"Still want to stop at the tower, Gleb?" Joseph shouts from behind, over the grating sound of wagon wheels. The question feels rhetorical, like the ranger knew the answer before asking it.
The aged merchant speaks with a stuttered whisper, "N-n-no, I.. I think Nata and I will pass. Turn your eyes, lass, lest the omen befall you."
Joseph glances at the tower. "You know," he shouts, "if you need to eat, I can drive that wagon."
As if in reply to the ranger's snide remark, a shout is heard from the tower. "No, n-no! No! No!" It is immediately followed by a man's painful scream. The crows do not stir.
Joseph stops, his hand moving to his sword. He looks up and down the road, bites his lip, and runs a few steps, putting himself between the tower and the party, where he pauses. "Get that cart out of here!" he shouts over his shoulder, pointing south. "Stay near the cathar!" He turns to the cleric. "I'll see what it is! Syd, I might need your help!" He draws a sword and jogs towards the tower.
Noticing the bowman rush off towards a visibly ominous location, the Cleric is immediately torn. Once again, the possibility of danger in the front and the rear is presented, and threat levels increase. Fear and uncertainty lead to a moment of hesitation. By the time Syd's hand could move to stop Joseph in his tracks, the man was too far away. A sigh escapes the priest's nostrils as he closes his eyes for another moment to think. When they snap open, they're directed at Raben. "I was about to state that our party is already smaller than it was. Being further separated will jeopardise the assignment. It is imperative that we three remain together."
Another sigh, this one appearing to steel his breathing and showing a not often seen seriousness in an otherwise amicable and relaxed expression. "Normally I would defer to you on this, but if something were to happen, we'd have to fight while protecting them. And all things considered," - Blackmore mentioned, referring not to the ominous scene before them but the details of their assignment - "getting a feel for this tower may not be a bad thing, for us. So we should separate. Each of the three groups should go their own way."
Now directly facing Gleb, the Holy man would continue. "Apologies, but your ponies and cart will offer you mobility we three do not have, and I believe Avacyn's torch can hold off danger until you reach Hanweir. Blessings are not my forte, but should it steady your hearts, I can try to grant you one, if you wish. And you," - he continued, this time to the peasant that had tagged along previously - "Threg, was it? Your horse should get you there faster than any of us."
Shuddering, "Nata" whined pitifully, "Murder of crows, crows of murder. No like. Get away, far away. Gleb hurry cart." She didn't like the look of the tower or its watchers to begin with and the scream just reinforced her desire to flee far from the place. Pity, compassion, heroics. ..these were things not taught in the slums were she grew up. No, it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. Moving to place the cart between her and the tower, she continued to try to urge Gleb to move along while staying well away from the horses who she had found disliked her presence. The other group could pry all they like but her priority was Gleb's safety and her own.
Hearing the cleric of Goldnight's words, Threg and Gleb look onto Raben, pathetic and pleading. "No, ya' can't, " Threg starts.
Raben gives Syd a hard look. He pulls his silver sword from its scabbard. "Worry not, I will escort the cart by this cursed tower. Hurry, Syd. Join Joseph before he gets too far. We will try to get a shout's distance on the other side." With that, Raben, Threg and his mount, along with Gleb, Nata and the cart start down Angel's Way at a steady pace. As the ranger makes his advance, the crows on the northern side, one by one, they aim their beady eyes on him. Some ruffle their breast, others pick their wings, but they do not release their perch.
His words had fallen into deaf ears yet again. For the third time in this cart, the holy man let out a sigh. This one was considerably longer than the other two, and made no attempt to hide the frustration therein. He'd been having horrible feelings since the encounters with the ooze, and both the Ranger and the Cathar seemed too confident for their - and most importantly his - own good. With a light step, the Cleric stepped down from the cart and then jogged closer to Joseph, his chain mail clinking as he did.
Murders at the Tower
As Syd catches up to the advancing Joseph, the crows, each and every one of them, take flight. The gust of their numerous wings is like a storm, causing the windows to batter. They swarm the area, surrounding, encircling the cleric and ranger. A cacophony of cries escapes their black craws, in tandem to the hurricane of wing beats, so loud it pierces the eardrums- so erratic, it stabs at the mind. For the sounds they make sound all too familiar. All.. too.. human.
"No! What is it? No-I don't know, a cloud?-no! Aaaaugh! Please-no! Stop! Arrrgh!"
Joseph's jog slows to a stop; his last few steps are nearly a stagger as he gazes upwards, wide-eyed, at the mass of feathered blackness crashing down from the heavens. His sword arm sags loosely at his side as a sinister shadow sweeps over the land like an ocean wave. As the murder enveloped the duo, Syd's sigil of Goldnight was raised to his lips and did what he did best: he closed his eyes and prayed. For a second, countless inaudible words escaped his lips, further muffled by the countless wing flaps and the rapidly approaching threat. With a glint of holy light, the Priest's eyes shot open and he shouted "Ranger, avert your eyes!", bringing his right hand, that had turned pale from clasping the religious token with such force crashing down onto his shield. The moment it struck, the Cleric's body emanated a bright, golden, divine light, reminiscent of a grandiose summer sun, throwing the crows and their unhallowed whispers into disarray.
The sharp command from Syd breaks Joseph free from the spell. Turning his torso, he raises his sword arm high into the air, closes his eyes, and tucks his face sideways into the crook of his upraised elbow. The harsh flash of the cleric's holy light illuminates the poised, scale-clad hunter, making him seem a stoic statue in the middle of the moors, leading the charge of some lost and forgotten army. Without hesitation, he draws his other shortsword, turns back towards the road, and lumbers the first few steps of a harried retreat. "Back! Back!" he shouts to Syd. As he leans forward into a stooped charge towards the cart, Joseph desperately flails his swords--first the right, then the left--above his ducked head. Amidst the gentle thunder of the hundreds of wings, a few blood-curdling squawks are heard, and four crows hit the rocky dirt at his feet with a soft thump, their black bodies twitching and writhing in the dust. Shoulders hunched, loping erratically but steadily away from the tower, he looks up towards Raben and the wagon in the distance and bellows, "Go, go, go, go!"
Looking briefly behind her as she hurried alongside the slow moving cart, Yesfir eyes widened as she quickly increased her pace. "Faster, faster," Nata's voice rang a little deeper but the panic and fear in it were not faked. Casting another worried glance behind her, she worriedly bit her bottom lip before turning forward, pulling her cloak tighter. Reaching deep into the shimmering sea inside her, she felt her body begin to tingle with potential power yet to be released, hold the energy of a spell of mist and fog.
Despite his penchant for being the first one to step into trouble, the Ranger was certainly adept at being the first one out, Syd thought to himself as he watched Joseph run like the wind outside of the encirclement. Now in an awkward position, surrounded by a sea of black birds, some of which seemed to run against one another, presumably from the bright light that had no doubt done a number on their corneas, the Priest quickly decides to dip out not unlike the ranger had and, once far enough away from these menaces, strike them with more divine light: this time, a sacred flame that descended on these angel-forsaken menaces.
Awkward and clearly hindered by Syd's blinding aura, the crows haphazardly maintain their coherent form. They shriek and cry in disconcerted voices, mangling their mockery of human speech even further.
Their vision removed by the afterglow of the cleric's holy light, a portion of crows fly disorganized and horridly random to parts unknown, dissolving the overall size of the murder. Raben watches his two allies and their bout against the carrion, and decidedly well he thought. Many of the crows were dispersing, taking to the skies noisily on frantic wings while crying into the gray sky. Seeing the two flee back towards the cart and hearing Joseph's Go, go, go! however, Gleb reaches down to his young ward and pulls Nata up beside him. "Hold on, Nata!" He whisks the reigns and holds them tight, causing his two ponies to rear on their hind legs with distressed neighs and dashing forward. Threg does the same atop his mount, keeping pace with the speeding cart. Raben sprints after them, blade in hand, but falls shortly behind shouting, "Go! Go until you can't hear the crows, go! We'll be right behind!"
As he runs, Joseph peers backwards, past his shoulder. Seeing the cleric fall behind, and the whirling cyclone of crows swarm around him, the ranger's brow becomes troubled in brief, yet decisive thought. Continuing his charge towards the cart, he lets loose both shortswords, which ring and clatter to the rocky soil. He throws his arms straight back, and the travel pack slides loose from his back, along with the bow and quiver atop it. The pack lands at his heels, tumbling end-over-end a moment before coming to a rest. Not bothering to look back, the swordsman yells to the departing caravan, "They're too fast!" Then he points to the cart. "You two! Threg! Under the wagon! Cover your faces!" His brown eyes shift to the cathar, and he simply calls out, "Raben!"
Then, something from within twists the hunter's face, a solemn determination mixed with the slightest hint of fear. He whips around mid-run and skids to a halt, facing the cacophony of ebony feathers and jaundiced beaks, and rips off his duster, revealing his tarnished scale mail. "Syd!" he cries. "We make our stand at the wagon!" Gripping the overcoat by the shoulders like a matador's cape, the ranger faces the oncoming storm, widening his stance and clenching his teeth.
Yesfir wasted no time in obeying the orders given to her, move quickly under the cart. Huddled underneath she couldn't help but stare. There were so many crows. More than she had ever seen and they sounded so human. As her breath came in quick gasps, she raised her shaking hands right hand making a shaky waving gesture almost as if to his her face from the sight. "Asconde Va!" She stuttered loudly in a foreign tongue. Her eyes briefly flashed silver as the air shimmered around her and a eerie fog formed around the swarm of crows, concealing them from sight. Realizing how her ability had clearly shown, she panicked speaking in the higher tones of Nata's voice, "Cursed, we are all cursed. Doomed!" Wailing she curled up in a small ball to hide.
After some arcane chanting, a ball of radiance drops down from the sky and clips the murderous flock - albeit just barely - before the chinks of chainmail resonate through the air, largely muffled by a barrage of ominous caws. Syd had rushed out of there, to a full 60 feet away from the creatures, catching up with the Ranger, but still 20 feet off from the good Cathar, and a full 40 away from the Caravan they sought to protect. This day wasn't getting any easier, it seemed.
The swirling body of crows, at first erratic and incoherent, begins to expand in unison, uniform in fashion. Before you'd think they would take to the sky just as the other swarm had, they converge inward and convalesce, flying into the open door of the tower. Amidst the black blur, a woman appears. Her wardrobe is old, tattered, if not makeshift. Perhaps it once was a dress or long skirt, now blotted with stains and torn in pure disarray. A skull-like headdress shapes her long, mangy black hair down her back. She is pale and firm faced, eyes sharp, arms at her sides, purposed- an eldritch, twisted blade in her right hand, dripping dark crimson blood into the dirt. She shouts with a backwoods voice that carries over even above the litany of avian creatures- so clear, you'd swear you heard it not with your ears but with your mind.
"You are doomed! All that way- you are doomed!"
Stopping the horses abruptly, Threg and Gleb retreat underneath its wooden frame as cover. Tears run Threg's face, while Gleb puts his arms around the frail Nata and covers her face and whispers, "Do not worry, dear! They will keep us safe. Angels be gone, these men will keep us safe!"
With a look of relief, Joseph pulls his duster back on, catches his breath, then looks back to the road. He checks in on the cart, throws a furtive look of caution at Raben, and walks towards the tower a bit, past his dust-covered pack. Slowly, he stoops for one of his swords. "It seems all of Innistrad is doomed as of late," he shouts to the woman, without looking up. Then he wipes the dust off the blade and runs his thumb along the edges, checking for damage. He points it in the air towards the last of the retreating crows.
"What do you know of those foul creatures?" He slides the short sword into a scabbard. "They seem at ease in your tower." He crouches to retrieve his other sword from the ground.
Her right shoulder dips low, the tip of her wicked weapon almost touching the ground. A faint ghostly aura emanates from its black blades. Her face cocks slightly to the left as she does this, abruptly, birdlike. "I'd put that away if I was you.. ya' might hurt y'urself."
The ranger stares icily at the tower-dweller, casually continuing his task. "We've no quarrel with you, woman. Just collecting our things an' we'll be on our way." His demeanor is firm and aloof; yet he moves to sheathe his second weapon rather than inspect it.
Raben strafes his eyes between the demonic woman and the cart with its three passengers. They were all absconding themselves beneath it now, for shelter and safety. It seemed Joe held the situation now, in tenuous diplomacy. He wasn't about to stand astride the ranger and appear as if they meant to outnumber the witch. Once in front of the cart, he speaks in a hushed voice, "I don't know what will happen, but should we make a move, you have to go."
The woman shifts her weight to the other side of her pale, light body in a single, jaunt motion. "It is fine. Was done wit' my work," she says lifting the blade to her face, the blood now running down its hilt and over her fingers, her eyes watching its movement. "We both leave. The crows, they clean."
Joseph holds his icy gaze on the woman a moment, then slowly and deliberately turns, grabs his pack with one hand and collects his bow and quiver with the other, and begins heading back towards the wagon, dragging the pack in the dirt behind him. "Let's go," he whispers to Syd as he passes. "Whoever those wagons belong to was dead a long time ago."
In pensive silence, attempting to absorb as much of the current scene as he possibly could, Syd would do nothing but nod. At the bloodied woman's words, at the Ranger's whisper, or even to himself, who knew? Still, he would not move from his position. Not yet. Not to challenge the knife-wielding witch's authority, instead to follow it. When she left, so would he. After a moment elapsed and Joe had already begun his walk, Syd would take little more than a couple of steps to his hind, and no longer faced the witch straight on, but in a flank. The flank that was covered by his shield, true, but the action reinforced the willingness to comply and avoid bloodshed. This was him meeting her half-way. If she left, he would too.
Her words are slow and taunting. "And they say that the men wit' the collar are not so wise." She spreads her arms and you swear to see black feathered wings unfurl behind her, but what you witness is her form become that of a giant crow. She opens her shiny crooked beak and emits a mind rending screech, fluttering into the shroud of the Moorland gray sky.
After a quick look behind him, towards the tower, Joseph flings his pack into the cart with a grunt, then carefully places his bow and quiver next to it, spending a moment to straighten the arrows. He then looks up, towards the sun, squinting. He approaches the side of the cart, stoops down, and asks Gleb, "You two gonna be all right?" Then he turns to Threg and holds his hand out to the commoner, offering to help him out. "C'mon outta there. Pull yourself together. They're gone." He glances sidelong to Raben and Syd with a slight look of question and urgency.
The older peasant grabs the ranger's hand fervently and gets to his feet. He then helps the young Nata out from under the cart. "See that, Nata? They chased that hag away!"
The girl scuffles to her feet and searches around behind her cowl. "No crows? No witch?"
"That's right, girl."
Gleb continues to placate the frightened girl and situate her onto the cart. Threg climbs out from beneathe the wooden shelter, as well, looking to the sky. "Well," he starts, "hopin' that's that last of her."
"Yes, hopefully." Raben stands straight and fixes his affects. He stares at the tower's door, his mind obviously plagued with doubt.
The ranger moves to the ponies, checking them over. "We need to be moving. Threg, can you ride? If not, I can take your mount and you can ride in the wagon and rest until you're ready." He turns to Raben. "Once we are clear of this foul place, we can stop briefly--very briefly--to eat." He turns his attention back to the ponies and mutters, "Last thing we need is people panicking." It's unclear if he meant to be heard.
