“There’s a bit of the unusual about her fighters,” remarks Aranath, the local lord to whom you are currently bound. He is in the next room, speaking to Pim, his obsequious right-hand man.
“Undoubtedly so,” replies Pim.
“Wage battle as if they’re in a damned trance,” muses Aranath, ignoring Pim’s remark, per his usual.
You and three other gladiators are gathered around a table, taking in an evening meal of dried goat meat, overly-ripe figs, and stale bread. The wine you use to wash it down is, somewhat surprisingly, decent. You’ve been told that tomorrow you will step into the arena for the first time, and you wonder if one of her--whoever she might be--fighters will be the one to face you. For a week now, you’ve been training with the fellows with whom you are now breaking bread: Bandrigos, a minotaur who, thus far, seems to be only slightly more intelligent than the club he wields; Tark, a shifty-eyed human that gives you the impression he will disappear into the night at the first opportunity; and Dag, a gregarious centaur who is eerily accurate with a javelin.
“What’s Aranath talking about?” asks Tark, who looks at Bandrigos, the veteran of the group.
“Morenna,” he answers with a mouthful of food. “Her swords*...the ones with the masks.”
“A nasty bunch they are,” adds Dag. “Defeated one a few weeks ago. Refused to kneel, and I had to kill him. Unfortunate.”
“Most bets are on her swords these days, I hear,” offers Bandrigos.
“Fighting a man...not seeing his face...it’s a strange thing,” says Dag. “But we’re in a strange business, aren’t we, Grexes? You should feel good about tomorrow, friend. You’re ready!”
“We’d like to avoid any Reverent entanglements,” explains the harbormaster.
You nod slightly in response to a request you’ve heard a hundred times.
“Up the coast to Meletis Harbor and then along the channel that leads into Meletis proper. Best course of action, I say,” he continues.
Your knowledge of the waters to and from Meletis tells you that the boat and, therefore, the cargo for this job will be rather small. The east-west channel between the harbor and Meletis doesn’t permit vessels with a draft greater than a few feet. You’ve taken on jobs for this harbormaster--a fidgety old human named Sepp--a few times before. He’s been trustworthy and always pays up as promised.
The small sailing vessel is moored to the southernmost dock; in it sits five oak barrels. Illicit spirits from the Dakra Isles. Predictable. But profitable.
Sepp hands you forty pieces of gold and assures you the other sixty will be paid by his “contact” in Meletis. There’s a good deal of fun that can be had in Meletis with that much gold...
Nearly a week has passed since the shipwreck, and you wait patiently for some indication of what you and your surviving shipmates ought to do next. The days spent on the harbor have been peaceful, granting you abundant time to reflect on the cause-and-effect that has brought you to this unexpected place.
Strolling up and down the coastline has become a common daily pursuit, despite the chill of the ocean air and the faithful morning fog. On this particular morning, you are alone and have wandered north several miles, reaching a narrow inlet that has allowed the sea to flood a broad, flat expanse of the coast. Bulrushes and salt grass stretch as far as the eye can see, and a variety of seabirds come and go.
Within a few minutes, a dark oblong object in the reeds catches your attention. Initially unsure of what it might be, you walk toward it until you realize it is the body of a humanoid completely shrouded in cloth and lying in a small boat that is scarcely larger than its cargo....
The Dekatia has become like a second home to you over the past few weeks. Hours pass like minutes as you sift through the seemingly endless volumes of lore, history, and knowledge that line the shelves of its libraries. You have become a familiar face to many of the mages and philosophers that haunt the place, and they seem content to allow you to read and study as you wish.
To say that you are surprised by the news of the death of a young mage who was doing nothing more than sitting and reading is an understatement. Listening to snatches of conversation from others who frequent the Dekatia, you learn that the unfortunate lad was bitten and poisoned by some unknown creature within the main library. The only witness is Yenni, a female satyr with whom you’ve had a few short conversations in the past.
“Directly from the pages themselves,” she explains. “That’s how it entered the room. Serpent-like. I shudder to think where it is now.”
Your interactions with Yenni have led you to believe she’s excitable and has a tendency for hyperbole, but her tale about the mage’s death is by far the most fantastic thing she’s ever said.
Something serpent-like appearing from the pages of a book isn’t exactly the same as darkness spreading over the land, but it feels eerily similar…
Sitting against a tree and fighting the urge to take a nap after an hours-long patrol, you suddenly discern the sound of unfamiliar voices. Standing to your full height, you peer over a lichen-covered boulder and see two Stratian captains---both of whom are unfamiliar to you--speaking to your elderly mentor. Although you cannot hear what is being said, the body language of the three suggests something of importance is being discussed. The conversation concludes, the captains depart, and Mekleon reclaims his seat. He rubs his chin, deep in thought.
