IABD 63: The Passage Below

The sound of weeping was as clear as day, soft, as though coming from a distance.

Matthias thought the voice most likely belonged to a man, though the sobs were choked with such grief, it was difficult to tell.

His siblings went quiet; ears cocked in the direction he’d indicated.

“I…hear nothing,” Bregindoure said.

“I don’t hear anything either,” Dagma added.

“Perhaps my hearing’s better from cultivating Divine Breath,” Matthias said in low tones. He still heard the crying. “But I swear on all the Ascended’s names that I hear someone weeping.”

The young greatfolk looked over his shoulder at the doorway to the hall they’d just left.

There was no sign of Beggahasta, Polla or Ellian standing there; he assumed they must be keeping their distance.

“I say we go closer,” Dagma said. 

“Should we tell the others?” Bregindoure asked. “I want to investigate this too, but maybe we should speak to Polla first?”

Matthias frowned, considering whether they should reunite with their mentors or push ahead. He quickly came to a conclusion. “If I heard crying then mother probably heard it too; her ears are sharper than mine. Besides, we’re supposed to act like we’re alone here. So, I say, let’s push on and investigate.”

“Alright then, lead the way,” Bregindoure said.

Matthias led his siblings from the library, going deeper into the abbey. The farther they went, the denser the miasma became and the filthier their surroundings grew.

Ahead, the weeping was louder, echoing through the stone passageways as Matthias quickened his pace. They passed into the cloister—killing the occasional ghoul that crossed their paths—and pressed on. At one time, the cloister would have been a bustle of activity: even now the occasional tool could be seen among the filth. Metal tools had long rusted and wooden tools had rotted away to blackened remnants.

For a time, Matthias assumed the weeping was coming from the dormitory but, as they drew nearer to the building, he realised the sound had changed direction.

It now appeared to be coming from an upper floor in the cloister.

He paused at the bottom of a stairway leading upstairs, his siblings stopped behind him.

“Up there.” He pointed up the staircase, “I think we’re close.”

The weeping echoed through the cloister; sounding closer. At this distance, he could tell the voice was male, but what a man was doing here, crying like his heart was breaking, baffled him. The voice didn’t sound like a ghoul’s: it had neither the horrific screeching quality of the lesser ghouls’ cries, nor the rasp of the ghoul knights’ hissing voices.

Was it some adventurer or scholar who had found the abbey during the storm—fought their way to an upper floor of the cloister—and was now trapped? Or maybe it was a scholar who had been living here undiscovered until now?

He couldn’t imagine either explanation being likely, so he looked to Bregindoure, about to ask him what he thought, only to find his brother alternating between staring down at him and looking up the stairs. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, glancing at Dagma.

The young girl was frowning, giving Matthias a sour look. “This is not funny,” she said.

“What’s not funny?”

“There’s all kinds of ghouls here, and you’re making up stories about crying voices!” she accused him. “It’s not funny! I’m going to tell mother you tried to trick me again, just like when you said you didn’t enter my dream.”

Matthias opened his mouth to argue, but closed it, looking at his older brother. “Wait, you can hear it, right?”

Bregindoure squinted at the darkened stairway for a time, eventually shaking his head. “Matthie, I hear nothing. Just the sound of my own breath and our voices echoing through the halls.”

Matthias’ chest went cold, and he looked between his siblings. “Are you sure you don’t hear anything?”

He cocked his ear toward the stairs: not only could he still hear crying, but it seemed louder and more intense now, rising as they argued with one another. Matthias couldn’t imagine anyone not hearing it.

“I swear on my own life,” Bregindoure said. “I hear nothing at all.”

Dagma’s anger faded. “Wait, you’re not joking, Matthie?”

“No, I swear it, I’m not,” he insisted. “Are you telling me, I’m the only one who can hear someone crying?”

His heart began beating faster and, for the first time since they’d entered the abbey, his soul nearly slipped from his control. He had to focus hard to keep his life energy circulating.

Was he going mad?

Perhaps the strain of circulation had made him lose his mind at some point?

He dismissed the notion.

No, something else was going on: the miasma affected him differently than it did his family members, and that strange feeling that something dreadful awaited somewhere deep beneath the abbey was also not shared by his companions.

Death. He was touched by it.

