A Haunt Of A Jaunt: Part 3 (TK)

This chapter and the previous one were originally planned to take up a single chapter, but the reason I divided this commission into five parts instead of four was because the chapter with the party members progressing separately got so long that I was forced to split it. I'm sure you readers would be fine with this, though - more tickling content is always good!

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A Haunt of a Jaunt

by Skaea

Contains: */M+, M/M, and *M/M tickling and a lot of sexual foreplay and other naughty things. NSFW.

Word count for this chapter: 7,358

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PART 3: CONFLICT

The Library

Upon entering the library, Fanindra couldn’t help but let his mouth fall open. It was a magnificent forest of bookshelves almost reaching the ceiling, with books flapping through the air above him like birds as they fluttered from shelf to shelf. It was an amazing sight, but also one that filled him with dread — the lack of any catalog would make sorting the books out a nightmare!

“So, what do you plan to look for?” asked Pinkerton, still leading the way.

“Aside from clues regarding the person we’ve been tasked with rescuing, you mean?” Pinkerton adjusted his glasses a little. “Probably something to do with curse dispelling, or bringing peace to restless spirits. Exorcisms, maybe? I’ve been looking into supernatural and occult stuff lately and I figured it’d be nice to check out some older texts. See if there’s anything useful from ages past, you know?”

Pinkerton gave him a polite smile. “Well, if you want to do some exploring, then feel free. I can corral some of the books you feel would be most useful, but you can certainly pick one to read if you wish. Just be careful, though — these books do tend to need a little wrangling, if you know what I mean~”

Fanindra nodded. “If I need your help with anything, I’ll just holler. Hopefully I won’t have to, though!”

After Pinkerton left, Fanindra looked around, realizing that trying to actually find any books around here was going to be too difficult without magic. He did however know of a spell that had proved useful in most of the previous libraries he’d visited, so what was the worst that could happen if he tried it here?

Reaching into his pocket, the dwarf boy pulled out a small, light blue marble, which started to glow and then magically expanded into a luminescent crystal ball as big as a human head. Taking a seat in front of a nearby table, he set the ball down before him so it was hovering in place just above the worn wooden surface, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head as he started staring intently into it, using it to channel a spell meant to locate a specific book among the ones flitting about above him. The images of several promising candidates flashed through it, and high above, the books in question seemed to stop in mid-air and then begin floating towards him.

A few moments later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Then another. His eyes narrowed a little as he snorted in annoyance. Had Turindal found him again and started annoying him like he always did?

“Could you not?” he said testily. “I’m pondering my orb here—”

An instant later, he felt four ghostly hands grab onto his shoulders and ankles, and with a startled yell, he was lifted off of the chair, his feet roughly yanked upward, the belt coming undone as two more hands pulled his pants off his waist.

“NO! No no no NONONONO!” he yelled, kicking his feet and sending a shoe falling to the floor.

His legs pulled against his sides, he tried to reach for the orb as several ghostly hands grabbed onto his body, lifting it skyward. Fanindra yelled in alarm, wondering if he should try to shoo the hands away or if he should grab his crystal focus before he was carried off.

The hands started swinging him back and forth, the dwarf realizing that they were about to hurl him across the library. “WAIT WAIT NO STOP— YAAAAAHHH!”

Sailing through the air in a graceful arc, he screamed as he hurtled butt-first towards an empty shelf near the top of a large bookcase. Fully expecting to be smashed against the heavy structure or to cause the entire library to collapse like a stack of dominoes, he desperately tried to call forth a levitating spell, but he was moving too quickly! All that came out was a startled yell as his stony caboose somehow phased through the wood, leaving it sticking out of one side with his head, legs, and arms protruding from the other. It was almost like the shelf was ghostly in and of itself!

Fanindra silently cursed the fact that his teammates weren’t around to assist him, but then again, he figured that even if they were here, they would’ve been of no help. Turindal — bless that handsome, giant-footed man — was always thinking about his own self-preservation, and Morp’s obsession with his bodily image was as aggravating as his strength was inadvertently destructive. Turindal in particular was to blame for leading the party here, and as soon as Fanindra found him again, he swore he was going to kill him.

If only he could get himself free first.

One of the books he’d called forth was now floating his way, and he managed to grab onto it just in time, riffing through it frantically. It was a reference guide for enchantments and curses, so surely there had to be something in there that could help him out of this predicament, right? Opening it up to a random place, he saw a guide for adding an enhancement effect to an existing spell — namely, one that could make a spell which normally worked only temporarily into a permanent one, but with weaker power. Useless! Riffing through the book frantically, he tried first the table of contents and then the index, before finally noticing another spell — one for removing occult bindings. He had to try and use it to free himself, somehow!

Before he could get the first word of the incantation out, though, the ghost hands caught up with him. Two grabbed his ankles and held fast, while the others zeroed in on the runes upon his big feet, the backs of his knees, and even on his sides. “WAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! NONONO STOHOHOHAHAP! LET GO OF MEHEHEHEHEEEE!”

