Strong Spirits
This was a bad day.*
I had spent hours fruitlessly investigating Dalaran at the behest of a friend. I had then been summoned by the Shattered Sun offensive to consult on their problems with the Wretched, and was forced to join a defense against an all-out assault. By the time I took another dizzying portal jump back to Silvermoon, the last thing I needed was a frivolous case.
“You can’t be serious,†I protested to the trio of guards representing the Blood Knights and Silvermoon city watch. “A haunted house?â€
“We thought you liked out of the ordinary cases?†They mocked.
“This is frivolous. I am a professional, sirs, and can’t be bothered to trifle with imagined storybook problems.â€
“We don’t care what you like or what you can be bothered with. This comes from the high aristocracy. You should consider it an order.â€
As my reputation was what kept me in business, I very reluctantly agreed. At this time Vexiph** arrived, curious about my foul mood. I explained the situation, and she seemed concerned about the dangers angered spirits might present. I tried to assure her that, while I understood spirits did manifest on occasion, the vast majority of these cases were misperceptions and misunderstandings.
Amidst this explanation a stranger*** arrived, expressing interest in the case. “While I can’t say I owe you enough to help you, I would like a relief to my boredom.â€
“A problem I struggle with myself. So long as you are useful, that is more than reason enough.â€
We wandered out of town. Though near sick with exhaustion, I managed to find the country mansion with little trouble. An investigation of the premises revealed nothing out of order, not even faulty lights or creaking closets to give scare to a fool. We proceeded to the basement, and there at least we found a modicum of interest. I noticed a false wall, and behind it a long stair. Not just to a secret room, but an entire dungeon!
“Really, who builds their summer home atop a dungeon? There are so many reasons that is a poor choice I can’t be bothered to enumerate them.â€
“My kind of person,†the stranger said curiously. Our aesthetic argument would have to wait. I was tired, Vexiph was nervous, and I wanted to be done with this.
“Most likely this ‘haunting’ stems from the creaking of old equipment or settling of old stone,†I said frankly.
“I… I think I heard doors open and close!â€
“Probably just a draft!†I explained.
“Indeed, but there must be a source,†the stranger noted. He was absolutely right; we could complete our job by finding the source of the draft and sealing it, ending this waste of time. We spread out.
I found an old iron maiden, gruesome, but inanimate. It’s rusted spikes and hinges could make noise enough to spook a doddering retiree. “Bloody thing,†I muttered, snapping off a rusted spike out of spite.
To my surprise, it shattered in my hand, piercing me in a dozen places. I bled most profusely, and hurried back to my companions. Blood loss, tetanus, injury to the hands I use every day in my work… I needed mending. I bid the stranger upstairs for bandages, and bid Vexiph help me remove shards. She seemed even more nervous than before.
“Sterling, I swear that door there was open when we came, and now closed.â€
“Of course! This whole bloody place is falling apart!â€
The stranger returned then, informing us there were no bandages. I cursed. “Very well. Let us find this swinging door of yours, and locate the draft, and be done with this place!â€
We approached the door, Vexiph with trepidation. “It moves with the swaying of the wind!†I proclaimed. I tried to demonstrate but it wouldn’t budge.
“What the deuce?â€
Before I could conjecture further, a wicked force grabbed hold of me, slamming my injured hand into the stone wall. I cried out with pain as rusted metal dug inside me, my hand smearing blood across the wall.
“Dramatic.†The stranger noted.
“Sterling, why did you do that!?â€
“I DIDN’T do that!â€
Suddenly, the possibility of a malignant spirit was very real. I was forced to choke back my indignance and consider this as any other case. I calmed my nerves and looked to the blood: it had been smeared with purpose, a message: ‘nite elm.’
“Night Elm?†Vexiph tried to recall any reference to it in her arcane study. The stranger chose this moment to admire the beauty of the gory device, an odd time to dabble in art criticism. I, more practically, recalled all my study of mythology and the like to find a reference point. I have an incredible memory, and the information came quickly. Spirits were limited in their involvement with this world. Often their communication is jumbled as they try speak across worlds, coming through backwards or in anagrams. I explained as much to my companions as my mind sifted through the different alphabetical permutations. Only one rearrangement seemed to have any relevance: ‘let me in.’
“Whatever you do, do NOT let it in.â€
We split up again for continued search, the stranger and I musing on what we knew of spirits and how to find them. The smell of blood aroused us from our banter, and I rushed to find Vexiph. When I arrived, in her place was a sheep. A sheep with a bloody leg.