A few hours later, the stars shine down from a cloudless sky and a blazing campfire fights off the evening chill. The other warriors are engaged in the usual small talk when Mekleon begins to explain the nature of the visit from the two captains: Akroan military leadership has requested that you play the role of an arena fighter for a few weeks.
“It’s an odd request,” he explains, “but I am confident they would not ask such a thing if it were not wholly necessary.”
Mekleon pokes at the fire with his spear for a few seconds before continuing, “Our vigilance in guarding Akros must include protecting it from enemies within. As you fulfill this duty, do so in the name of Iroas! Yes? Fighting nobly in his name will assure you fight for no other. As it has been said, a sword is wielded by only one master."
You appreciate the old fellow’s attempt to reassure you that your course of action will not play into the hands of Mogis.
Mekleon studies the stars as if he is searching for his next words among them. “You depart tomorrow. Arrangements have been made for you to be one of Aranath’s swords*. He will have no knowledge of your true identity.”
“We’d like to avoid any Reverent entanglements,” explains the harbormaster.
You nod slightly in response to a request you’ve heard a hundred times.
“Up the coast to Meletis Harbor and then along the channel that leads into Meletis proper. Best course of action, I say,” he continues.
"Agreed." Moneo says, nodding as he plots out the route in his head and glances to the sky to get a feel for the weather. Pocketing his coins without counting, knowing that Sepp isn't trying to cheat him, he says, "The channels are generally clear this time of year. Let's just hope we can keep the gods off our backs and that my contact is on shift when we arrive. But both can be dealt with if not." He then walks around the ship a bit, and pulls out a pen and paper to start making notes in case he'll need to forge some customs forms on arrival.
Calliope's eyes widen at the sight, instinctively changing directions an quickening her pace to approach the small boat. But after only a moment, she remembers her caution, and pauses to make sure she's alone on the shore. Whoever, or whatever, killed that person could still be out there...
Perception: 12
If she doesn't see anyone else on the nearby beach or lurking in the reeds, she continues her course, crouching down next to the boat to inspect it closer. Pulling one of the daggers from her belt - a wicked silver blade nearly the length of her forearm - she uses it to carefully lift off a corner of the cloth and get a peek at who is underneath.
“A serpeent?” Robin asks as she glances around. “Which way did it go?” She asks, looking around herself. She frowns as she then looks to see what the mage in questionw was reading when he died, interested to know what sort of material the mage was interested in. She understands the need for knowledge, as well as the protection of such knowledge as should not be passed on.
Mekleonlets out a deep exhale as his mentor finishes speaking, his large nostrils flaring. "I hope you are correct in assuming this is necessary, sir," he rumbles. "But I cannot help be a little suspicious that they just want to see the big cow prove that he's the brute they know him to be. Very well. I will do it, if only to prove to them that none other than Iroas wields my sword, or hammer in this case. This Aranath... he is nobility? Influential?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"Strange, yes. It is not wise to 'feel good' before spilling blood, Dag. It spoils the thrill of the chase, the hunt, and the kill. "
He muses for a moment, considering one of the figs but putting it down, noticing an unappetizing orange stain around its base. As he puts it back he directs a question to any who might answer.
"But, surely a mask will not stop a blade. Why do they wear them in a bloodsport?"
Confident that everything is in order, you set sail and follow the coastline northward. The weather is fair, and the wind seems to be cooperating; so, you estimate one day to reach Meletis Harbor and one more to navigate the channel. As the sun is sitting low in the west and the waters of Meletis Harbor gently rock the small boat, you drop anchor and prepare to watch the sunset and call it a day. Nothing quite like being rocked to sleep by the sea.
Suddenly, there’s a disturbance in the water near the stern of the boat. Possibly something swimming very near the surface? Whatever it is makes no noise, however...
You study your surroundings for a minute or two until you are confident that nothing more than waterfowl and sandpipers are aware of your presence in the salt marsh. Using your dagger to cut through the coarse wrappings saturated with water and old blood, you eventually reveal the form of a human male, his body scarred with wounds both old and new. His arms are crossed, and pinned beneath them is a gold funerary mask. Your breath is momentarily taken away when you reveal the deceased’s face, for he has no eyes. You have heard tales of the Returned--those who have escaped the Underworld and return to dwell among the living--and you are certain that you now gaze upon one.