Things only got worse for the unfortunate living sculpture when some of the floating books, tickle monsters in their own right, discovered his backside and the smooth, almost polished-looking genitalia dangling beneath it. They immediately opened up, their magical illustrations of feathers and brushes and disembodied hands coming right off the pages! The illustrated implements swiftly began brushing and stroking and poking and scrubbing wherever they could reach, and with his buttocks spread so widely that his ass crack was almost smoothened out, there was a lot to reach indeed. In particular, a ring-shaped glowing rune over and surrounding his exposed and incredibly sensitive asshole attracted a lot of unwelcome attention…

“EEEEHEEHEHEHEHE WHAT IS THAHAHAHAHAT?! YAAAHHHHH N-NOT THE HOOOOOHOHOHOLE! EHEHEHE — ?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ ×>;=< #^$\£□~¥ — GET ME OHOHOHOHOUT OF HEHEHEHEEERE! NONONOHOHOHOHO! — ?◇●\$&£¤☆ — MAKE IT STOOOHOHOHOHAHAAAAHAHAP!!!”

The book was still gripped in his hands, and he tried to concentrate on the spell he had discovered, attempting to recite the incantation in full so he could free himself!

“?◇●\$&£¤☆*%hhhHHAHAHAHAHH! ?◇●\$&EEEEEEEEHEIIIIEHEHEH — ?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ ×>;=OHOHOHAHAHAH AHHHHHH W-WAIT NONO NOT THEHEHEHEHEERE!!!”

Every time he started chanting, the living illustrations and ghostly hands came into contact with one or more of the sensitive runes on his body and made him flub the spell with another shriek of laughter. His hands were shaking badly now, the book quivering dangerously — and then it slipped out of his fingers and tumbled toward the floor below.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!” he cried, before the tip of a soft watercolor feather started dancing oh-so-lightly upon the dimpled rim of his anus and he hollered at the top of his lungs. As Fanindra descended into helpless laughter once more, he decided that as soon as this was over, he’d hunt down Turindal and club him upside the head with his crystal ball for getting them all into this mess! All he could hope for right now though was that Pinkerton would hear his call for help, and find some way to help him escape. He just hoped that his sanity would remain at least partly intact until then…

**********

The Bath

Wiping the tears from his cheeks, Morp had to force himself to put one bare foot in front of the other, leaning against the wall to avoid toppling over and bawling his sightless eyes out onto the floor. He couldn’t believe it… At some point, someone had made off with his meat and potatoes without him even realizing it! One of those fancy-schmancy “ma-gee-cans”, without a doubt. The orc boy’s only objective now was to find the unknown jewel thief and recover what was rightfully his, since the mansion was big enough that they couldn’t have gotten far.

He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but as someone who took great care of his body and sculpted every muscle and tendon with immense pride and patience, his vanity was everything. On a good day, he couldn’t go anywhere without people swooning over his magnificent physique, and that was exactly what he was counting on. The fact that he was of the goblin lineage didn’t matter — a sexy bod was a sexy bod! But without the colossal, virile bulge to go with it… what was the point?

There was only one person to blame for all of this, and he had long furry ears and feet as big as Morp’s lower leg. His beauty (at least from what Morp had heard — he didn’t know what Turindal really looked like) didn’t matter to him by this point. The orc was quite sure now that their so-called leader had led them straight into a trap, and either he didn’t know about it, or didn’t care.

Choking back a sob, Morp couldn’t take it anymore, and he slid to the floor as fresh tears began rolling down his cheeks. His masculine beauty, his strength and his vigor, had been ruined by whomever had stolen his precious privates, and now everyone would see that for all his muscle, he was unable to defend his crotch. All that bulk would be seen as only for show. Weakness wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere near the orc hordes, and he’d be cast out in shame! That terrible thought alone made him start to cry in earnest, weeping not only for his beloved package but also for the future his looks had earned him… both having been snatched away from him in an instant. All because Turindal had wanted to what, rescue their boss? What if that was a mistake? What if — gasp — Ravaxidor had been the one who’d magicked Morp’s balls off, and what if he was making off with them now?!

If that was the case… he’d likely never see his beloved testicles and proud pecker ever again.

He sniffled in bitter resignation — and then sat up a little straighter, having caught the scent of something familiar. Could it be? Could it really be?!

He willed himself to stand up, and started to follow the trail of the distinctive odor, daring not to distract himself and lose it. Eventually, he zeroed in on where it was strongest, and entered a large room almost entirely covered in faded, chipped tiling, the smells aside from the obvious telling him that here, there was fresh water — and for some reason, floral-scented soap?

