Arnor just blinked as the large cat-man just.... strolled down the street and did....something. Something that he didn't understand, or have the capacity to understand, or more importantly, wasn't paid to understand. Arnor turned his back to the newcomer, the witch, and everyone else, studying the silver blade he carried with him, blinking several times, looking up at the town hall. It was still quite a ways away, due to the length of the road they were on.
The red lights dimmed inside, and then flustered outside, to each and every single building remaining in the village- as if the village had again, come alive. Which-
It did.
The sounds of the town began to flood around them, of laughter, of conversations. The ghosts from the woods began to manifest again, the same eerie cold, lonely feeling washing each and every would-be savior and adventurer in an ethereal gaze. The hieroglyphs on the ground began to crack, red lines in the ground breaking them. Whoever was in control of this town now, was still very much watching the adventurers. For now, however, the Ghosts of Faragen had come to remind the adventurers what had been taken from them.
They came moaning eventually, the laughter and joy of the town, the colors fading, the reality setting in. The dead surrounded the adventurers, in a half-circle. They looked upwards at the town. They were not the peaceful spirits, they were the restless dead. They still showed the signs of their state of decay, their deaths. Some were violent, but most- most of them exhibited signs as if they had their very life taken from them in an instance. Flesh brought inward, eyes sunken deep in. As if they had all starved to death in an instance.
From the shadows, appeared a
woman, an elongated neck, her eyes sunken in dark into her skull. The spirit turned to face the adventurers, beckoning them forward. She was the only one to speak this time. Her voice echoed and carried a harmony, a gentle reminder of the priestess that she once was. But there was no way to know, her form was twisted and disfigured beyond recognition of anything other than female.
The horrors that she must have faced at the end of her life must have been horrible.
"I speak for the restless dead. I am Friya. I was the speaker to the Gods here."
Arnor blinked a few times, turning to face the adventurers, shrugging. He had no idea what to say to her, or what to ask. Mostly out of fear. He didn't want to be the next spirit here. But the gathered dead, the sea of blue-white spectres didn't appear harmful to the party. From the expressions that remained, some smiled, some cried. Some stared longingly, envy of their life shown on their faces. The life for them, that was robbed, and the peace in death, that they could not attain. The red lights faded from the building and remained inside the great hall, illuminating the town once more in the eerie red glow.
Faragen had come alive, and there was no putting it back to sleep this time. Lord Naleze had awoken again. Between the magic, the wards attempted to be cast, and the adventurers very lives and souls-
He had not fed like that in quite a long time.
Arnor waited for the party to speak to Friya, trying to hide his fear as best he could. His grip on the silver blade tightened.
