Choosing a recessed door on one side of the chamber, Hawn led the
group over to it, inching the portal open.  From beyond came the snap of
wings and a loud bird-like screech.  Through the portal they could see a
large winged creature, seemingly a cross between a bird and a lion -- a
griffon.  Another piercing screech bore into their ears.
     The griffon reared up on its leonine hindquarters.  The beating of its
wings stirred up the dirty straw on the floor as it pulled at the chain
around its neck, straining to reach the elves and human standing in the
doorway.  The malevolent look in its eyes told all what it intended if it
could only get at those standing before it.
     Dwarkin Shea stayed the hand of Graynyr, who was about to draw his
blade.	"Only a coward would strike at a chained animal."  Dwarkin strode
towards the winged beast.  Evrin started after him, but Hawn waved him
back, having an idea what his friend had in mind.
     At first, the griffon tried to stretch out its taloned forelegs to
rend the elf.  Then it was folding back its wings, settling down to the
floor as the druid extended his powers to sooth the enraged beast.  The
others looked on as the elf stroked the beak of the creature that, moments
before, had been intent upon killing them.
     Turning back to the others, the elven druid spoke in low tones so as
not to disturb the beast further, "He has been forced to serve as the steed
to the mage who resides within this ancient castle -- a human called
Roarshahk."
     "And how do we find this mage?" asked Hawn.
     After a brief pause, Dwarkin replied, "He does not know the layout of
the keep, having never been in it.  All he knows is that Roarshahk works
his magicks in one of the towers."
     "It would seem Hawn is right thus far," commented Evrin.  "So how do
he go about finding this mage?	This is obviously not the way."  He was
correct, the only other visible exit from this chamber was a barred portal
opening out into the dark and stormy night.
     "The other door in the main hall," offered Graynyr.  "The two doors in
the gateroom most likely lead into guard towers.  So the other door should
lead into the castle proper."
     They acknowledged the reason of this and tried the other door in the
main hall, finding that it opened up into a long barracks room.  The first
thing they noticed was the nearly overwhelming smell of the sea and of
decay.	Several narrow windows showed the storm raged night outside,
illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning.  Strewn upon one the
broken bunk beads was a straw-stuffed scarecrow with a shrivelled squash
head.
     Gael stared at the scarecrow while the others looked about the room.
Looking at the scarecrow awakened a vague remembrance of when she had been
a young child standing in a field watching a similar scarecrow engulfed in
flames, her hamlet burning off in the distance where her parents, brother,
and sister lay murdered along with the rest of the families of the hamlet.
     Now, she watched as this ridiculous caricature of a human sat up on
the bunk.  Tiny motes of flame burned in the scarecrow's carven eyes,
glowing like brilliant stars in the dimness of the room.  Gael was unable
to pull her eyes away from those flames.  She stared with a horrid
fascination as it moved towards her, her mind overwhelmed by the memory of
the murder of her family.  She swayed limply on her feet, trapped in the
evil of its gaze.
     Evrin looked around when he heard an odd, whimpering noise.  To his
amazement, the scarecrow was standing up, pushing itself away from the
bunk.  He stared at the animated thing, dimly aware that he should be doing
something as he stood there, unmoving.	And then he was.
     Evrin shook off the weird numbness which gripped his mind and drew
forth his blade, shouting a warning to Gael.  She, however, did not move,
staying where she was, almost as if she were waiting for the advancing
scarecrow.  Evrin lunged, thrusting his sword through the scarecrow's
tunic.	The blow accomplished little more than putting another hole in its
clothing, allowing a little more straw to fall out.  Evrin fell back,
uncertain what to do after seeing this creature to be completely unharmed
by a wound that would have been fatal to any living creature.
     Meanwhile, Dwarkin was evading the spiked fingers of another animated
scarecrow -- this one with a pumpkin head that had pulled itself out from
behind another bunk.  Dwarkin stabbed it ineffectually with his scimitar,
accomplishing naught more than Evrin had in striking the first scarecrow.