And there, floating in a washtub full of lather, were his disembodied boy bits. The slice at the base was there, and there was not a drop of blood at all, but aside from the severed portion — and the corresponding stump on Morp’s own groin — looking like old bologna more than anything else, the rest of his intimate anatomy was mercifully intact.

He could hear someone standing behind the washtub, and from what he could sense, they were quite small, much shorter than he was. They seemed to be preparing things for cleaning something, dipping some brushes in one of several smaller water buckets. Before Morp could dive at the washtub and grab his cock and balls, though, the halfling raised his hand to signal him to stop.

“Please forgive me for your current state, sir. I believe these belong to you, correct?”

Morp gaped at him, and then bared his sharp teeth as he snarled: “Those Morp’s. Give back!!”

The halfling, clad in nothing but a pair of black shorts, looked at the orc in confusion. “Morp? Who is he? Should I take these to him after the cleaning?”

Morp sputtered in confused annoyance. “Me Morp!” he shot back, pointing at himself. “And Morp don’t care about cleaning. Lil’ Dude has Morp’s balls. Give. Back.” He held out his hand, motioning for the halfling to relinquish his manhood.

“‘Lil’ Dude’, huh? My actual name is Pinkerton, but if you’re more comfortable with that choice of name—”

“GIVE BACK!” Morp shouted. “MORP NOT HAVE ALL NIGHT!!”

Pinkerton bristled a bit at the orc’s abrasiveness, but remained calm. “I will, I give you my word, but I can’t do so without administering a thorough cleaning first. Do you wish to remain in attendance, and how else may I, Pinkerton, the Chortling Kuroi, be at your service?”

That name sent alarm bells through Morp’s mind, remembering those times in the guild hall back at Titillandum when he’d heard his fair share of talk about a man by the name of Pinkerton who’d gone missing forty years prior…

“Lil’ Dude — Lil’ Dude still lives?!” he said in shock, still struggling to process that after all these years, he was standing before the guy whom entire search parties had failed to find even a trace of for decades. The halfling nodded in an affirmative.

“But Morp thought Pinky—” He paused, hoping the halfling wasn’t offended by the nickname, but said halfling shrugged and motioned for him to continue. “But Pinky left guild years ago! What happened?!”

Pinkerton looked visibly uncomfortable at this, but Morp didn’t notice that. “It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you after I’ve finished up. In the meantime, do you want a bath? You smell a little… strong, I have to say.”

It was then that Morp realized exactly what Pinkerton was planning. As long as his junk was separate from his body, he was powerless — and by the gods, was it sensitive! The undead hunk may have had issues with the King’s tongue, and he may have lacked foresight to some extent, but he wasn’t nearly as stupid as most observers were led to think. There was only one thing that mention of a cleaning entailed, and if he wanted his balls back, he was powerless to escape it.

All the same, Morp lifted his arm and sniffed his sweaty armpit, before wincing. The halfling did have a point — any body odor could erase all the hard work that went into building his physique. And anyway, that basin full of warm soapsuds to his left did smell rather inviting…

With that, he stripped all his clothes off piece by piece and tossed them aside, leaving them to soak on the wet floor. Then, completely naked, he made his way towards the tub, having mapped out the room with his hearing upon entry to avoid tripping over the edge, and stepped inside, before laying down so the backs of his shoulders were leaning against the edge of the basin.

Almost as soon as he sank into the water, however, he felt a weird tingling feeling in the joints of his shoulders and hips, and heard several quiet popping sounds. He tried moving his legs and arms — and let out a yell of shock as he realized that they had been detached from his body, exactly at the seams around the now-severed joints! The same stumps of bologna texture were there on both ends, with the tips of the bones protruding from his limbs.

“Oh! One of the undead, I see!” Pinkerton chuckled, fishing Morp’s cock and balls out of the pool. “Well, that explains why your manhood detached so easily. I wonder which spell the ghosts around here must’ve used to take it off.”

“G-ghosts?!” Morp shivered, remembering the ethereal hands that had caught him off-guard in the entrance hall.

“Oh yes, there are lots. They’re part of the cleaning staff for the mansion and are eager to tend to guests as well. So, would you be interested in continuing the cleaning, then?”

Morp was about to panic, now having a better idea of what was in store for him and the rest of the party, but then he remembered how relaxing the smell of the bathwater was…

It is at this point that the readers deserve to know that in the world of Hysterica, the undead are drawn to “unclean” scents, especially certain skin secretions like sweat, tears, and saliva, which was why any adventurer worth their salt does their damndest to practice good hygiene. Studies into this topic had also led to the discovery that pleasing smells like flowers and rain had a calming effect on the living dead, sapient or otherwise, and orcs were no exception — flower crowns and garlands are in fact more common in orc fashion than most would expect. This particular occasion was a case study into the aforementioned phenomenon; the odor of chrysanthemum and azalea, along with just a hint of ginger root, quickly wiped any trace of anger or despair from Morp’s mind. It also helped that the warm water felt much like a hot bath, almost like in the cauldron he’d been birthed from.

