Vaesen Solo: Putting the Frighteners on the Scrivens

Chapter 8 of my Vaesen Solo Campaign.

By ThroaphamHistory - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia

Follow this link to catch up with the story so far via this curated Contents page.

Since our previous chapter, the calendar has ticked over to the next day, and we find our group fed, watered and refreshed by a good night’s sleep in Lavinia’s Hunting Lodge. They have an appointment with Mr Scriven that morning, and Elias has arranged for a “growler”—a four-person, horse-drawn coach to collect them at 9.30 for the journey to Scriven Hall.

Let’s see if anything happens along the way. I’ll use Mythic for a fate roll with the odds being “very unlikely.” I roll 26. It’s a “No” but barely.

So let’s envision that there is a little… umm… turbulance on the ride! We’ll get some keywords from the Sundered Vaesen supplement by EnoNomi.

I roll 67 on the Action Oracle: “Avoid” and 2 on the Theme Oracle: “Sanity.” Hmmm…

As Elias, Lavinia, and the Archdeacon weighed the grim contingencies of the Scriven case, the deliberations were most unceremoniously arrested by a piercing wail.

Daisy, who had hitherto been silent, suddenly gave vent to a cry of “No! We must turn back!” before collapsing into sobs of grief in the corner of the carriage. In her agitation, the veneer of the trained domestic fell away, and the staccato notes of the East End betrayed her distress. “Somefink monstrous is afoot; I feel it in me water, Miss Lavinia. We must go no farther!”

Ignatius extended a steadying hand upon the girl’s forearm. “I assure you, Daisy, all shall be well. I have every confidence that Elias shall act as a most formidable bulwark against any harm coming upon you.” The girl cast a glance toward Elias. He met her gaze with a stiff, professional inclination of the head—a silent assurance of protection that seemed, in some curious way, to restore her composure…

Just before 10.00 am, we arrive at Scriven Hall, and our knock on the door is answered by the elderly bald-headed butler, Snodgrass. We are led in the Drawing Room, where a gaunt, fifty-something gentleman greets us.

Is this Joseph? Let’s ask Mythic with odds 50/50: 77. No.

He steps forward and introduces him as Arthur Scriven, Joseph’s father and the head of the family. Snodgrass had provided tea for the visitors, who sat, preparing to see what they could elicit from Arthur.

Ignatius starts with a Manipulation check and fails. Miss Lavinia (with a larger dice pool) also fails! It’s left to Elias to take the more direct approach with a Force Check, which he PASSES!

Elias tells Arthur about their experiences the previous evening with the village idiot and menacingly warns Arthur that they know something strange is going on here and won’t be leaving until they get to the bottom of it.

Arthur's demeanour changes, and he suddenly looks crestfallen.

We’ll use the Direction of the Mystery table from the official supplement, Thursday’s Child. We draw the 9 of diamonds, which directs us to the Clues Table in the same booklet. We roll d66 and hit 46. “a rusty knife, axe or tool that is out of place.”

Elias can be very persuasive! “Listen to me, Arthur—if, indeed, that is your name. I spotted a shovel propped up in the hallway with what very much looks like fresh soil clinging to the blade. Now, you don’t seem like someone who does his own gardening. So what is that shovel doing there? Answer me…”

We’ll flip to the Vaesen Rumour Table in EnoNomi’s supplement and get the result, “Someone has made a pact with a vaesen” and a quick roll on the Events Table adds the detail that “someone is destroying the evidence.”

Elias moves close to Arthur and whispers (loud enough for even Ignatius to hear)

“I think there’s a vaesen around here and you’ve made some sort of pact with it. The only question I need you to answer now is what it is and what deal you’ve struck”

Arthur looks terrified, suddenly much older and frailer, as he shrinks into the settee.

Lavinia decides to play “good cop” to Elias’ “bad cop” and makes an Observation + Empathy Check, which she passes.

She moves to the couch and sits next to Arthur, calmly explaining that they are there to help and mean him no harm. What has Arthur noticed that seems strange?

We already know (from our earlier visit) that the vaesen is scaring away visitors. Arthur mentions instances of broken furniture and repeated tapping noises during the night.

At this juncture, Ignatius—who had been scribbling notes with a feverish intensity—suddenly dropped his pencil and gave vent to a startling exclamation.

“A boggart!” he cried, in a voice that struck the company into an instantaneous silence. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with the fire of a man who has successfully pieced together a fragmented puzzle. “I would venture a significant wager that we are dealing with a boggart—perhaps, indeed, a whole group of the creatures. The nocturnal disturbances, the rhythmic tapping, the inexplicable wreckage of the furniture, and that peculiar, territorial jealousy—these are not merely coincidences; they are the definitive diagnostic symptoms of the vaesen.”

The Archdeacon permitted himself a dry, somewhat grim chuckle. “One thing, at least, is a certainty: the walls of Scriven Hall shall offer us no sanctuary. A boggart can squeeze its peculiar form through the tightest of crevices.”

Ignatius turned his penetrating gaze upon Arthur. “Now, my good man,” said he, with the air of a grandmaster about to deliver a checkmate, “shall we strike a bargain? If we undertake to purge your house of this boggart—and I believe the method is within my grasp—will you, in return, grant us an introduction to your elusive son?”

“Done!” Arthur snapped, the words out of his mouth before the other had finished. For the first time, a surge of genuine optimism had broken through the cloud of his despair.

A boggart is a mischievous household spirit from the folklore of England, especially whispered about in the old rural corners of Lancashire and Yorkshire. Said to lurk in cupboards, under floor boards, or behind hearthstones, this cranky little phantom delights in small torments—souring milk, knocking on wood, hiding keys, and generally behaving like a supernatural prankster who skipped his afternoon nap.

Families were even said to abandon homes rather than provoke one. Yet for all its troublemaking, the boggart isn’t wicked—it’s more like a grumpy neighbor from the spirit world: bothersome and unpredictable.

The Boggart is a creature of ego; it cannot endure being outmaneuvered in a formal bargain or subjected to public humiliation. To defeat it, one must turn the rigid rules of the Victorian household against it—trapping the creature not in a cage of steel, but in its own greed.

NOTE: There is a natural break in our story here, so I’ll save the denouement for another post, probably tomorrow, where we will see if the Archdeacon and Miss Lavinia can outsmart the veasen and banish it from Scriven Hall.