The Cellar

“Let no lock bar my way, let these secrets have their say.”

The charm is still fresh on Morgause’s lips, as she picks her way carefully down the rickety wooden steps - moving tenderly to avoid any splinters.

The cellar opens out to her, and while she finds herself in darkness once again, her Elf-sight is enough to compensate - she refrains from conjuring any light, wary of any cultists close by.

Cultists. The word sends a shiver down her spine as she acclimatises to the gloom. This has clearly been going on for some time, and not so very far from home. Usually she would be inclined to live and let be - let people worship whatever mad gods they choose - but between the involvement of the Deep Gods, and the **** transformation in the barn ceremony, this doesn’t seem like something that can be ignored.

The revelations cast a shadow too, over her encounter with the Priestly Fishman earlier. Should she have been so quick to kneel obediently in worship?

Did it charm me? Has it changed me?

She shivers again, and tries to distract herself in her immediate surroundings. To her left, through an open passage-way, she can see a series of cages. A single bobbing light - perhaps a hanging lamp - half-illuminates the shadowy forms of six captive souls, stirring feebly.

To her right is a closed door, bolted from this side. And in the centre of the cramped cellar space, is an altar of stone.

She cannot resist taking a step closer - literally finding herself unable to act against the draw of the altar, beckoning her near - her eyes falling over a statuette of driftwood, carved clumsily in the shape of some half-fish, half-cephalopod creature, its wide and bulging eyes its most well-realised feature.

Before the figurine is a crude knife - little more than a fisherman’s tool - but clearly placed with reverence and ritual. As she approaches, she can feel - rather than hear - a renewed rushing of water, and a muted booming from the deep.

The sensation builds, clouding her other senses, so that she entirely misses the sound of wet feet slapping against earth, and the growing glow of a lamp-light.

Until it’s far too late.