Perhaps his brush with the after-world had left him able to hear…whoever was weeping when others couldn’t.

A lump formed in his throat.

Just what were they going to find up there?

He turned around. “We should tell Polla before we go any further.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Bregindoure agreed.

“Yeah.” Dagma eyed the stairs with distrusting eyes.

The trio turned to go back the way they had come.

“Mistress Polla!” Matthias called. “Can you hear me?”

As they walked back through the cloister, he paused at another staircase, this one leading down. The stench coming from it was unreal, and every step was caked in filth. He couldn’t help but wonder what waited at the bottom.

“You called?” Polla’s voice came from down the hall.

Matthias pulled his eyes away from the stairway, looking into the dark.

Polla was floating through the hall with Ellian at her side; Beggahasta followed behind. Matthias noticed ghoul remains clinging to Tallis’ blade.

“What has happened?” Mistress Polla asked.

“I uh…” he paused. “Can you hear someone weeping right now?” He pointed at the ceiling. “Coming from above us.”

She shook her head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Oh. Do you, mother?” Matthias asked Beggahasta.

The warrior woman’s eyes turned toward the ceiling. “I hear ghouls trying to move quietly up there, but I don’t hear any crying. Why? What are you hearing?”

“I hear someone weeping,” he said. “It sounds like a man’s voice, and not a man who was once human but is now a ghoul, a mortal man. I’ve been hearing it since we reached the library.”

“But Dagma and I hear nothing,” Bregindoure added.

“Yeah, Matthie’s the only one that hears it,” Dagma said.

Matthias looked at the others nervously. “Erm, Ellian?” he asked the young boy.

The small acolyte slowly shook his head.

“This is an interesting development,” Polla said, sounding curious. “It could be that you are the only one who hears it because you’ve been touched by death.”

“I did wonder that,” Matthias admitted. “But I wanted to ask you what you think might be going on before we went up there.”

Polla’s eyebrows rose. “Huh...”

Matthias cocked his head. “You seem surprised?”

“I must admit that I am. In some ways, you remind me of my own son, and I can tell you one thing for certain: if he had been in your situation at your age, he would have charged off to investigate with hardly a thought. It surprised me that you stepped back to consult me.”

“Well, I don’t want to get myself, my brother and sister killed,” he said. “I don’t fear ghouls, but that could be anything up there. What if swords can’t cleave it or hammers or maces can’t crush it? I don’t want us to be attacked by some distressed ghost unawares.”

“Wisely thought,” Polla commented. “But, for what it’s worth, I do not think it’s a ghost. While I have no doubt that Windstone would harbour ghosts, we all would likely be hearing its weeping; ghosts can interact with mortals regardless of whether or not the mortals were touched by death. And—if it is a ghost trying to lure us upstairs—it would likely ensure that all of us hear it, to make us curious enough to investigate, as opposed to frightening one of us and putting the entire group on guard.”

“Okay,” he said. “But what if the ghost just wants to kill me?” Matthias asked.

“Then your shadow-tendril should be able to defend against it,” she said. “Shadow is a cousin to death, and shadow magic can interact with ghosts, wraiths and other phantoms.”

“Wait, I can do that?” he asked.

“In theory.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

“Did we ever fight ghosts earlier?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “I said shadow was a cousin to death. Perhaps I thought you would assume that shadow could interact with the dead and spiritual. Or perhaps I meant to hold back that lesson until it was relevant to avoid overwhelming you with too many details all at once. Or perhaps it slipped my mind until this very moment. Whatever the case might be, you know now.”

Matthias didn’t quite know what to make of her answer.

He looked at Ellian and then his mother.

Both gave him sympathetic looks.

He chose to move on.

“Alright, then let’s say it’s not a ghost—regardless of whether I can use my shadow-tendril to fight it or not—any idea what else it might be? You said something about wraiths and phantoms?”

“There are other forms of incorporeal undead; ghosts tend to be bound to the world by unfinished business: a grudge, a lost love, someone they desperately want to save…it can vary. That need twists them into beings of mana and ectoplasm that can then affect the world in various, very powerful ways. Wraiths are incorporeal but are usually driven by a simple hatred of the living. Unlike ghosts, wraiths do not have souls and are driven by hunger. In many ways, they are essentially incorporeal ghouls. Phantoms are a catch-all term for incorporeal undead when we don’t quite know what the incorporeal undead are. As for what might await us upstairs…it could be an illusion—light bent and twisted by the Gift or old magic—that for some reason targets you. Or it could be a poltergeist or other form of spirit. A poltergeist is like a ghost that struggles to assume a spiritual form of ectoplasm and mana. Instead, they possess and exert their power over physical objects in their domain, haunting them.”