Pinkerton laid out Morp’s disembodied privates on a small washcloth spread out in front of him, taking one of the brushes out. It had soft bristles for a gentle cleaning, and these were promptly put to good use upon the back of his ballsack.

“YAAAAGHHH!” Morp yelled, his legs splashing about in the tub like panicking fish as he felt the tickles shoot through his spine like an electric shock. “MORP STILL FEHEHEHEEL THAHAHAHAAAAT!”

“That’s why they’re not attached to you,” Pinkerton teased. “A struggler, huh? Fascinating…”

“GRAHAHAHAHAH PINKEEEHEEEEE! EHEHEHEHE NOT THEHEHEHEHEHEERE!”

“Oh, I think I will. It looks especially dirty, don’t you agree?”

Morp was beside himself with laughter, tears welling up in the corners of his sightless eyes as his severed limbs continued writhing and splashing. He didn’t know it, but his movement was now attracting attention from within the tub itself…

With another startled yelp, he felt something crawling upon the top of his right foot. It was like a scrub brush as well, but slimier, softer, and a little more lively. If he were able to see, he’d notice the slug-like eyestalks on its top, and how there were numerous pliant, wiry bristles on its underside used to walk — and tickle. Then another of the brush-slugs appeared, clambering onto his other foot. And another. And another…

“EEEHEHEHEH WHAT THEEEEHEHEHEESE?!” Morp screamed, now in for even more intense tickle torture as the soapy slugs began crawling onto the bottoms of his feet, the backs of his knees, and then his thighs and calves. His severed legs were now playing host to a half-dozen of the slugs each, all tickling like mad as they scrubbed the grime and sweat off of him!

“Friends of mine, of course,” Pinkerton replied in a calm, friendly fashion. “They’ll take good care of you alongside me and the ghosts — it’s important to maintain good hygiene if you wish to be strong.”

“H-HOW PINKY KNOHOHOHOW?!”

“Just one look at you, and I can tell you’re invested in maintaining peak physical condition,” Pinkerton replied, now using a second brush to clean along the upper length of Morp’s throbbing shaft. “You have to understand, though, that appearances alone aren’t enough to win people over—”

Morp was about to protest that this had worked for Kitty Bro for much of his life, but then he felt a pair of gloved hands start massaging his shoulders and he melted like warm butter. “OHHHOHOHOHOHH… FEELS GOOHOHOHOOD…!”

“A gentle touch works best, after all~” Pinkerton teased, before using both brushes to tease the sides of Morp’s huge ballsack. As Morp squealed and moaned, the halfling wrapped a hand around the head of his shaft and lifted it skyward, noting how even though it had been removed from its owner, its tip still dribbled with pre-cum.

With a devilish smirk, Pinkerton started sliding his hand up and down the length of the severed shaft, getting it harder and harder as Morp began moaning between bouts of helpless laughter. The orc was amazed that he could still feel such powerful arousal even after having literally fallen apart, but his companion’s deft touch was working wonders. He was reunited with his beautiful private parts and he would be back in one piece after the cleaning, but by the gods, he needed to come! His throbbing stiffie was now being rubbed and pumped faster and faster, trembling and spurting pre like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

It was then that Pinkerton let out a devilish chuckle, the only warning Morp received before the halfling took one of the brushes with his free hand, before lightly scrubbing the very tip of the orc boy’s mighty mushroom, directly upon the weeping slit.

The scream could’ve shattered glass. All those wiry, soft bristles were murder upon the extremely sensitive head of the orc boy’s erection, and with every stroke, several even slipped into the slit just a little, driving him mad! All the while, his sack seemed to swell bit by bit, Morp’s cries of laughter interspersed with more and more aroused gurgles and groans.

The gloved hands were now pampering his upper body in full force, one pair kneading his washboard abs while two more gently scrubbed his smooth armpits with a pair of sponges. Still others had picked up his arms and were rubbing along their lengths in soothing ways—

“WAHAHAHAIT!” Morp yelled in sudden realization. “HOW DO ALL THIS?! LIL’ DUDE OVER TH—EEHEHEHEHEEE?!”

Then he heard Pinkerton speak again. No, it was multiple voices, but all the same.

“I suppose we can tell you our secret, then. I’m actually of the rogue class, and what you’re experiencing now is a special technique of mine from back home. It certainly makes the job easier, don’t you agree?”

Only now did Morp realize that there were plenty more things splashing in the basin than just his arms and legs. Through his haze of laughter, he barely managed to remain focused enough to count, and to his surprise, he realized that no less than four duplicates of Pinkerton had joined him and the brush-slugs in the bath!