You recognize the tiny vessel in which the body rests as a funeral boat, a boat that is sent down a river carrying the remains of a person of importance. The only river, however, in this vicinity is miles to the north: the Deyda, which starts far to the north, beyond Akros, and flows into the Siren Sea...
“My fear of the creature superseded my curiosity about the book, I’m sure you understand,” remarks Yenni. “I do know that he found the book on the shelves near the statue of Karametra.”
That information narrows the possibilities considerably, and after Yenni bids you farewell, you begin to peruse the material in the vicinity of the statue of the goddess of harvests. Scanning the titles of the many tomes, you find yourself drawn to A Compendium of the Nyxborn. Somewhat unusual is the fact that the black lettering in the title seems to twinkle like the night sky...
“Neither influential nor nobility,” responds Mekleon. “His stable of swords is a bit thin of late, and his gladiators are slated soon to face those of the person of concern. I sense that your role is greater than gaining victory in the arena. That is what you shall prove, young one."
You bid farewell to Mekleon and begin the three to four hour trek to Akros, deep in thought with each step.
The next morning you are led to Aranath’s compound by a pair of Akroan soldiers. This is done to give the appearance that you're a less-than-willing participant in this whole affair, which is common for most gladiators. Upon your arrival, you are met by a fellow named Pim. He explains that he is Aranath’s assistant, and for the next several hours you and he will be the only ones present in the compound. Aranath and his fighters are already engaged at the arena.
After a quick tour of the accommodations--which are meager--and the training area, Pim asks, “Any questions?”
Dag nods a few times, agreeing with your assessment about the uselessness of the masks worn by Morenna's swords. "They're hiding something? I cannot say for certain."
"I mean to find out," grumbles Bandrigos. "I'm tearing the masks clean off their faces tomorrow."
"Generally frowned upon, Band my boy," replies Dag, who then explains an unwritten code of arena honor: take nothing from any foe who falls during a fight.
Tark then chimes in. "Yes, let's avoid that unpleasant attention, Bandrigos. Aranath would be most unpleased. A more delicate approach is what I suggest. I intend to do some after hours research. Let's see what's behind the masks when they're drinking a pint of ale and celebrating a day's work. Anyone care to join me?"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Staring at the stars as he rocks in his hammock, Moneo does a double-take looking tot he surface of the water, and thinks to himself, "...was there just something there?"As he sits up, he takes a closer look over the edge ((perception 8)), but also calls out to the sailor on watch for the night, saying, "Hey Bright Eyes! You see anything off the port side?" ((bardic inspiration on their perception check))
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Calliope lets out a string of curses that would either make her captain very proud or very angry. She thought she was dealing with an unfortunate victim whose body got dumped, or better yet, a fisherman with strange napping habits, but this... She shakes her head, still not quite over the shock.
She spends a minute scrutinizing the face and body, seeing if she recognizes the man or any sort of emblem or uniform that would indicate who he was. And then, against all instinct, she waddles back a step, reaches out with the tip of one of her knifes, and jostles the shoulder a bit, the way one might try to wake a sleeping bear.
((Not sure what type of check you would like to identify the body or anything about it, so here's a straight d20: 3))
"Were they fighting today? I would have thought that they, like us, would be preparing for the coming battle." Flicks eye towards Aranath's room. "And... how do you intend to leave the premises on the eve of battle? I understand that that is frowned upon as well."
Robin, her hair loose at the moment, pushes some of the deep red strands behind her ear as she looks at the book. Noticing the strange way the lettering twinkles like the night sky, she offers up a prayer to Kruphix and reaches for the book. Her cloak swishes softly as she turns from the shelf, book in hand, and steps over to a reading table she had spotted previously. Taking a seat she stares at the book for a long moment, then sighs.
"Oh great Kruphix , god of mysteries, guide your servant here..." She murmers as she lays her hand on the cover of the book. "You have shown me that some secrets are best left unknown by all, so guide me in my research..." She then opened the book and started to read.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
And so it begins...
Grexes of the Longfang
“There’s a bit of the unusual about her fighters,” remarks Aranath, the local lord to whom you are currently bound. He is in the next room, speaking to Pim, his obsequious right-hand man.
“Undoubtedly so,” replies Pim.
“Wage battle as if they’re in a damned trance,” muses Aranath, ignoring Pim’s remark, per his usual.