“And what about spirits?”

“They are most interesting, but also a form of catch-all term: spirits can be fae, small gods, elementals or other creatures, but the term also applies to souls that have been left behind in the material world by some tragedy, magic or other circumstance. They are too weak or lack the desire to form spiritual bodies of ectoplasm like a ghost would and may not have the desire or ability to possess items. Very few beings can hear or interact with a spirit: they can be viewed through lenses of dream-glass, certain old magic rituals can grant them a spiritual form. ...perhaps you might be able to interact with their kind, having been touched by death. I must admit that is only a theory, however, it is largely a guess.”

Matthias looked toward the ceiling. “Well, if it’s only a guess, we won’t know for sure until we go up there. Would you mind staying a little closer to us: if we don’t know what the cause of the sound is, better we have powerful magical help backing us in case something goes wrong.”

Polla nodded. “That is reasonable. And are you still circulating your life energy?”

“I haven’t stopped once, and that’s since even before we entered Windstone.”

“Perfect. Then lead the way, Matthias. Your mother and I will back you three all the way.”

Matthias turned to his siblings. “Do you want to come with me or stay back with Polla, mother and Ellian?”

Bregindoure and Dagma shook their heads, raising their weapons. “Of course we’ll come with you.”

Matthias grinned, somewhat relieved; he would never admit this out loud, but the disembodied weeping—that only he could hear—had shaken him. He was glad not to have to face it entirely alone.

“Alright, I’ll lead the way then. If anything strange happens, speak up,” he warned.

Raising his weapons and drawing his tiger skin cloak tighter around his body, he led the group back toward the stairway, passing the darkened stairwell descending into the earth.

“What do you think of that place?” he asked. “Where do you think it goes?”

“Down, most likely,” Bregindoure offered, unhelpfully.

“Thanks,” was Matthias’ dry reply.

“Hmmm, well I imagine that this would lead down to…hmmm…” Ellian paused, floating in front of the passage. “The passage to the catacombs is likely located just off the chapel, the cellar would be beneath the kitchens...so where would this lead to? A workshop perhaps? No…no wait! I think I know—”

Beggahasta was suddenly beside the young boy, clapping her hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from the passage in a blur of motion.

Before Matthias could cry out a warning, before any of the group could move, there was a flash of multicoloured light from the darkness. A kaleidoscopic wave of prismatic radiance raced up the stairs faster than any arrow, shooting past the spot where Ellian had floated a breath earlier. 

It struck the wall behind the group, shattering into dozens of strings of light. They attacked the stone like ants tearing apart prey, stripping a layer of rock into grey powder pouring down to the floor.

Matthias watched the stone in shock. “If that had hit Ellian, he would be...” his words were interrupted.

“Awaaaay…intruders…” a hideous voice croaked from the darkness.

Matthias’ eyes flicked to the dark passage. There, he spotted a ghoul knight stepping from the pitch black below it, pausing at the edge of where darkness met light at the base of the staircase. 

“Beeeegooooone!” the creature’s voice hissed, its rictus grin turning to a hungry snarl as it pointed its sword up the stairs.

Deafening shrieks echoed from the dark.

As one, a tide of ghouls rushed from the darkness, fangs gnashing, claws poised, eyes hungry.

Bregindoure swore. “Damn, there have to be dozens of them!”

“Stand by me!” Beggahasta stepped into the passageway. “We’ll hold them off!”

Bregindoure, Dagma and Matthias moved to her side, ready to fight the scores of ghouls pouring up the stairs.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, to where Ellian had collapsed against the wall, the youngster’s chest was heaving. “Where did you say you thought this led to?”

Ellian looked up at the young greatfolk with nervous eyes.

He swallowed. “The…the Old Abbey Roads.”

Above them, the disembodied weeping turned to a wail.

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Author's Note

This is like exploring an old ruin and finding a passage to the underdark...which has happened in one game I played lol.

Cya Friday!