     The squashed-headed scarecrow reached out its spiked fingers towards
the unprotected throat of the immobile priestess.  In desperation, Evrin
brought his blade down upon the arm of the scarecrow.  The blow hewed off
the arm of the scarecrow just above the elbow.	The severed limb fell to
the floor in a shower of flying straw.
     The squash-headed horror reached out its remaining hand, unphased by
the loss of its arm.  Then Hawn was there, interposing himself between Gael
and the scarecrow.  The metal-tipped fingers moved towards the elf as the
scarecrow's burning eyes moved to face this new prey.  Gael stumbled
backwards, released from her horrid fascination when those eyes were no
longer gazing into her own.  With a back-handed slash from his shortsword,
Hawn shattered the scarecrow's head, sending shards of dried rind flying
across the room.  The scarecrow, the magic of its animation dispelled, fell
to the floor in a pile of straw and cloth.
     Graynyr loped off the outstretched hand from the remaining scarecrow.
The scarecrow held up its straw-stuffed stump up before its face.  A hollow
groan issued forth from its hideously carved mouth, similar to the groaning
of the wind outside, but with a ar greater element of evil.  The groaning
started low, slowly rising in pitch and volume.  Graynyr moved away from
the sorcerous creation, uncertain of what was occurring.
     The groaning brought forth more vivid images to Gael's mind.  Before
her eyes, Gael could see an old woman groaning, her clothes smoldering, her
flesh seared.  Screaming "No!" at the top of her lungs, Gael hurled her
trident at the scarecrow.  The tri-pronged weapon snagged the length of
rope that served as the scarecrow's neck between two of its prongs, ripping
the head free from the body.
     Silence filled the room, disrupted only by the seemingly distant
sounds of the storm.  The jack-o'-lantern bounced to the floor, spilling
out a scroll when it split open.  The five glanced around the chamber in a
slight daze.  Each of them had been touched by the horror of that groan,
feeling the touch of pain and Death in a different way.
     Clutching her cloak tight against a chill that was not physical, Gael
walked slowly over to the windows, staring out into a night as chaotic as
her thoughts.  The return of memories long buried created much tumult in
her mind.  What once had been barely recallable nightmares now strode in
full color through her waking mind, ripped from their dreamworld by the
gaze of that evil construct.
     Those images of the gruesome deaths of those whom she had once loved
dominated her, belieing her control.  "This is an appropriate setting for
such a night of horrors," she murmured, shivering deep within her skin.
     "I fear this night is yet far from over," voiced Dwarkin from where of
a sudden he stood by her.  She jumped only slightly at his appearance,
mostly beyond being shocked when such thoughts as were hers dominated her.
Dwarkin placed a comforting hand on the arm of the obviously distraught
human, a friendly look upon his face.
     "The sight of the animated scarecrow looks to have affected you
deeply.  Would speaking of it be of help to you?" he offered.
     She looked for a moment as if she wished to speak, but then pulled
away from his grip, returning her eyes to the storm.  To Dwarkin, her
silence spoke volumes.	He moved away, leaving Gael to work out her
thoughts for herself.  She closed her eyes, seeking to banish the ghosts of
her past back whence they came.
     Graynyr had picked up the scroll which had spilt from the jack-o'-
lantern, being careful lest it proved a trap of some form.  When he was not
bit, either literally or figuratively, he unrolled the scroll.	The words
written on the scroll were of no tongue he had ever before seen.  Hawn
stepped up beside the half-elf, casting an eye over the calligraphy.
     "I cannot make anything of this writing," commented Graynyr.  To Hawn,
he asked, "What of you?"
     "It is of the language in which most mages record their magics.  That
you can not see that speaks loudly of your lack of a proper elven
education."
     Turning of the full-blooded elf, Graynyr spoke loudly, the anger of a
lifetime growing in his voice, "And how might I have ever received a
'proper elven education' when I was declared an outcast for the sole reason
that my mother made the 'mistake' of loving one who was not an elf -- a
love for whom she gave her life in devotion and death?"