The priest unhurriedly approached the caravan, remaining in quiet introspection. The Ranger's desire to move forward swiftly had been made clear, but then it had been that very Ranger who'd insisted on this detour, and frankly, it wouldn't be these few seconds that'd make the difference. "I'll be paying my respects. Do what you will, just stick together this time." - he spoke after finally having reached the cart, and sitting down on it.
Closing his eyes, the Cleric would take a few moments to properly digest the previous scene and replay it in his mind, carefully combing it for any information he might've missed and, of course, paying his respects to the deceased in the form of prayers. His lips moved swiftly but calmly, and even despite his mumbling careful onlookers could tell there was diction involved. His amulet was brought close to his lips and his free hand made the required motions minutely and devoid of any real flare. It wouldn't be the same performing final rites, but whatever happened here was likely gruesome, and the least he could do was offer his condolences.
When he'd finished, his eyes opened and - depending on how swiftly or slowly the cart he sat on was travelling - the man would decide whether to walk by its side or remain there. Syd did not appear particularly shaken, but the trademarked smile was gone from his face, replaced with the stern gaze one might not find unusual for a preacher. But, whatever implications were to be made from his expression, conversation didn't seem to be on the menu for the time being.
"As soon as we're free of our unarmed folk, we'll have that liberty," Joseph replies to Syd as he makes his way around the wagon, giving it a cursory inspection. "How's your cart handle, Gleb? Can it take a bit of a faster pace?" After grabbing and jiggling various bits of cargo in the back, he turns to the group. "Let's get out of sight of this place. We'll go easy until we break for food. While you all eat, I'll tighten everything down and prepare the ponies for a quicker pace.
He glances to Threg, and his eyebrows lower slightly. "You doing all right? Need to ride with the girl, or can you take your horse, yourself?"
"Oh, she's a stubborn one. I remember riding in the back even when I was young, but she might be able to go a bit faster, if the road is nice enough." He watches tentatively as the ranger goes through the cart's contents.
"No, I.. I can hold my own on the road, Master Joseph." Threg mounts his steed. "Y'all are brave, facin' up to that hag, defendin' us. Thank Avacyn for you."
The Borders of the Moorland Once everyone has gathered themselves, the band continues their travel. They should reach Hanweir by nightfall, Avacyn willing. The landscape grows in color as the hours pass by. The moorland's grey rocky landscape has given way into brown and yellow shrubs and trees with even a few leaves. On either side of road, plotted farmland can be seen once again, signs of human life which you hadn't seen in too long.
Enough time has passed now that the party stops once more for a small meal. Not wanting to waste valuable daylight, they simply stop on the crossway instead of traveling into a farmer's land and requesting some form of hospitality. At this time, Joseph inspects and ties down the contents of Gleb's cart. Nata had complained that the unscrupulous ranger was going through Gleb's belongings, but with some reassurance she quieted down and resumed her hermitic behavior. The ranger aims to make for a much faster pace compared to their previous travels. His worry about the nature of Threg's ails is not unfounded, and he wishes to arrive in Hanweir before the full moon shows its fickle alabaster complexion.
Their short meal of rations and water finished, everyone began to climb onto the cart with Joseph on the reigns, but as Raben was pulling on, a man's scream could be heard in the distance. Turning in the direction of the fright, you see a man with a farming tool running across his plotted field. Behind him, a short wall marks the perimeter of his land, and three figures are behind it, shadowed and blurred by the distance as well as by a sickeningly yellow mist.
The scream sets the Kessiger into motion. "Get down! In the wagon!" Joseph hisses to Gleb and Yesfir as he hastily ties off the reigns. "Gleb, be ready to take the driver's seat." He then scrambles over the freight, to the back, while unclasping his swords' securing straps. He grabs his bow, two arrows from the nearby quiver, and vaults over the back. Muttering something in frustration, he moves to the side of the cart, near the driver's front seat, field-side. He then leans an arrow against the wheel, takes two steps towards the fleeing man, and nocks the remaining arrow before stopping, his weapon held low but at the ready in both hands. After a nervous sweep of the sky around him, he squints and peers forward. "You see what it is?" he says out loud, to no one in particular.
Seeing the distant figure fleeing to the farmhouse, the hunter clenches his mouth, the fattened corner of his lip protruding like a tumor. "We can't..." he begins out loud, but stops. He glances down the road to the south. His consideration is brief, nearly instant; he returns his gaze to the man in the field, and scowls. "Prepare yourselves," he says quietly. "We may have to fight, an' we may have to run." He then un-nocks the arrow and tucks it under his arm, places his fingers in his mouth, and lets loose an ear-piercing horse whistle that echoes across the rocky hills.
At the sound of the harsh, air-piercing whistle, the man looks to his right and sees the small cart and its entourage, but before he could even process a thought, he trips and falls into the toiled dirt with a heavy grunt. His frantic voice heightens in fearful panic as he attempts to scramble to his feet. "No, no, no! Help me, help me please!"
His tormentors have now reached the short border wall of his farm. They reach over the wood and mortar with gaunt arms. A sour odor now presses its way into your nostrils - musty and dank, like fuming mushrooms over the dead.
Before the man hits the ground, Joseph's arrow is re-nocked and his bow drawn. He lines a shot up with one of the three creatures in pursuit, cocks his head slightly, and looses an arrow. The bowstring snaps taut and the arrow whistles slightly as it sails across the field, towards one of the three figures. Immediately Joseph reaches back, grabs his other arrow from the wagon wheel, and begins running towards the fallen man. "This way! Get up and come this way!" he hollers.
The arrow soars over the distance and makes its mark in the center of the three shrouded figures. A breathless scowl is heard echoing across the farmlands, and the injured entity surges forward with surprising speed, lurching over the wall and making its way across the plotted grounds. As it moves, its yellow shroud lags behind it's animate corpse, allowing you to get a view of this unhallowed creature. Its body has been long dead, but that doesn't stop it from bounding forward arms outstretched, reaching towards the fallen man. The other two figures become more visible as the yellow haze clears around them. Specific details are still blurred by their distance, but they, too, are walking corpses- haunting the land and tormenting any living soul they meander across. They climb over this shallow wall and shamble across the farm.
This time, the Holy man didn't even need to look at the Ranger. Whatever was bound to happen had been written on his face already. Taking off running towards the trio of apparent undead about to gang up on this individual, the Cleric clutched his holy amulet in his hand and performed the required chantings before a radiant burst of light shone through this dusk-approaching afternoon and came crashing down onto the being that had pulled ahead of the pack, an attempt at preventing it from affecting the crawling individual who currently seemed to be in the middle of bawling his eyes out.
Raben brandishes his silver sword and takes point in front of the cart. "I've got the cart and the folk. Go and save the man!"
At the precise moment Raben shouts his words, the farmer gets to his feet and pulls a mattock from the dirt near him, swinging it at the smog-billowing ghoul but not quite reaching it. Seeing nothing but his own futility, he panics and attempts to flee, dropping the farm tool. As he turns, the undead thing lunges forward with a bony, rotten hand and digs deeply into the man's back, rending his flesh. A sickening squelch is heard as blood is splattered into the air and without a cry, the man falls into the ground.
"No!" the ranger shouts, his bow already drawn as he paused for another shot. Without taking the time to aim, he fires his last arrow at the sallow humanoid. The projectile lodges with a wet thump into the creature's forearm. Joseph then flings the worn longbow aside and draws his sword as he continues his charge towards the fallen man.
The other two ghouls slowly cross over the short wall, pulling themselves up in a vile mockery of life and begin closing in on this new victim. Their moans are hallow and devoid of air due to collapsed and dried lungs. One appears as a forlorn woman in a dress with sunken eyes and a sword through her stomach, while the other is an unarmed soldier- his armor tarnished and decrepit and uniform in dregs, barely recognizable as Avacynian. The man gives no indication of getting back up, and the wretched body looming over the farmer turns its yellow gaze at the ranger before him and reaches with an undead hand in an attempt to bash Joseph's face in. Quick on his feet, Joseph dodges the attack, the fog-ridden ghoul turning its head with a hissing wheeze.
Standing his ground, the priest would attempt to summon the flare of radiant light his collar was synonymous with, and aim it at the pale, yellow undead. Alas, the fog partly obstructed his sight and the beam missed its target. "Ranger! You're going to get surrounded! Fall back! Now!" - he bellowed, lowering his stance, raising his shield and assuming battle positions while his eyes canvased the surroundings.
At the cart, Yesfir watches the ranger and Goldnight cleric rush to the poor farmer's aid despite the clear danger. She turns to Gleb and Threg, who are intently watching the scene that was transpiring. She nods to herself and speaks an incantation beneath her breath. Black mana swirls around her small hands as she makes a swiping motion and as she does so, a magical, formless black claw slashes at the haze ghoul across the farmland, opening up sutures that are apparently keeping its body in one piece.
Raben watched his brave fellows. Deep down, he knew the farmer was gone now, and he hated staying behind, but someone had to defend their accompaniment. Should he leave and some other monster attack the defenseless, he'd never forgive himself. He shouts to his comrades, "Cover your mouths! Don't linger in the fog!"
Joseph takes a step back from the mist-shrouded ghoul and draws his second sword. The world seems to pause around him as he stands, a sword held out in either direction, his head snapping around to survey the scene. His eyes come to rest briefly on the fallen farmer. When he looks up, there's a primal glint in his eye, like that of a wolf that has cornered its prey. A snarl forms on his lips. It strangely resembles a smile. With a mighty shout he leaps forward, bringing a blade down towards the yellow fiend's shoulder. The thing flinches, the sword misses, and Joseph stumbles forward as his momentum pulls him along the weapon's arc. Looking up from a half-crouch, he twists his body away and staggers back, regaining his footing while desperately swinging the other blade around, back-hand. The tip barely finds the creature's chest, leaving a small, ragged gash.
Now clear of the ghoul, Joseph retreats, still facing his enemies. With one sword held before him, he waves the other in the air at the three undead. "Come on! Come on!" he screams as he backs up with surprising speed to the cleric's position.
Seeing the lively newcomers, the three living corpses grunt and rasp, hastily moving across the farmland with grotesque motion and catching up to the ranger and surrounding him. They're necrotized fingers are outstretched and ready to tear into his warm flesh, their putrid mouths open wide with rotten teeth waiting to pierce his skin.
Seeing their protectors getting swarmed by the undead, Gleb clambers to the back of his cart, opening the chest and pulling the Avacynian Torch. "Here, Raben! Throw it to them! It will help them!"
Raben momentarily looks at the wonderous torch and its silver inlays. Avacyn, please. Help your servants. He then tosses it, aiming for some vegetation not too far from his troubled comrades.
Having spotted a familiar torch flying through the air thanks to Raben’s shout, Syd would rush towards it, pluck it from the ground in a single, nimble swoop and pull it to his lips, mouthing off some arcane words. Within an instant, in the hooked edges of the item shaped like Avacyn’s collar, sparks would begin to emerge, which would swiftly turn into embers and, before anyone knew it, a full blown flame, bringing holy light to this plain darkened by evil. The instant the incantus finished and light was brought out, the priest would move the arm his shield was strapped to forward and, with another bout of prayer-like words, summon up another blast of radiance, that this time, the putrid ringleader of this trio of the dead would not be able to escape.
Once the deeds were done, Syd would retreat back, a full ten feet, keeping the Ranger and their foes bathed on the edges of the torch’s light. “The light will make them sluggish and dull! Move back!” - he added, hoping the Ranger would remove himself from the front lines.
A brilliant white light emits from the scene of battle and the living, breathing onlookers gaze in awe and wonderment while the ghouls stagger and emit horrible groans and breathless gasps.
Again, Yesfir ensures that the rest of the members not directly participating in the bout with the undead are wary of her actions. Currently enraptured by the cleric's holy torch, she affirms they've no attention to spare on her. She repeats the same chant and motions, producing a black ethereal claw just behind the gaseous one, slashing across its body. If the undead troop would swarm the defenders of her and the cart, she would cloak the ghouls in a fog to allow the fighters to escape.
Raben clenches his sword hand around his blade's hilt. No other threats had appeared thus far, thank Avacyn. If it gets any worse, he might have to join the ranger and cleric if only to help them retreat and save their lives. He didn't want to leave Gleb, Threg, and Nata defenseless for too long.
When the ghouls surround the ranger, so too do the vapors following the yellowed body. Joseph pulls his left arm over his face, trying with futility to keep at bay the noxious fumes, but to no avail; he begins coughing and hacking uncontrollably. Eyes all but closed, he makes a wild swing at the stench-ridden ghoul, but the sword swings slow and short. He wretches and gags a moment, and begins retreating out of the fog, hunched over in a coughing fit. Managing a look up, he sees the armor-clad ghoul reach out to attack, and counters with a quick upward swing, clipping the outstretched, rotted hand with the sword. Two tattered fingers fall to the ground. The third ghoul stumbles forward with an attack of her own, but stops mid-swipe, holding its hands up in pain to block the light of the torch. With erratic steps between coughs, Joseph manages to retreat to the cleric's side.
Seeing their immediate meal retreat from their vicinity, all three of the animated corpses surge forward together and surround Joseph. In the mass of attacks that ensued, it was a miracle of the angels- perhaps empowered by the cleric's blazing Avacynian torch, that only one had connected: a lung-collapsing slam from the undead soldier across the ranger's chest. During this unholy assault, the ghoul with the great weapon impaled through its belly had lunged too far. Its body twisted as it refaced Joseph, and the spin caused the blade to tear the she-ghoul's body in half. It falls to the ground with only its arms unusable, reaching and clawing for the ranger's legs.
The noxious fumes had begun to affect even the priest, now. With his eyes squinted and beginning to water at the acidity of this putrid gas, the holy man mumbled the divine words one might expect from him. It was beginning to be hard to breathe now that the poisonous particles had begun to take hold in his lungs. The strike was effective. But not enough. Beaten and battered it may have been, that thing was holding on to dear life... or whatever one might call it. Once again, three opponents stood before the ranger, and his party, despite having doubled in size, was still outnumbered. These foes it seemed, could take a beating. The best course of action would be for the two to distance themselves and meet Raben half-way. This way the undead’s number advantage would be lost, and so would the threat level. “Fall back! Move closer to the cart and use your arrows! Just put some space between you and them!” - he yelled to the Ranger who seemed to avoid using his bow and had already suffered a fairly nasty wound.
Raben's knuckles were stark white. Syd and Joseph were getting swarmed, if only one of them fell, it would mean death for them both. Raben was skilled, he knew. But he didn't believe he could fell two ghouls alone and simultaneously. He would more than likely retreat, rushing the cart forward to Hanweir.. unless he risked the common folk's safety and ran out to his comrades-in-arms. Nata chanted once more, growing tired of these things seemingly abundant constitution despite their bodies' decay. She conjures yet another deathly slash against the miasma-spewing ghoul, rending across its chess. A tube is torn and with a hiss the fog thins and clears, and the undead horror falls to ground, remaining silent and still.