Morp was about to respond to this when the first Pinkerton, the one kneeling on the floor and handling his manhood, began to wiggle his fingers along the underside of the shaft as he continued pumping it, while spiraling his brush around and around the head and the still-dribbling slit. Even with the gloves remaining on, it tickled so badly and yet it felt so good! On top of this, the duplicate halflings and the brush slugs were already overwhelming him with teasing sensations everywhere else on his body and wait, why were two of the shadow clones lifting his waist up a bit?

Then one of the slugs reached his backside, slipping into his ass crack so its bristles were stroking his perineum and asshole, and he finally caved with an unearthly howl. The Pinkerton cleaning his cock and balls reacted in a split-second, grabbing his package and flipping it over so the head was aimed into the empty bucket — an instant before a massive flood of milky white spunk erupted forth like a faucet at full strength.

“How are you capable of this much virility?!” Pinkerton gasped in wonder. “I’ve been told you’ve orgasmed at least once before this evening, and you’re still keen for more. Amazing!”

“GOHOHOHOT LOTS OF STAMINAHAHAHAHAHA!” Morp replied, before he noticed the clones beginning to tickle his torso again and started to wonder…

One of his slug-covered legs kicked upward, dislodging one of its passengers that had been feasting upon his wiggling toes. It sailed through the air, and before Pinkerton could react, it had landed on the ball of his upturned foot.

“AAAAHHH!” the halfling squealed, and all of his clones recoiled in the same way. Next moment, Pinkerton was rolling around on the floor, kicking and howling as he tried to get the slug off him, but it was now brushing against the ball of his foot with its lather-coated bristles, driving him crazy!

Bolstered by this, Morp lashed out with one severed arm and sent a wave of water onto one of the clones, eliciting a startled laugh as he threw his hands up to shield himself — and left an opening for the arm to poke him in the tummy. There was a curious absence of a navel, but that spot was still ticklish enough to get another high-pitched squeal out of him. It seemed that every time one copy was tickled, all the rest could feel it!

Elsewhere in the mansion, the halfling majordomo, having just broken a certain other party member out of his magical imprisonment, excused himself and dove for cover, just in time for the tickling to completely overwhelm him. The laughter of a helpless halfling could be heard all throughout the manor.

“Oh, that does it! Get him, boys!” Pinkerton cried in amusement that wasn’t exactly forced, grabbing Morp’s cock with one hand and turning to make his way towards the basin. Crawling forward on his hands and knees, now feeling more and more tickles administered by the orc’s various body parts as well as the slug still on his foot, he clambered over the basin and started swimming towards his bathing companion’s torso. Morp had only seconds to react before a wave of water hit him in the face, leaving him blinded as Pinkerton grabbed two slugs and placed them firmly on his big, stiffened nipples.

Morp howled again, his limbs thrashing more than ever. Both of his arms got a hold of one duplicate halfling each, digging their fingers into the stomach of one and the armpit of another, which successfully got them to release him and splash about with flurries of squeals and frantic giggling. Still, Morp’s limbs weren’t reattached to his body yet, and he was powerless to stop Pinkerton bringing his own severed cock into play, wiggling its sensitive head against the bushel of pale gray pubic hair just above the stump on his groin — which was not only sensitive in its own right, but tickled just as badly as the brush!

The boys’ troubles forgotten, at least for the moment, the rest of the bathing session promptly devolved into a gleeful, tickly splash fight.

**********

The Gallery

Following in the direction Pinkerton had pointed him towards, Turindal was confident that he was getting closer and closer to his goal of rescuing Ravaxidor. But as he made his way up the stairs and noted how the lighting of the gemstones embedded into the walls became steadily dimmer, he started getting a sinking feeling once again. Was it possible that he was being led into a trap? And if so, was that the only possible option, or was there some other way to get his boss out of the manor?

Regardless, he’d made it this far — without the help of anyone else, mind — and there was no turning back now. Whatever was about to happen, he told himself, he could handle it.

Right?

He’d found himself in a large hall, illuminated by dimly glowing orange crystals suspended from the ceiling and decorated by all manner of fancy paintings, similar to an art gallery. Though the pictures and their frames were as almost worn as the ones in the entrance hall, many of them still showed various unfortunate victims of intense tickle-torture in almost lifelike detail. It was notable that every single one of them was male, and that the gallery was mysteriously elf-free — even though given the subject matter, the enormous feet elves typically possess would’ve made them ideal candidates for the various torments the paintings displayed. There were humans, demihumans, even a few homonculi (the blanket term for manmade humanoids in general), but not an elf to be seen. He wouldn’t realize the significance of these two facts together until some minutes later, but even now, he still found them notable.

One painting showcased a dark-haired human from the desert kingdom of Ardu Al’alsana, what little skin was shown being the color of terra-cotta — for he was wrapped in cloth bandages from neck to ankles, his arms bound over his head, his eyes covered, gaps in the mummification exposing his armpits, stomach, and crotch as the loose ends of the cloth wrappings themselves attacked them. His feet were victimized by a dozen musty yellow ribbons each, the wrappings having bent his toes back so far that his arches were stretched and entirely at their mercy.

