Epilogue

We don't go to Ravengro.

It began with trade caravans never reaching their destination. When an investigation was finally launched, the grim truth was revealed. Ravengro was burned to the ground. The dead husks of buildings lay collapsed into piles of stone and burnt ash. The few still standing served as eerie monuments to whatever evil had occurred here. Any attempts to rebuild the town were met with disaster, with few survivors returning if any. Accounts of these ill-fated ventures varied. There were stories of burning skeleton rising from the charred remains of buildings. Spectral children playing jump rope in the towns square at night. The church bell heard ringing despite it lying broken upon the ground. There were many such stories, but there were always four consistencies that stood out among them.

A particularly large zombie could be seen wandering in the graveyard, engaged in battle with several small frail skeletons, smashing one after another with a large mace until none remained. This bizarre scene repeating itself nightly.

A terrible apparition would occasionally appear to any who drew too close to the river. There it would hypnotically beckon an unfortunate soul into the river with it, where they would both vanish under the murky black stream.

A particularly nimble skeleton seemed to delight in chasing people around when they could be found. Tripping them to the ground before plunging an icy skeletal fist into their chests.

In one of the burnt out buildings, a small but stout figure could be seen running back and forth between the fallen pillars and framework. Strange colored smokes and awful smells rose from this area, and none with wits in their head dared to draw near.

After enough of these stories had spread, no one dared return to Ravengro. It had become an unholy place, overrun with the undead, doomed to crumble to ash and disappear with the breeze. Perhaps someday the whole truth of things will be revealed, and this cursed town put to rest. The tortured undead wait for such a day when those with the courage and strength enough to lay them low arrive. Until that day, those who were asked all replied the same way.

We don't go to Ravengro

Seraphin De L'Amourt

She walked so soft upon the river path,

Her feet white petals that gilt the dark ground

She left soft impressions, a fairy's bath,

said word to none, and she was never found

To glide so near our hard hearts again.

Beneath the willows she waved brief farewell

Who called the sky to answer her with rain.

Now dewed with tears she felt her bosom swell

Her last breath as she took her fatal leap.

For her the water opened as a maw

Swollowed her whole for Naderi's arms to keep.

What is hope

This world so dark and unforgiving, so full of death and despair. How could such a world have spawned people of such faith and devotion to their fellow man? They set to the task that Master Lorimer left for us with such vigor and even though the people of this cursed town dog us every step of the way they have not lost faith! In fact they look at me as if I'm the one who is out of place. They treat me as if I'm the one who is bring gloom to their world, not the world itself. It's as if they have dare I say it...hope. Could it be? Hope in this Land! I admit that all are problems are not without cause. I should not have struck that old man, but in my defense the mob looked to be out for blood and had laid Mandrake low. They would have done the same to all of us if I had not broken their spirit.

Now we fight to red this town of the curse that dwells deep within its prison and even though we have killed the  walking dead, ghosts, and phantoms the people still hate us. Me most of all and yet my friends still fight on. "Friends" I have friends? surely they must be or they could have let me die many a time by now. Or perhaps their "honor" doesn't allow such acts of callousness. I will have to explore this, the possibility of actual friends! For now though I will follow them and fight their fight. Who knows maybe their is hope in this world.

"Alec are you ready to continue?"

"right Seraphan."

Mandrake: Deep Thoughts

 Being underground felt like being in a womb for some reason. The stone on all sides was comforting, and made him feel safe. It was highly conflicting with the cold feeling that wouldn't release his nervous system. Shadows on the walls seemed to move on their own. Tiny voices whispered curses down each corridor. And most troubling, was the constant digging sensation that there was someone screaming themselves to death just out of ear shot. This was what Harrowstone had become.

The group was convinced that they were almost done exploring the entirety of the old prison, but who knew how much they had missed along the way? These haunts and cursed souls could be hiding out of site. They could be lingering in the stones around them. Or worse, they could be infesting the minds and spirits of the group itself. One thing was for certain. If they were near the end, things were about to get a lot more difficult. The final blow of a fight was always the hardest. He had learned that the hard way.

He had been very quiet since they had met the ghost of Visseriana, and the others seemed to notice. The events of the last day had given him more than enough to think about. Thoughts about the afterlife. Thoughts about good and evil. What is right and what is wrong? Maybe things like this were just part of nature. But if that was true, why did it make him so uneasy? Natural things never made him uneasy. But one thing above all others bothered him the most.

Why had he saved that foolish giant of a man, Greenwood? He was violent, he was arrogant, and he seemed to be a breeding ground for hatred. He made everyone uncomfortable. He fought without thinking. True, he fought well enough, but it was all brute force. There wasn't any calculation or strategy. He just fought like a charging bear, tearing and smashing until there was nothing left. It left a bad taste in Madrake's mouth. But when he was being suffocated by those demon chains, when he was turning purple and on the borders of demise, Madrake's instinct took over, and he broke him free. He poured himself into the act, and once again managed to channel a small glimmer of his former strength in doing so. Perhaps that in itself was proof enough that it was the right thing to do. He could only assume the brute had some terrible past making him so full of resentment and anger. But he didn't seem to show signs of guilt, or a desire to better himself. Perhaps with more time... Mandrake wasn't the classic forgiving hopeful type, but he would give the fool time to prove himself. If anything, Alec owed Mandrake his life. That was the code of the warrior. It might come in handy if he ever lost control of his foolish aggression.