With a final throaty hack, Joseph clears his airway and spits a large wad of phlegm on the ground before him, next to the yellow body. At that moment, with a sickening tearing sound, the walking scabbard falls apart at the torso, its two halves slamming down prone onto the dirt at his feet. Without hesitation the ranger grunts and springs like a wildcat, pouncing upon the upper half of the bisected ghoul, driving both swords through the back and into the dirt. The thing gurgles pathetically, its body convulsing, as its face slowly falls forward into the soil. He removes one foot from the body and kicks the torso free of his swords with the other--only to recoil instinctively when the rotten head snaps back up, mouth open and full of dirt, and lets out a curdled groan. It resumes clawing its way towards its target.
"Shit," Joseph mutters to himself, and leaps back behind the safety of Syd's shield, deftly stepping aside the other ghoul's clumsy swipe. "Its head!" he shouts. "Take its head!" Then he plants his feet, adjusts the grip of his swords held at his sides, and prepares to charge back in.
The two remaining ghouls close the distance between themselves and the cleric by foot or crawl, and flail their arms in the light of the torch. The crawling half-corpse slams an arm into the cleric's shield. With a sickening crack and a foul, nauseating stench filling the air, the bone breaks and splinters, the arm bent in an unnatural and horrid manner. The soldier ghoul screeches and snarls in the torchlight, unable to land a blow against the vessel of Goldnight.
The ghoul did not want to fall. Gritting his teeth, the Priest summoned that all-too familiar burst of radiance, which nailed the fallen ghoul, but failed to keep it down for good. Not too long after that, the growl they'd come to expect reemerged from its mouth as it reared up for another strike.
After two uses of her chill touch, Nata realizes that her phantasmal claw isn't as effective on the corpses' undead flesh, as they are animated by magic of black mana. She this time whispers of chilled nights and icy winds, bringing her palm to her lips and blows. A blue breeze gusts across the plowed farmland, through the ranger and cleric and over the fallen ghoul, lightly dusting its decrepid form in frost. It slowly freezes to a halt, but with a ghastly moan, it continues to crawl and reach for the ranger's shins. This thing was a relentless, undying evil, and Nata's eyes grew wide in horror and disbelief. The magic fueling these corpses was strong and unyielding, she believed. There was little she or this little band could do.
"Come back!" She shouts. "We run!"
Joseph darts past Syd, to the side of the grounded ghoul half, placing it between himself and the soldier-ghoul. Swinging his swords like a pair of hatchets he lands first one, then the other on the creature’s neck. Though the blades don’t cleave through, each blow seems to vanquish the fiend. Yet each time, after a moment of silence, it reanimates with a gasp and a gurgle, its vacant eyes staring up blankly and persistently at the ranger. He scowls with frustration, the three scars on his brow jutting out like a mountain range. “God DAMN it!” he shouts, readying his next attack. "Put the torch to it! Burn the bastard!"
The undead soldier steps forward, grating utterly as its chest presses against the cleric's shield and brings a rusted, metal-plated arm down on him. Syd turned at a slight angle, allowing the heavy-handed attack to clip his shoulder, minimizing the damage.
Unable to fell the foul, unliving beast, the crippled ghoul rasps and grabs hold of Joseph's leg with its wildly reaching arms and climbs up his body. Certain of its victim's location now, it reels an arm back, delivering a sizeable slam of its dead hand against the ranger's midriff, knocking the wind out of him and making parts of his vision go black.
When the crooked, rotted hand grabs Joseph's leg, he draws back, dragging the light torso across the dirt with him. He raises a sword, but when another undead arm latches onto his other leg, he drops both weapons, which land with a soft thump in the dirt. There's a slight grunt of panic as he grabs the dirt-covered head with both hands, trying to push the creature down off of him. But in the midst of the struggle, the ghoul's bent hand comes barreling into his gut. A hiss of air escapes from between his teeth, he cups his stomach and staggers back, the ghoul falling flat, next to the swords. He pulls his hands away, opens them, and turns them upwards, revealing blood on his fingers; the creature's bones, busted on Syd's shield, had opened a wound in Joseph's midsection. He staggers once. His gaze moves from his hands to Syd, who is surrounded. They move to Raben with a desperate, pleading look. Then he staggers a final time and collapses to the earth, unconscious.
When the ranger hit the ground, the priest’s frustration hit an all-time high. “Raben!” - he yelled, calling the Cathar by his name for the first time - “Get this guy out of here before he gets himself killed!” Keeping the shield levelled and bracing himself further, winging as one of the ghouls gouged some skin off of his side, Syd would place a hand on the fallen man and, following an incomprehensible prayer, circulate a golden light that would pull Joseph out of unconsciousness.
As soon as Raben sees the ranger collapse, Raben curses to himself and rushes to the scene of battle. He shouts to Threg and Gleb,"If anything happens, GO!"
Bounding across the tilled dirt, Raben leaps over the fallen Joseph as the Goldnight cleric uses his healing magic to restore the downed man and thrusts his silver blade into the she-ghoul's spine, just between her exposed shoulder blades. A sickening crack is heard when his sword plunges through the corpse, and the body stays still on the ground, returned to true death once more. With a flash of motion, fueled by adrenaline, Raben pulls the blade from the half-corpse and sidesteps across Syd to the other side of the undead soldier, stabbing at its midsection, piercing into its grey flesh in an exposed section of its tarnished armor. "Joseph, fall back if need be! Syd and I have it!"
The ranger awakens, rolls to his side, and looks up at Syd, a confused look on his face. “Easton?” he says.
The sound of Raben’s boot-falls startles Joseph, and he brings himself up on an elbow to watch the advancing cathar, who leaps over him. His eyes then fall on the remaining ghoul, and he blinks. His face hardens as he pushes himself to his feet. Grabbing one of his shortswords from the dirt, the hunter leaps towards the remaining ghoul, lets loose a loud growl of effort, and swings. The sword bites hard into the enemy’s shoulder, leaving a ragged, bloodless gash. He twists the sword free and takes a few steps back, well behind the enraged cathar, and leans down to retrieve his other sword from the field.
Another Burial With the singular foe remaining attempting to nip at his sides, the preacher would deflect this desiccated soldier’s lunge with a blow from his shield. For the nth time in so few moments, the expected divine radiance would pour out of him to injure the foe. The priest had spoken these words so many times now he’d almost begun to wonder whether they’d lost or gained new meaning. The ghoul was still standing by the end, but there was no mistaking it now. Its time would be up very, very soon.
Joseph leans over and grabs his second sword, eyes still locked on the three figures just a few steps from him. With a sword in each hand he lunges back in, leading with a right thrust, through the ghoul’s chest. It staggers back, grasping at the steel. Immediately Joseph pulls it free, swinging his other weapon high, towards the head. It finds purchase in the target’s neck, and the blade slices clean through with a sickening crunch. The ghoul’s head tumbles from its frame, and the body topples sideways to the ground and remains still.
The ranger sheathes his swords and takes a knee, chest heaving from exertion. He cants his head slightly upwards, towards Raben. “Remind me not to piss off a cathar,” he says dryly. “Looks to me like you could have bested all three of those things, yourself.”
He stands and lifts his bloodied mail, revealing a large bruise but no bleeding. The cleric’s holy magic had healed the lacerations. The ranger touches it gingerly, then looks up to Syd. “Neither of my brothers had the favor of the angels,” he said. “When we got hurt bad, we had to get better the old fashioned way. You get carried home, an’ you stay in bed a week.”
He stands a moment, catching his breath. He glances up to the west, towards the sun, surveys the motley party of five scattered around him, then stares over the moorland to the south, lost in thought. A slight whisper of a breeze fills the silence. The ranger runs his knobby fingers through his hair, and lets escape a great, weary sigh. Then he turns to the party. His manner is confident and resolute, though his face looks weary. He points to the rotted corpses. “We’ll need a hole for those.” He nods towards the farmhouse. “I’ll see if anyone’s home. If not, we’ll need a grave for the man as well.” His gaze turns dourly to the dead farmer and rests there a moment. He turns back to the party. “I’ll see if I can’t find another shovel or two in the outbuildings to speed things up.”
Joseph walks over to the yellowed corpse and leans down to inspect it. There is a broken glass canister on its back, with tubes on either side. Using the tip of his boot, he rolls the thing over, revealing an identical shattered tube on its chest. He cranes his neck forward to sniff the thing, and flinches in reaction. Then he rises, wipes his boot in the tilled soil, and heads towards the farmhouse, pausing in the field to retrieve his hunter’s longbow from the dirt.
This had been the longest 48 hours in the man’s existence. His friend had left, and from that moment onwards everything had turned to shit, it seemed... Noting Joseph’s thanks, the holy man would raise his hand as if to say ‘It’s the job’ but, matching the explanation to the individual’s recklessness, he’d add, his eyes looking towards the fallen ghouls and the blood marks that his expedition member had left when he’d fallen. “You’re not home anymore, Ranger. If you were to fall here, in the middle of nowhere, there would be no home to bring you back to. We’re on our own, here. I can’t say how it might’ve been over there, but here second chances are hard to come by. Even for someone with holy magic...” - with a sigh of relief washing through him, further bolstered by having watched the ranger be hit and having been lucky enough to get there in time, before one of the ghouls had been able to do damage he would not be able to fix. To a priest in this forsaken continent, who was surrounded by death since he could care to remember, this entire sight pained him to his core.
For an hour after that exchange, Syd leaned over corpses, of ghouls and humans alike, to give them last rites. The process was gruelling and lengthy, but with perseverance and strength, it was completed. With his right side a tad stiff from the ghoul’s attack, in clear view of those around him, the priest would pluck three pieces of paper from the haze-ghoul’s rib cage area. After carefully inspecting them, he would pull out his notebook and jot a number of things down. To avoid jarring the three civilians beside them, he would wait until his process was finished, before calling Raben over and explaining, giving him the tokens, and asking him to explain things to the ranger away from unneeded attention.
When the ranger returns, he has a pair of shovels in his hands. He sticks one in the soil, and immediately sets to work helping to dig the ghoul-trench with the other. "We'll need another hole," he says coldly, his eyes remaining affixed on the task at hand. "He had a wife and little kid, but they're in Thraben right now." He gouges out a few more shovels of earth. "I think we ought to dig his a little closer to the house." After that he falls into a troubled silence.
The pit for the ghouls and a three-foot grave are dug for the corpses and the fallen man. The three now quiet and still ghouls are dragged and slopped into the pit, whereas the man is cradled and lain in his earthen internment. Syd says a prayer, not as affirming as he'd like, but he fostered his holy blessing onto the forsaken souls of those buried before them. You would hope their spirits pass on from this world.
Hanweir Township - The Arrival Maintaining Joseph's suggested haste, especially after taking some time to hold an impromptu burial, the wooden and stone palisade of Hanweir comes into view. Ten feet high on average, it surrounds the perimeter of the entire town. As darkness falls, large torches illuminate the wall at regular intervals, and near these flaming braziers are heavy ballistae. Each one is loaded with a bolt and primed to fire at any perceived threat. The silhouettes of armored guards can be seen behind them. Two guards stand before the entry gate where Angel's Way meets the town. Joseph slows the pace of the horses, and the guards meet this tattered band with quizzical looks. The left guard hocks and spits to the ground. In a gruff voice he questions the party. "Passers-by? We 'aven't 'ad none too many visits in a while."
Raben approaches, reaching into his coats, procuring a document. He shows it to the questioning guard. "My name is Myles Raben. I've been tasked to look into the recent.. death. The hunter and the Goldnight are with me on this missive. The others are travelers seeking refuge. Where can they find shelter?"
The other guard speaks from behind his hooded helmet, lifting the visor. His voice is higher and softer. "The Wandering Heron takes visitors if you've the coin. Otherwise, the Witherhall is a tavern with rooms above it for late-nighters. You could go by the chapel. They have a small lodge that may have some space."
Raben thanks the kind guard as he gives directions to the various establishments and waves the group to begin moving through. The other whistles and after a moment, metallic whining and wincing is heard as the heavy doors allow entry. As the party makes way, the guard on the right asks "Will you be looking into the curse, get rid of it?"
Raben's mouth flattens, withholding a grimace. "I don't know about a curse, not yet. But we shall see."
With a few muttered words to Gleb, Joseph hands the reigns back to the old man, and crawls down from the cart. The lack of sleep and the day's events finally seem to have taken their toll on the stalwart hunter; his posture is sagging and his eyes worn and dim. He rubs the back of his neck and looks to the west, over the walls of Hanweir, where the blood-red sun is sinking over Stensia. Then he looks in the opposite direction, where a hint of silver is lightening the sky, splitting the deep blue heavens to make a path for the full moon, which looms just below the horizon.
Digging into his front pocket, he approaches Raben. He pulls out two electrum coins and holds them out to the cathar. "Here. I've been wanting to rid myself of these since I got 'em last night. Get everyone some hot food. Calm 'em down. Keep the rest as a donation for the church." He looks towards the town, then back to Raben. "You know where we're staying? I'll get the rooms ready for everyone, an' I'm going to bed. It'll be the fox's treat. I'm including the three tagalongs, too. Just make sure Threg sleeps in the room next to mine."
"Avacyn's blessing be with you." - the priest offered as a small but formal greeting as his free hand drew the cross, befitting of the authority of the church he represented. For the most part after that, as is to be expected of him, Syd remained silent, offering a friendly word here or there, and deferring to the Cathar, the leader of this particular expedition, for the arrangements.
Moving towards Gleb, once within city borders, the Holy man would return the torch apologetically, having expended one of its uses. "My sincerest thanks for your help." - he spoke, meaning every word - "Were it not for this particular item, us three may not have reached this place in one piece. We are in your debt."
Once instructions regarding what to do and where to head were received, should he find himself with some free time on his hands, Syd would procure a chapel or church in order to pray and get a sense of home in a foreign land.
Now within Hanweir's borders, the party walks amidst what appears to be a deserted town. Not a single living soul is seen walking the streets or under the light of the oil-lamp posts. Not a crier, not a stumbling drunk. Some windows and doors are barred. Papers are strewn and pinned on various poles and walls-most announcing that daily attendance at the chapel is mandated by law under the orders of Mayor Garensun, while others post a sizeable reward for a "Reika the Peddler". A few denote the heroism of the young Pitre, who is the focus of your current mission.
As the party follows Raben through the streets, you notice the light of several home interiors as their occupants lift their shades to peek at the newcomers, only to quickly obscure themselves once more after turning to face them. Now in the open space of the market, empty stalls line either side and at odd ends and turns. Vacant stalls and flattened tents offer a sense of silence and stillness you wouldn't imagine in such a large town. A block or so down, you reach a juncture where Raben begins to tell the group where they'll be eating and staying for the night.
"It seems we'll be eating on a Stensian's dime tonight. We'll get room and board for the night, and for any night after that it affords us."
Taking to the right, you pass the Whitemark Chapel, Hanweir's local place of worship. It's doors are shut but warm light illuminates the stained angelic glass from within. Keeping on for another few minutes, the extravagant Wandering Heron comes before you. It appears much as a manor, and less of a shop or inn, but upon entering a service clerk greats you with a voice of pomp and austerity. Raben displays his orders and spreads the two electrum pieces onto the desk, explaining the current matters, and the servicemen only barely contains his disdain, motioning for the group to follow. Seated in a large dining room with high ceilings and crystal chandeliers, the entire group is treated to a hearty meal. Roasted pork and shredded beef. Boiled potatoes and seasoned greens. Water, juice, and vintage ale abound. A moment of silence is requested by Raben before you grab your utensils, where he offers a solemn prayer to those that have been lost and those that have been found.
