Opportunities for Cyran and Vi’ira to meet and catch up were few and far between these days- both were busy people, and as Cyran had taken on his new apprentice, and Vi’ira was busy with matters on the Isilmë Dae, and the two moon elves had found it difficult to find a time and place to get together and relax. The opportunity finally prevented itself in the late autumn, nearing winter, as both adventurers found their work taking them to the Marsh Flats.

They had just settled down for the evening in an inn- Vi’ira had already consumed more than a few mugs of ale, and grew more rambunctious the longer the night went on- even Cyran had partaken in more than he usually allowed himself, simply enjoying being in familiar company. As such, the two were already quite buzzed, Cyran listening as Vi’ira animatedly recounted a rather intense bar fight with a triton, when a frantic townswoman approached them. It was clear from her pale face and trembling hands that something had spooked her, which was only confirmed when she made a peculiar request from them.

“Sorry to bother you folk on your night off, but I couldn’t help but notice your weapons, and… well, we’ve got a problem, if you would be so kind as to help.”

She went on to describe the ghost that had been roaming the Hauntwoods- a woman that only arrived in a shroud of mist under the shelter of the night, gliding through the frozen marsh and wailing at anyone who would listen. While she seemed to pose no threat at the moment, the townsfolk worried that with each passing night, she would creep closer, until she descended on the town. So far, she had been harmless, but it was only a matter of time before she hurt someone, the villager insisted.

“If you’d please, go to the Hauntwoods and take care of her for us.”

Cyran had been against it, at first- while he felt for the townsfolk, he was no ghost hunter, and there was little he could do against an entity lacking a mortal body. But Vi’ira’s eyes had a dangerous gleam to them, and he already felt his resolve crumbling.

And so, the two adventurers, with Oriole in tow, made their way through the Hauntwoods in search of this elusive ghost. There was only one problem- they were all quite inebriated at this point, and their trek through the bog was more akin to a pair of stumbling fawns than an accomplished assassin and smuggler.

The mists were gently rolling in, a frigid chill clinging to the night air. Overhead, the moon was waning, barely a sliver in the sky. They’d been at the search a few hours now, with no sign of any ghost. Cyran stifled a yawn with his hand, wishing very much that they had opted to stay at the inn with a warm bed rather than slog out here in the cold all evening. He turned to Vi’ira, fatigue evident on his face.

“I think we’ve been pranked, Vi’ira. Maybe we should just return to the inn, and-“

A sound from behind him cut him off, somewhere between a choked scream and a broken sob. Cyran whirled around, groping for one of the daggers on his belt, missing a few times before he finally managed to grab the hilt of one at random.

“What was that?”

With friends and drinks a plenty, tonight was sure to be an amusing one. It had been a decent chunk of time since Vi'ira had last seen Cyran, and she couldn't wait to tell him all the stories she had experienced. In her journal, she made sure to scribble down certain details of her events that she insisted on sharing with him. As the two of them caught up with each other and she was introduced to Oriole, she made a mental note to make time to see him more.

The night took a turn for the strange when a terrified woman came pleading for help ridding of a wailing spirit that lingered in the Hauntwoods, as if the name wasn't already ironically spooky enough. But a ghost…now that’s how you get into the autumn spirit. Cyran was the first to respond to her request, at first apprehensive in the endeavor, but with a bit of convincing, he budged at Vi’ira’s request. At this point, she was drinks deep, and the alcohol most certainly upped her confidence a bit. She even went as far as to make up an entire tale about a time she dealt with a small ghost crew off of the western coast of Frost Gale.

She had never dealt with a ghost before, nor seen one...but doing it drunk sounded like the only right way to go about something like this.

With that, the trio embarked into the misty woods, heel in toe and their eyes fixed on the road ahead. Except, their eyes would be fixed on absolutely nothing for what felt like forever. Vi’ira kept humming an old shanty her father would sing to keep her mind awake as they trudged on. Oriole had reached a point of silence, most likely exhausted from the excessive walking and lack of anything interesting actually happening. That was…until a broken sob emerged from the quietness of the woods.

“What was that?”

She snapped her head around, slightly delayed. When the townsmember was explaining this quest, it sounded much more fun as a prospective journey, but now that they were in the moment, it was horrifying. Standing in the middle of the Hauntwoods, surrounded by thick fog and rumors of a spirit. All the confidence that the alcohol had given her was gone, and now she stood with her shoulder pressed against Cyran’s and her hands clutched to her chest.

“Why did I let ye lot drag me inte this?”

“...This was your idea.”

“This isn’t a blame game.”

Another wail, only this time, it was much louder…and far too close for comfort. Strangely enough, it seemed to be coming from multiple directions, as if echoing off the trees. At this point, Vi’ira was fully holding onto Cyran, and he clung to Oriole. They formed a wall, an extremely vulnerable and penetrable fortress. The trio’s attention varied, all of them shooting their heads in different directions trying to catch sight of any slight movement.