You and three other gladiators are gathered around a table, taking in an evening meal of dried goat meat, overly-ripe figs, and stale bread. The wine you use to wash it down is, somewhat surprisingly, decent. You’ve been told that tomorrow you will step into the arena for the first time, and you wonder if one of her--whoever she might be--fighters will be the one to face you. For a week now, you’ve been training with the fellows with whom you are now breaking bread: Bandrigos, a minotaur who, thus far, seems to be only slightly more intelligent than the club he wields; Tark, a shifty-eyed human that gives you the impression he will disappear into the night at the first opportunity; and Dag, a gregarious centaur who is eerily accurate with a javelin.
“What’s Aranath talking about?” asks Tark, who looks at Bandrigos, the veteran of the group.
“Morenna,” he answers with a mouthful of food. “Her swords*...the ones with the masks.”
“A nasty bunch they are,” adds Dag. “Defeated one a few weeks ago. Refused to kneel, and I had to kill him. Unfortunate.”
“Most bets are on her swords these days, I hear,” offers Bandrigos.
“Fighting a man...not seeing his face...it’s a strange thing,” says Dag. “But we’re in a strange business, aren’t we, Grexes? You should feel good about tomorrow, friend. You’re ready!”
*sword = slang term for an arena fighter
Moneo Noree
“We’d like to avoid any Reverent entanglements,” explains the harbormaster.
You nod slightly in response to a request you’ve heard a hundred times.
“Up the coast to Meletis Harbor and then along the channel that leads into Meletis proper. Best course of action, I say,” he continues.
Your knowledge of the waters to and from Meletis tells you that the boat and, therefore, the cargo for this job will be rather small. The east-west channel between the harbor and Meletis doesn’t permit vessels with a draft greater than a few feet. You’ve taken on jobs for this harbormaster--a fidgety old human named Sepp--a few times before. He’s been trustworthy and always pays up as promised.
The small sailing vessel is moored to the southernmost dock; in it sits five oak barrels. Illicit spirits from the Dakra Isles. Predictable. But profitable.
Sepp hands you forty pieces of gold and assures you the other sixty will be paid by his “contact” in Meletis. There’s a good deal of fun that can be had in Meletis with that much gold...
Calliope
Nearly a week has passed since the shipwreck, and you wait patiently for some indication of what you and your surviving shipmates ought to do next. The days spent on the harbor have been peaceful, granting you abundant time to reflect on the cause-and-effect that has brought you to this unexpected place.
Strolling up and down the coastline has become a common daily pursuit, despite the chill of the ocean air and the faithful morning fog. On this particular morning, you are alone and have wandered north several miles, reaching a narrow inlet that has allowed the sea to flood a broad, flat expanse of the coast. Bulrushes and salt grass stretch as far as the eye can see, and a variety of seabirds come and go.
Within a few minutes, a dark oblong object in the reeds catches your attention. Initially unsure of what it might be, you walk toward it until you realize it is the body of a humanoid completely shrouded in cloth and lying in a small boat that is scarcely larger than its cargo....
Robin Holdcrest
The Dekatia has become like a second home to you over the past few weeks. Hours pass like minutes as you sift through the seemingly endless volumes of lore, history, and knowledge that line the shelves of its libraries. You have become a familiar face to many of the mages and philosophers that haunt the place, and they seem content to allow you to read and study as you wish.
To say that you are surprised by the news of the death of a young mage who was doing nothing more than sitting and reading is an understatement. Listening to snatches of conversation from others who frequent the Dekatia, you learn that the unfortunate lad was bitten and poisoned by some unknown creature within the main library. The only witness is Yenni, a female satyr with whom you’ve had a few short conversations in the past.
“Directly from the pages themselves,” she explains. “That’s how it entered the room. Serpent-like. I shudder to think where it is now.”
Your interactions with Yenni have led you to believe she’s excitable and has a tendency for hyperbole, but her tale about the mage’s death is by far the most fantastic thing she’s ever said.
Something serpent-like appearing from the pages of a book isn’t exactly the same as darkness spreading over the land, but it feels eerily similar…
Mekleon
Sitting against a tree and fighting the urge to take a nap after an hours-long patrol, you suddenly discern the sound of unfamiliar voices. Standing to your full height, you peer over a lichen-covered boulder and see two Stratian captains---both of whom are unfamiliar to you--speaking to your elderly mentor. Although you cannot hear what is being said, the body language of the three suggests something of importance is being discussed. The conversation concludes, the captains depart, and Mekleon reclaims his seat. He rubs his chin, deep in thought.