At a nearby table, a bearded man wearing a dirty coat of plates is quietly eating his own meal. He pauses his eating when Raben says his prayer and his vestments make it more obvious he is an Inquisitor. An equally dirty tri-corner hat sits on the table besides him. The servers seem annoyed by the amount of filth he has brought in with him; he has clearly had more than a reasonable amount of whiskey in a very short time.
While you eat, a flash of lightning and boom of thunder shakes the establishment, silver and dishware tinkling against one another, the candlelight flickering against your glasses and wine bottles. The heavy droning of a significant downpour is heard behind the closed windows, which now shudder with muffled clatter intermittently from buffets of wind.
The ranger, his face shadowed with melancholy and weariness, spends only five minutes at the table, silently wolfing down about half his plate of food. After the first peal of thunder he stands, pinches the silver amulet around his neck, and sweeps his eyes over the group. "I need sleep. I'll see you all in the morning." He leans down to Raben, whispers something in his ear, and clomps off to the rooms.
After effusively thanking the generosity of the ranger that kept them well fed and with a bed besides, Yesfir let her call into Nata's customary silences, humming under her breath as she kept a watchful eye on the others around her. They were to reckless, these strangers, but it seemed they were generous as well. Finishing her meal, she stretched her back, before plopping her head in her chin. Cocking her head under her cloak, she studied her companions for a moment, the childish nursery song she was humming being joined by a soft tapping of her fingers against the table as she did so. Study completed, she shrugged letting her curiosity go for the moment. After all, "Nata" would be leaving soon. Turning to her companion Gleb, she ceased her humming to suddenly ask, "Go see Mayor now? Uncle told me, mayor help Nata. " She didn't think she would meet the mayor tonight, but the sooner she found him, the sooner she could stop her childish farce.
The dinner comes to an end and two waiters arrive to collect the remnants of the feast. Raben explains once more that the rooms have been payed for and to not worry of any recompense: this was his duty. "I didn't actually spend my own coin, anyways," he states with a wry smile.
The Goldnight's Piety As the Whitemark Chapel entered into his field of view, the Holy Man excused himself from his group and made his way into hallowed ground. As the smell of incense graced his nose, the man had found terra firma. As he stepped inside, the setting sun glistening against his shield, painted with the all-too-familiar double edged spear, a familiar murmuring began in the crowd. Approaching the Mausoleum Guards, stationed to ensure the safekeeping this sacred soil, the would-be Sage spoke for a moment with them, as well as the Acolyte who walked those halls - the priest, having been getting on in years, was resting by this point, it seemed. The serious face that had marked his features for a good, long while had faded, returning to the polite, serene smile it had once displayed. Despite his warlike beginnings in the Elgaud Grounds, this particular individual appreciated calming the population, especially in a town who seemed as distraught as this one, and so for the better part of half an hour, the individual would move to bless both Acolyte, Guards and visitors who stepped into this chapel, offering the blessings of the Flight of Goldnight, who sought to vanquish the forces of darkness wherever they may lie…
Lie was too strong a word, but this man was by no means about to even consider undergoing such an idealistic, unachievable claim. He did, however, understand the power of faith far better than most ever could. It was, after all, the singular reason magic was within him. Once those few moments had passed, Syd retired to the church’s altar, to bathe in the last few moments of sunlight coming in from the stained glass, and praying. This time for himself, and those he’d encountered. To level his thoughts and gain some purchase in these strings of events that were whirring past him, from chariot, to witch, to ghouls and, as he entered into the realm of Nightfall, he rise from his seat and move towards the previously agreed upon Wandering Heron, thanks to directions from the chaplains, feeling tired and injured, but more strengthened than he’d ever been.
A Stormy Night Vacating to your rooms, you find the quarters are lavish and brimming with finery. A bed fit for a king with separate comforters and sheets. Dress pillows arranged in orderly fashion. Marble-knobbed furniture from the finest craftsmen in Nephalia, made of Kessig mournwillow and lacquered crimson. A bookcase contains material of a wide variety of subject matter, from Avacynian scripture and introductory chemistry and mathematics, to philosophy and non-fiction. Atop it is a small Avacynian collar with a candle rest and incense. The curtains currently covering the windows are a dark rouge with golden tassels. The rain continues outside, thick and hoarse, slamming into the glass. You discover your window looks to the east. Weren't the storm there, the face of the full moon would illuminate your chamber. Lightning flashes and unfamiliar shadows fill the room, threatening to hide the things that go bump in the night, like shapeless specters waiting for you to retire to bed. The rumble of thunder is immediate-the storm is atop Hanweir now, and heading west by your figuring.
Heading outside means becoming drenched in the burdening downpour. So thick, you can't see fifteen feet in front of you. Only the light of the oil-lamp posts guides you down the streets to wheresoever your destination. With the split-second brightness of the storm's lightning, the entirety of your open surroundings becomes clear, which only darkens that which it doesn't bring to light. Alleys are shrouded and dark. Homes are locked or boarded, and curtains are drawn part-ways. Any fiend could be watching with hungry eyes, sharpening its claws and baring its fangs unnoticed by any unwary visitor. The thunder rattles your bones, shaking the resolve of your soul as it threatens to crash down unto the streets with its heavy pounding.
Whether resting or awake, several hours pass before the storm moves on. The dark clouds part, and the full moon's full face becomes visible. Bright. Alabaster. Parselene. Moments pass as its radiant light bathes Hanweir; moments that are silent and still, and it is broken.
The Beast Within This had been expected. It was sad, but there was nothing that could have been done. Having rested only slightly and still fully clad in armour and shield, Syd rushed out of his room, to find Joe exiting his. Their eyes lock and move to Threg's room. They'd had the same thought, but very different intentions to execute. Having had some time to know the impetuous man before him, a very clear notion of what Joseph might end up doing crossed his mind. If one couldn't influence those around them to the extent one enjoyed, the only option left was to adapt. But the would-be Sage needed to find Raben. Wolves were out of his own personal wheelhouse, but he did know they travelled in packs. Not to mention, this Holy-man/Ranger duo had stood significantly close to failure in the past, so finding that Cathar was imperative.
"I'll get Raben. We'll be needing help." - he said, his back almost turned to the Ranger as he dashed off to the Parish-Blade's room - "Try not to do something too crazy." - he pleaded, almost like a prayer, knowing this time, with Threg being an acquaintance, the stakes were significantly higher.
Joseph's room door flings open, and the ranger steps out bleary-eyed, both his short-swords under one arm, still fastened in their scabbards. Though he's not wearing his overcoat, his armor is still donned. As soon as he enters the hall, Threg's voice is heard yelling and shouting, loud and manic, from inside his room. The hunter's eyes dart down the hall to meet Syd's, and the two look knowingly at each other. "We need to get in there and calm him down," he says hurriedly. "He might just be scared. Or he might be turning." Keeping his eyes towards Threg's door, he takes a few steps backwards down the hall, to the window at the end. Unconsciously he's undoing the scabbards from his swords, letting the leather sheaths fall to the floor. He leans back against the glass, turns his head, and begins to scan the moonlit darkness outside, but another shout from Threg's room yanks his attention back to the hallway.
The Inquisitor from the dinner hall emerges from a nearby room fully geared up and without any indication of having rested. He has drawn a shiny dagger and he looks far more alert than he should after having imbibed as much as he did. “Werewolf!” he exclaims with a mad look in his eyes.
Tonight’s meditation was cut short by the ear-piercing howl. As the hall begins to fill with people, Malekus opens his door and surveys the scene. He notices the hunter, the mad drunk and finally his gaze finds a fellow brother of the Goldnight. Knowing there is another of his order here instills a sense of comfort in the acolyte. As they knock on a door he approaches cautiously with his staff in hand. Opening his arms to show the symbol of the Avacyn embroidered on his shirt and the chain of silver hanging around his neck he looks to the hunter and says, “If you mean to calm down the poor soul who is going through the transition, then you are a fool.” He turns to the priest and asks, “Brother do you know the one that is turning under the light of the full moon? We cannot afford to hesitate when dealing with one of the cursed.”
"It came from outside," Joseph says to the inquisitor, back still to the window. His eyes flash in anger down the hallway, towards Malekus. "Those are the cries of a man, not a beast. Until that changes, we treat him as such." The ranger moves to Threg's door.
Raben's door is knocked upon. He hurries from his bed, putting on his cathar raiment. "I'll be right there." Threg's cries are now heard through his door, and Raben is reminded of tonight's full moon. He looks to the window. "Shit.."
Syd is at his door, who explains the situation to him. Raben moves quick to decision, and proceeds swiftly down the hall to Gleb and Nata's room, procuring them and placing them together in a single room. "We will handle this. Stay here and be quiet." All the while, Threg's pained mourning does not cease. Yet no movement is seen from the door. The howl is heard once more outside the walls and windows, closer this time, shuddering the skin in cold sweat.
Standing a good distance from the door, Joseph tucks his right sword under his left arm. Then, still facing the full hallway of onlookers, he raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. "Threg?" he calls out loudly. "Threg, it's all right. Come on out. We're all here. Ain't nothing to worry about." The ranger steps back and faces the door in anticipation.
"No! I can't! It burns! By Avacyn, my blood! I'm on fiiire!" His voice curdles as if drowned by his own spittle. The howl from outside the Wandering Heron is sung once more, long and baleful. It's ringing perturbs the eardrums, causing disorientation in those of low mental and physical fortitude. Threg answers this call with an anguished scream. This cry soon becomes a howl of his own, just off harmony with the howler outside. The combined dissonant sound pierces the mind, as one might grab their heads or cover their ears to dampen the bellows.
"Goddamn you, Threg!" Joseph shouts. He backs down the hallway, towards the onlookers, while still facing the end of the hallway. "Clear out these rooms!" he bellows. "Everyone with arms, at the ready!"
“Boy,” Garreth shouts looking at Joseph, “is that a Werewolf in there? Did you all knowingly bring a Werewolf into Hanweir and into this here inn filled full of people? Let me deal with it.” The large man moves to the door that’s Joseph stands in front of, indicating that he is going through whatever is in his way.
Joseph widens his stance, blocking the hallway off with his body. "Raben!?" he calls out desperately without looking back. He turns his head sideways, eyes locked on Threg's door. "If any man puts steel to someone that ain't got fangs or fur," he growls loudly over his shoulder, "I'll have his ****in' head." He faces the dead-end hallway again and calls out clearly and authoritatively, "Threg, come on out, now. Syd's out here. The angels can help you."
Being woken from what easily had been the best sleep of her natural life didn't exactly set Yesfir in the best of moods. Being dragged out to another room with little more than her shift just made her sullen mood worse. She felt exposed without a cover, fragile, almost panicked, adding to the sense of fear at the unnatural howls. Thank whatever stars were watching over her that she had decided to wait to bathe and that people would be too distracted by the full moon to pay attention to her much. Dragging her fingers through her braid, she hid behind the veil of her hair, hugging herself close as she stayed close to Gleb from the view of so many men. For her, despite the terrifying howls, the men represented a far greater threat to her safety than whatever Gleb was doing beyond the door or worse the thing still outside. She had heard of were's, every lad or lass of Innistrad did, but they didn't trouble Stensia much...the vampires did. Besides, that threat was there and they were here, and here, eyes of men with blades were usually just as deadly as men with fang and claws. But if they were kept busy...distracted, well they might not notice that little "Nata" wasn't such a little girl after all. Hesitating, she chewed on her lip debating about offering her aid. Weighing risk and reward, Yesfir decided, and lifted a hand to Raben's sleeve, "Nata can help, make threat slow. Cold. But Nata has to see. Can't help if can't see."
The Druid's Day Striding along the road toward Hanweir, Gerard makes it to the city gates a couple of hours before noon. A brief chat with the guards convinces them that Gerard is just a country healer looking to restock his supplies in town and they grant him admittance. Unease settles on Gerard as he explores the town. He expected the city to be lively and bustling from the stories he had heard of the city. What he encountered, while busy, was a muted version of what he had imagined. People went about their business tersely. There was no laughing, no sharing of gossip, simply business being conducted people moving on their way.
Gerard attempted to visit the cemetary. However guards at the entrance told him politely , but firmly, that there was to be no admittance to the cemetery by order of the mayor. He thought about attempting to spin a tail of needing to attend the grave of a relative, but looking into the guards eyes he realized that the their good manner would change very suddenly if he pressed. Gerard simply bid them a good day and left. Trying the marketplace to gather information proved only moderately useful. He heard the story of the brave thatcher named Pitre, a hero that was recently decapitated while defending the city from a vampire. A feast was recently held in his honor and it is his grave is continuously bleeding; poisoning the earth.
Gerard did hear a rumor that Pitre and the mayor's daughter perhaps had a secret romance, but you can never be sure if this is fact or gossip. Gerard thought about calling upon the mayor and his daughter or perhaps members of clergy at Whitemark Chapel, but the sun was sinking low and people were already boarding up homes homes and businesses for the night. He thought it better to return to Witherhall where he had secure a room earlier and make a fresh start in the morning. Gerard ate a simple and hearty diner in the common room of the Witherhall and allowed himself an ale. He then returned to his room to retire for the eevening thinking that perhaps he could sneak out of the Inn and find a way to investigate the cemetary undetected. However, the sounds of an approaching storm made him think better of this plan. The storm would be good for cover, but trying to investigate the site would not be productive. Instead he thought it best to rest and get an early start.
Nightfall at the Witherhall While asleep for a short time, he hears a commotion in the hallway outside of his room. Men are speaking of a werewolf in the city and are about to leave the inn to confront. Gerard's heart sinks and thoughts of his home fill his mind for a moment. He knows that ordinary men have no chance against such a powerful foe. He quickly rises, opens the door a crack and says to the men, "I have some experience with werewolves. Give me a half minute and I'll come with you!" Shutting the door Gerard quickly dresses, grabs his tricorn and his staff and quickly follows the men in the corridor out of the inn and into the night. One of the men turns to Gerard as the exit the inn, "Not sure if you really have 'perience with werewolves, but we militia men'll take all the help we can git!" The group of men break into a run through the streets, taking a left at a juncture. They pass the chapel and an inn that Gerard has never had enough coin to enter in his life. Coming to the city wall he sees men ripped by cruel long claws. They all appear dead at first glance, and Gerard instinctively reaches for his healing bag and realizes in his haste that he left it in his room.
Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, Gerard turns, looks up and sees the werewolf on the side of a building using his claws to dig into the mortar and propel himself upwards. Once reaching the roof, the creature lopes off in the direction that Gerard and the militia men just came from. Thinking it better to help prevent more deaths and injuries, Gerard points to the wolf and shouts to the men with him, "Look! It is running on the rooftops back the way we came!" Gerard then breaks into a run, following the werewolf from the streets and wondering to himself the best way to get to the roofs, or if pursuing him from the ground makes the most sense.
