Adventure of Tancred du Forgietan 2

Moonlight spills through the broken roof of the du Morvannoux keep. Ash drifts across the great hall, settling on rusted armor, shattered beams, and the ancestral blade lodged in Tancred’s chest.

A scrape sounds beyond the collapsed doors. A young adult woman, slim and sharp-featured, with wind-reddened cheeks and a patched brown tunic beneath her cloak enters cautiously, a travel-worn lute strapped across her back. Her dark braid is streaked with snow, and a green cloak hangs over mud-stained boots.

She freezes when her gaze reaches him. Her hand closes around a small silver charm, though she does not draw a weapon. Outside, something distant calls through the fog, answered by another voice nearer the walls.

The bard retreats one careful step, caught between terror and the shelter she still needs. Beyond her, the ruined gate stands open toward the mistbound mountain road.

Tancred raises one scarred hand, palm outward. The young bard halts mid-step, her fingers tightening around the silver charm as she studies the gesture.

He searches the wreckage with a practiced eye, reading the surviving marks of household authority. A fallen steward’s desk bears the du Morvannoux seal, its drawers arranged for records, correspondence, and ink.

Among ledgers fused by damp, Tancred finds a narrow writing case. Its lid yields to his fingers, revealing a dry charcoal stick and a scrap of parchment still clean on one side.

The bard lowers her hand from the charm but keeps her weight angled toward the gate. Snowy mist curls behind her while the charcoal waits between Tancred’s fingers.

Tancred takes the charcoal from its case and writes upon the clean parchment: “I mean thee no harm, maiden. Whatever scours outside, however, will. Remain here whilst I go and deal with what prowls. Help thyself to what ye may find. Mayhaps light a fire for warmth.”

The surviving du Morvannoux seal guides his hand to the formal cadence of household authority, while the orderly writing case and his instinct for servants make the instructions plain, practical, and trustworthy.

He passes her the parchment. The bard reads every line, then looks from the measured script to the corpse who made it, her fear yielding to wary acceptance.

She folds the parchment carefully and moves toward the steward’s stores, no longer guarding the gate with one foot. Tancred turns toward the collapsed doors as the distant calls multiply beyond the mist.

The ancestral fragment shifts against his chest with each step. Outside, something scrapes stone, and a colder sound answers from the road.

Tancred draws his longsword, the nicked steel settling into his grip as naturally as a knight’s oath. He faces the open gate and fixes his mismatched gaze upon the rolling mist.

Haunted memories overlay the ruins: Natasha’s smile, the ceremonial blade, defenders rising beneath dead hands. For a heartbeat, every shadow wears a familiar face, blurring distance and number.

Then the Whispers of the Dead separate fear from warning. Voices seep through the stones, naming the scrape of boots, the drag of ruined limbs, and the hunger gathering outside.

The longsword answers with a faint tremor. Through the thinning mist, Tancred distinguishes four shambling silhouettes circling the broken gate, each turning its skull toward the keep.

Beyond them, the road remains empty, but fresh tracks cross the ash toward the eastern wall. The prowlers are not alone in these ruins, only the nearest danger.

Tancred strides toward the broken gate, his face grim and resigned. The four Mistbound Dead advance through the ash, their ruined forms still bearing scraps of du Morvannoux livery.

Haunted memories seize the silhouettes, replacing skulls with the faces of retainers who once guarded his halls. The hesitation costs him a heartbeat that no longer exists, and the nearest corpse reaches him first.

Whispers of the Dead hiss through the stones, naming the corpse’s angle and the dragging foot behind it. Tancred turns on that warning, while Blade Attunement draws the longsword into the exact line of its neck.

The longsword cleaves through the first retainer’s ruined neck, and the body collapses among the gate stones. Two others lurch in together, old instinct surviving inside dead flesh.

Haunted faces flicker again, but the whispers mark the opening. Tancred’s sword sweeps low, then rises in a controlled arc, dropping both former retainers before they can cross the threshold.

