Upstairs, to his room

Is Morgause going to realise that something’s wrong?

Yes/No (Even)

[4,1] Yes but… it’s far too late to do anything about it

Action Focus

What’s been done to her?

[6D] Harm (technical) - the drink Svartleby offered as part of his ploy was ****, and the fumes were enough to affect Morgause

Failure Move

[2] Put Someone in a Spot - Morgause succumbs to the sleeping draught, and is helpless

—

Svartleby tries to take her hand, as he waddles his way towards the ascending staircase - ancient lacquer paint peeling in sheafs.

She pointedly ignores the gesture, busying herself with a furtive glance at the barkeep and his patrons, who gaze at her with those pallid eyes as she passes, leering. So they think the Halfling’s made a claim on her. Fine. She won’t be sticking around long enough to care, and if rumours bothered her she’d have quit her business years ago.

She follows him upstairs, treading with care, pointedly avoiding splinters on her bare soles. The beginnings of a headache pool at the top of her skull - tension, she assumes - and she braces herself on the bannister as a rush of nausea overtakes her for a moment.

“Are you well, dear?” His fuzzy face swims into view as her vision clouds, and this time when his sweaty palm latches onto her pale hand, she doesn’t have the strength to pull away.

“Feeling a little… woozy.” She mumbles, hating how **** she feels, as she allows him to draw her onto the landing and down a narrow, rickety hallway. Can she really be so on-edge that it’s affecting her like this?

Pull yourself together! It’s hardly the first time you’ve been in danger, nor even the first sinister cult you’ve tangled with.

Something cloys at her senses, as Svartleby unlocks a lopsided door, the frame stretching and undulating before her eyes. Something sticks in her nostrils - a heavy, musky, sour scent.

She stumbles through the doorway, and feels something squeeze the globes of her bottom, slipping under her skirts in a rough handful.

Her lips move in admonishment, but the floor lurches abruptly, and she finds herself barely catching her fall against the mattress of a squalid single bed. She looks up, eyes unfocused, taking in the room around her.

Why aren’t there any windows? What kind of escape route is this?

The only way out is the door they’ve come through, which locks with a sonorous click as Svartleby turns the key, grinning maliciously.

Her nostrils flare, and she finally places the scent, which she first detected wafting from the tankard of beer she pretended to sip from.

Nightbark. Used in healing potions, sleeping draughts. If not treated and diluted, stinks to high heaven and causes…

Unconsciousness.

Fucking Halfling…

Her head bounces softly as it hits the mattress, her eyes rolling back as she slumps into a kneeling position, hat askew and raven locks pooling on the coverlet. Svartleby’s shadow passing over her is the last thing her mind registers, before she descends into sleep.