Out of nowhere, a ball of mud came flying out of the mist and landed square on Cyran’s forehead. Vi’ira’s hand flew to her mouth, before she let out a loud laugh. He stood with his eyes closed for a moment, an annoyed look etched into his face. Her hand flew down to slap her knee, and right as it did, a mud-ball landed right on her nose and got half the mud in her open mouth. She instantly began spit, gagging at the amount of marshland grime that stuck to her tongue. This time, it was Cyran who was laughing. The moment was short lived when multiple mudballs flew out from multiple directions. One hit Oriole in the back of the head, and another struck Vi’ira’s shoulder. Some flew past them and missed, exploding on trees.

“Oi! Jig’s up, ye’ve ‘ad yer fu–” A wail erupted from the shadows, the loudest one yet. Suddenly, dozens of mudballs flew towards the adventurers, coating them in swampy sludge. They ducked and tried their best to dodge them, but because of all the areas they were coming from, it was hard to see which way they’d come from next. After a solid minute of mud flying throughout the air and pummeling the group, they finally lowered their arms from over their heads and looked around. They were covered almost completely from head to toe in grime. Vi’ira looked over to the two as she wiped away mud from around her darkened eye.

“A wailing, mud-throwing mad spirit-woman…we’re doomed.”

“This isn’t a blame game.”

Cyran resisted the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation, partially because he had to keep his eyes on the road at all times before he lost his balance, and partially because he figured it would be easier if he decided to withhold all comments now so he could deliver a knowing I told you so once this was all said and done. Petty? Perhaps, but Cyran was still lamenting a night spent in a warm bed, and he figured he was owed a little.

Any further conversation was cut short by the sound of a wail reverberating off the gnarled trees that immediately made Cyran jump in the air. The three immediately clung to one another. Someone let out a small scream, though to this day all three would deny producing it.

That was when the mud rained down on them, a torrent of vengeful bog water and dirt coming from every direction. Cyran was lucky the force didn’t knock him flat on his back.^[1] He was just wiping mud off of his face, spitting out some that got in his mouth, as Vi’ira lamented their rotten luck.

“Yes, we do usually find ourselves getting mucked up in adventures like these, don’t we?” Cyran asked, though a frown tugged at his lips. He was not often a paranoid man, but the undead tended to leave a sour taste on his tongue. “What if it was a woman who was drowned in the marsh? What if she wanders the Hauntwoods looking for her killer, only so she can drown them, too?” He turned to Vi’ira, eyes wide. “Vi’ira, I don't know how to swim, I can't drown! You’ve fought ghosts before, yes? What do we do?”

For a moment, he was tempted to grab Rowan’s old journal from his bag, but the thought that he wouldn’t be able to make sense of her frantic scribblings on specters and demons in his current drunken state strayed his hand. No, he would not consult the writings of a dead madwoman to aid him in exorcizing another dead madwoman! He, Vi’ira, and Oriole could handle this on their own.

Emboldened, Cyran began marching forth on the path, a new purpose in that step, as if daring the spirit to come from the shadows and attack him again…

Only to immediately trip over a root and nearly land directly on his face.

Behind him, Oriole and Vi’ira stifled giggles behind their hands, doing a poor job of it, too. He whirled around on them, huffing. “Oh, I’d like to see you both make a better job of navigating the woods in the dark.”

“Isn’t that your specialty, Cyran?” Oriole pointed out.

Cyran shot his apprentice a dangerous look. Given the fact his face was flushed red and he was on the verge of tears, the effect wasn’t all that menacing. “Let’s just continue onwards.”

The three followed the sounds of wailing, which had quieted somewhat, but not dissipated entirely. Rather than silence, their walk was permeated with the ghostly woman’s sobs, an unnerving reminder of what they were here for. Eventually, Cyran spotted something in the mist- a dilapidated old home that looked like it was partially sagging in the bog, comprised of wood that looked perpetually soggy from the humidity of the area.

Cyran turned to Vi’ira, a frown on his face. “I really hope that the ghost isn’t hiding in there.”

Another sharp wail from inside only confirmed his worst fears. Vi’ira gave him a pointed look, brows raised, as if asking if he was too scared to go in. And maybe that ship had long since sailed, but some part of Cyran still wanted to appear cool in Vi’ira’s eyes. Shoulders slumped in resignation, he continued onwards.

“Fine. Into the house of the crazy, mud-flinging murder ghost we go.” If he got killed, he would at least make sure he haunted Vi’ira for it later.

---

1. Cat's Grace

A night of drunken adventure sounded much more fun within the safe confines of the tavern walls, but now that the three of them were alone in the woods on the hunt for a ghostly mad-woman, Vi’ira was void of any prior confidence. The alcohol still heavily affected her thinking, blurring together Cyran’s words as he spoke. She swore the ground was tilted where she stood, and for a moment the trees began to intertwine with one another. She hadn’t felt this scattered in a while, however the racing adrenaline thrilled her. When adventure called, Vi’ira couldn’t help but answer with unusual haste and absolutely no thought behind it.

