gesture in return, you

explained your predicament. No sooner had you finished telling of the

desecrated shrine when the woman wordlessly began packing all manner of

belongings into a sack. Uncertain of what to do or say next, you began to

tell the woman of how grateful Sir Henri Havenshaw would be and that a man

of such influence would be a good friend to have. However, before you could

finish, she interrupted you with a curt, "You're sure it was written in

blood?" All you could do was shrug.

The woman would have certainly lead the way directly to the city park

herself by the bent and purposeful way she headed down the street. You had

to grab her roughly by the shoulder to get her attention and explain that

you still needed to gather a couple more people before heading to the

shrine.

The city's own mercenary guild, where toughs and roughnecks registered in

hopes of finding a way onto the Governor's well-paid militia, was only two

blocks from the Academy. However, once you stood out front of the

oppressive structure with its iron fence and tiny, turreted towers, you

suddenly had a change of heart. Remembering a nearby tav you used to

frequent, you grabbed the woman's hand and headed over to Arbor House Drinks

and Smokery.

The atmosphere in the Smokery resembled sun-up on a cool day in the heart of

the moors. The smoke and haze from dozens of pipes and rolled papers was

blinding. The buzz and laughter from the many patrons drowned out all but

the loudest conversations. Nope, hadn't changed a bit. Still the same old

rack of dart boards on the far wall, still the same rough cut tables made

from fishing net spools snagged from the harbor. While most of the staff

had changed, Antoinette was still serving fish cakes and sour mash to the

many patrons and she was still as pretty as ever. And old Marcel was still

tending bar! With a wave to an astonished Marcel, you made your way over to

one side of the bar where a handful of silent and brooding men and women of

all shapes, races and colors sat nursing warm mugs of ale.

Faces turned to look at you expectantly and once eyes began to notice the

fairly fine clothes you wore, the looks suddenly turned to wide-eyed

stares. At the end of the bar a ceramic bucket sat; that bucket hadnÆt

moved in years. Reaching your hand in to the bucket, your fingers crashed

into a pile of cool, smooth wooden chits. Plucking one from near the bottom

of the bucket, you pulled the chit out and read the number written on it in

black ink. "Number 16!", you shouted above the din, holding the chit out

for all to see.

"Ah, for the love of the lich!", a sullen looking halfling moaned, "Why does

it always have to be the new guy?" The Smokery's odd-job lottery had been a

tradition at the busy pub for as long as anyone could remember. Those

patrons in the mood for a little off-the-cuff mercenary work could buy a

chit number from the bartender and wait at the bar for a person in need of

such "services" to stop by and pick out a chit. No questions asked, few

questions answered, quick and easy. The only rules were that the hirelings

had to buy food and drink while they waited for their number to be drawn, if

you left the tav the barkeep would remove your chit from the bucket, and

finally, once you finished a job you kept your mouth shut about it.

You knew that you could have just as easily found someone for hire from the

city's merc guild, but after years of patronage at the Arbor House and

watching the "hirelings lottery" you just really wanted a chance to try it

out yourself from the other end of things this time.

As it was, a broad shouldered dwarf with a wickedly decorated long sword

strapped to his back jumped off his barstool and hefted both a deep sigh and

a broad grin, all at the same time. "You got my number, buc,." he said

wryly. "Name's Pablo. What kind of price are we talkin' about for my

expertise?"

You hastily introduced yourself and explained about the desecrated shrine.

The dwarf just grinned and repeated himself, "How much?".

With a sigh of your own, you handed over a satisfactory sum in gold.

The three of you made it out of the bar and back into the gloomy streets. A

gentle yet frigid rain set in, and as you were adjusting your woolen cloak

you suddenly remembered that you hadn't introduced the woman who was

traveling with you. As you opened your mouth to begin the formalities, you

shut your jaw just as quick as it dawned on you that you didn't know her

name either. With a shrug you headed in the direction of Beaumount Manor.

The Beaumounts were another influential family in Port-a-Lucien. While not

nearly as wealthy as Henri, Jaqueline Beamount owned most of the potato

fields north of the city and controlled a substantial amount of forest range

used for hunting in the domain. What's more, Jaqueline sat upon the

Governor's Advisors Circle and her influence was nearly law. The Manor was

no longer a residence for any of the Beaumount family but served as an inn

and fine eatery for the upper class and visiting dignitaries. Knowing full

well the meager salary of those people of the cloth, you guessed that the

good father's stay here at the manor fell under the second category of

residents rather than the first.

The Manor was a two story wood framed house painted yellow with white

trimming. Green shrubs and well manicured bushes surrounded the plentiful

yard around the house and were, in turn, surrounded by a quaint, low, white

picket fence. A number of servants ran about in the rain outside the house

tending to a variety of chores while a handful of white-clad scullery maids

worked on cutting fruits and vegetables on the covered front porch. None

gave you even a second look as your trio made your way through the front

doors.

