The heavy iron doors of Dunluce Castle swung open to reveal an interior that defied the external ruin, presenting a gallery of stone and velvet that was as immaculate as it was redolent of ancient rot. Waiting within the foyer was Rose McKilly, the daughter of the barkeep from Inishowen, though she moved with a disconnected, melancholic bearing that signaled she was more than what she initially appeared as. She spoke with a haunting apathy, informing the travelers that they were guests of a man who viewed the people of Eire as either loyal thralls or mere cattle for the feast. Through her, the party began to grasp the horrific pragmatism of the House of Abartach, where the beautiful and the strong were preserved as favorites while others were consumed in the dark.

Navigating deeper into the masonry, the party discovered a sanctuary that had once been a temple to Gabouray, the Angel of Frivolity, now desecrated and stripped of its joy. Seated within it was Ava Hartigan, a former worshiper who referred to her lost deity with a quiet familiarity — “Gabby”, she called her — and who now existed in a state of suspended despair that had moved well past the stage of tears. She confirmed what they had come to learn: Lucy Carver was alive, held within the castle as one of Abartach's chosen. Between herself, Rose, and Lucy, the Master had cultivated what he considered a collection, she said, binding them to a destiny more terrifying than simple death.

Stanley the Seer attempted to reach her with Jasiri's doctrine of courage. Ava received his words with the hollow patience of someone who had already prayed to one god and watched the altar go cold. Mozaddha sat beside her instead and asked what Gabouray had actually been like — not as theology, but as presence — and got more from her in that minute than Stanley had with scripture. It was Muddy who lingered longest. He knew what it looked like when a prayer went unanswered. Her eyes moved once to his blackened hand. Her eyes moved once to his blackened hand and did not look away from it the way most people did. Nothing more was said about it. They left her in the gutted sanctuary and continued deeper into the House of Abartach.

Amidst the mounting dread, the disparate habits of the travelers asserted themselves as they explored the castle’s functional wings. Mozaddha Theriska and Muddy Mittens conducted a thorough raid of the Master’s smoking room and larder, securing a cache of fine tobacco while noting the presence of featureless stone statues that seemed to track their movements. Their reconnaissance led them into a magical courtyard garden that pulsed with a vibrant, unnatural life amidst the stone foundations. In a moment of bizarre levity that contrasted sharply with the surrounding horror, the party engaged in fishing in the fountain and even kindled a fire within the verdant enclosure, drawing the ire of the castle’s unseen watchers, and a nearby grasping ivy plant.

The exploration was eventually interrupted by the Master himself, who appeared not as a frenzied beast, but as a sovereign tyrant whose civility served as a thin mask for absolute predation. Abartach met the party with a condescending swagger, mocking their legalistic deputization and the small, human promises that had brought them to his door. He did not offer violence, but rather an invitation, confirming that a banquet was being prepared in their honor and that he expected the survivors of Dresden for supper. As he departed, the party was left with the macabre realization that they were no longer guests, but possibly a new course in a ritual that had been playing out for centuries.