The Brantifax Family
The Brantifax family lived in Chalet Brantifax, a remote family home in a valley just east of Candlekeep. This chalet was surrounding by wilderness and is a favourite hunting ground for hunters and trappers.
Baron Brantifax Baron Brantifax liked to hunt. From time to time, the baron invited other hunters to join him and his hound on his merry hunts, after which they would socialize and have meals at the chalet. After the death of Brorn, his beloved mastiff, Baron Brantifax was beset by spells of sleepwalking, during which he would wander about the chalet looking for his lost hound. The servants mistook his sleepwalking for temporary delirium brought on by insomnia, and they assumed he was awake at the time. He was sleepwalking when he fell down the well, and he drowned before the servants could get him out. The haunting whispers of his restless spirit terrified the staff, who fled the chalet shortly thereafter. The baron’s spirit is too weak to manifest physically or cause any harm. His headstone reads: Husband, Father, Hunter. "Let no man stand above another". His diary reads: The weight of my grief is crushing, an endless abyss into which I am forever falling. It has been but a fortnight since that fateful day, and I find no solace in the passage of time. Heluthe, my dearest Heluthe, is gone. My sweet, spirited daughter, taken by the very wilderness we so often explored together. A hunt that was meant to be a cherished memory has become an unending nightmare. I can still hear her laughter echoing through the forest, a sound now forever silenced by the savage growl of the wolf that stole her from us. It was my duty to protect her, and I failed. The beast appeared from nowhere, its eyes gleaming with hunger. Heluthe was so brave, trying to draw her bow even as it lunged. I was too slow, too helpless to prevent the horror that unfolded. She died in my arms, her life slipping away as I held her, powerless and broken. My dear wife, Evelyn, does not blame me, yet her forgiveness is a double-edged sword. She offers words of comfort, but they are hollow, like echoes in a vast, empty chamber. Her eyes no longer meet mine as they once did; the warmth that once filled our home has turned cold and distant. She says she understands, that she does not hold me responsible, but her actions betray a lingering doubt, a silent accusation that I cannot escape. Our relationship is now a fragile thing, held together by the tenuous threads of shared loss and unspoken pain. Evelyn does not absolve me of my guilt, and I do not deserve such absolution. I see her watching me when she thinks I am not looking, her gaze heavy with the weight of our shared sorrow. There are moments when I reach for her, desperate for the connection we once had, but she recoils, the pain too great for either of us to bridge. Each night, I find myself wandering the halls of our home, the memories of happier times haunting every corner. I return to Heluthe's room, untouched since that day, and sit by her empty bed. I am consumed by the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys,' my heart aching with the knowledge that I can never bring her back. I am a father who failed, a husband who cannot mend what has been shattered. The hunt was my sanctuary, a bond between my daughter and me that was as sacred as it was exhilarating. Now, it is a bitter reminder of my greatest failure. I cannot bear to take up my bow again, for it was not the wolf that killed Heluthe, but my own hubris in believing I could keep her safe. I do not know how to move forward from this. My world is a desolate landscape of regret and sorrow, and I am lost within it. Evelyn remains by my side, but we are both adrift, two souls bound by grief yet separated by an invisible chasm that grows wider each day. Heluthe, my darling, forgive me. I will carry this guilt for the rest of my days, a penance for the life I could not save. I see you in my dreams, and I wake each morning with the bitter taste of reality. I pray that, in time, Evelyn and I might find a way to heal, though I fear that day will never come.
