Session 17: The Bone-Stealer's Tower

Scene: Attacked from Within

The camp had been chosen carefully, nestled in a defensible hollow ringed by hills on three sides. Lookouts were posted along the ridgeline, their eyes scanning the eerie forest below. Rolandus sat by the fire, his gaze distant as he was addressed by Volos. “I have tasted Orian's secrets... even ones he does not yet know,” he said quietly, “but he is not the one I seek. So I have another task for you, but I recognize it is your turn to ask for a favor. So, think on it.” The air between them grew still, as Rolandus considered what debt he might yet call in.   Meanwhile, Zenscha stood at the edge of the woods, examining the gnarled trees that grew unnaturally fast. The sap, when inspected, was sharp, acidic—useful perhaps for concoctions, but not inherently potent. Yet her instincts were sharp. The trees avoided the path, growing wild and chaotic everywhere but the trail, a sign she knew too well.   "It's a trap," Tonibore muttered, his mind going in a similar direction. No trees grew on the path, they avoided. Yet with the size of their group and wagon, they had no choice but to follow it.   As the group settled in for the night, their weariness gave way to vigilance. Tonibore had laid traps where the hills fell away, the one gap in their natural defenses. But even his precautions could not have anticipated what came next.   A shrill, horrifying shriek cut through the night air from the tent Muzlik and Khurgan had gone into minutes before, chilling every soul to the bone. Silence followed, even more ominous than the screams, and then a commotion—Khurgan stumbled from his tent, his skin ashen, his eyes glowing with a sickly light.   Even in death—or whatever this state was—he fought with savage tenacity. It took the collective efforts of the group to bring him down. Desmond locked him in a chokehold, but Khurgan broke free, his unnatural strength sending the man sprawling. Rolandus, with his cryst-nirithean sword, skewered the ghoul through the chest, but still, it would not die. Orian fired arrow after arrow that sailed harmlessly into the trees nearby. Only when they burned his head in the fire did the fight finally end.   The victory was short-lived. A faint rustling came from the surrounding forest, followed by the rank stench of decay. Tonibore’s trap snapped shut with a loud twang, revealing a ghoul dangling from a tree, writhing.   They soon thereafter discovered what they expected to inside the tent. Muzlik lay splayed like a squashed bug, his face half-eaten by what had once been his life-long friend.   The group acted quickly, chaining his body to a tree before he too could rise.   Zenscha inspected Khurgan’s remains, her mind working through the dark magic animating his body. “Oyun magic,” she muttered, knowing only enough to recognize it—but it was not her craft.   Volos, being a Feyn, provided more insight to Rolandus, “This reeks of an Apostate—one who twists Feyn magic to their own ends without sanction.” His interest in the necromancer was palpable, though not without a sinister edge. The group’s discussion turned to ghouls. Fire worked, that much was clear. But could they use this knowledge against their unseen foe? Could they lure the necromancer with fire or blood, or perhaps repel his creations? All the while, Zenscha kept the severed head of the ghoul in her pack for study, its jaw still snapping silently, so long after death. How often do you get the opportunity to study such a curiosity?   As they gathered the opals they had given their Karlu-Chatil traveling companions, they reflected on the sad fate of Khurgan and his comrades. His entire band was now gone. A heavy silence fell over the group, but not over Desmond. His nerves frayed from the night’s horrors, he turned to his ‘buzza, consuming far more than usual.   While the others took turn watching, he remained up through the night. By morning, he was still pacing, rambling, his teeth grinding from the stimulant’s effects.   Volos continued answering Rolandus’ questions, as his side of their quid-pro-quo, still bringing matters back to an unspoken question of what had drawn him to the group. “He hadn’t yet found what he was looking for,” what did that mean?   “Whoever worked this magic is powerful,” Volos told him. “They may not even be human.”   Rolandus pressed for more, but Volos stated they would need to face this necromancer to understand his personal degree of power. He could only speak in generalities about those who practice the Craft.   Sleep, when it finally came, was restless and filled with nightmares. They woke at first light to find Muzlik’s body twitching on the tree, now a pathetic, jawless ghoul. They ended him quickly.   Zenscha foraged for food, but the forest yielded little. She found only a stump teeming with beetles, which she roasted over the fire, along with tea from her stocks to warm their spirits. As Danyar hitched the wagon to their stag, and they prepared to set off down the path, Tonibore muttered under his breath, his mood as dark as the forest around them.  

