Darkest Dungeon [ Elaebryn × christian7_41king ]

[Elaebryn]

Ruin has come to our family.

You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial, gazing proudly from its stoic perch above the moor. In my younger years my home was a hive of unbridled hedonism, a roiling apiary where instinct and impulse were indulged in wild abandon.

I lived all my years in that ancient, rumor-shadowed manor, fattened by decadence and luxury, and yet I began to tire of … conventional extravagance. Singular unsettling tales suggested the mansion itself was a gateway to some fabulous and unnameable power. With relic and ritual, I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long buried secrets, exhausting what remained of our family fortune on … swarthy workmen and … sturdy shovels. At last, in the salt soaked crags beneath the lowest foundations, we unearthed that damnable portal of antediluvian evil.

Our every step unsettled the ancient earth, but we were in a realm of death and madness. In the end, I alone fled, laughing and wailing through those blackened arcades of antiquity. Until consciousness failed me.

You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. It is a festering abomination! I beg you, return home, claim your birthright and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows of the Darkest Dungeon.

The above message is delivered by courier in the dead of night, the wild-eyed messenger pounding feverishly against the door to your manor loud enough to wake you and all of your servants. Your butler received the man and sought to take the message from him, but he would only surrender it to the lord of the manor. And so you were drawn from your bed-chamber at this terrible hour to a grim audience.

He is a gaunt, weathered man whose breath stinks of rot and whose leathery skin bears foul lesions. But the roll of parchment he carries is crisp, the writing is vivid, and the seal which bound it was unmistakably that of your grand-uncle in the neighbouring province. In attendance to your receipt of the message is not only your butler, but also your man-at-arms, and a courtesan who had been warming your bed. They all witness the messenger collapse on your hearth soon after he thrusts the scroll into your hands, as if it had been some great burden. He is gone but as soon as he falls, claimed by some sickness your apothecary cannot discern, and his flesh rots away with a malignant and unnatural speed to reveal only weathered bones.

The whore at your side screams at the sight, but you feel nothing. Your mind is somewhere else entirely: the old road to your grand-uncle's estate. For while the others concern themselves with the skeleton on your doorstep, you felt compelled to go on reading the second part of the message.

You will arrive along the old road.

It winds with a troubling, serpent-like suggestion through the corrupted countryside, leading only, I fear, to ever more tenebrous places. There is a sickness in the ancient, pitted cobbles of the old road, and on its writhing path, you'll face viciousness, violence and perhaps, other damnably transcendent terrors.

So, steel yourself, and remember, there can be no bravery without madness. The old road will take you to hell, but, in that gaping abyss, we will find our redemption.

What could have only been minutes feels like an eternity before you are back to your senses. Your mind had wandered. You could see it, hear it, smell the mossy trees and fetid pools — but now you stand as before with the remains of a man at your door, and your house staff justifiably upset. The whore had fainted. You discover in the morning that she fell to the same mysterious plague that claimed the messenger, but you have no time for concern over couriers and courtesans. Something in the distance tugs at your heart, your loins — your very soul. You are compelled to leave in haste. You did not sleep all the night, obsessing instead over which among those closest to you could be trusted to come with you on this midnight jaunt. It was midday before you decided.

Your man-at-arms, blind in one eye, has served your house for decades now. Though no longer able to swing his mace with raw strength of youth, he could still cut down the average brigand with ease. Perhaps several of them. A veteran of many battles, he has for the past several years instructed the fighting men beneath your banner and could provide invaluable wisdom on the journey ahead.

An arbalest, or crossbow-woman, who has served in your house retinue for years. She has been a falconer, a huntress, a medic, and a soldier sworn to your banner. Independent and very perceptive, she is an excellent scout but somehow seems never to notice either your dalliances with other women or your advances toward her.

An antiquarian, or collector of old and expensive things, and perhaps the most fussy woman you have ever met. Your family china and the shiny baubles that so impressed peasants and whores never drew her attention, and she always had something condescending to say by way of comparison. Still, she has an eye for minute detail and hidden treasures so she may yet prove herself useful.

The blacksmith and stable-master at your hold-fast is certainly not the best artisan in the world but likely far better than whatever passes for such in the sleepy hamlet where you'll soon be headed. The man has never swung a weapon in his life but to show off a freshly-forged blade, and he has a strong penchant for drink and women that's unbecoming a man of his low birth.

A grave-robber, or as she prefers to be called an archaeologist, who always has some odd trinket to pawn or show. Years of breaking into places she shouldn't have given her a lithe and agile body, and she imagines herself smarter than the average thief who preys on the living. She knows her way around knives and purses, dusty tombs, and the occasional social event.

Your second-favourite bed-warmer could serve no conceivable purpose but to take up space in your coach along the journey, and in your bed upon arrival. But that's the entire reason to bring a whore anywhere.

You eventually settle on at most two combatants and one non-combatant to fill your coach. Who were there?