The last dead retainer charges alone. Blade Attunement steadies Tancred’s grip; the longsword meets it squarely and ends its march. Four bodies lie still beneath the mist, and the gate falls silent.

Behind him, firelight begins to glow within the ruined hall. Ahead, fresh tracks still cross the ash toward the eastern wall, but no dead thing now bars the gate.

Tancred follows the tracks across the ash toward the eastern wall, comparing each heel mark, drag, and broken crust with the ruin’s undisturbed dust. Their pattern is deliberate, recent, and singular.

Whispers of the Dead rise from the stones, separating old patrol routes from the fresh trail. They name a narrow breach hidden behind fallen masonry, where the scentless dead passed inward.

Tancred reaches the eastern wall and shifts a slab aside. Beneath it, the tracks continue through a low opening, their edges marked by a corpse’s dragging foot and clotted ash.

The breach opens onto a narrow exterior ledge. A fifth Mistbound Dead crouches there among the stones, facing the mist, its ruined du Morvannoux livery matching the four fallen at the gate.

The Whispers identify its purpose through fragments of dead memory: it came from the eastern road and was searching the keep before the others approached. The tracks’ source is found.

Tancred advances along the ledge with his longsword ready. Blade Attunement settles the weapon into a precise guard, its point tracking the crouched Mistbound Dead without wavering.

The corpse turns its ruined head toward him but does not attack. Haunted memory overlays its scraps of livery with a living retainer’s face, distorting the scene and clouding his first reading.

The Whispers of the Dead sift through the false familiarity, guiding his attention to the corpse’s hands. One grips a torn strip of black waxed cloth, caught beneath a loose stone.

Tancred lowers his blade only enough to examine the stonework. The longsword’s attunement draws his eye to a hairline gap beneath it, where fresh ash conceals a narrow iron case.

Investigation reveals the truth: the Mistbound Dead had been trying to uncover the case, not enter the keep. The black cloth bears a faded Batory sigil, and the case is sealed with dark red wax.

The corpse remains crouched beside its discovery, inert beneath the mist. The case lies within Tancred’s reach, its seal unbroken and its contents unknown.

Tancred gives the crouched corpse a knowing, appreciative nod. Its ruined head remains turned toward the mist, watchful and strangely patient, while he sheaths the longsword.

Haunted memories briefly replace the corpse with a living retainer receiving his thanks, but Whispers of the Dead peel the false image away and mark the safe angle of approach.

Blade Attunement lingers through the sheathed weapon, guiding his hand away from the corpse’s grasp. His longsword’s familiar weight steadies his balance as he bends beside the loose stone.

Seal Forensics reads the dark red wax before his fingers touch it: Batory workmanship, recently pressed, and deliberately kept intact. Investigation confirms the iron case is the object the dead sought.

Tancred clears the fresh ash, braces the stone with one hand, and retrieves the narrow iron case without disturbing its wax. The crouched corpse does not resist or turn.

The case now rests securely in Tancred’s grasp, cold beneath his scarred fingers. Black waxed cloth remains trapped beneath the stone, its faded Batory sigil visible against the ash.

Tancred leaves the crouched Mistbound Dead to its ceaseless vigil and passes through the breach. Mist coils around his shoulders before the ruined keep swallows him again.

Firelight flickers in the great hall. The young bard has arranged broken boards around a small hearth, and she looks up sharply when Tancred enters with the iron case.

Tancred sets the case upon the steward’s desk. Seal Forensics identifies the precise weakness in the Batory wax, while Investigation follows the case’s concealed hinge and spring.

Forbidden Knowledge supplies the final insight: the iron case is warded against force, not understanding. He turns the hidden catch in the correct sequence, and the lid opens.

Inside rests a folded strip of black vellum, a thumb-sized silver key, and a bead of dark red wax stamped with a broken Batory crest. The writing is cramped and hurried.

The examination costs precious minutes: the fire burns lower, and the vellum’s ink has faded where moisture touched it. Yet one legible sentence remains: “The heir beneath the keep must not awaken.”