     Hawn considered any of several retorts for the son of Carina, but
discarded them in preference of simply turning away from the illegitimate
half-breed, burying his anger deep inside.  Would never these reminders of
his family cease?  For an elf, a loved one was never mentioned when dead.
     "Oh, yes," spat Graynyr.  "Turn your back on your only living
relative, Hawn of House Ambrosius, just because he is not a fully-blooded
elf, just like you turned away from your own sister for choosing a human
to love instead of an elf."
     Hawn spun about, his face a mask of rage and pain, grasping the hilt
of his sword and declaring, "You had best learn your manners, mongrel,
whilst you still have the opportunity!"
     "Settle down, both of you," warned Dwarkin.  "This is not the way
elves behave.  Have the two of you forgotten so much of yourselves?"  This
was not good.  He had specifically brought Graynyr along on this venture to
show Hawn that not all of his ties with the past had been destroyed, and
that he was not truly the last living member of his family.
     On this ship, Hawn and Graynyr had avoided each other.  Now that each
was unable to avoid the other, they were starting to go for one another's
throats.  Dwarkin was certain that the only reason Graynyr had agreed to
come along was that after hearing of the death of his mother's family, he
believed that his uncle would accept him, despite the painful memories
Hawn's presence evoked of Graynyr's mother.  But now the two were not
giving themselves the chance to let the past lay behind them.
     "Lest you forget, Dwarkin," argued Graynyr, "I am not an elf.  I am
nothing more than a mongrel half-breed, as this one so gladly points out at
every opportunity.  Would you expect me to be what I am not?  What elves
prevent me from being?"
     "You are not worthy of being an elf.  You are a disgrace to my House,
even more so than your mother bedding a human!" roared Hawn.
     "Both of you had best hold your anger.  Hold it for he who is the
master of this keep -- he who would seek our deaths," interrupted Dwarkin,
stepping in between the feuding pair.  The two looked upon one another
heatedly for several heart-beats before turning away to their own
individual pains.  Was there no easy way for him to get Hawn and Graynyr to
accept one another?
     "This corridor is clear," commented Evrin from where he stood by
another door leading from the barracks, hoping to be away from this room
and the emotions it had evoked.
     "An excellent idea," agreed Hawn, eager to leave this scene and its
consequences.
     A couple of passages led them into a sitting room looking out over the
fierce sea.  The chamber was illuminated by some ensconced torches and a
wrought iron candelabrum on a table.  Around the table were arranged a
large couch and some chairs, all padded with threadbare cushions.
     "It would appear that this chamber is closer to the inhabited portion
of the keep," observed Evrin.  "Mayhap we draw near to those who reside
herein."
     The others took little notice of these words, as Hawn and Graynyr
stood on opposite sides of the room, pointedly ignoring one another, while
Gael was still lost in painful memories.  As Dwarkin alone considered these
words, everyone's attention was caught by a strangled cry from Graynyr.
The twisted human from the main hall stood over the half-elf, clutching a
bloody dagger.	But before anyone could react, the revolting human once
again faded from view.	Then Gael was running over to the downed half-elf,
examining the bleeding wound in his back.
     Gael placed her hands on the rent flesh, intoning a prayer to
Poseidon, beseeching her patron deity for assistance.  Beneath her fingers,
a warm glow spread, encompassing the dagger wound, causing the damaged
flesh and muscle to knit back to wholeness in response to her prayers.
     "That cursed human dog will die," mumbled Graynyr to himself, holding
a hand to his still painful back.
     Hawn looked at the half-elf -- or half-human in his eyes -- with
perhaps a shade of concern for wounded warrior.  But if in fact there was
any, he would not have been the one to admit it.
     "Are you well?" inquired Evrin.  Though he was as much a grey elf as
Hawn, he was not above showing his concern.  He might not like the events
which had surrounded the birth of the half-elf, but he did not hold it
against Graynyr, knowing that such was not the fault of the half-elf.