Another painting showed a nymph, a plant-like demihuman, from Silva Insanire, tall and elegant and willowy with pale green skin and long golden hair like strands of cornsilk reaching all the way down to his ankles. His lower body from the knees down was embedded in the trunk of a tree, his arms raised skyward to form its lovely boughs while his back was encased in bark. His own hair had taken on a life of its own, its many strands wiggling like tentacles to stroke and brush against his armpits, sides, nipples, and even his neck and ears. The greatest concentration of the hair tickles however was upon his flower-like privates: aside from the hairs teasing the length of his long, bright yellow stiffie and the sides of his hefty, pale pink ballsack, various grotesque plants around him were also joining in the tickling, concentrating on the underside of his sack and the head and underside of his erect member. The silent scream of anguish from all this, the forced smile, was unmistakable.

Still another picture showed an orc boy, smaller and more slender in build than Morp and maybe even a little effeminate, with dark olive green skin and messy black hair. A familiar marking on his lower back indicated his being from the Forgotten Foothills, just like Morp himself. He was stuck in a dimly lit bog, his lower arms and legs embedded in the mud and spread out slightly, the view of him from above and behind with his head turned towards the viewer, his widely-spread lower cheeks on full display and his beseeching expression a silent scream of ticklish agony. His buttocks, cock and balls, thighs, sides, and lower back were being swarmed by all manner of creepy-crawlies like centipedes, moths, beetles, and spiders, all of which scurried and nibbled all over these tender spots. One especially long centipede, its shiny round body segments like a string of pearls, had even infiltrated his asshole, half of it sticking out and tickling the soft, smooth skin in a spiral around it. Who knew what it was up to inside? Turindal had a sense that he did not want to find out.

There was even a sapient mimic, from the southern archipelago of La Cinco Risas among the painted victims, the handsome redheaded humanoid upper body it used as a lure sporting a look like a dashing young pirate. The treasure chest with large soft-looking feet growing out of its front, the head of the humanoid portion trapped by his own lid, was at the bottom of the sea, terrible black tentacles having coiled around the container and sealed it tight, suspending it above the seabed so the cluster of crab-like legs dangling from the bottom of the chest could only wiggle uselessly in their grip. More tentacles bound his toes and pulled them wide apart, and many, many more of them were tickling every inch of his exposed soles. The hapless mimic could presumably breathe underwater, but bubbles were still coming out in streams from his mouth, the green eye of his not covered by an eyepatch wide with terror in the face of the countless appendages tormenting him.

These were just four of the many, many pictures Turindal was now seeing. Disturbing though they all were, there was something else he couldn’t pin down that sent a shiver down his spine. It was as though something was just slightly wrong about each and every one of the paintings. He couldn’t pin it down just yet, though, so he had to revisit some of them.

Returning to each of the previous four paintings — the mummified man, the nymph, the young orc, the mimic — he inspected each of them carefully, though from a safe distance in case the subjects came to life and sprang out at him. It wasn’t until he took a second look at the facial features of each of them when it occurred to him.

“I… I’ve seen all of these people before. They’re all from the guild! I know them!”

He trained his ears a little harder. It had seemed oddly quiet, but now he realized that he could hear extremely faint laughter from each and every one of the paintings. And was it just him, or were some of the pictures moving ever-so-slightly?

“No…” he gasped, horrified. “No, no, nononono, NO! It can’t be…!”

He tried to think of something, anything, that he could do to get at least one of the people trapped in these paintings out of the mansion. There was a certain ritual he’d learned from one of the Druid King’s lessons years ago, one that could allow him to switch places with someone else who had been magically imprisoned so that they could be free — at least in theory. He hadn’t found it terribly convenient, but as his teacher had told him once, you’ll never know when anything you learn could come in handy.

There was a quiet squeaking noise behind him, and he turned to see Pinkerton creeping into the room; his feet stepping on the floorboards had been the source of the noise (even though, weirdly enough, the floorboards themselves weren’t loose). For some reason, his hair was slightly disheveled and the black eyeshadow under his eyes seemed to have been dripping as though he’d been crying. Curious.

Almost immediately, Turindal strode over to loom over the halfling, his hazel eyes narrowed and the hairs on his tail standing on end. “What did you do?!”

“What should have been done,” the halfling responded. “They brought it upon themselves for thinking they could get rid of us. You’re here to do the same, are you?”

“Tch, of course not!” Turindal protested. He looked around to try to find an excuse, but then his eyes fell upon one large painting at the end of the gallery.

The frame of this painting was the most elaborate of all, with carvings of thorns and skulls and clawed hands all around the edges, but there was nobody in the picture itself. All that was portrayed was a graveyard under the light of a full moon, with a massive mausoleum taking up much of the center, its doorway firmly shut. More importantly, Turindal had also noticed something below the empty painting…

“You knew I could never escape this manor,” Pinkerton explained. “For forty years, I was trapped within these walls, and for twenty I was nothing but a plaything for—?!”