Baroness Evelyn Brantifax The Baroness admired the Baron's generous nature and his vigor, but she disliked that the Baron loved his trusty mastiff as much as he did his wife and children. The baroness felt isolated at the chalet and much preferred city life. Her firstborn, Sylphene, was bedridden, having been born with physical deformities. The Baroness was glad she was stuck in the chalet, far from the public's eye. Heluthe, her secondborn, was a tomboy and more like her father than her mother. She doesn't blame the Baron doe her death, but neither does she absolve him of his guilt. Her diary reads: My heart is shattered, pieces scattered to the winds. Heluthe, my precious, beautiful Heluthe, is gone. She was my light, a radiant angel with golden curls and eyes that sparkled with life and mischief. How cruel fate is to take her from me, to extinguish such a bright flame. She is gone because of him, because of Brantifax and his foolish hunts. He was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe, and yet he let her fall victim to the savage wilds he so adores. I grieve the loss of my darling Heluthe with every breath. Her laughter once filled these cold, dark halls with warmth. She was the very embodiment of beauty and grace, a testament to everything pure and good in this wretched world. And now, she lies cold and still, her vibrant spirit silenced forever. The image of her lifeless body haunts me, a vision that no mother should ever have to bear. I had another daughter once, Dior, but she was not like Heluthe. Dior was deformed, her face and body twisted and hideous. I know it is wicked to speak of her so, but the truth gnaws at my soul. She was a burden, a dark stain upon our family, a constant reminder of some unspoken sin. I could not bear to look upon her, and in my heart, I knew she would never find peace in this world. Dior's death was... a mercy, though it is a secret I must carry alone. Now, I am consumed by a darkness I cannot escape. I see Brantifax with his beloved dog, Brorn, and my hatred festers. That wretched beast, that slobbering brute, still lives while my Heluthe lies dead. Brantifax lavishes his affections upon that creature, as if it were his child. It is more than I can bear. How dare he show such love to a mere animal while our daughter is gone? The sight of Brorn turns my stomach, and I find myself contemplating a terrible act. If I were to take the dog from him, to end its miserable life, perhaps then he would understand the depth of my suffering. Perhaps then, he would know what it is to lose something he loves. The thought brings a twisted comfort, a flicker of satisfaction in my otherwise hollow existence. I could take the dog into the forest, under the pretense of a walk, and then... it would be so easy. One swift action, and Brorn would be no more. I despise myself for these thoughts, but they are all that sustain me in this pit of despair. Heluthe, my sweet Heluthe, I wish you were here to guide me, to bring light to this darkness. But you are gone, and I am left with only shadows and the bitter taste of vengeance.
Dior Brantifax Dior was born with physical deformities to her face and body leaving her requiring full care from her mother. She died when she was 6. Her headstone reads: Beloved daughter. May she find peace at last.
Heluthe Brantifax Heluthe loved going hunting with her father. Unfortunately she was slain on her 9th birthday, killed by a wolf, whilst hunting with her father. Her headstone reads: Our pride and joy. Lost too soon. Her diary reads:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of hunting lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Dior—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Dior—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;
—Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Dior!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Dior!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Sune just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from Shadowfell shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Shadowfell shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above her chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above her chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Sune whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Dior;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Dior!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!
—prophet still, if bird or devil!
—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
on this desert land enchanted—On this home by horror haunted
—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!
—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Dior—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Dior.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Shadowfell shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Sune just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Brorn His headstone reads: Hound of Brantifax. Faithful to the end.
Margaret (Housemaid) The house of Brantifax has been plunged into an abyss of sorrow and madness. Tragedy has struck once more, claiming the life of our lord, Baron Brantifax. His end was as sudden as it was heartbreaking, and the shadow it casts over us is long and dark. After the untimely death of his beloved mastiff, Brorn, the Baron was a changed man. Nights found him wandering the halls, a ghost of his former self, calling out for the dog in his sleep. His tormented cries echoed through the chalet, a haunting reminder of the losses he had endured. He seemed lost in a fog of grief, no longer the strong and proud figure he once was. Last night, the unthinkable happened. In his sleepwalking state, the Baron stumbled and fell into the well. By the time the alarm was raised and the servants rushed to his aid, it was too late. The water had claimed him, and we could not save him. The sight of his lifeless body being pulled from the well is one that will stay with me forever. With the Baron's death, the Baroness has become unrecognizable. Lady Evelyn's mental state has deteriorated rapidly, and her once gentle demeanor has turned cruel and harsh. She lashes out at us for the smallest infractions, her eyes wild with a madness that chills us to the bone. We, the servants, tread lightly, speaking in whispers and avoiding her gaze, for fear of inciting her wrath. The atmosphere in the chalet is oppressive. The mists have descended upon the valley for the past week, thickening with each passing day. They cling to the land like a shroud, obscuring the sun and casting an eerie pallor over everything. It feels as though the very air is laden with sorrow and dread, reflecting the turmoil within our walls. Rumors among the staff suggest that the mists are a sign, a manifestation of the evil that has befallen this place. We speak of it in hushed tones, fearful of invoking whatever curse might linger here. The once vibrant and joyous home has become a house of shadows and secrets, where fear reigns and hope has fled. I pray that some semblance of peace might return, though I see little chance of it. With the Baron gone and the Baroness descending further into madness, the future seems bleak. The valley is cloaked in a gloom that mirrors our hearts, and I fear we are all lost within it. Sune, help us all.