A few hours later, the stars shine down from a cloudless sky and a blazing campfire fights off the evening chill. The other warriors are engaged in the usual small talk when Mekleon begins to explain the nature of the visit from the two captains: Akroan military leadership has requested that you play the role of an arena fighter for a few weeks.
“It’s an odd request,” he explains, “but I am confident they would not ask such a thing if it were not wholly necessary.”
Mekleon pokes at the fire with his spear for a few seconds before continuing, “Our vigilance in guarding Akros must include protecting it from enemies within. As you fulfill this duty, do so in the name of Iroas! Yes? Fighting nobly in his name will assure you fight for no other. As it has been said, a sword is wielded by only one master."
You appreciate the old fellow’s attempt to reassure you that your course of action will not play into the hands of Mogis.
Mekleon studies the stars as if he is searching for his next words among them. “You depart tomorrow. Arrangements have been made for you to be one of Aranath’s swords*. He will have no knowledge of your true identity.”
*sword = slang term for an arena fighter
"Agreed." Moneo says, nodding as he plots out the route in his head and glances to the sky to get a feel for the weather. Pocketing his coins without counting, knowing that Sepp isn't trying to cheat him, he says, "The channels are generally clear this time of year. Let's just hope we can keep the gods off our backs and that my contact is on shift when we arrive. But both can be dealt with if not." He then walks around the ship a bit, and pulls out a pen and paper to start making notes in case he'll need to forge some customs forms on arrival.
PbP 🎲: Tyekanik; Moneo Noree; Korba Muris; & occasional DM:
Calliope's eyes widen at the sight, instinctively changing directions an quickening her pace to approach the small boat. But after only a moment, she remembers her caution, and pauses to make sure she's alone on the shore. Whoever, or whatever, killed that person could still be out there...
Perception: 12
If she doesn't see anyone else on the nearby beach or lurking in the reeds, she continues her course, crouching down next to the boat to inspect it closer. Pulling one of the daggers from her belt - a wicked silver blade nearly the length of her forearm - she uses it to carefully lift off a corner of the cloth and get a peek at who is underneath.
Iris - Tiefling Cleric | Cassandra - Elf Warlock | Solace - Tiefling Monk | Tempest - Hexblood Monk | Lex - Fire Genasi Barbarian
Lilyn - Triton Ranger | Candor - Changeling Bard | Echo - Changeling Warlock/Bard | Rowan - Fairy Wizard
“A serpeent?” Robin asks as she glances around. “Which way did it go?” She asks, looking around herself. She frowns as she then looks to see what the mage in questionw was reading when he died, interested to know what sort of material the mage was interested in. She understands the need for knowledge, as well as the protection of such knowledge as should not be passed on.
Mekleon lets out a deep exhale as his mentor finishes speaking, his large nostrils flaring. "I hope you are correct in assuming this is necessary, sir," he rumbles. "But I cannot help be a little suspicious that they just want to see the big cow prove that he's the brute they know him to be. Very well. I will do it, if only to prove to them that none other than Iroas wields my sword, or hammer in this case. This Aranath... he is nobility? Influential?"
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"Strange, yes. It is not wise to 'feel good' before spilling blood, Dag. It spoils the thrill of the chase, the hunt, and the kill. "
He muses for a moment, considering one of the figs but putting it down, noticing an unappetizing orange stain around its base. As he puts it back he directs a question to any who might answer.
"But, surely a mask will not stop a blade. Why do they wear them in a bloodsport?"
Moneo
Confident that everything is in order, you set sail and follow the coastline northward. The weather is fair, and the wind seems to be cooperating; so, you estimate one day to reach Meletis Harbor and one more to navigate the channel. As the sun is sitting low in the west and the waters of Meletis Harbor gently rock the small boat, you drop anchor and prepare to watch the sunset and call it a day. Nothing quite like being rocked to sleep by the sea.
Suddenly, there’s a disturbance in the water near the stern of the boat. Possibly something swimming very near the surface? Whatever it is makes no noise, however...
Calliope
You study your surroundings for a minute or two until you are confident that nothing more than waterfowl and sandpipers are aware of your presence in the salt marsh. Using your dagger to cut through the coarse wrappings saturated with water and old blood, you eventually reveal the form of a human male, his body scarred with wounds both old and new. His arms are crossed, and pinned beneath them is a gold funerary mask. Your breath is momentarily taken away when you reveal the deceased’s face, for he has no eyes. You have heard tales of the Returned--those who have escaped the Underworld and return to dwell among the living--and you are certain that you now gaze upon one.