Turindal had gone over to pick up the fallen object, his eyes wide. “This… This is Ravaxidor’s jacket. He really was here! I bet he’s still in the mansion somewhere. If I can just find a way to get him out—”

There was a thunk as Pinkerton’s jaw literally dropped to the floor. He was dead silent for a few moments before his mouth snapped back like a rubber band, briefly smacking his chin upwards a little, his pink eyes narrowing as his next two words were delivered in his lowest voice possible.

“Leave. Now.”

The elf gave him a confused look. “Uh… Pinkerton? Are you alright?”

That was when he realized that the whole room had gone completely silent. Even the faint laughter from the rest of the paintings had stopped, as though the entire hallway was holding its breath.

“I should have known,” the halfling seethed. “You… You really are in league with that — that monster!”

“Monster? I don’t get it.” Turindal looked rightly confused. “He used to be a dragon, yes, but he’s not a monster. That man is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known! He’s done a lot of good for Titillandum since he was appointed among the Grand Council, and I have to bring him back if I am to take his place there once he retires. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but gods be damned, he ordered me to get him out of here, and I just can’t leave without him!”

There was silence again. Then Turindal noticed that the halfling’s normally pallid complexion was turning steadily redder.

“He’s. Not. Here,” Pinkerton hissed with growing furor.

Turindal blinked. “What are you talking about—?!”

“ENOUGH!!” There was a loud WHOOSH as Pinkerton’s eyes suddenly burst into brilliant blue flame, his face now a brilliant crimson and steam blowing from his ears with a high-pitched whistling sound like a tea kettle. “Don’t you DARE play dumb with me, you SELFISH, SPOILED, PIECE-OF-SHIT IGNORAMUS! Can you think of any specific reason other than the obvious for the Blood Drake to send you here of all places?!”

The obvious? Turindal struggled to think of a justification, and remembered his mission. “B-but he’s here! In this mansion! I found his jacket—”

“Did you HEAR ME?! HE’S NOT HERE!” Pinkerton started floating in the air, the room turning slightly darker as his rage boiled to new heights. “YOU WERE RIGHT IN THAT HE FOUND THIS PLACE, I’LL GIVE YOU THAT. HE STAYED IN THE MANSION FOR THREE DAYS, IN FACT — BUT HE VANISHED WITHOUT A TRACE TWO NIGHTS AGO! I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE WENT, BUT I CAN’T POSSIBLY CARE LESS!”

“W-what?! Why?!”

Pinkerton’s next words would have blown the leaves off every tree within a mile of the house. “BECAUSE HE WAS THE ONE WHO LOCKED ME IN HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE FORTY FUCKING YEARS AGO!”

Turindal was at a complete loss for words. Ravaxidor? His beloved hero? The one who wanted him to take his place at the council upon retirement… condemning someone to Pinkerton’s cruel fate?! The dissonance left him all but winded.

“Pinkerton, I’m sorry,” the elf said finally, trying to make sense of everything but nonetheless feeling nothing but pity for the angry halfling. “I’m going to get you out of—”

“NO! I HATE YOU!!!” Pinkerton screamed, his voice taking on a double tinge as, behind him, his shadow began to lengthen.

Tears began welling up in Turindal’s eyes as he backed away, panic making his voice crack and tremble. “Please, don’t do this—”

“SHUT UP!” the halfling screamed suddenly. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” His baleful gaze was transfixed upon the elf, who was now cringing in terror despite being several times his height. “IF YOU’VE THROWN YOUR LOT IN WITH THAT ASSHOLE, THEN YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY HERE TO GET RID OF US ONCE AND FOR ALL!” he thundered. “YOU LEAVE ME WITH NO CHOICE. YOU AND YOUR PARTY ARE NO LONGER WELCOME HERE IN THIS MANOR! SO WHAT WILL IT BE, TURINDAL DEEPARCH? TO LEAVE THIS PLACE FOREVER, OR TO HAVE AN AUDIENCE WIŢ̸̉H̵͓́ ̷̛̲T̵̬͐H̸͎̒É̸̞ ̵̧̇Ȓ̶͉Ę̶͐À̷̧̙̻Ĺ̷̜̯ ̸͇͋̌̚M̸͔̪̄͋͛A̴̡̬͇͒S̷̫̀̓̋T̷͙̹̈́́̀͜E̴̤̗̬̋̕R̴̳̗̆̏ ̵̮́Ö̷͎͉͔́̑͛F̵̙̣̿ ̷̪͌̔H̴͍̉̒͠O̵̜̹͆ͅU̸͓͕̟̱͊̈͒͛̍S̶͉̪͚̹̺͂̌̆̕Ē̵̦̻̰͍̾́͆ ̸̱̭̮̗̐̃̌̒I̶̛͖̟͇͚͆̐̎̚͜N̴͎͙̜͗C̵̩͕̆͒L̴̹͇͍̦̼̿̏̇͐Ē̴̘̝̈́Ṁ̸̱̜̓̓͆͠E̷̢̡͈̖̮͊̾͗Ṉ̴̡̿̚͠T̸͍̙̙̍́̈͘I̵̪̎͜Á̴̭̜̥͋̽̾̈?̸̤͕̘̲̌̄̀!̴̤̏̈́”