The gaggle of men running down the street carry what simple weapons they mustered. Others, the guard stationed for the night, have crossbows and swords, wearing their personnel armor and brandishing torches. The large, loping figure slows its pace upon reaching the roof of the Wavering Heron. It stands upright, displaying its full form in the light of the moon, sniffing the cold, Innistrad air, it's breathe like hot steam. The men stand firm and let fly a volley of silver-tipped bolts, but many miss in the distance. The beast roars, it's eyes reflecting a bright sick green amidst its black shape. This bellow reaches into the bones and snatches the heart, intimidating many of the militia, causing more than a dozen to flee. The beast then descends onto the wall of the refined establishment, digging its razor-like claws into the side of the building.
A Beast Without There is a deep thudding from the ceiling, steady, like something moving above, and slight scratching and scraping. Joseph flashes a fiery look at the inquisitor behind him. He raises a sword upwards, pointing at the ceiling. “There’s your werewolf, up there,” he says, adding in a low voice, “Let’s hope it’s the only one.” He leans sideways and shouts down the hallway, “It's on the roof! Get those doors open! Everyone away from the windows!”
Then he steps to the door of the tormented man’s room. “Threg,” he says calmly yet firmly. “We’re coming in.” Tucking a sword under an arm, Joseph reaches for the door. You can’t be certain, but it appears his hand is quivering. He slowly turns the knob, places a foot against the door, and pushes it open while simultaneously stepping back against the wall, away from the door.
The door is opened quickly with a trembling hand, revealing the room to be in disarray. The fabric of the bed fixing has been torn, the innards of the pillows and comforter spilt all over the floor. The window is uncovered, the blinds torn down and in tatters, their fixing pole bent and angled. The white moon light bathes the center of the room, with tiny pieces of fabric and dust swimming in its iridescence. Threg is fetal in the far corner, away from the light, pulling at his ragged clothes and hair. A deep wound is partially visible beneath his left arm as he writhes and coils. The beast roars above, shaking the rafters and frame of the rooms. "It's come! It's come for me! It's come for me!" Threg screams in horror.
The door swings rapidly open and bangs against the wainscoting. The hunter leans forward and to the side, peering around the doorjamb. When he sees the wretched figure hunched up in the corner, he lowers his weapons. “Syd!” he calls out, his eyes narrowing. “Syd, over here!”
With four strides he covers the distance of the room, and flattens himself against the wall next to the window, swords at the ready. “It ain’t going to take you,” the hunter booms, like a father to a scared child. “But you need to get out of here, Threg. Away from the window.” He crouches slightly down and leans closer to the window, his eyes craning upwards as he tries to get a glimpse of the eaves. “Syd’s coming. He’ll have Avacyn’s blessing on you.”
Garreth growls, but then turns back to his room and kicks out the window and begins to climb onto the roof, charging after the werewolf. From outside, Garreth yells back into his room "The damned thing is going for your friend's room!"
The door to Raben’s room opened, and the Sage in Training and the Parish-Blade had words. Not much needed saying. Raben was unprepared, but swiftly darted out of his room anyway… in order to help secure the safety of civilians. Now, this wasn’t exactly something a Divine Vessel would be able to find fault in, but it certainly meant that the Cathar had left the gruelling task of maybe having to kill an acquaintance for two almost perfect strangers to clean up. The Ranger had certainly demonstrated a ‘protector of the weak’ mindset so far, and he himself wasn’t particularly filled with a wrath so pure towards the cursed that allowed him to smite them wherever they may roam simply because they existed. Needless to say, however this went, it wasn’t going to be easy. As if this situation wasn’t bad enough as is, Syd then saw the emergence of an Inquisitor… One the Ranger may have outright lied to, in shouting about the werewolf being on the roof. Stereotypically, members of this Order weren’t keen on heroics, and this was a city led by a militia, so his own identity as would-be Spearsage wouldn’t do them nearly as much good here…
Quite pitifully, the Priest almost breathed out a full sigh of relief upon hearing from said Inquisitor that said wolf had indeed been there, before the realisation hit that two wolves were a hell of a lot worse than just the one, and then there was the howling… The final nail to what seemed to be the young Blackmore’s coffin was the emergence of another individual sporting the colours of Goldnight, voicing the very thoughts he knew to be true but was desperately trying to ignore.
“Yeah…” - the Holy Man would reticently and broadly reply to his sun-blessed kin. His head motioned to Malekus that he should follow, and the young Blackmore began the short tread to Threg’s room. His heart beat violently and passionately, like a drum, accompanying every step he took, and with every beat, the clergyman’s resolve was steeled further and further. The power Flight of Goldnight roared through his body, and the amulet clutched in his right hand seemed to suddenly emit a bright light. Upon having made the turn into Threg’s room, his walking having now shifted into a full-blown run. “I’ll slow the turn! Just get him away from the window! Now!” - Syd shouted to Joe and anyone else willing to listen, before preparing to cast a spell.
After the affirmation from the cleric Malekus pushes into the disheveled chambers on his heels. He takes in the scene before him as he hears Syd proclaim that he will help the man. Most of his training has been focused on destroying evil and the spell is foreign to him. He approaches him and extends a hand towards him. He tells Syd “Brother you are not alone. Allow me to call for a blessing of light in this darkest hour.” He slowly traces a symbol of Avacyn in the air and mutters the incantation “Gisela placet luceat lux vestra sancti de hoc homine.” As he finishes the words a warm light eminates from his hand and flows into the cleric.
Garreth gets up to the roof and sees the werewolf about to go into the window to the room Threg was in. He makes the rash decision to charge the beast, hoping to take him over the edge and use it to shield his own fall. Just as he is are about to jump, it notices him and opens its maw to greet him. Garreth was just able to jump at an angle and miss its teeth and escape death. He is able to grab onto the side of the building at the last minute, hanging just to the right of Threg's window.
The gap between Gerard and the militia and the werewolf steadily increases until the creature stops on the side of the Wavering Heron. The beast appears to be trying to enter someone’s room. “We’re not going to make it in time!”, Gerard thinks to himself. He slows his pace and once the militia are all ahead of him, ducks into a nearby alley. Making sure no one can see him, Gerard quietly mutters words of power calling upon the spirits of nature. A moment later Gerard is gone and a gray squirrel sits in the place that Gerard was just standing in. The squirrel scrambles up a water spout and onto the roof of one of the buildings that form the alley. Scrambling to and from, jumping from roof to roof, the squirrel quickly catches up to the monster perched on the side of the Inn. Hoping to distract the beast long enough for others to help, the squirrel leaps for a spot on the werewolf’s back that he shouldn’t be able to dislodge him from. Unfortunately, the gray furred would be hero misjudged the creatures reach and is effortlessly knocked off before he can sink his rodent buck tooth incisors into werewolf’s back. The blow is glancing, but enough to knock the small animal off and tumbling to the ground below. “Hope there is some soft trash below!”
With a few annoyances, the monster climbs off the roof and onto the wall of the Wandering Heron, shingles falling onto the ground. Another volley of bolts are loosened from the few guardsmen left, all clattering off or piercing into the wall of the establishment. Threg recoils as the two Goldnight holy workers approach him, white magic in Syd's hands. His cries lessen to whimpers, and the scraping sound above turn into wooden groans and splintering.
The man's eyes, red and sheered with his tears, widen in crazed fear. Syd is just within reach, hand outstretched, white mana swirling in his fingertips. Threg whimpers. "It's here.."
The window crashes open with an insidious roar, so powerful it whips the torn sheets from the bed. Glass shatters across the room. The dispersed cotton becomes a blizzard in the roar's force. In the place of the window, is a hulking figure with eyes like fire. It's maw is open, saliva dripping from its fangs. You know this beast-a werewolf.
As the squirrel tumbles into the night his body rights itself and he lands on all fours. "That is handy." Gerard scrambles back up the wall and over the window sill and jumps to the floor inside the crowded room. The creature has his left leg slightly forward with its weight on the back foot on its right. Gerard runs to the back foot and takes a massive, from a squirrel's perspective, bite into the beast's Achilles tendon. His mouth is full of dirty, foul tasting werewolf fur and Gerard suppresses an urge to vomit.
Raben grabs his sword lash and scabbard and tosses it onto the bed. "Here! It's blessed silver! I'll get the patrons out of here!" With that, he shouts for Gleb to move up and out, down the hall and begins opening doors, one by one, and crowds them to the stairs. "Go! Go, werewolf attacking the inn, go!"
Gleb moves as much as his aching legs let him and he attempts to pull Nata with before taking off himself. "Come, girl, let the soldiers handle it! We'll be safe!"
Frowning at Gleb, Yesfir nearly dropped Nata's persona then and there, but with a sigh, she at least backed up further, allowing the armed men to get in between her and the threat. Protesting in Nata's higher tones, she resisted being dragged from the room however, "Nata can help!" Despite her words, her motives were far from noble however. Clad only in her shift with a thin layer of dirt and her hair to conceal here, if she left the security, and yes the confusion of the inn, she would be outside with the full light of the moon and with nothing to hide behind. Her journey with the cart driver had given her a cautious trust of his character but that trust didn't extend to whoever was out there. Outside meant light and curious people with nothing to do but sit there and stare and wonder. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed her, before someone noticed that she was.....Shaking her head at the remembrance of the bawdy jokes, lewd suggestions, and even out right threats she had come to know well as Yesfir in her home town. No, for now, she was safer here. Where she was hidden. Where people were distracted. Kept busy by anything else but herself.
The wolf enters the room, getting nicked by the human clinging to its left. It snarls a low growl, staring at this scrabbling man with searing eyes and clenched teeth, before looking into the room once more. It sees a room full of people. Standing sacks of flesh, meat, and bone. Food. It brandishes its claws and slashes the heavyset Avacynian across his arm, pushing him back. It snaps its neck forward open mouthed to bite into the flesh of the cleric, but in the closing moments Syd brandishes his holy focus and creates a blinding flash of light. The werewolf yelps in surprise and brings a long, crooked hand to its eyes, shaking off the effects. It lowers its head but rears its body tall, looming its lupine shape over everyone in the room. It is bigger. It is faster, and it is stronger; it is the shadow of the moon, the nightmare of this night.
When the lycanthrope crashed through the wall, Joseph managed to turn away just in time to avoid a face full of glass and splintered wood. By the time he looks up, the beast had already moved past him to attack the men of the cloth surrounding the inconsolable Threg. Curiously enough, an angry, chittering squirrel leaped into the room after it, bounded up behind the fiend, and bit into the back of its leg, eliciting a snarl of agitation.
The ranger blinks in disbelief, then turns his attention to the larger of the furry threats. For a moment he closes his eyes. Through his clenched teeth he begins making a slight hiss, which crescendos and fills the room. As if in answer to the sound, a sudden gust of cool wind blows down the hallway and into the door, leaving behind a mouldering, earthy smell, like that of a freshly raked leaf pile. When the hunter opens his eyes, they have changed; the brown is replaced by an arcane orange, shimmering dimly with energy.
He drops a sword and makes for the bed, his movements swift, erratic and jerky, like a blade of grass tumbling haphazardly on an autumn wind. Every step he takes is accompanied by an eddy of breeze, stirring up the fabrics of the room. He grabs Raben's sword, turns to face the werewolf, and charges. There is a rushing sound, like an incoming gale barreling through the treetops of a distant forest, but it suddenly cuts off and fades. The eddies of breeze from the hunter's feet had whipped the blanket off the bed, onto the floor in front of him, and he trips on it. His mighty attack is thwarted mid-swing as he stumbles, windmilling his arms to catch his balance. When he finally does recover, he quickly backs up to the room's door, blocking access to the wolf from entering the hallway.
Knowing she had to be useful in order to stay, she softly spoke words of ice and snow, before taking her fingers to her lips and blowing as if to blow a kiss. An ice-cold wind formed from her softly blown breath, wrapped around the werewolf briefly. Surrounded by cold, the werewolf flexed, howling; it shrugged off her icy blast as if it were no more than a fly, baring its teeth as the ice turned to steam around it. Uttering a soft curse under her breath, Yesfir took another step backwards once again trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
The sheer size and ferocity of the beast startled Malekus. He has encountered were's before but he has never seen one make such a brazen attack in the middle of a large town. He stumbles back to the interior wall as the glass and debris rain down on the room. After taking a swipe from the werewolf he does not want to be anywhere near it. He raises his hand once more and mouths another unique incantation. A ball of white light forms in his hand and small wisps of pure energy waft upwards from it. He hurls it at the werewolf and it impacts its chest with a flash. The energy that was contained within is released in that instant causing the beast to unleash another furious howl.
Garreth, ticked off that his charge didn't work and quickly sobering up, reaches in to grab the werewolf back. He grabs at the beast's tail and pulls it back, gaining a more solid footing into the room and pulling the ferocious creature back away from the others in the room. "Get back here you fleabag!"
Threg, previously thrashing about, now seemed to enter into a trancelike lull. Being careful as to the individual that might just become a ticking time-bomb right in the midst of his party, that had seemed to become even more rag-tag than previously, when all there was was a vaguely unkempt priest and an impetuous ranger.
The existing werewolf’s growling made it very clear that this would-be Sage needed to divide his attention a bit further, and made it abundantly clear that some issues needed solving. In a conditioned reflex, Syd mumbled the arcane words he’d spoken so often in the past day, and managed to clip the towering lupine being before him. Alas, his divided attention gave him the sneaking suspicion that this particular spell hadn’t been as powerful as it should’ve. Still, it was an absolute necessity that Threg not get away, and so this divided attention scenario would have to continue. One could only hope that next time he’d be able to do better.
The werewolf is barely aware of Gerard's attempts to distract it, and is not reacting to the squirrel in the way that he had hoped. Revealing his true nature may cause Gerard a death at the hands of the townsmen if he survives the fight with the werewolf. He very briefly considers running off to his room at the other inn and leaving this beast to the people already gathered to fight it. If just one death can be avoided by Gerard's actions... Thoughts of home start to come to mind and are quickly repressed. Gerard scurries to the corner on the creatures right on the side of the room with the window and once again calls up the spirits of nature. One second there is a gray squirrel sitting in the corner that most likely no one noticed in the chaos. The next minute, there is a man standing there wearing a tricorn hat, leather armor holding an ashe quarter staff at the ready.
Continuing down the hall to the opposite side of the stairs, Raben continues to open or break apart doors, getting weak and frail humans to vacate their rooms and head down the stairs. "There's a werewolf, go! We have it for now, leave while you can!"
Theg's shouting as quieted to sobs, and his erratic movements have dulled to quivers. His eyes are peeled, red-shot and wide, taking in the full form of the beast before him. He slowly rises to his feet. "No, no, I-it's.. it's not- I.." He walks over to the the silver knife on the floor, turns his body, and then stabs at the nearest person-Malekus.
The werewolf dug its long black claws into the wood of the floor as it was pulled back near the broken wall. It snarled deep in its throat and turned its body to slash at the lone man pulling at its tail, but couldn't get the proper angle. It uttered a bestial grunt and pulled itself and the man back into the room, tossing the flayed bed and mattress across the room. It slams upright against the far wall. Pulling its body close, the wolf twists sharply and opens its ravenous jaw, closing down and sinking its piercing teeth into the shoulder of Garreth, the inquisitor. The sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping is heard through the chaos of the room.