Cyran was frantic trying to discern the details of the ghoul, scaring himself with the terrifying possibilities that lie ahead. He turned to her with wide eyes, ensuring that Vi’ira had dealt with ghosts before. She matched his wide eyes, unsure of how to respond. Had she been face to face with spirits before and it was the alcohol making her forget? Surely she’d remember such an encounter? She knew Cyran was searching for some sort of reassurance that whatever they were dealing with wasn’t completely foreign, however, Vi’ira didn’t want to lie and get them in an even stickier situation later on.

“If ghosts usually take to the sea, then maybe I ‘ave?” Her scarred eyebrow furrowed deeply, visually demonstrating how hard she was trying to recall some sort of ghastly memory.

Cyran sighed heavily, facing away from her and thinking deeply. It didn’t take long for Cyran to step up and take the lead, an odd bounce in his step. Being the one who could see the best in the dark, he surely was bound to get them to wherever they needed to be…if where they needed to be was on the ground with their faces in the dirt. Vi’ira did her best to stifle a laugh, but it was useless. She knew it was better to be quiet when you’re surrounded by the unknown, however, that did not come across based on her actions. The image of Cyran laying face first in the mud was much too humoring, and she couldn’t wait to bring this up at a later date. He usually was so poise, almost cat-like in his graceful movements, but tonight, under the influence of strong alcohol and fear, he moved like a newborn fawn.

“Oh, I’d like to see you both make a better job of navigating the woods in the dark.”

“Isn’t that your specialty, Cyran?” And without even a beat of silence, Vi’ira was cackling. She doubled over as a slap ricocheted off her knee and she made a half-assed attempt to pull herself together. The look Cyran cast towards Oriole was ferocious, but the mud caked on his face lessened the intensity of his glare.

She opened her arms out wide in front of her as Cyran walked ahead. “Our own personal Guide of the Shadows, Master Seer in the Dark, Conqueror of the–” Cyran shot another sharp look, but this time, to Vi’ira, and she instantly snapped her mouth shut. Her arms fell back to her side and she gave him a thumbs up. She spoke, only quieter, “Alrigh’, alrigh’, I overdid it.”

The group walked in steady tandem as Cyran pointed out a crumbling shack off in the distance. She gulped, knowing that there was no choice but to investigate seeing as they had no other leads. The silence around them was interrupted by another screeching wail, an invitation for the adventurers. Vi’ira looked to Cyran and motioned to the house with her eyes, egging him on. She wasn’t anticipating him to roll his shoulders back and face the shack head on, and she admired him. Although she may seem semi-collected in this situation, it took everything in her to not retire from the mission and give up altogether. Cyran never ran, and neither would she. What was there to be afraid of with a moon-graced guardian by her side?

The house loomed over them as they approached, a dark shadow cast where they stood. The windows were boarded up, very little light able to seep through. Chimes hung all around the roofing, bones and plants held together with black thread. They dangled and clanged together, aiding in the spookiness of the swamp. It reminded Vi’ira of an enlarged witch's hut, and she feared they may be in for more than they bargained for. The rest of the house rotted in place, left to succumb to the swamp. In a couple of years, who knows if the house would still be standing under the watch of the hungry swamp. Vi’ira took a deep breath as they approached, her feet sinking into the muddy terrain as she placed her hands on her hips and turned to Cyran and Oriole.

“We are bigger than our fears, lads, 'n thar’s no way we’ll allow some frumpy swamp maiden te scare us!” A smile grew on Vi’ira’s mud-covered face, but just as quickly as it appeared, it faded. The door behind her whipped open wildly and she let out a high shriek, collapsing back onto Oriole, sending both of them tumbling to the ground.

This is hopeless.

Following Cyran’s own laughing fit, he reached out his hand for Vi’ira to grab onto. She sneered at him as he hoisted her up, and she turned to return the favor to Oriole.

“Sorry ‘bout that one, uhm…I totally wasn't...” She pointed behind herself, fumbling for some sort of brave excuse, but she couldn’t find one. Without completing her sentence, she turned back to the front door and proceeded to the opening of the home. From the entrance, she could see where the poorly thatched roof concaved in on itself, allowing for an amalgam of dust and dirt to coat the inside. Broken vials and dried herbs were scattered all across the floor and dusty tables. No one had occupied this place in a long, long time, and Vi’ira hoped it still remained that way. If she wished hard enough, perhaps the ghost would cease to exist and they could all go home. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of life or movement. A sliver of moonlight seemed to sneak through the slatted wood over the windows and reflected off something wet on the ground.

Vi’ira walked forward and kneeled down, trying to get a closer look in the dark home. It appeared to be a muddy footprint, and not just that, but a trail. Only, it wasn’t just a trail…it was multiple. One led to a staircase leading upwards, while another led to a staircase that descended even further into the shadows. She shuffled to stare up at the others, a look of mischief in her eyes.

“There’s footprints ‘ere, trails in fact. The question is, which path do we take?”