Twisting and writhing in mid-air, Pinkerton’s body started growing, lengthening, warping. His noodly limbs and fingers were growing longer by the second, his torso elongating. Turindal could only watch, powerless, as the butler’s proportions were distorted beyond anything physically possible, until except for his head and big furry feet, his whole body seemed to be made of twisting, curling tentacles striped in black and white like monochrome barber poles. While all this was happening, phantasmic hands began emerging from the walls, floor, and ceiling, and every piece of furniture in the vicinity started shaking and floating in the air slightly, as though an army of wraiths and poltergeists was being summoned to protect their dread master.

DRR… DRR… DRR…

A haunting sound, booming and droning, rang in Turindal’s ears. He didn’t stop to think, instead turning and running for his life, his lord’s jacket summarily discarded and forgotten. He dove into the first corridor he could find, hoping to find somewhere he could hide in until he lost the terrible creature. But the hallway seemed to stretch on forever as he fled, his long feet making smooth, bounding strides at speeds he never thought possible. Was it an illusion, or was the hallway seeming to stretch as he sped for the light at the end of the tunnel? Not only was he not getting any further away from the nightmare behind him, but Pinkerton was actually getting closer. Then he tripped, not knowing what he’d stumbled over or if it was is own feet he’d stepped on, and hit the floor with his face.

The panicking elf was all but certain that Pinkerton was going to grab him within the next few seconds, his deep arches already tingling in dread anticipation from what was to come.

He tried to push himself off the carpet with his feet, but his toe pads were stuck fast by some paranormal force, as though another Snuggarug had caught him. He shrieked in terror as the monster closed in, and then his panicked cry turned into a hysterical cackle as the long tendrils began their torment. Four of them had started dragging their tips up and down his taut arches, spiraling in and out and all around. Two more dug into his sides and slid into his tunic to reach his underarms, and the last two contended themselves with flicking his ears and poking the sides of his neck. Not an inch of the skin on his soles was spared as he continued howling nonstop, clawing at the rug and trying to drag himself away.

“AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHHEHEHEHEEEEHAHAHAHAHH! YYAAAAAHHAHIAHIHIHIHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHHAHEHEHEHEEEHE HAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAIHIIIHIHIAHHAHAHHAHAHHHH!!! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLP! SOMEONE HEEEELLLP MEEEEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHHEEEEHHEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

But no help came. There was no escape now. The creature seemed bent on punishing him for a crime he had never committed, but it didn’t matter. What was once Pinkerton was now too blinded by his rage to care. And all Turindal could do was scream, sob, and suffer…

Suddenly, there was a flash of bluish-white light, and a blood-curdling howl from somewhere behind him. Turindal wasted no time, kicking off with his legs and bounding on all fours towards the doorway at the end of the hall.

Upon exiting the doorway, he skidded to a halt just in time before he smacked into someone’s huge body, one that was still a little moist and smelled of fresh flowers for some reason. Staggering back in a daze, he shook his head only to see two familiar people before him.

“Kitty Bro!” Morp scooped him up in a hug, heedless of the squirming elf and especially his expression of utmost terror.

“Morp? What happened t—OW!”

“TURINDAL!” Fanindra exclaimed, having sent his hovering crystal ball forth to bonk the person whose name he’d called upside the head. His companion could tell that he was not happy, both from the look on his face and how his normally well-kept hair now looked like a rat’s nest.

“How could you run off on us like that, you idiot?!” the wizard continued. “You wouldn’t believe what we’ve been through—”

“N-no time to talk!” Turindal replied frantically, rubbing the sore spot on his temple. “I’ve found the fucker behind all the shit in this mansion!”

“Oh, boss fight?” Morp asked in surprise.

“JUST LOOK FOR YOURSELF, GODS-DAMMIT!” Turindal yelled, waving his arm frantically down the hall.

Fanindra gently pushed him aside before peering down the corridor. His eyes narrowed, and then went wider than ever before.

“I-I see something!” he said with growing horror, gazing down the hall as the malevolent slender-folk lumbered towards the party with grim intent. “Oh, gods… It’s slowly coming this way!”

DRR… D̶͇͝R̶̘̃R̵͊ͅ…̷͔̇D̶͓̬͍͗Ṟ̷̆̈́̚R̸̜̐̽͑…̷̛̟͆ ̶̼̫͌͝