WHO FRAMED HENRIETTA GOSCHURCH?
Inspired by a solo play adventure using Ben Milton's Knave (Second Edition)
Welcome to my second short story based on solo play TTRPG adventures … and the official launch of A Dungeon Of One’s Own. Every two weeks I will play through a roleplaying game and use that experience to pen a brief tale. Ordinarily I will publish an excerpt of that tale to free subscribers, and the full story to my paid audience. To celebrate my official launch I am making Who Framed Henrietta Goschurch? available to all! Keep an eye out in the coming days for The Gaming Table, which is a behind the scenes look at the TTRPGs I am using, how to play them solo, and how the dice tell the story. For this week only The Gaming Table is also free to everyone but will, in future, be content reserved for my Founding Members. But enough of this prattle … I’ll hand over to Petra Cumbercliff who finds herself in a bit of strife.
I don’t even know they are there … until the first one strikes.
A warm, sticky mass slaps hard against the side of my neck. Within seconds the skin beneath it begins to buzz; that sensation of blood rushing into a limb that had lost feeling. My knees wobble and the stone floor seems to lurch like the deck of a ship in rough seas.
Another squelch of venom, this time against my exposed elbow.
I turn, instinctively raising my fluttering torch. What the? I’m looking at two creatures who would look more suited to being underwater if it weren’t for their sleek, feathered wings. They drift rather than fly in front of me … their gelatinous bodies pulsing faintly with light. Weird filaments trail behind them and six useless-looking, bony legs dangle pathetically below. My attention is drawn to the funnel-like protuberance on one of these hideous creatures as it prepares to spit more of the dreaded ichor toward me. A glob of rancid goop flies out, catching me on my chin and neck.
Desperately trying to survive, I reach for my flask of lamp oil, uncorking it with my teeth. I hold aloft my torch and fling the oil through the flickering flames. The air in front of me whooshes as the creatures reel awkwardly away. The burning oil misses them but buys me some time and space.
My swift movements, however, cause the world to spin. Pain flashes through me as I fall to the ground. I can hear most of my gear tumbling out onto the rock, perhaps over the edge of the natural mezzanine to the tunnels below. I brace myself for the next attack.
Instead, I hear a latch turn.
The door I had been about to investigate now flies open, somewhere behind me … spilling warm light across the floor. In its glare I see the creatures looming, their underbellies flickering like otherworldly lanterns, and their wings twitching with unreadable intention.
A cloaked man steps over me, calm and unhurried. He lifts a hand, holding something … is that?
The monsters retreat at once, their veils twitching, drifting back, with uncanny grace, down the not-so-secret tunnel I thought I had discovered minutes before. The man looks down at me.
“They hate onions,” he murmurs. “Looks like you’ve stirred up the hive.”
Slowly I push myself up, one hand against the stone wall.
“Steady,” he says. “The venom effect doesn’t last long, but it looks like they got you a few times.”
Standing by the open door, onion in hand, he gestures for me to move inside. So much for my stealthy incursion. The room beyond is nothing like the ancient natural cave formations I have seen thus far. The walls are expertly carved from solid rock. In the center stands a long, broad table scattered with parchment and vellum scrolls.
My savior sweeps them up, moving without urgency, and begins to file them out of sight. Either he doesn’t consider me a threat, or he’s already decided what to do if I become one. I catch a glimpse of one of his maps. Not cartography of land and sea, but of movement. Patterns. Tracks. Habits. The marks of something studied in secret. He motions to a chair and I lower myself unsteadily.
“You’re not one of mine,” he observes.
“I’m not one of anyone’s.”
“Hmph. But here you are.”
I try to keep my voice neutral.
“I’m an archaeology student. The shrine near the tunnel mouth … I was told it might link to a lost observatory. I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I didn’t expect company.”
“Nor did I.”