Joseph has been standing in the doorway, watching the events of the room transpire. When Garreth dragged himself through the gaping maw in the wall—the same which produced a werewolf and a seemingly rabid squirrel—the hunter furrowed his brow and leaned back to look down the hallway. Indeed, the inquisitor was no longer there. In fact the hall was all but empty, save for the strange Stensian girl. Joseph gave her a knowing look and turned back to the room. When the squirrel transformed into a man Joseph cocked his head, puzzled. When Threg lunges clumsily at Malekus with the knife, Joseph moves into action. “Threg, you stupid sonofa*****!” he shouts. “Put that down!”
The ranger squares up with the werewolf. Again he makes a hiss, this time loudly, the sound of cold water poured onto a hot wood stove. Again the cool, musty wind comes racing down the hallway, twice as hard, and blasts the ranger from behind. Bits of bed sheet and cotton swirl in the room. His eyes shimmering yellow-orange, the hunter charges the predator. There’s a distant roar, like a tornado bearing down on a grain elevator. When silver meets wolf-flesh, there is a deafening blast, then a deep-throated yelp of pain from the wolf, and it snaps its teeth at the blade. Autumn leaves flutter to the floor at the beast's feet. A deep, long gash parts the fur of its left shoulder, blood welling up to fill it. The ranger, swords held forward in a defensive stance, carefully circles the werewolf, man and beast face-to-face, the former glaring up in controlled fear, the latter staring down with unharnessed hunger; both pairs of eyes burn with hatred. When his back is to the clergy and the crazed, half-naked Kessiger, Joseph stops. “Threg," he says in a deathly calm voice. He hadn't forgotten the threat behind him. "I swear to the Angel Herself, if you don’t put that knife down…”
Cowering behind the veil of her hair where she stood in the hallway, Yesfir's eyes widened as she watches the true terror of the werewolf. Massive with frenzied yellow eyes, a wide snarling maw, it's claws slashing in quick lightening reflexes. It was a thing of pure brute force and animal instinct. Shifting nervously, her eyes flickered towards the others. As her chilly wind disappeared in steam and smoke, the ranger turned and giving her an odd look simply nodded once before returning his focus to the threat in front of her. By the Reach's teeth, somehow the bastard knew! Although how much he knew, it was impossible to tell. She could feel her breath come faster, panic beginning to take hold, and just as she blew another cool wind in the direction of the beast, a man popped into existence from seemingly nowhere. A startled wheeze nearly escaped her, breaking her from her soft incantation, she hastily covered her mouth with her hands muffling the sound. Feeling the cold or her breath against her fingers as the spell fizzled to nothing she forced herself to bite her tongue against the current of curses ready to spell from her throat. She took another step backwards, her mind rapidly racing as she tried to think of a plan-any plan.
Watching the mad man stagger to his feet and stumble towards him, Malekus noticed the knife being aimed at him in an instant. He shouts at the man as he deflects the blow with his staff "You fool. We are trying to help you. By Avacyn man get a hold of yourself, that thing is trying to kill us all!" With that he turns his attention back to the hulking beast that has sauntered further into the room. He begins tracing another holy symbol with the tip of his polished staff and mutter "Rursus per gratiam vestram in hac turpi bestia." The bolt of divine light that bursts forth strikes the werewolf head on and impacts with a small pop. The impact leaves a glowing mark of the collar of Avacyn burning bright on the foul creature's chest. The dark beast is bathed in a holy glow that makes it stand out against the dark night sky. He looks around the room at the group who is engaged in the melee. He shouts "Now is the time to strike true on that creature, Avacyn will guide you. Let's send it into the ground for good!"
Garreth tried to grasp the werewolf to get him back out of the room, but the werewolf struggled and resisted. Garreth was not about to let this beast get away from him.
Taking an instant to look around and situate himself and arrivals, Syd fired off another blast of Sacred Flame. Sadly, this one that the creature seemed more ready for, and as such was able to dodge. From mice turning to men, and men turning to mice, what once had been a room was now experiencing a tale it might not be forgetting.
Gerard mutters strange arcane words for a brief moment. As the words are finished his quarterstaff slightly glows for a second, then quickly fades away. After the glow fades the staff appears slightly different than it did before in a way that is hard to put a finger on. Perhaps it is larger, grander, or just more present than before. His countenance seems calmer than just a second ago. Gerard steps forward and delivers a solid strike with the lower end of the staff right into the beast's abdomen as if fighting a werewolf was as mundane as gathering wood for a fire or a tradesman practicing his profession.
White-knuckles clench the hilt of the brilliant silver dagger. Threg's teeth are clenched and his lips snarled wide, barring his gums. Saliva drips from either corner of his mouth as he heaves, his chest inflating and deflating. With a crazed shout, he lunges at Malekus once more while he's busy casting a spell against the furred beast, stabbing him in his side between the bars of the Goldnight's rib cage, grating into the bones. Threg exclaims in hideous delight as Malekus reels in pain, madness clearly overtaking him.
Opposite the injured Avacynian, the werewolf has had enough of the antics of the puny human that had gripped its tail, and now attempted to bring to the ground. Remembering the taste of the inquisitor's red-iron blood, it snaps its jaws forward but clasps its jaws on thin air, as Garreth lunges to dodge the second, and potentially lethal, crunch. In its fury, the next human the were sees is a man with a staff, whom it swiftly rips its razor-like claws into his arm, crimson spilling over the druid's torn coat and pushing him backwards. Small burns patch its body, and several slashes mark its pelt, but the werewolf spreads its arms and roars, the room shooting up several degrees as the beast's hot, humid breath fills the room.
Joseph stands at a diagonal stance, ready for attack from both sides, but neither comes. When the werewolf turns to deal with its own rear flank, the hunter hears a cry of pain from behind. He swivels his head to see wild-eyed Threg standing, bloodied silver dagger in hand, and Malekus holding his wound, blood pouring out from between his fingers. A flash of anger sweeps the ranger's face like a late-summer brush-fire. He takes a step to the side, lets loose a rage-filled shout and pivots, bringing his sword down on the peasant's clavicle. The blade cuts deep, through flesh and sinew, to the bone. Just then a roar explodes from the middle of the room. Without pause Joseph spins to face the werewolf, Raben's silver sword singing through the air in a swift lateral arc, and the blade hacks another bleeding wound into the werewolf's hide, this time on its hind flank. Eyes still flickering gold, he settles back into a defensive stance and prepares for the counterattack.
Confusion reigned everywhere she looked. Threg, clearly out of his wits, had stabbed a priest who even now stood bleeding. The rest of the battle was nothing more than a flash of silver and limbs. From where she stood in the hall, she could barely see what was happening clearly. Suddenly the sharp sound of animal in pain startled a low guttural curse out of her, her voice shaking as it dipped low "Fi blestemat de mormânt!" A brief flicker of a half formed ghostly shape appeared above the werewolf's head before just as rapidly flickering out. Backing down the hallway, Yesfir's eyes began to search for a place to hide.
After getting stabbed by the crazed man a fire begins to burn in Malekus’ eyes. The pain cuts through the chaos and confusion in the room, which he channels into a laser like focus. He staggers back a step clutching at the bleeding wound in his side with his right hand he looks up at Threg. Looking to the man who just assaulted him the acolyte speaks a common blessing “May you spend an eternity in the ground”. He begins the incantation and the small ball of warm light begins to form in his left hand. As the small tendrils of energy begin form around he hurls it at the lunatic. It impacts him on the right side of his chest and releases a burst of energy that tears a sizable chunk from his body. The wall behind him and the others close to him get coated in a warm spray of blood. As his body falls to the ground it impacts with a wet thud.
Having dispatched the source of his latest wound Malekus turns to survey the other combatants in this deadly struggle. Most of the people around him seem like they are holding their own but the inquisitor that has been wrestling with the werewolf has some open wounds. Calling forth a healing prayer he chants “Iam nocere tibi non potest” and the symbols in his staff begin to glow with a warm radiance. He focuses on the cut on the fighter’s arm and suddenly the symbols wink out and the wound scars over. Pleased that he was able to bring some light into this dark moment he thinks to himself ask for forgiveness later right now the focus is to keep the group of people alive.
Garreth roared and grabbed the werewolf firmly and leap out the window, taking the damned thing with him. The werewolf largely broke his fall but he came down hard on his left arm, loosing his grip on the hairy thing. “By the Angels!” he exclaimed in frustration, pain, and a bit of embarrassment.
Seeing Threg be torn to pieces wasn’t easy. They’d had very little interaction, but it seemed clear that whatever was happening to the individual was neither natural nor his fault. This is what Innistrad does, though. Some people just don’t make it out the best ways. Monsters aren’t always inhuman, and not all inhumans are monsters... Not straight away, at least. And yet, as per usual, there was a twisted form of relief. This person was likely spared the journey that followed, of gore and violence with moral ground suddenly being in short supply, and his death certainly cleared up the priority. Now the major, and only concern, was the hulking lupine being before him. As divine might pulsed through his body, before a blast of radiance hit the now fleeing wolf, Syd once again steeled his mind, and prepared for the future. Because whatever followed would not be good.
Gerard remembers that there are a good number of defenseless townsfolk are out in the street as the werewolf is pulled out of the window and falls to the ground. He knows that a fall will unfortunately not kill the beast. Quickly, Gerard goes to the window sill and looks below. Making a quick judgement about distances, angles, etc Gerard leaps out the window hoping to land safely near the werewolf and use the momentum of the fall to strengthen his staff attack. During the second of his fall he recalls his mentor teaching him how good judgement doesn't fully develop in a young man or woman until about their mid twenties. Sure enough he did not position himself correctly. As he lands, his weight is shifted too far back. Gerard falls backwards and to his right hitting his ribs and then his head hard upon the ground. His staff attack of course completely misses its intended target rebounds off of the street and hits him in the side of the head. Somehow he manages to hold onto his staff although had he let it go he may have not suffered the hit to his head. "This may be funny if it didn't hurt so much," Gerard say silently to himself.
The constant stream of fleeing panicked Hanweir residents begins to die down, He turns around when he hears a great thud followed by several smaller ones, seeing now that the werewolf and two others were recovering from an evident fall from Threg's room. The werewolf is first to it's lupine feet and emits a howl that bends the air, shattering windows and quaking the mortar and cobble of the street. The remaining commoners scream and fall to their feet, Raben included, but he stands and remains stalwart in his place between the shattered people and this bestial menace. The werewolf is beginning to feel worn, it's body covered in welts, its furred matted with its blood. It ends its howl with a heavy grunt and turns to face the nearest wall, and lopes on all fours towards it, growling along the way.
Yesfir watched with fascinated horror as one of the men dragged the werewolf out the window as another leaped after both man and beast. Her mouth hung open briefly not from horror but amazement at the sheer idiocy of these men who seemed intent on running straight into the open jaws of death. As both men and beast disappeared from sight there was a heartbeat of silence before a howl pierced the night, shaking the timbers loose from the destroyed wall. Yesfir winced covering her ears as several of the men in front of her dropped to their knees in pain while others stumbled backwards as their eyes glazed in a horrified stupor. Wincing even with her ears covered, Yesfir took one look around the devastation around her: one man dead, several clearly wounded, or incapacitated. And at that moment a life time of instinct kicked in as she rapidly bolted into a nearby room, darted underneath a bed, curled herself into a ball and hid.
Watching the crazed inquisitor tackle the werewolf out the window, Malekus begins to question if the pain is starting to cause him hallucinations. “That crazy fool just tackled a werewolf out of the building” he mutters under his breath as he struggles over to the gaping hole in the wall where the window once was. The broken glass crunches under foot as he leans over to peer down on the mess of people below. He sees the insane inquisitor on the street holding his arm and obviously in pain. Close by is Gerard who is looking like he hit hard when he jumped out of the window after them. He makes a brief request form his patron, “Gisela auxilium vobis” and the holy symbols embedded in his staff glow briefly before releasing the healing mana into the open wounds on Gerard. There is an ear-piercing howl from the beast again that scatters many of the on lookers. In the ensuing chaos in the street he is unable to see the werewolf. He notices a cathar in a defensive stance staring down the road away from the tangle of bodies. He scans the vicinity and finally spots the werewolf fleeing down the street. He calls forth another ball of warm radiating energy into his open palm and hurls it after the creature. It singes some of the fur on its back when the ball connects and releases the energy imbued within. He turns to the group still in the room with him and notices the woman has disappeared. He shouts loud enough for those in the room to hear but looks to the group below, “We cannot let it harm any of the townsfolk. We have to stop that accursed beast!”
Sitting up and groaning, Gerard feels a warmth spread throughout his body and his pain lessen. At first he thinks it may be shock, but then recognizes that someone has cast healing magic upon him. However, there is no time to figure out who has healed him and thank them. Catching the werewolf starting to run away out of the corner of his eye, Gerard quickly rises to his feet. "It can not be allowed to get away!," screams inside his mind. Gerard points at the beast and he begins to loudly speak in an arcane language, his voice lowering an octave below its normal range. Finishing the incantation with a shout and the clenching of his fist, a variety of vines and other plants spring up out of the ground between and pushing through the cobblestones. Speedily they wrap themselves all around the werewolf and pull it to the ground where they wrap themselves even tighter and even shut his jaws together. A cube of fifteen square feet around the beast become a mass thick vegetation moving on its own as if some breeze only felt by them swirls moving the leaves and stalks in different directions.
Amidst its retreat, vines begin the rapidly sprout around the werewolf, grasping first its wrists, then its ankles, body, neck and snout. They twist and coil around the lycanthrope while it struggled with heavy grunts and muted cries. But in a superhuman feat of strength, a claw tears from its verdant prison, followed by a shoulder, its back and face, and finally its hindquarters; it continues its escape for the animal was not so devilishly crazed to incite its own death. Slowed by these animate plants, it only gets so much nearer to the wall and, ultimately, its safety.
Joseph watches incredulously as the mad inquisitor and the snarling werewolf—staggering and circling each other in a savage waltz of blood, beard, spittle, and fur—approach the gaping hole of moonlit night, pause a moment, and disappear over the edge. His gaze then follows the druid who rushes straight after them, stares down a moment, and jumps. Just then a soul-wrenching howl cleaves the night air. The ranger’s face turns pale, and he crouches down next to the upturned bed, his eyes watching the wall-breach with terror. His steel shortsword clatters to the floor as his left hand rises to his face, gently touching the three parallel scars that stretch like a precarious rope bridge across his forehead. The shadow of fear passes from his face, and the ranger stands. He points to the dagger on the floor where Threg stood just seconds ago. “Put that silver to use!” he says out loud, then rushes to the hole in the wall. “Inquisitor!” he shouts, “Take my blade!” He tosses Raben’s silver sword over the edge. The ranger then whips around and sprints out the door, rounding the corner towards his own room, and disappears down the hallway.
Cowering under the bed wasn't probably the most cowardly thing she could have done. But bravery, she had found was normally reserved for the very, very stupid or the very, very short lived. She may be a coward for hiding underneath a bed while others chased after a werewolf, but she was alive and safe, and at the end of the day that was all that mattered. Curling up tighter against the wall, she willed herself to be as small as possible as she heard the ranger call down to his companions. However when she heard his footsteps enter the hall, she pursed her lips and blew making a cutting off gesture with her hands as she whispered, "Lights out. " A soft gust of wind flowed from her lips, swirling out from underneath the bed as every light within ten feet of her were blown out by an errant wind plunging the area into darkness.