     "I shall live," returned Graynyr, infuriated, vengeance in his eyes.
"But that twisted atrocity of life shall not be so fortunate."
     "I would counsel you to control your anger, or you will likely find it
being used against you," warned Evrin.
     "A rot on your ruddy counsels," spat Graynyr.  "I am sick of elves
telling me how I should act.  I am not an elf, a fact every other full-
blooded elf has taken pains to wave under my nose as if I were a child who
had willingly committed some great wrong.  If you were half so noble as you
claim and believe, you would see that I cannot be blamed for what I am and
would realize I am no less a person than any other for being a crossbreed.
Though perchance that I admit to it whereas you do not makes me more of a
person than you, my dear full-blooded elf."
     "Would you dare to speak to me in such a voice, half-human?" shot back
Evrin, reaching for the hilt of his sword, no more above prejudice than any
other of his kind when angered.
     "It does not matter what race one is a member of: all are vicious,
immoral, corrupt, and much less than they claim to be.	And indeed," added
Graynyr, a twinkle of spite in his eyes, "now which of us seeks vengeance
in anger, hum?"
     "Hold your tongues and your blades," advised Dwarkin, stepping between
the two of them before they came to blows.  He was going to have to find
some way for Graynyr to release his anger for elves, before it destroyed
their group.  Perhaps it was just this castle and the evil situation that
was causing the half-elf to behave thus, but Graynyr's past was proving to
be too much of a detriment to everyone present.  "If you must hate
someone," added the druid, "then save your hate for the master of this
cursed keep.  As it is, it would seem he is doing an excellent job of
setting us at each other's throats."
     "Dwarkin speaks truthfully," put in Hawn.	"I would be done with this
deadly adventure.  Other matters press for my attention."
     By mutual consent, they sought to be away from this room, this keep,
and all of the evils it was conjuring within them.  Carefully exiting the
room through another door -- lest there be an ambush awaiting them -- they
moved into the hallway beyond, which turned out to be empty but for two
doors.
     Hawn reached for the handle of the nearer of the two doors, but drew
back when once again they heard the discorporiate voice of the old woman.
"Go back.  Go back, I beseech thee, whilst still you have your lives.  You
know not of the horrors that lay before thee..."  The voice faded away, as
if back to sepulcher from whence it came.
     "A warning or a deception?" mumbled Graynyr to himself.  "I care not
to have my life as a pawn in some damned mage's game."
     "Not to worry, this game will end ere much longer, and I will hold the
disembodied head of this keep's master, even if he is a mage," commented
Hawn as he knelt to insert a piece of bent wire into the door's lock.  He
twiddled with the lock a moment, calling upon some childhood memories of a
bored elven prince, memories he would rather have left forgotten.
     The lock snapped open with a satisfying click.  Hawn slammed the door
open with his shoulder and barreled into the room with his blade bared.
The others followed him into a large, circular chamber some forty feet in
diameter, illuminated by more ensconced torches.  The chamber was
reasonably well appointed, and three large tables filled the center of the
room, their tops almost hidden from view by a vast array of flasks,
stirring rods, candles, bowls, tongs, and many other alchemical implements.
     Floating in the room was the spectral shape from the main hall,
hovering over the laboratory benches.  "You are fools," proclaimed the
death's voice.  "Doomed fools.  You have not turned back as you were
warned.  Now you will join all of the others who have dared to violate the
sanctity of this keep.	You are doomed, doomed..."
     His anger now past his control, Hawn lashed out at the glowing shape,
his magicked blade passing effortlessly though it.  And then the
luminescent form was gone as if it had never existed.
     "More illusions," muttered Graynyr.  "I begin to wonder if this is not
just a bad dream."
     "If dream it is, I plan to turn it into a nightmare for he who calls
himself Roarshahk," stated Hawn, turning on his heel and heading for the
door.
     "Agreed," said Graynyr, as he followed his disowned uncle from the
room.