Vexiph momentarily morphed back into herself and explained – she had been compelled by the spirit to grab an old weapon, and watched helplessly as she began to cut her own wrists. Only by quick thinking was she able to polymorph herself, drop the weapon, and regain control of her mind. I admitted her cleverness, but worried about our pair of wounds. The bleeding was bad for both. Unfortunately, we were quickly summoned by the stranger. He led us down long corridors, showing more of both excitement and fear than he had yet. We soon learned why.
The spirit of the place had manifested itself. A great, shifting column of energy took the form of a void-black demon, and attacked directly. I counted on Vexiph for hasty enchantments of my bullets in a vain attempt to assault it, and she flung arcane energy desperately, but neither of us could penetrate its magical defenses. The stranger, however, had training in this, and his warlock’s skill proved enough of a match to wound it and discover the bindings it used to take form. Once he pointed out it’s bracers, I knew how to destroy them without worrying of the poor aim given by injured hand: dynamite!****
The blast cleared and the thing was gone. But only its physical form! It again tried to posses us, possess the items in the room. Wood and stone and broken metal flung about. We made a hasty retreat, and the door snapped shut behind us. Angry forces raged against the door, but it would not budge.
“Why would it try to kill us, then seal us out? And fight against its own seal?†I was useless. I had brought no bandages, no tools, no arcane help, and couldn’t think straight. The warlock considered his knowledge of demons, trying to find a way we could help him in a fight. It was simply too old and powerful for one warlock alone.
Quiet Vexiph, meanwhile, finally spoke.
“I… think there is another spirit. I feel a tugging at my mind again. Like before, but different. Perhaps there is a good – or less bad – spirit here, too, helping us?â€
“Or the demon is a good liar,†the warlock noted.
“What chance do we have?†I exclaimed. “A rival spirit may be our only hope. Vexiph, what do you think?â€
“I’m going to let it in.â€
Poor brave Vexiph did just so, and she staggered toward the wall like a puppet, smearing her bloody hand against the stone as I had done before, though more gently. Again, a message: “number.â€
Thanks to the earlier clue I quickly rearranged it.
“’Burn me.’ Yes, yes indeed. I recall reading that spirits can be tied to a place. If the location itself is destroyed, so too the spirit! We must burn this place to the ground!â€
“I should mention now,†the warlock started, “that I didn’t find bandages because the door was locked. We are sealed in.â€
“So if we try to burn this place and it DOESN’T work, we’ll only be trapping ourselves in a crumbling, smoking inferno?â€
Oddly, we both smiled. If nothing else we shared a penchant for exhilaration amidst danger. If we were going to die, it might as well be dramatic.
The warlock summoned a fiery imp who leapt about with manic glee. Vexiph summoned arcane fire left and right. I planted charges at critical places. Soon we were running toward the door, while an enraged demon, a cacaophony of explosions, a tidal wave of smoke and endless sea of fire roared behind us.
I give no reverence to gods or ancestors, but I did wonder that moment if they were kind enough to let us find the door unlocked…
***
Minutes later we stood gasping at the gates of Silvermoon, a great pillar of black smoke behind us. We all three were near dead of smoke inhalation and major burns, Vexiph and I of blood loss as well. By a stroke of good luck a freed Death Knight, Keyus, and the inimitable Lady Ophice were on hand. The former healed Vexiph, the latter carried my weary self toward the priests. The stranger disappeared.
Now, if I am to be honest, the rest of the eve is a complete blur. I have vague recollections of a troupe of Sin’Dorei behind us in the worst version of the pied piper ever to be acted out. And there are quite a few odd rumors floating about Silvermoon regarding that night. Still, I believe my reputation holds firmly true. If you hear that there were mages and nobles following us with sharp tongues and mocking wit, it is untrue. If you hear any mention of Ophice speaking of sexual torture and myself accusing her of bedroom frigidity, it is untrue. And if you hear that I am to be taken to trial for the burning down of a noble’s manor, then I could use your help as a character witness.
-S.H.
*I say this not to engender sympathy, but to illustrate that I am as aware of my own shortcomings and weaknesses as I am aware of my own great skill
**The very friend I was in Dalaran on behalf of. A Silvermoon native and student of the arcane arts.
***Identity anonymous by request, though I shall mention he was a warlock, as that detail is very relevant to this case.
****dynamite and my gun being some of the few things I never travel without