After the werewolf broke free from the vines that had sprung up from the ground there was nothing else to hinder its flight to the wilderness outside the city. The town guard’s reaction time was to slow and Malekus knew it was up to the group of strangers in this melee to prevent further destruction. “We cannot let it reach the wall!” he shouts.
As the beast continues its desperate flight, he begins to chant an incantation “Hoc non liceat permanere.” Once again, the ball of warm light forms in his left hand and he hurls it at the back of the fleeing were. The energy streaks out faster than he expected, and he thinks this must be Gisela’s touch. The light impacts across the werewolf’s shoulder blade and rips a gaping hole in its torso. The beast falls to the ground unmoving. He mutters under his breadth a quick prayer of thanks to his patron. Addressing the other around him he proclaims “By the light of Avacyn’s mercy that foul creature has been vanquished! Her holy light will shine upon us this night.” He turns to the cleric and says “We should make sure to take proper care of the bodies. May they spend an eternity in the ground,” and he traces the sign of Avacyn before himself. As people begin to gather to take in the situation, he is silently working to ensure the proper steps are taken for the dead. He knows if anything is overlooked, they might one day rise again and harry innocents. After a brief ceremony he retires to his chamber for the night.
The window to Joseph's room clatter open, and the ranger stands backlit in the frame, bow in hand, with a silver arrow nocked. When he sees the scene, he shouts from his vantage point, "It's dead! The werewolf is dead!" His words echo through the dark streets of Hanweir. He returns to the hallway, retrieves his scabbards from the floor near the window, and heads to Threg's room, tying his sword belt on as he moves. He's still catching his breath when he enters Threg's room, but his face is blank and expressionless. He walks over to Threg, leans down, and grabs the silver chain around the mangled commoner's neck to inspect it. A second later he jerks it, snapping it free from the body, and puts it in his pocket. Then he collects and sheaths his shortswords. After a quick discussion with Raben, the ranger retires to his room without further word to anyone.
Gerard seeing the werewolf now dead exhales sharply in relief while bending at his waste. He quietly mutters some arcane words and uses healing magic on himself. Gerard looks around to see if anyone is hurt, and remembering once again that he left his medical supplies back in his room, will take off running to the inn he is staying in order to retrieve them.
Noting the other individual from the Order of Goldnight’s ragged state - a direct consequence of Threg’s handiwork with a dagger - Syd would offer a prayer of healing. Their divine powers seemed to react, and the man’s injuries closed better than the holy man would normally expect. He had ultimately ended the threat, and that had unfortunately left the young Blackmore with some unanswered questions, but nothing could be done. As the militia approached, and before this secularly-run town moved to take back control over the situation, Syd would perform last rites on the bodies, blessing them and hoping to ease them into the eternal sleep, so that they might not be disturbed again. The brouhaha seemed to die down, and the major players each went their separate ways. They were an interesting lot, that was for sure. But Syd’s work was not done yet. By the time he properly finished - in a relatively short time-frame thanks to Malekus’s help - he was exhausted, and could do nothing but slip out of his chain-mail and into bed, finally getting the sleep he was due.
The Militia's Arrival
The Hanweir militia either woke from their beds or recovered their bravery, for they soon arrived at the scene. A few members approach the lupine corpse with steady caution, as if it might wake from an apparent slumber, but the werewolf does not rise again. Raben sees to it that he finds and speaks to every member of the party, taking the time to even ensure young Nata was safe. He also makes a point to show his appreciation and gratitude to the individuals that aided in tonight's horrific bout; he wasn't sure if they would have made it without their help.
An affirmative man, perhaps an appointed captain or sheriff of the militia, begins to order the others around, to retrieve the corpse and isolate it from the public, remove the rubble from the street, and ferry the last of the few remaining commoners home. The dead werewolf's death reversion will soon occur. Hopefully, it wasn't anyone they recognized-one of their own. In the light of the men's torches, you could see denizens of the surrounding homes peering through their windows conspicuously, no doubt commenting on the grizzly spectacle. Hanweir is cursed.. Perhaps there's some truth to that.
After retrieving his healing kit, Gerard returns to the area of the werewolf attack looking to help those that need it. There are a few people with minor injuries he treats, but unfortunately most of the creature’s victims were killed outright. Speaking to his patients while treating them, Gerard finds out that either the townsfolk did not witness him using his art, they don’t care, or they are simply keeping quiet. While finishing up with a very young militia man that fell and bruised his forehead while running on the wet cobblestone, a church cathar approaches him. Gerard subtlety notes possible escape routes if needed when the holy man introduces himself as Raben. Raben says that he and some others are working to rid this town of the troubles that plague it, and that he believes that a man of Gerard’s skills may be helpful to them. He also mentions that he believes that Raben’s and Gerard’s goals are one and the same in this matter. Raben leaves him with an invitation to join him and his associates in the town square in the morning.
Gerard quickly undressed, fell into bed, and sleeps hard until morning. Waking in the morning, he washes up, dresses and begins his morning meditation. After thanking the spirits for their assistance during the night, and asking them for their help today, Gerard ponders Raben’s offer. It could be a trap but Raben doesn’t strike Gerard as the type of person that would burn a heretic that may be useful to him. Raben seems to be more concerned for the greater good. Gerard also believes that he will have a much greater chance to speak to mayor and visit the cemetery if he is in Raben’s company.
The Hunter's Dream
Joseph is lying atop his still-made bed, dressed in his armor. His sword belt lies neatly on the floor nearby, covered by a pool of square moonlight. His eyes are closed but his shoulder twitches, then his leg. His brow is covered with sweat, and his eyes are darting around under the lids. In his dream, the ranger is in the Ulvenwald, on the stretch of road between Aker’s place and one-eyed Neil’s farm. Beside him is the Old Man, sitting astride Sally. I like Sal, thinks Joseph to himself. The Old Man does, too. Says he hates her. She eats his tomatoes. But you know which horse he picks every time he goes out.
Behind the Old Man and Joseph was a doomed courier who had been coming out of Stensia that morning. It was a courier we were protecting that day. The one from Hanweir, with the eerie blue skin. Beside the courier, Thomas, clad in robe and leather belt, practicing some spell in his palm. Trailing on rear guard was loud and boisterous Easton, armor clinking, jaws flapping. The party was stopped. There’s an urgency, a dread. Joseph looks around. A deer stands nearby, in the treeline, staring hungrily at the group. Another is on the road, behind Easton, its head down, antlers forward, ready to charge. “Keep it back!” the Old Man thunders to Easton. Sal is gone and the Old Man stands with his sword and staff, facing the deer in the trees. “Away from Thomas!”
Joseph cowers down into the cart. It was a cart they had met, not a courier. The hunter holds his hands up. They are frail and fair, but brimming with strange energy. He instinctually tucks them between his legs, hiding the arcane glow. No, he thought to himself, I was being protected. I was a simpleminded, scared girl they’d found wandering the north Ulvenwald that day. “It won’t get near him, Old Man! Not past my blade!” Easton says with bravado, jostling his shield and sword to make his point clear. He shoots a glance back to gauge his audience’s reaction.
He’ll get it when we get home tonight. The Old Man hates when he talks more than he acts. And he’s too proud. Always showing off for Thomas. Joseph looks to the deer and sees the antlers are gone. It stands on two legs, snarling at Easton. It has fangs. It was a werewolf. We were attacked by a werewolf, on our way out of Gavony. Joseph raises an arm to point to the threat and warn the fighter, whose smart-ass eyes are still looking to the Old Man—but he gasps when he sees his own hand. His flesh is decaying, two fingers are missing, and in his fist is a dirt-caked mattock.
No, I was a farmer. A dead farmer they were taking to Gavony. My son had paid for my place in the blessed graf years ago, with his own life. The werewolf pounces, slamming the unsuspecting Easton onto the ground. The boy grunts and struggles with the fiend, using his shield to keep at bay the claws and teeth. “Fool!” the old man cries out to Easton. He looks to Joseph. “Joseph! Get up there! Protect Thomas!”
Joseph looks down and sees his familiar frame and attire. No, I am Joseph Clarke. I am a Gatekeeper. He touches his forehead, but there is no scar. He looks to the Old Man. “But Easton!?” he cries. How can I face a full-grown werewolf without Easton? The old man misunderstood. “Easton’s a warrior!” the man barks angrily, spittle flecking out onto his beard, “And so are you! Now, go!” He turns to face the flanking were, preparing to meet its attack with arcane force.
Pulsing with adrenaline, Joseph draws his other sword and steps in front of Thomas. Already the young boy was gibbering and hysterical at seeing his oldest brother fall beneath the claws of the werewolf. “Thomas!” Joseph says firmly, careful not to lower his gaze from the target, “He’s okay! Just burn it! Attack it!” Thomas is too sensitive. Too careful. Too hesitant. Even the Old Man thinks so. Won’t do anything without Easton around. And Easton eats it up. Makes him even more obnoxious.
Easton manages to roll the werewolf off, towards the rest of the party. Joseph hunkers down, preparing for attack. The werewolf explodes with an earth-rattling howl, shaking the leaves above the road. A flurry of spinning maple seeds come drifting to the ground like a gentle, golden snow. Joseph looks towards the sky in wonder. Just then, he feels a burning sear on his face as a giant, fur-covered arm rears over his shoulder from behind, raking its claws across his forehead, from eyebrow to hair. He stumbles forward, swords clattering to the ground as he clamps his hand over the wound, and he turns. Through the hot blood in his eyes he sees not Thomas but Threg, grinning and dancing, red-eyed and gibbering, a bloody silver dagger in his hand. At the madman’s feet lie Raben and Syd, both dead.
Joseph gasps awake in his bed in Hanweir. The moon has shifted; it casts a slender square of pallid light upon the bed. Flecks of sweat glisten silver on the hunter’s forehead. He gets up and gazes out the window into the darkness a while. The night is still, aside from the occasional creak of wood. With a sigh, the ranger returns to bed and sleeps.
Morning in Hanweir
The night, no matter how dark, does not last forever, and by the arms of Avacyn herself the sun, indeed, rises over the horizon the next morning. When he found you last night, Raben instructed to meet at the town square a couple hours after morning's light. From there, he plans to visit the Mayor Garenson and pay visit to the grave of Pitre. Finally, it seems, the investigation will start.
The hunter awoke early that day, a bit before sunrise. After spending some time in front of his window in thought, watching Hanweir from the anonymity of the second-story inn window, he heaved another long sigh. Morning preparations were brief. He spent some time with his oil and whetstone, honing the nicks and notches his blade had accumulated in the last few days, making certain to apply the leftover oil on the rag to his scabbards and sword-belt. Satisfied, he donned the belt and duster, left his pack, bow, and quiver in his room, and headed out into the township.
His first stop was Whitemark Chapel. Most of his time was spent alone in a pew, head down in thought or prayer—perhaps a bit of both. After nearly an hour he went to the front, wordlessly received a blessing, and departed, leaving a few coins in the small donation bowl on his way out. On the stoop of the chapel Joseph lingered, watching the street for a friendly face but finding few. The town was still ill at ease from the werewolf attack, and the ranger’s scarred face got little recognition other than brief looks of trepidation. Finally, the hunter spotted a grizzled old farmer wearing an amulet of silver outside his coat, and Joseph approached him with a single question: “I’m looking for a shop run by a woman called Ekka.” The farmer kindly gave him the information before heading inside the chapel.
When the hunter returned to the inn, Syd was downstairs. The ranger approached him, digging into his pocket. He held out to the cleric a chain of silver, adorned with an amulet of Avacyn. It was Threg’s amulet.
When Joseph returns to the inn from some morning errand, he sees the cleric and walks over to him. "Syd," he says. "Can you look at this?" He holds out a thin chain of silver with a small Avacynian amulet attached. It's Threg's. Are you holy-types able to figure out if it's blessed silver? Looks real to me."
This wasn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Though, it had become painfully evident over the past few days that ‘improvisation’ was the operative word, outside the church’s overt boundaries. As such, Syd received the amulet and stared at it for a good long few instants, mulling over the ways to tell whether this was in fact silver and/or blessed. Silver was a soft metal, he’d read. DId that mean he should take a bite out of it, like they did in the stories?... Naah. ... Unbelievable. He’d actually managed to amuse himself. Being left with this strange concoction of emotions, with the happiness of having made himself laugh, and the shame that came out of this having been what did it, made the Holy Man offer a fake cough to right himself and dispel loose thoughts. Before they could creep back in, however, his brow furrowed lightly. He wasn’t particularly gifted with metals, but he’d certainly handled his fair share of blessed silver in his day. And this felt particularly close. Werewolves weren’t really the focus of his training either, but if Threg was a wolf, then this couldn’t be right.
“... As far as I can tell, this is an object of worship.” - he said, surprise turning into full blown puzzlement - “... Wouldn’t Threg have reacted to this if he were a wolf?” - he added, unable to prevent himself from stating the obvious this time, returning the amulet to Joseph.
"Threg weren't no werewolf, Joseph says, lifting his eyes. "Pretty sure of that by now. But it don't matter much now. He's dead."
The ranger clenches the amulet, turning to leave. "Hey Syd," he asks suddenly, as if remembering. "You any good with visions? Like the stuff that jumps in your head when you're praying? When you're awake? Can you tell what they mean?"
Syd stood in silence, absorbing the information regarding Threg. Whatever this was, it was certainly not like something he’d learned in his training, before being half-jolted back into reality by a question regarding visions. “I’m afraid I don’t” - the priest replied a little absent-mindedly, clearly still wrapped up in the puzzle that was Threg - “Much like blessing of silver” - he added, by Pavlovian reflex - “That falls into the purview of the Moonsages. The Order of Alabaster. Goldnight, the order I belong to, tends to focus on smiting, I’m afraid.” - Syd replied, hoping to at least point the Ranger in the right direction.
Whether it was the touch of Gisela still coursing through his body or the feeling of impending doom that was hanging over this town he did not sleep well. The morning’s meditation brought a peace that had been hard to find the night before. He felt better after communing with his patron as part of the daily ritual. Today she had not see fit to grant him a vision but still he was a peace with the group’s triumph over the werewolf. Hopefully this small victory would help set of the townsfolk at ease and Avacyn knows they needed a light of hope to bring them through this dark time.
Malekus is pleased that the group had been sanctioned by the church to investigate the strange bleeding corpse. His attempts to investigate it had been rebuffed by the mayor because he was not visiting in official church capacity. He had come back to Hanweir to perform the last rights for a relative who had been ill. Unfortunately, the word had come to slowly and the road to Hanweir had been long and hard. By the time he had arrived 2 days ago his cousin, Saul, had already passed away. He was able to perform the burial ceremony, but that was moved away from the bleeding grave. After hearing about a curse on the town during his journey here and now with a ever bleeding corpse he wanted to help bring Avacyn’s light back to the town. He heads downstairs to have a prepared breakfast and notices the ranger and the cleric in conversation. He nods to acknowledge them but selects a table on the other side of the room to enjoy his meal. He then departs for the town square.