Scene 2: Approaching the squatter’s tower

  The journey toward the tower began beneath a bruised sky, where the forest took on a perpetual dusk. Gnarled branches overhead interwove like bony fingers, creating a shadowy tunnel that swallowed what little daylight remained. The path was uneven, and Eldryth, Danyar’s faithful stag, strained as the wagon struggled over the rough ground, their progress slowing to a crawl. The air grew thick with the smell of decay—first the wet rot of the forest, but soon something far worse, an undercurrent of flesh long past its expiration.   As they advanced, Rolandus took the lead, his eyes scanning the shadows ahead, every muscle tense. The trees themselves seemed to close in, their shapes grotesque, claws reaching toward the sky, as if nature itself recoiled from the group’s presence. Tonibore, usually steady even in the face of danger, muttered curses under his breath, his eyes wide and alert. The oppressive atmosphere of the forest gnawed at him, wearing on his iron-clad nerves.   Then, through the thickening snowfall, Zenscha spotted it first—a faint, flickering light in the distance. The group halted, wary. The light seemed too deliberate, a beacon in the gloom. As they moved closer, it became clear the light emanated from a decrepit tower, its crumbling form barely standing against the forest's relentless encroachment. Dark vines twisted along its walls, pulsing as though alive, their tendrils creeping into cracks in the stone, wrapping the ruin like a skeletal hand.   “It’s inhabited,” Desmond muttered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and trepidation. “Has to be.” The boards haphazardly nailed over shattered windows, the iron-bound door at the base slightly ajar—all signs of something still living, or worse, something that had never truly died.   As they entered the tower’s clearing, the ghouls that had been stalking them at a distance through the forest immediately broke off, retreating without a sound. The air near the tower was colder. The trees here were dead, their branches scorched black as if burned by some infernal heat. The ground, blanketed in thin snow, was littered with bones—human, animal, and other things unknown.   The tower loomed over them, oppressive and ancient. Standing at the entrance, two ghouls greeted them, if one could call it that. Dressed in ragged, rotting finery, like caricatures of servants from a forgotten age, they stood motionless, their eyes dull and unblinking, their mouths fixed in silent grins. The stench of death rolled off them, but they made no move to attack.   As they approached, one of the ghouls, its movements mechanical, opened the door with a slow creak. Inside, only darkness waited. The second ghoul, mimicking a gesture of exaggerated courtesy, pointed up the spiral staircase that wound into the tower’s heights.   Tonibore’s usual bravado crumbled as they approached the door. These ghouls seemed to bother him still more than those who had hungered for their flesh. But even so, he stepped forward.   The group exchanged uneasy glances. Zenscha bent low, whispering a few words to Eldryth as she unhitched the stag from the wagon. Only the group would enter. The rest of their party—their supplies, the wagon, Danyar’s stag companion—would remain in the clearing.   “I don’t like this,” Desmond said, his hand twitching toward his remaining buzza, already regretting the long night of indulgence. But no, he had made a break of sorts... if not a clean one.   “None of us do,” Rolandus replied grimly, gripping the hilt of his sword. His eyes flicked toward the ghouls. “But we’ve come this far.”   They stepped forward into the tower, the air inside thick with dust and a damp chill. The ghouls remained by the door, still silent, watching them vanish into the gloom.  