You recognize the tiny vessel in which the body rests as a funeral boat, a boat that is sent down a river carrying the remains of a person of importance. The only river, however, in this vicinity is miles to the north: the Deyda, which starts far to the north, beyond Akros, and flows into the Siren Sea...
Robin
“My fear of the creature superseded my curiosity about the book, I’m sure you understand,” remarks Yenni. “I do know that he found the book on the shelves near the statue of Karametra.”
That information narrows the possibilities considerably, and after Yenni bids you farewell, you begin to peruse the material in the vicinity of the statue of the goddess of harvests. Scanning the titles of the many tomes, you find yourself drawn to A Compendium of the Nyxborn. Somewhat unusual is the fact that the black lettering in the title seems to twinkle like the night sky...
Mekleon
“Neither influential nor nobility,” responds Mekleon. “His stable of swords is a bit thin of late, and his gladiators are slated soon to face those of the person of concern. I sense that your role is greater than gaining victory in the arena. That is what you shall prove, young one."
You bid farewell to Mekleon and begin the three to four hour trek to Akros, deep in thought with each step.
The next morning you are led to Aranath’s compound by a pair of Akroan soldiers. This is done to give the appearance that you're a less-than-willing participant in this whole affair, which is common for most gladiators. Upon your arrival, you are met by a fellow named Pim. He explains that he is Aranath’s assistant, and for the next several hours you and he will be the only ones present in the compound. Aranath and his fighters are already engaged at the arena.
After a quick tour of the accommodations--which are meager--and the training area, Pim asks, “Any questions?”
Grexes
Dag nods a few times, agreeing with your assessment about the uselessness of the masks worn by Morenna's swords. "They're hiding something? I cannot say for certain."
"I mean to find out," grumbles Bandrigos. "I'm tearing the masks clean off their faces tomorrow."
"Generally frowned upon, Band my boy," replies Dag, who then explains an unwritten code of arena honor: take nothing from any foe who falls during a fight.
Tark then chimes in. "Yes, let's avoid that unpleasant attention, Bandrigos. Aranath would be most unpleased. A more delicate approach is what I suggest. I intend to do some after hours research. Let's see what's behind the masks when they're drinking a pint of ale and celebrating a day's work. Anyone care to join me?"
Staring at the stars as he rocks in his hammock, Moneo does a double-take looking tot he surface of the water, and thinks to himself, "...was there just something there?" As he sits up, he takes a closer look over the edge ((perception 8)), but also calls out to the sailor on watch for the night, saying, "Hey Bright Eyes! You see anything off the port side?" ((bardic inspiration on their perception check))
PbP 🎲: Tyekanik; Moneo Noree; Korba Muris; & occasional DM:
Calliope lets out a string of curses that would either make her captain very proud or very angry. She thought she was dealing with an unfortunate victim whose body got dumped, or better yet, a fisherman with strange napping habits, but this... She shakes her head, still not quite over the shock.
She spends a minute scrutinizing the face and body, seeing if she recognizes the man or any sort of emblem or uniform that would indicate who he was. And then, against all instinct, she waddles back a step, reaches out with the tip of one of her knifes, and jostles the shoulder a bit, the way one might try to wake a sleeping bear.
((Not sure what type of check you would like to identify the body or anything about it, so here's a straight d20: 3))
Iris - Tiefling Cleric | Cassandra - Elf Warlock | Solace - Tiefling Monk | Tempest - Hexblood Monk | Lex - Fire Genasi Barbarian
Lilyn - Triton Ranger | Candor - Changeling Bard | Echo - Changeling Warlock/Bard | Rowan - Fairy Wizard
"Were they fighting today? I would have thought that they, like us, would be preparing for the coming battle." Flicks eye towards Aranath's room. "And... how do you intend to leave the premises on the eve of battle? I understand that that is frowned upon as well."
Robin, her hair loose at the moment, pushes some of the deep red strands behind her ear as she looks at the book. Noticing the strange way the lettering twinkles like the night sky, she offers up a prayer to Kruphix and reaches for the book. Her cloak swishes softly as she turns from the shelf, book in hand, and steps over to a reading table she had spotted previously. Taking a seat she stares at the book for a long moment, then sighs.
"Oh great Kruphix , god of mysteries, guide your servant here..." She murmers as she lays her hand on the cover of the book. "You have shown me that some secrets are best left unknown by all, so guide me in my research..." She then opened the book and started to read.