16: The Whispering Dead Strike
Date: 2/11/2025
The Stubborn Duck was quieter than usual, its dim lanterns flickering against the wooden beams. Mid-day still loomed over Greenvale, a lingering tension thick in the air. Inside, a group of exhausted figures huddled in the farthest corner of the inn. Their faces were hollow, their bodies wrapped in cloaks damp from travel. These were the refugees from Freebush—fragments of a town barely holding on.
Clovis had gathered his companions to discuss their next moves. He disclosed his conversation with Elia and the reality that the Hexxers would soon be moving against them, possibly led by Elia herself. He also presented Azuth Valtheris’s request—that they help bind the Blightbeast to the Star Sapphire for the good of Greenvale. After a few weeks of downtime in Greenvale, it took little convincing to get Janos, Johnny, and Narvane on board with the idea.
As ales were served all around, Barda Ironheel’s normally sharp tone was subdued as she pulled Janos aside. "They just got here," she muttered, nodding her head in the direction of the figures in the corner. "Didn’t know where else to go. You might want to talk to ‘em before Mathis finds out."
Brenna Kaelstone, a former guard of Freebush, lifted her weary gaze. She produced a small bundle from her coat, wrapped in sweat-stained cloth. When the seal was broken, a message from Captain Katrina Moorspear of the Freebush Guard lay inside.
“To any who still stand against the Countess— We do not have much time. Freebush is lost unless we act soon. The Shrine’s corruption is growing, and Halric is missing. If you can reach us, we will fight—but we will not last much longer.”
The words were rushed, smudged in places. The ink still fresh.
Tension settled over the group. The message was clear—Freebush was at its breaking point. But before they could even debate their next move, a new threat emerged.
The party soon discovered that Orrin Vey's child, cradled limply in his arms, was afflicted with corruption. They resolved to take the refugees quietly to the Temple of Pelor, hoping that Dr. Elara Thorne and the priests could help the child.
Crossing the marketplace, Orrin was recognized by a cloth merchant named Gorvin Tapestrum. It became evident that many refugees had been slipping into Greenvale, and tension in the market rose quickly. Some townsfolk reacted with sympathy, murmuring that Freebush’s plight was not so different from their own struggles. Others, however, spoke in hushed tones of disease and war, of Drusilla’s corruption creeping closer with every refugee who entered the town.
Magistrate Mathis Ironmonger strode forward, his presence silencing the growing argument. His expression was hard as iron. He declared that Greenvale could not afford to be drawn into Freebush’s problems, that they had to look after their own first. With a sharp command, he ordered the guards to increase patrols and keep a watchful eye on travelers, ensuring that the flow of refugees did not become an uncontrolled tide.
Despite the growing hostility, the party successfully brought Orrin Vey and his child to the temple, where Dr. Thorne and the priests began treating them, along with Brenna Kaelstone and Sela Thornbriar.
With time before the appointed binding of the Blightbeast at midnight the following evening, the party returned to The Stubborn Duck. There, Azuth approached them, giving clear instructions—Do not destroy the Blightbeast. Lure it to the binding circle and keep it there while I complete the ritual.
...
It started with a whisper.
A name, half-heard, drifting through the air like a dying breath. Then another. The lanterns flickered. Shadows stretched unnaturally. The cold deepened.
Then, they were there.
The Whispering Dead moved with unnatural grace, silent as falling snow. Cloaked figures, blurred at the edges, as if the very world struggled to hold onto them. Their blades, dark as midnight, glinted with something that did not reflect light but rather devoured it. Their heads tilted slightly, listening, whispering names that did not belong to them.
They struck fast. They struck true. As the party rounded the corner of the Duck, they saw Gorvin Tapestrum, the cloth merchant, collapse to the ground, his throat sliced open. The Whispering Dead had already begun their work.
Clovis reacted first, his amulet flaring to life, the radiant glow forcing an assassin to recoil. The Whispering Dead shuddered, the celestial energy searing into its form, distorting it.
Janos drew the Starblade, and for the first time, they saw fear in the creatures’ empty eyes.
Johnny loosed a celestial arrow, lighting the area with divine radiance. The Whispering Dead staggered away from the blinding light, their forms flickering as the glow devoured their essence. They had a weakness. They could be hurt.
But they would not stop.
They whispered names again—this time, louder, stronger. A pull at the edges of the mind, a sinking dread wrapping around those who heard them. Clovis felt it in his bones—these were not just assassins. These were souls ripped from their bodies, reshaped into weapons of silence and shadow.
The battle raged, and when the last of the Whispering Dead fell, dissolving into nothing but cold air and a lingering whisper, all that remained were four symbols burned into the cobbled streets of Greenvale. A sigil, pulsing faintly with the sickly green glow of Drusilla’s magic.
She knew they were here.
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