Scene 3: Finding Kaligard in his Laboratory

  The group entered the tower cautiously, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell that spiraled upward. The stone walls were slick with moisture and marred by dark stains that might once have been blood.   The stairwell creaked beneath their feet, each step groaning as though the tower itself resented their intrusion. One board gave way under Desmond, nearly pitching him into the darkness, but he grabbed hold of the railing, and pulled himself back to continue the ascent.   The path led them directly to the peak of the tower. There, at the end of their climb, the laboratory awaited. Inside, amidst the gloom, they found Kaligard, gaunt and hollow-eyed, standing over a cadaver. His skin was pale, as if it belonged to a corpse, but his eyes glowed with an unnatural light. He hummed softly to himself as a book floated in front of him, its pages turning on their own.   He glanced up at the group with unsettling calm. “Ah, new visitors made it past my gardeners brigade! Promising. A promising bunch.” His voice was soft, but there was something unnerving in its politeness. “Welcome to my humble abode. I trust you’ve enjoyed the hospitality of my pets. I apologize for them; it’s impossible to teach manners to the dead.”   The group exchanged glances, unsure of how to proceed with the necromancer. Rolandus gripped his sword instinctively, eyeing the room warily. As they stepped further inside, they saw the laboratory in full—a workshop of horror.   The stone table at the center of the room was the heart of Kaligard's work. Stained with blood and other, unnameable fluids, it was surrounded by an array of surgical tools—scalpels, saws, and forceps, haphazardly strewn about. Chains and leather straps dangled from the sides, ready to restrain whatever poor creature found itself on the slab.   Shelves along the walls were packed with jars and vials, each containing macabre specimens preserved in murky liquid. Severed limbs, twisted organs, and grotesque, otherworldly forms floated within the glass. In one corner, arcane apparatuses—a mix of copper wires, bubbling beakers, and slowly turning brass gears—were connected to arcane devices. While some hinted at magical function, others appeared to be crude chemistry experiments of dubious value, though no less disturbing.   As Kaligard observed them, his eyes narrowed when they fell on Rolandus’ sword. “A Cryst-Nirithean blade, how curious!”   His gaze lingered on the blade, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought. “I know that make. Taken from a burial site for Aryn's Twelve Eldar, was it not? A silly place. What use is a landmark when the bodies were scattered to the wind by conflict?” He spoke of these events with a strange familiarity, as if he had witnessed them firsthand.   “I am called the Bone-stealer. Kaligard the Bone-stealer.” He paused, his eyes scanning the group. “Are any among you practitioners of the Arts?”   Zenscha, always cautious, nodded. “I practice alchemy.”   Kaligard gave a thin smile. “Alchemy? A fine art, though I prefer to work with more... mutable materials. The dead, for instance. So many fascinating possibilities, don’t you think? Well let’s have a look at you all. Perhaps your bodies will serve me better than your minds, but I haven’t decided yet.”   Tonibore shifted uncomfortably, uneasy with the necromancer’s casual remarks. He could feel the tension rising as Kaligard spoke with disturbing nonchalance about their fates. Despite his discomfort, Tonibore eventually conceded that Kaligard could be reasoned with, though he nearly pushed the conversation toward hostility on more than one occasion.   However, it was Orian who stirred a greater tension in the room. His gaze fixated on a particular locket among the mess of items scattered across Kaligard’s laboratory. Something about it drew his attention, compelling him to question its significance.   Kaligard’s demeanor shifted immediately, his eyes going cold. “I would rather speak of something else,” he said sharply, the warmth draining from his voice.   True to his nature, Orian pressed on, his curiosity unrelenting. The air grew tense, but just as it seemed the necromancer might lose patience, Kaligard’s glowing eyes flickered with some newfound insight. He reconsidered, his tone softening as he looked more closely at Orian.   “That locket is where I keep the excess souls,” he finally divulged, “those I have not yet... harvested.”   Volos muttered in Rolandus’ mind, “Not only an Apostate, but one who lives in mockery of Feyn immortality by consuming the souls of men as many of my kind do to go about in a fleshy form here in the Second World. A true Abomination. He should be—”   It was as though Kaligard heard the whispered remark. He waved a hand, muttering an incantation, and then smiled warmly. “There! No more prattle. Now we can speak more safely for a time, without prying spirits listening in.” Indeed, Volos’ voice was gone.   His glowing gaze fell on Orian again, lingering this time.   “Tell me,” Kaligard asked, “do you bear any marks of the Feyn? Any signs of your parent’s influence? Perhaps a Chatillian, or a Tovag?”   Orian hesitated before answering. “None that I know of... aside from being unusually small in stature.” Kaligard’s smile turned sly, his eyes gleaming. “Indeed? Are you sure you don’t have horns, perhaps under your skin?”   Orian laughed uncomfortably, but there was no mirth in it. The conversation had taken an unsettling turn, yet it would not stop there.   Kaligard pressed further, and Orian, feeling cornered, revealed the recent dream that had haunted him (Session 16)—a vision involving Inquisitor Ilarik and a bound Meliae, a creature both familiar and alien to him.   Kaligard's smile widened at the mention of the dream. “Ah, Witch-hunters. Apostates themselves, though they dare not call themselves that. And you, Orian...” he snapped his fingers as if he had just figured something out, “Your heritage is far more tangled than you realize. I would wager your mother was a Meliae—a true rarity if so. It is said that Changeling babes are typically carried off to an... unknown fate.”   Orian stared at him, stunned, as the weight of Kaligard’s words sank in. The necromancer continued, his voice dripping with the implications of the revelation. “It is entirely possible,” he added, “that the Meliae the Inquisitor fed you was your very own mother. It would certainly suit their sense of humor, and her presence may explain his ability to reach you from such a difference. Dabbling with Dream Magic though, that’s an interesting development...”   Tonibore, ever the pragmatist, soon broached the subject of establishing future trade with Kaligard. Now recognizing he saw potential for both sides to benefit from their ongoing encounters with aberrations and the rare artifacts they unearthed.   Kaligard, while at first apparently baffled by the basic principles of a trade agreement, conceded that the idea had merit when it was explained to him that this would mean getting more of the rarities he sought after without requiring dealing with any of the “rabble.”   Yet, when the discussion turned to the matter of how they would contact him when they had something of interest, he said "I do not indulge in scrying or other such mundane matters," his tone dismissive. “But I can send you a soul, perhaps in the form of a raven. That will suffice.”   Though initially very skeptical, the group recalled a recent event that had lent credibility to Kaligard's words. In Session 16, they had seen Danyar engage in a peculiar interaction with ravens, whispering words in an unknown tongue. At the time, Danyar had hinted that he might be Karlu-Chatil. His claim, if true, might explain his ability to communicate and influence animals, and apparently speak to the souls of the dead who sometimes went about in this world in the shape of ravens. Perhaps sending a soul in the shape of a raven wasn’t so outlandish.   With a tentative method of contact established, the mood began to relax slightly, and what started as a tense exchange turned into more casual bartering. Kaligard’s fascination with body parts and alchemical components from aberrations made him a valuable contact, and the group had much to offer.   They handed over some of their more unique items, including the last of their Nightreaver snuff. Zenscha even offered Kaligard lessons in basic alchemical preparation—though the practice of the magical art is another, far more difficult matter. Kaligard’s interest in the subject seemed almost academic, whereas his previous experiments of this sort were on the order of a deranged high school science experiment. (In contrast to his Necromancy, which was clearly quite potent.)   In return, Kaligard provided several artifacts:  

