Mistamere Castle

The air inside the keep feels oppressive – a cold that seeps deep into your bones. It is an unnatural chill, and the warmth from your torches does little to fend off the cold. The flames flicker weakly, struggling to keep the light in the face of some unseen force. The faint glimmer is barely enough to illuminate the deep shadows, its reach far too limited to offer any comfort.

The entrance hall’s ground is uneven beneath your feet. There is a noticeable absence of life; no mold, no sign of cobwebs, nothing to indicate the passage of time aside the gathering dust. The large double doors of the entrance lie broken on the ground, splintered and warped with age. On one of the door panels is an odd symbol: three wheat stalks* bound together.

On the opposite wall hangs a tapestry, sagging in places where the fabric has grown weak with age. The image is blurry, the colors faded and frayed. Though it’s hard to make out the finer details, you can just about discern the figure of a large man in a fur bear coat, standing proudly with a beautiful woman at his side. Two children, a boy and a girl, stand in front of them. Their faces, too, have been worn away by time, leaving only the faintest outlines behind.

At the far side of the room, two stairways are visible: one leading upward toward the second floor, the other set of stairs leads downward, disappearing into a pit of shadow.

Whispers, barely audible at first, grow louder the longer you linger in the room. Too distant to make out, but the sensation of being watched grows stronger with every passing moment. The temperature drops even further as you advance, and with each breath, the air grows thick with the vapor of your exhale, spiraling and lingering in the frozen air like a ghostly wisp before fading into the shadows.

What do you do?

The faint whispers make it harder to concentrate, but Nightshade is positive he can hear distinct footsteps from the room behind the second door, the one farther away from the entrance.

The room behind the creaking door is swallowed by darkness, the flickering light of your torch casting only faint shadows. The air in the room is unnaturally cold, and the weak torchlight does little to dispel the chill that clings to the room. The floor is coated in a thick layer of dust - undisturbed for centuries.

At the far end of the room, next to the wall, a large, heavy table stands in solitary stillness. Its surface is worn and scratched, bearing the marks of years of use. Upon it rests a scattering of brittle scrolls, their edges yellowed and curling with age. The faded ink, now barely visible, is almost indecipherable. Some scrolls are tightly rolled, others unfurled slightly, as though hastily abandoned in a moment of urgency.

Along the walls, several cabinets line the room, their wood worn but otherwise intact. To your right, an empty fireplace, its stone hearth cold and barren, with the faintest trace of ash still lingering inside.