Baron Brantifax Baron Brantifax liked to hunt. From time to time, the baron invited other hunters to join him and his hound on his merry hunts, after which they would socialize and have meals at the chalet. After the death of Brorn, his beloved mastiff, Baron Brantifax was beset by spells of sleepwalking, during which he would wander about the chalet looking for his lost hound. The servants mistook his sleepwalking for temporary delirium brought on by insomnia, and they assumed he was awake at the time. He was sleepwalking when he fell down the well, and he drowned before the servants could get him out. The haunting whispers of his restless spirit terrified the staff, who fled the chalet shortly thereafter. The baron’s spirit is too weak to manifest physically or cause any harm. His headstone reads: Husband, Father, Hunter. "Let no man stand above another". His diary reads: The weight of my grief is crushing, an endless abyss into which I am forever falling. It has been but a fortnight since that fateful day, and I find no solace in the passage of time. Heluthe, my dearest Heluthe, is gone. My sweet, spirited daughter, taken by the very wilderness we so often explored together. A hunt that was meant to be a cherished memory has become an unending nightmare. I can still hear her laughter echoing through the forest, a sound now forever silenced by the savage growl of the wolf that stole her from us. It was my duty to protect her, and I failed. The beast appeared from nowhere, its eyes gleaming with hunger. Heluthe was so brave, trying to draw her bow even as it lunged. I was too slow, too helpless to prevent the horror that unfolded. She died in my arms, her life slipping away as I held her, powerless and broken. My dear wife, Evelyn, does not blame me, yet her forgiveness is a double-edged sword. She offers words of comfort, but they are hollow, like echoes in a vast, empty chamber. Her eyes no longer meet mine as they once did; the warmth that once filled our home has turned cold and distant. She says she understands, that she does not hold me responsible, but her actions betray a lingering doubt, a silent accusation that I cannot escape. Our relationship is now a fragile thing, held together by the tenuous threads of shared loss and unspoken pain. Evelyn does not absolve me of my guilt, and I do not deserve such absolution. I see her watching me when she thinks I am not looking, her gaze heavy with the weight of our shared sorrow. There are moments when I reach for her, desperate for the connection we once had, but she recoils, the pain too great for either of us to bridge. Each night, I find myself wandering the halls of our home, the memories of happier times haunting every corner. I return to Heluthe's room, untouched since that day, and sit by her empty bed. I am consumed by the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys,' my heart aching with the knowledge that I can never bring her back. I am a father who failed, a husband who cannot mend what has been shattered. The hunt was my sanctuary, a bond between my daughter and me that was as sacred as it was exhilarating. Now, it is a bitter reminder of my greatest failure. I cannot bear to take up my bow again, for it was not the wolf that killed Heluthe, but my own hubris in believing I could keep her safe. I do not know how to move forward from this. My world is a desolate landscape of regret and sorrow, and I am lost within it. Evelyn remains by my side, but we are both adrift, two souls bound by grief yet separated by an invisible chasm that grows wider each day. Heluthe, my darling, forgive me. I will carry this guilt for the rest of my days, a penance for the life I could not save. I see you in my dreams, and I wake each morning with the bitter taste of reality. I pray that, in time, Evelyn and I might find a way to heal, though I fear that day will never come.