• The Necromantic Codex of an Unnamed Apostate: A thick tome bound in human skin, ringed with teeth, and written in blood. Kaligard explained it held the knowledge to become an Oyun—a necromancer—without requiring a pact with a Feyn spirit. But such power still demands a price. (Learning the Discipline still requires the usual Experience).
• A Nirithean Mask: A mask imbued with a temporary version of the Chatillian art of shape-shifting, capable of transforming the wearer into any humanoid form for 24 hours. After that, the mask would revert to a simple, smooth wooden face.
• A Belt from a Fallen Swordsman, “recovered from the garden”: A slightly blood-stained belt that offered protection to its wearer, though Kaligard remarked dryly, "The previous owner thought it would save him." If worn without armor, it provided minor defense (1 AR).
• A Record of Zialla the Dream-tongue: This book was a relic from a long-forgotten cult of Dream Magicians that had lived over 200 years ago in Old Waylan. Large portions of the book had been translated into Common Sevgorod in Kaligard’s scribbled hand. It gives a +2 bonus to any Occult research rolls specifically related to the practice. On the other hand, the source will need to be considered, as Cultists are often prone to embellishment.
• One Jar of Bottled Midnight: A small jar containing a liquid that, when released, would create a 10-meter globe of absolute darkness, impervious even to magical light. The darkness would last for one scene, a potent tool for evasion or surprise.

  With the exchange completed, the group prepared to leave but had one final request: protection from the ghouls that still roamed outside. Rolandus, speaking for the group, asked, "Can you guarantee us safe passage from your... gardeners?"   Kaligard considered the request for a moment, then nodded. "I can," he said. "But it will require a mark."   With a wave of his hand, he muttered an incantation, and the air around them seemed to grow heavy. Suddenly, the group felt a sharp, burning sensation at the backs of their necks, as though branded by hot iron. The pain faded quickly, but in its place was a faint, glowing sigil of unknown provenance imprinted on their skin.   "This mark will ensure my gardeners leave you alone," Kaligard explained, his tone light but unsettling. "So long as you do nothing to provoke them."   Though the group was relieved to have secured safe passage, the mark was a reminder of the dark pact they seem to have entered.