He has the disheveled hair of someone who has stayed up all night, but his eyes are bright and alert. A noose scar discolors the side of his neck. His vest is expensive-looking, the kind worn by someone who used to care about appearances. He watches me for a few uncomfortable moments before giving a slow, measured nod. His face breaks into what seems like a slightly smug grin.
“Well then, you’re in luck. I happen to be something of a celestial mapper myself.”
Those weren’t celestial maps I saw … but I did see one barely ten minutes ago at the shrine to Sibiloth. A scroll that looked like it had been placed there recently. Interesting.
He gestures to the southern wall behind him. “There’s an old observatory chamber deeper in. The stonework’s collapsed, but the sky wheels are still intact. I’d be happy to show you.”
He’s lying. I made up the theory of an old observatory and now he’s using it to trick me. But for what purpose? I’m battered, woozy and vulnerable. Do I try to retreat, claiming I need to recover before coming back for a tour? No. He doesn’t look like he’d fall for that. Besides, I need to find this Henrietta Goschurch woman. Goodness knows how I’m going to plant the evidence on her and get out of here unscathed.
Wearily I stand, painting a relieved and grateful look on my face.
“That would be wonderful, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
Before he opens the next door, he turns suddenly, extending a hand.
“How rude of me. Daegal. Daegal Dregtooth.”
Well. That’s the name of the boss I was given. Why is he being so open? I weigh up his perceptiveness and decide to give my real name. “Petra Cumbercliff. Thank you for saving me from those … er …”
“We call them jellyhawk drones. Fascinating creatures. Bloody annoying at first, but like I say, we discovered they hate onions. Please, this way.”
As he leads me into the next room, I see four figures seated at wooden desks, dressed in mismatched cloaks. Aged vellum scrolls are unrolled before them. A glance tells me they’re translating some old text with, by the looks of it, great difficulty. I catch a glimpse of the ancient script and, while I don’t know exactly what it says, I recognize a few symbols from the prophecies of a long-lost civilization.
Just what is going on here?
As we move through the room, I spot her. There. Sitting with one boot propped on the rung of her stool, head bowed in deep focus. Henrietta Goschurch.
Three days ago I had a fling with a soldier I met at a tavern. Next thing I know, he’s got me traipsing off to get revenge for him … he won’t say what for. He did say, however, that I’d be perfect for this - someone beneath notice, with knowledge of old shrines and hidden places. Someone who had a reason to poke around ancient ruins. Not a blade for hire, just a friendly folklorist. I’m supposed to plant evidence somewhere here that will make these people turn on her.
Now … I’m not so sure what I’ve gotten myself into.
Suddenly the reward he promised me - my very own trained water elemental in a jar - seems little compensation for the risks I’m taking.
The other thing you can’t miss in this room, lined up against a side wall, is several iron-banded chests. Each one is the kind you wouldn’t carry far without a purpose. One of them is open, revealing its contents. Coins. Lots and lots of coins. I thought these people were meant to be some sort of poachers? Not bloody likely.
I glance at Daegal, quizzically. He says nothing, just offers a polite smile.
“There’s a brewery, of sorts, just in here,” he says, opening a door that leads further into the mountainside. “You’ll want to watch your step.”
I follow him through the next door, heart beating fast. How do I get out of this?
A heavy scent meets us the moment the door opens … thick and acrid, with a sharp undercurrent of something sweet. Tables line the walls, each crowded with copper stills, racks of small glass vials, and coils of tubing that glisten with slow-moving fluid. One of the tables holds a dozen squat jars, each filled with thick, dark liquid.
Iron mesh domes hang from the ceiling by chains, and I gasp as I see spiders inside them. Big spiders … the size of a dinner plate. Their bodies are strangely iridescent and they sway constantly. Not frantic. Not random. Like they're dancing.
Daegal moves ahead without looking back.
“These guys are producing something more effective and convenient than onions,” he laughs, casually gesturing at the spiders. “Ferment their silk with the right salts and you get a compound that drives the drones mad.”