Another thing that was gnawing at his mind was the ghost of Visseriana itself. How could a simple jailers wife become so powerful in after her death? What inner strength gave her the power of spirit to control the fate of Harrowstone, and fight the evil by herself for all this time? It was almost comforting. In this place of evil, at least, Madrake had no fear of death. If he passed on, there would be another powerful spirit at war with the spirits of darkness, fighting the cursed and demented for all time. What a glorious battle it would be.... 

Damn it's hot

The flames Licked around him surely this is what hell would look like. The people were screaming, pushing one another out of the way in their scramble for the door. They sickened him, no compassion for their fellows. They would wade through their neighbors blood if it meant safety. So be it he would have to pick up those who were thrown to the floor those who could not save them selves. One old man fell unable to stand the heat. Alec scooped him up like a small child, so weak. Another man fell futilely fighting the flames. Both were taken from the building, both were saved from their earned fate.

His friends tended to the flames themselves. Together they quashed the flames before they could spread very far. Suddenly Two flaming skulls burst through the windows howling their doom. An escaping couple were caught in their path. The man was struck and crumpled to the ground, his lady stooped down and wept. Pathetic. The halfling Sorcerers scorched the skulls from this plane. Seraphan ran to the man an healed his burnt frame, an then he an his "beloved" limped from the building.

From there it was easy to stomp the rest of the flames from the building. The people of the town were begrudgingly grateful. Worms! They would all have been dead long before know if not for the actions of him and his friends. They could keep their thanks and their contempt. He only wished to cleanse this town of it's taint. Not for them but for lady Lorane. She was a flower growing amongst this swamp of decay.

A page torn from the journal of Huldah Goldman

-ndantly clear that this town...this place is afflicted by some strange menace abhorrent evil. It haunts every nook and hollow, a festering infection upon the people here. Their mannerisms frustrate me to no end, flippantly disregarding and obstructing the efforts we make to research the cause of this grotesquery. YES there were unfortunate incidents early on in our stay here, but that is the past and these people must forget that old man's death, at least temporarily, and aid us if we are to rescue them from this nightmare. We can deal with this brute the professor so quizzically had adoration interest in after we have found the source of the evil.
It is apparent to me know that those simpletons at the university were ignorant of the dangers of this world, and that prof. Lorrimer's belief in me was well founded. I will break through all these artificial academic limitations of 'common sense' and 'prudent foresight'. There is no reason to hold back the scientific mind in the face of such terror. It must be met with equal terror, not of evil, but of formulae, of alchemy, of acid, of research, of discovery, of potions, of extracts, and above all, KNOWLEDGE. Only that light will dispel this terror. Oh yes..and bombs... many, large, explosive bombs.

Seraphin De L'Amourt: Lucina

Dearest Lucina,

Our days together were spent in sunlight until your passing, and since that day storms have clouded my vision. I see only death at times, and at others nothing at all. For a while life lost it's meaning completely and if it were not for the friendship of the dear Professor, I would have perished with you. I will never know completely why you took your own life, although your letter was an explanation of sorts, every time I read it, it withers a little in my mind. Were you just a dream? Were you sent by Naderi, the drowned lady herself to place me in her service? I was lost before I met you and in the brief time where we found true happiness, life felt complete. But do not dispair my dear, for though you are dead and I am not, life has taken new turns and placed me on roads inconceivable during your short and beautiful life. Although your death took away the little happiness I had found in life, it taught me that joy, mirth, laughter, and yes, happiness are not the things of which life is made. Life is made of all emotions with the unending promise of death at it's end. Through your own untimely end I found Naderi and learned that we live to serve purposes greater than our own and that your own death and life was part of the gods's great plan.

While I still live, I am now in Ravengro; the most joyless place in all of Golarion, and faced with purpose. Here there is life, but there is also death, suicide and murder. The dead themselves rise from the grave to torment the living. You do not need to do so my dear, your memory is torment enough for me. There is also beauty, the daughter of dear Lorrimir. Perhaps it is time for me to cast your memory into a grave of it's own, but then I would loose the only happiness I have ever known. While I desire to forsake the emotion, I cannot help but cling to hope that I am wrong. I wish we were all meant to be, that evil did not prevail and love cured all wounds. But if that were so, the water would have expelled from your lungs like air. You were no mermaid, no fish, and no immortal. You took my heart into the river with you, and that is why when I shot it, I did not die.

Your love forever,

Seraphin

He bent over and placed the letter on the alter of Pharasma and looked up at the great guardian of the underworld. He was a cleric, he knew at times the will of the goddesses who he served, but he had never sought Lucina's fate. He had never prayed to the goddesses once for the woman who he loved, he only hoped that when he died he would see her again. His heart ached as he thought of her and tears welled up in his eyes. He had learned to understand and accept suicide, but he would never understand hers. Against his chest he felt the presence of the letter she had written him. She only existed in words and memory now, but even those faded with time. When he died, would she be gone forever? Life was so fragile, it was empowering to take it, but equally so to save. Seraphin withdrew the holy symbol he wore, both of them, the spiral and the dagger and kissed them like two cold lips, as cold as Lucina's the day she died.