Baroness Evelyn Brantifax The Baroness admired the Baron's generous nature and his vigor, but she disliked that the Baron loved his trusty mastiff as much as he did his wife and children. The baroness felt isolated at the chalet and much preferred city life. Her firstborn, Sylphene, was bedridden, having been born with physical deformities. The Baroness was glad she was stuck in the chalet, far from the public's eye. Heluthe, her secondborn, was a tomboy and more like her father than her mother. She doesn't blame the Baron doe her death, but neither does she absolve him of his guilt. Her diary reads: My heart is shattered, pieces scattered to the winds. Heluthe, my precious, beautiful Heluthe, is gone. She was my light, a radiant angel with golden curls and eyes that sparkled with life and mischief. How cruel fate is to take her from me, to extinguish such a bright flame. She is gone because of him, because of Brantifax and his foolish hunts. He was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe, and yet he let her fall victim to the savage wilds he so adores. I grieve the loss of my darling Heluthe with every breath. Her laughter once filled these cold, dark halls with warmth. She was the very embodiment of beauty and grace, a testament to everything pure and good in this wretched world. And now, she lies cold and still, her vibrant spirit silenced forever. The image of her lifeless body haunts me, a vision that no mother should ever have to bear. I had another daughter once, Dior, but she was not like Heluthe. Dior was deformed, her face and body twisted and hideous. I know it is wicked to speak of her so, but the truth gnaws at my soul. She was a burden, a dark stain upon our family, a constant reminder of some unspoken sin. I could not bear to look upon her, and in my heart, I knew she would never find peace in this world. Dior's death was... a mercy, though it is a secret I must carry alone. Now, I am consumed by a darkness I cannot escape. I see Brantifax with his beloved dog, Brorn, and my hatred festers. That wretched beast, that slobbering brute, still lives while my Heluthe lies dead. Brantifax lavishes his affections upon that creature, as if it were his child. It is more than I can bear. How dare he show such love to a mere animal while our daughter is gone? The sight of Brorn turns my stomach, and I find myself contemplating a terrible act. If I were to take the dog from him, to end its miserable life, perhaps then he would understand the depth of my suffering. Perhaps then, he would know what it is to lose something he loves. The thought brings a twisted comfort, a flicker of satisfaction in my otherwise hollow existence. I could take the dog into the forest, under the pretense of a walk, and then... it would be so easy. One swift action, and Brorn would be no more. I despise myself for these thoughts, but they are all that sustain me in this pit of despair. Heluthe, my sweet Heluthe, I wish you were here to guide me, to bring light to this darkness. But you are gone, and I am left with only shadows and the bitter taste of vengeance.
Dior Brantifax Dior was born with physical deformities to her face and body leaving her requiring full care from her mother. She died when she was 6. Her headstone reads: Beloved daughter. May she find peace at last.
Heluthe Brantifax Heluthe loved going hunting with her father. Unfortunately she was slain on her 9th birthday, killed by a wolf, whilst hunting with her father. Her headstone reads: Our pride and joy. Lost too soon. Her diary reads:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of hunting lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Dior—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Dior—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;
—Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Dior!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Dior!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Sune just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from Shadowfell shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Shadowfell shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above her chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above her chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Sune whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Dior;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Dior!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!
—prophet still, if bird or devil!
—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
on this desert land enchanted—On this home by horror haunted
—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!
—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Dior—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Dior.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Shadowfell shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Sune just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Brorn His headstone reads: Hound of Brantifax. Faithful to the end.
Margaret (Housemaid) The house of Brantifax has been plunged into an abyss of sorrow and madness. Tragedy has struck once more, claiming the life of our lord, Baron Brantifax. His end was as sudden as it was heartbreaking, and the shadow it casts over us is long and dark. After the untimely death of his beloved mastiff, Brorn, the Baron was a changed man. Nights found him wandering the halls, a ghost of his former self, calling out for the dog in his sleep. His tormented cries echoed through the chalet, a haunting reminder of the losses he had endured. He seemed lost in a fog of grief, no longer the strong and proud figure he once was. Last night, the unthinkable happened. In his sleepwalking state, the Baron stumbled and fell into the well. By the time the alarm was raised and the servants rushed to his aid, it was too late. The water had claimed him, and we could not save him. The sight of his lifeless body being pulled from the well is one that will stay with me forever. With the Baron's death, the Baroness has become unrecognizable. Lady Evelyn's mental state has deteriorated rapidly, and her once gentle demeanor has turned cruel and harsh. She lashes out at us for the smallest infractions, her eyes wild with a madness that chills us to the bone. We, the servants, tread lightly, speaking in whispers and avoiding her gaze, for fear of inciting her wrath. The atmosphere in the chalet is oppressive. The mists have descended upon the valley for the past week, thickening with each passing day. They cling to the land like a shroud, obscuring the sun and casting an eerie pallor over everything. It feels as though the very air is laden with sorrow and dread, reflecting the turmoil within our walls. Rumors among the staff suggest that the mists are a sign, a manifestation of the evil that has befallen this place. We speak of it in hushed tones, fearful of invoking whatever curse might linger here. The once vibrant and joyous home has become a house of shadows and secrets, where fear reigns and hope has fled. I pray that some semblance of peace might return, though I see little chance of it. With the Baron gone and the Baroness descending further into madness, the future seems bleak. The valley is cloaked in a gloom that mirrors our hearts, and I fear we are all lost within it. Sune, help us all.