Daegal taps a boot against a trapdoor in the corner of the floor. It’s made of dark, splintered wood and reinforced with thick iron brackets.
“The observatory’s ruins are down below,” he says. “Used to be a listening chamber, apparently. You’ll want to take the ladder slow. It’s not built for speed.”
Kneeling to pull the hatch open, he looks up at me.
“Go on. I’ll pass a torch once you’re clear. Best I follow second. I need to secure the hatch. Don’t want any uninvited guests sneaking into our lab, now, do we?”
I hesitate. If I’m to get away from him, my best bet might be to beat him down the ladder and find a way out. Only thing is … I don’t know what’s below that trapdoor. I look into inky blackness, only the top of a sturdy-looking rope ladder illuminated by the lit sconces on the wall of his “lab.”
The spiders scratch faintly in their cages above. One of the stills lets out a soft plop.
Stepping forward, I begin to climb down. The ladder is slick with moisture, but strong enough. I brace my feet carefully and reach up to take the torch that Daegal is thrusting down from above.
The ground below gradually reveals itself in the torchlight. It slopes slightly downward to some sort of pool, maybe ten feet across, fed by an underground stream.
Carvings line the walls either side of a small stairwell. Mouths, of course. The symbolism of Sibiloth. They gape and grin, some chipped by time, others obscured by moss or thin calcite. Closer to the pool, the carvings are covered in a white fibrous substance that flutters despite the stillness of the air. It captures my attention for a second too long.
I hear the creak of the ladder above. Craning my neck, I look up and catch sight of Daegal’s silhouette. “Don’t take it personally,” he says. “Like I said. We don’t want any uninvited guests sneaking in.” The hatch closes with a hollow boom and the flame in my hand gutters in the sudden stillness. Surely he’s not letting me go? I begin to wonder what I might find down here.
Inching my way further down the ladder, I see movement on the water. Half-submerged in the pool, there is a mass of soft, pale membranes that shimmer like oil. They are attached to a much larger version of those jellyhawk horrors I encountered earlier. Where its head should be, there is only a wreath of tendrils, drifting in slow spirals. Its huge wings skim the water’s surface as it busily shores up part of what must be its grotesque nest.
I need to run.
As my feet touch the ground, the monster in the pool ceases moving. A soft whine creeps into the air, not heard so much as felt. Yep … time to go.
The passage leading away from the pool is slimy with the Gods know what. I move, torch held aloft, as quickly as I can. Behind me I hear the creature shifting, slow but purposeful, brushing against the edges of the pool with a sound like wet silk being drawn taut. The passage ahead quickly and mercifully opens up, and I stumble into a vast chamber.
The stench of rot hits me, clinging to the inside of my throat. The walls here seem swollen with damp fungus and the floor is pocked with pools of stagnant water. As I dash through, heading in what I hope is the direction of the exit, I see pretty much the last thing I ever expected to find in such a place. Atop a dais, in the middle of the room, sits a pristine mirror … six feet tall and gleaming. Beneath the mirror, a thin pipe juts out from the dais, dripping water into a tarnished basin.
Running swiftly past it, I glance at my reflection … and terror fills my soul.
My image is there, but it doesn’t match. In the mirror I am not running. I stand stock still. I’m speaking, but no sound comes out. It’s almost like I’m trying to tell myself something. All I can think of, though, is getting out of here.
I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
I sprint past a bunch of my belongings, scattered where they fell earlier from the mezzanine above. The sound of my flight echoes upward to where, in my peripheral vision, I see him standing there … watching me. He doesn’t call out or try to stop me. Why would he?
Ahead of me I see the first chamber I had encountered, the shrine of Sibiloth, looming large … and beyond that, the outside world.
I’m going to make it.
As I allow myself this thought, the wall nearby flexes. It isn’t stone. It’s alive. I dash past something inky black and clinging to the wall. It quivers and retreats from my torch. I keep running. Through the drifts of sand, past the altar, out into the fractured daylight where this all began.
I failed … but I’m alive.