The common room was spacious and bright. Large bay windows on all of the

walls let in what light there was to be had from the overcast day. Tables

and benches were scattered about the room and one or two guests lounged

about in front of the blazing hearth. The inn-keep gave you a polite nod

from across the room. You were headed toward the inn-keep to ask if the

visiting cleric from Mordentshire happened to be in when a gentle tug at

your sleeve caused you to halt. Your hired scholar had your sleeve in one

hand and pointed to the near corner of the common room with her other.

Sitting alone in the corner and in perfect meditation was a young man

dressed in a traveling cloak and woolen breeches. A candle burned on the

table in front of him. The young man was fairly ordinary except for the

Ezran medallion clearly visible hanging from his neck and the fact that his

hands seemed to glow slightly with a bluish light.

Not wanting to disturb the holy man in the midst of his prayer, the three of

you walked softly to the table nearest him and sat down to wait. You didn't

wait long. With only one eye open, the priest regarded you with a look that

made you feel that he already knew why you had come. "Yes? May I help

you?" he said in a calm and even voice.

You found yourself explaining the purpose of your visit for the third time

this morning. When you finished, the priest sat and looked at each of the

three members of your group. After a moment, he stood up and rubbed his

hands vigorously. "Well, I hear the park is not far from here and I wanted

to pay the shrine a visit before I left for Mordentshire. Now is as good a

time as any." He bent over to retrieve a fully stocked pack and a walking

staff. "My name is Saladrin. Not Father Saladrin, or Your

Worshipfulness; just Saladrin." He smiled at each of you and began heading

out the door.

"I am very glad to hear that there is still some interest in the old

shrine." he said over his shoulder. "I would have thought most believers

would spend their time at the temple and not at some silly shrine in the

middle of a bog."

With your party now complete, the four of you headed across town once more.

The shrine was on the northeastern edge of town within the city park. Most

of the park was located in a sunken depression alongside the city walls

forming a small natural bog in its center. A tiny spurt of land juts from

the center of the bog where the Ezran shrine is located. A finely crafted

wooden raft was usually moored on the beach for the faithful to use in

reaching the shrine. Paved trails and walkways led this way and that

through the tall pine and willows surrounding the bog making a pleasant, if

not a bit smelly, escape from city life.

Deep in thought, considering your new companions and the task before you,

you didn't pay much attention to Magdelline who sat huddled in a vacant

doorway to your right muddling to herself. Maggie was one of

Port-a-Lucien's many unfortunates who fell short of a levy, tax or bill at

one point in her life. The Governor has little tolerance for those who

ignore their financial responsibilities. Destitution was the best one could

hope for in most cases. In other cases, death was the more desirable

outcome. Unfortunately and quite mysteriously, many of Port-a-Lucien's

homeless slipped into an even greater hell, insanity. It was not known why

so many of the city's poor lost their wits, it just happened, and Magdelline

was no exception.

A lone black Nova Vaasan charger harnessed to a flat bed cart carrying giant

bundles of long stemmed red roses headed to one of the many vendors in town

clopped along the cobbles on the street next to you. Its driver dressed in

thick grey wool and huddled within his cloak to escape the now heavy

rainfall. The park entrance was just visible three or four blocks ahead and

to the north when it happened.

Just as you passed Mad Maggie, crouched in all of her filth beside the

doorway to your right, she let out a spine-jarring scream. Startled beyond

the grave, all four in your party spun around and braced yourself for

whatever was upon you. Pablo's sword was in his hands and gleaming while

Saladrin held fast to his walking staff. But all that you faced was a mad

woman, her terrible glare and fading scream.

Unfortunately, the black charger was slightly more affected by the wail than

you and your companions. Rearing up on hind legs and squealing, the huge

horse thrashed in its harness sending the cart and its bittersweet cargo

crashing all around you. Pieces of broken cart and bundles of green leaves

and red flowers ploughed into you. Thorns and splinters cut deep. Hundreds

of sharp punctures riddled any exposed flesh and drops of your own red blood

began to flow while you stood or lay sprawled in front of a shrieking Mad

Magdelline.

"Kill them!!" The woman's screams shatter your thoughts. "Kill the

Tormentors! Witness the signs - they are here for all to see!" Warm blood,

your own, lifeblood, trickles down the palms of your hands and down your

fingers. The woman's mad glare strikes you hard. Worse than her screams is

the fact that the people around you begin to react to her pleas. The blood

flows from a score of wounds - the pain is intense. "Strike them down!!

Blood and roses!", the hag howls.

Mad Maggie is in a rage and her lamentations only increase as she points at

the roses scattered around the paving stones and the drops of blood dripping

from your exposed flesh. A half dozen random people from the crowded street

try desperately to calm the rearing stallion and help the poor driver to his

feet. The others in the crowd along the street simply stare at you, trying

to make some sense of what the woman is saying. Is she calling for your

deaths? Or is she ordering you to commit a murder? Who is she demanding be

struck down? "They have chosen you," she continues in a much subdued

voice. Pointing a crooked, dirty finger in your direction she says,

"Torture to the Tormentors!"

A band of six serious looking militia men are pushing through the crowd from

an eastern side alley a mere twenty feet from where you stand. What do you

do?