After eating a hearty breakfast in the inn’s common room, Gerard decides that the risk is worth it to stop whatever evil has beset this town. He can feels a poison seeping through the ground. The earth is calling him to cure this affliction it is suffering. Gerard gathers all of his gear, leaves the inn and travels to the town square looking for Raben and company.
After allowing herself to be convinced out from under the bed where she had hidden herself, Yesfir finally fell asleep in a restless slumber, tossing and turning before finally waking at the crack of dawn to obtain a few buckets for a cold bath as she finally allowed herself to wash off the dust of travel. As she aided the drying of her hair through one of her tricks, Yesfir looked at herself in the mirror for perhaps the third time in her life. Yet the sight although pleasing caused not but a frown. Without the cover mud, bits of grass, and filth her skin was too pale, her hair too dark, and the unusual color of her eyes far too noticeable. Biting her lip, she brought up a hand to a small pale patch of skin just under her right eye. She tilted her head watching the patch shift into iridescent shades of silver and blue as her fingers exploring the strange texture of it.
Dropping her hands, she momentarily fingered the clay-caked ring that encircled her thumb, her eyes distant for a moment. Dismissing her thoughts, she wrapped her chest tightly to a semblance of flatness with bands of cloth. She becomes 'Nata' for what she hoped to be the last time, hiding her hair under a grey scarf. Finally using some berries that she was given for breakfast along with some soot from the fireplace, she spread the mixture below her right eye covering the patch there as well as hopefully creating something just unremarkable enough that it would serve as a disguise of sorts. Going downstairs, she haltingly thanked Raben along with Gleb while also saying her own good bye. Leaving the inn, she eventually separated from Gleb under the guise of looking for work but in reality looking for something or someone else entirely.
Meeting with Raben
The town square is centered amongst three central parts of the city: the open-air market, the market district, and administrative district. However the party spends their morning, the hour draws near in which you must meet with Raben and finally start this accursed investigation. The square is wide, and some denizens of Hanweir can be seen traversing its area as they head to and from the market and market district, some with carts or livestock. The area smells of farm goods and animals of all kinds. The people speak of the werewolf attack that occurred late last night, though if you would look at the scene, you would notice almost all evidence of it was removed, other than any damage to the clawed buildings and the hole in the side of the Wandering Heron. Instead they speak of another scene, where the lycanthrope first struck: very near one of the guard posts in the palisade, many guards were found dead, massacred. Evidently the werewolf made its way through them before it found the party.
Raben stands near a post, apparently studying the pinned papers fixed to it, a pained look to his face. He has a small booklet in his hands, and he writes in it. Seeing his comrades approach he pays it mind no longer and puts his journal away. He makes small talk as you wait for everyone to arrive.
"Good," he says once everyone is present, "I hope your mornings have been good. We shall meet the Mayor Garensun. His offices are on his estate, in the upper part of the administrative district. If you'll follow me."
Traversing the administrative district, you pass by several government or service buildings. A press, a courier station, what looked to be a mint under construction besides a bank, the district chapel which was larger and in better keep than Whitemark, a barracks, the court house. Hanweir was practically a city, isolated as it was in the edge of Gavony, bordering the province of Kessig and its Ulvenwald.
Mayor Garensun's estate was a guarded, fenced area. Black iron fences with sharpened speared tips surrounded its area, with many men and woman traversing its perimeter. Raben made short work of entering this high-profile space, however, and the guard had made mention that Raben and his band have made waves in the mouths and minds of people of Hanweir along with where you'd find the mayor's office. Some of you, having tried to visit the mayor before, were stopped here at the guard's station, and now finally step onto the premises for the first time. The home itself was a mansion, spreading across wide with a wing on either side, making a sort of 'H' that was two stories tall. You proceed to the right wing. Under an arch, a door with "Mayor Garenson's Offices" is plated to its face. Raben turns to his accompaniment. "I'd imagine there's a waiting area, but I wouldn't believe his office itself can withhold the lot of us. I'll take two with me to speak with the good mayor."
On the way to the estate Malekus spends most of the walk talking with Raben. He learns that the man was an Arm of Avacyn. They trade tales of towns that they protected in the name of the church. Malekus confesses that lately he has spent more time in verbal arguments with disillusioned townsfolk questioning the disappearance of Avacyn. He is excited that the cathar was able to get them through the gate that had barred his was the previous day. After they reach the office and Raben asks who will join him, Malekus takes a moment to reflect on the situation. Malekus notices Gerard hanging back, more intent on scanning the grounds. He reflects that the group he is with seems very capable in a fight and would hopefully prove themselves with the investigation.
He turns and addresses the group “I know some of you were sent here on a mission from the church. I wish to lend my aid to your cause. Last night you all showed your abilities in a fight for our lives but this will require a more nuanced skill. I wish to investigate this strange curse and free this town from the looming omen. I will defer to you brothers Syd and Raben on who should be present for this encounter but I do hope we have unrestrained access to perform an investigation and cleanse this town."
“Raben,” - Syd asked, approaching the Parish-Blade on their way to the Mayor’s office - “A word in private, if you would not mind.” The Cathar and the Priest would move away from the group ever so slightly, to have a short conversation. Now, of course, during a trip like this, with as many people as it had and little to no time to lose, ‘privacy’ was a hard commodity to come by. Meaning, any who wanted to eavesdrop would probably be able to with no real difficulty. Those who did would hear Syd mention something about a Nightbird, and how curses, Eldritch blades and giant carrion were not unfamiliar to either of them, as well as how the chat with the Mayor would hopefully prove interesting.
Joseph stopped when he reached the town square, and glanced around. Wearing only his swords, armor, and duster—his pack, bow, and quiver he left in his room—he spotted Raben and approached him. But he left the cathar to his work, instead choosing a nearby boulder to keep company. There he sat and wordlessly observed the people of Hanweir going about their business. He watched as familiar faces arrived, some of them more familiar than others: the holy man with the staff, the crazed inquisitor, Syd, the squirrel-man, and the Stensian girl. His gaze lingered, if only slightly, on Nata. When Raben began leading the party to the estate, the hunter briefly stopped by the post, examining the papers pinned upon it. Then he silently caught up, and walked beside Raben to the Mayor's house. When the cathar speaks, Joseph sniffs, takes a step back, and begins surveying the estate grounds.
The Mayor of Hanweir
The day isn't greyer than any of the past week that you have experienced. The wind blows lazily from the south, carrying the wooden scent of the Ulvenwald. It's as if the previous night had never happened, honestly. Guards make their rounds across the perimeter of the mayor's estate, and servants and other Hanweir officials come and go from the main entrance.
"Syd, Malekus, if you wouldn't mind," Raben continues. He opens the door and allows his two requested to follow. You now tread on wool mat, intended to stamp the dirt and grime from the outside. The rest of the entryway is linoleum, fashioned from minerals no doubt from a stone quarry some miles away. Raben, as official as ever, makes short work of coercing the desk assistant to allow them audience with the good Mayor Garensun. Behind her desk, a little to the left is a darkly-finished door with a golden knocker and handle. In an engraved plate it says 'Mayor Jurgen Garensun - One with the Community, the Community as One'.
Momentarily surprised by the Parish-Blade’s choice of partners for this chat, before having an ‘Aha’ moment when he’d heard the Cathar utter the words ‘The Church’. It made perfect sense for this visit to look as official as possible. Noting the irate constable passing through the group, the man would have a gander around the room, to get a sense for who this Garensun was, and arrange his ideas in order to come away from this conversation, hopefully, with less questions than when he went in.
You hear several voices in heated discussion inside, but after a moment it quiets down. Shortly afterward, the door swings open on well-oiled hinges. A man exits, perhaps a sheriff or constable, and angrily vacates the premises. Raben grabs hold of the door before it closes. "Mayor Garensun, the Church would like a word."
A portly voice answers, begrudgingly. "Yes, of course. Come in."
Mayor Garensun appears as his voice sounds. Stout, rounded and stocky. His cheeks and nose are flushed red and his hair and beard are as grey as the sky outside. A silver chain hangs from his dark green vest's chest pocket. He sits behind a blackened wooden desk with papers and writing implements about it. Books and scrolls line a bookcase to his right, and a closed glass display case is placed against the wall to his right. Two cushioned leather chairs with brass studs are before his desk.
Malekus spends the first few seconds in the room taking in the rich wood furniture and the portly man who oversees the township. Glancing at the pristine tomes lining the shelves they seem to be mostly record keeping and official documentation. The glass case catches his eye, he takes a mental inventory of its contents. He turns his attention to the man, Jurgen Garensun. Malekus elects to remain standing after the introductions and listens intently as Raben outlines the reason for the visit.
"What is it?" The Mayor Garensun asks.
Without sitting, Raben places the Avacynian missive documentation in reading position before the official. The mayor grunts and clears his throat a few times as he leans forward, placing small, circular reading glasses from his pocket on the bridge of his nose. He takes several minutes, making small reading hmphs as his eyes treat the coarse of inked lettering, his forehead now coated in thin layer of sweat.
"I see. You've come about the grave. It says here you are to investigate. What exactly does that entail? These two going to read the mana at the murder site?" He points at Syd and Malekus with his knuckled chin.
"No, sir mayor. These two are with Flight Goldnight; they do not read the signs of mana. We've come to see the body; I'm understanding that the deceased is already buried. We will have to exhume him."
The mayor chokes and coughs on his breath. He brings a cloth to his mouth. "Excuse me?! What blasphemy is this? The boy is in the ground, you wish to desecrate his resting place?!"
“Our sincerest apologies, Mayor. But in what we’ve heard from the townsfolk...” - Syd interrupted the angry tirade, with a tone that was authoritative, but polite - “They seem to believe your town is cursed. And the rumours of this would-be curse being linked to the death of the very boy you refer to, are beginning to spread. This kind of dissent can be dangerous. Would it not set their minds at ease to know that the Church is doing everything that they can to investigate?”
Rhetoric was never Syd’s strong suit. The members of his Flight seldom suffered foolishness or indignation to begin with. To most, there was the assignment and nothing else. As a result, though idiosyncratic he may be, this Cleric’s words were typically to the point and could even border on callous. But, if anyone could get away the occasional lack of tact, it would be a man of the Cloth. One who spoke for Church and Angels.
"Hanweir isn't cursed!" he begins incredulously. "We're plagued! More and more ghouls in the moors have been sacking our farms, some farmers are losing crops to blight, and evidently," he adds, making an exaggerated gesture, "black albatrosses have been scaring away any trader or passerby. The Church should be seeing to it that these provincial menaces are dealt with! I've already began funding the construction of a completely stone wall to surround Hanweir. It should commence in the next few seasons."
“You misunderstand,” - Syd replied, his interest peaked by the man’s response - “This is a matter of perception. Your constituents are convinced that the troubles befalling the town relate to the felling of poor Pitre. As a result, whether you believe the rumours or not is beside the point. The fact is, these fears will continue until they are assuaged. The ability to quell those voices is something we can offer. If you have us leave however, then there is a chance that you might be fanning the flames of dissent. And in my experience, that does not usually work out well for those in public office...” - the Priest added, placing one hand on the Mayor’s desk before leaning over and whispering sweetly, with a smile blossoming across his face - “... Nor does not impeding the Church, for that matter.”
With a warm smile Malekus inserts himself into the tense conversation. His tone is even and jovial as he attempts to lighten the mood. He places and hand on Syd's shoulder and releases the energy of the cantrip he has been preparing.
“What I believe my colleague is trying to say that the church is working tirelessly to protect the good of all. We are all brothers and sisters in faith. Mayor Garensun having a ever bleeding corpse is a desecration of sacred ground and should be dealt with by the church. We carry with us the light of Avacyn and have the blessing of our flight's leader Gisela. We are equipped to deal with this curse properly.” The holy symbols and emblems in the armor of the two priests becomes more noticeable as the cantrip's effect begins to take full effect.
He continues as if the effect is completely normal, “I too have heard the rumors that the divine protection has been waning recently but I assure you we are all working towards a safer and more prosperous realm. We can request more regular patrols from Thraben or even a contingent of the Arms be deployed here, if we are provided the support we request during our investigation.” He turns back to look at the Cather and winks, “Isn't that right Raben?”
He puts on another warm smile as he returns his gaze and gestures to the man behind the desk. “I noticed a wonderfully inspired decree that all citizen are compelled to attend daily church ceremonies while the curse remains in effect. Surely the man who thought to unite his people is daily prayer would turn to the holy church's anointed servants for aid in purging the corruption? We would also make it known that our presence was requested by a Mayor who had the best interest of his people at the front of his mind.”
The Hanweir mayor only continues his contempt. "The daily attendance at the Lightspire Chapel was meant to put the people at ease! To curb the rumors! Bah! It's only strengthened their beliefs! Requesting aid from the Cathedral was meant to be a show of good faith, to quiet the town's people! I didn't think anyone would actually make their way here! Not when Tr- not when travesty happens across all of the provinces! This is why we've taken to our own!"
“I understand your plight. This is why I’ve refrained from giving you the pious and friendly speech that Brother Malekus here” - he’d motion politely to Malekus, before turning back to the Mayor - “Has delivered so well. But I don’t believe you’re the intended audience. How or why is not my concern, but clearly you lack faith in the church. And so you dislike our presence here regardless of the solutions we may bring.”
“Your people. They’re in the exact same situation you are. Only, where you deny us, they see us as the only tool that can get the job done. And, like your own personal feelings, theirs won’t be changing any time soon.”
Raising an arm to either side and offering a shrug of the shoulders, Syd would offer the Mayor a look that seemed to read ‘What can you do?’, before continuing - “So here are the practical terms, for a practical man. If you allow us to conduct our investigation to its full extent, we will allow you to parade us through the streets, put on our best smiles and let you regain the very support that seems to be waning. Or you could turn us away. And in the process tell your people you’ve turned your backs to the only ones who could deliver them from evil in what they believe to be their hour of need. So. What’ll it be?”
The Hanweir mayor glowers in a guff grunt. "So be it." He grabs the letters along with plumage and inkwell and begins signing his concurrence on the Avacynian missives. "See to it that as soon as you rid my town of my people's plight, you abscond yourselves. There." He hands the documents back to Raben. "Exhume the poor lad, and be sure to keep what you find between yourselves and I. Hanweir doesn't need anymore doomsayers."
With that, Raben bids the good mayor adieu and the two Goldnight mages vacate the premises with him, reuniting with the rest of the party outside the entryway. "Well, I had hoped that would have gone better," Raben states finally after a moment of silence.
Stowing Away
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Raben's entourage, young Nata has absconded into the manor as servants and other come and go for her own ends. She hopes to find a clue, any clue, and traverses thee mansion, room by room, unfailingly hidden from any eye or ear that would perceive her.
Walking purposefully but quietly down the hall wearing a borrowed apron and carrying a cloth, Yesfir carefully peered into each room she passed with no more than a brief glance. The trick to sneaking in anywhere, as she had discovered long ago, was not to sneak. If you looked and acted as if you belonged, as if there was someplace urgent you had to be and you knew exactly how to get there, no one would question your presence. Add in the inevitable invisibility of a servant in a clearly busy household, getting in bad been all to easy. Finding what she was looking for in the other hand while not actually looking like she was searching for anything- now that was a tricky part.
Turning her head slightly as she passed yet another door, her eyes caught the brief sight of books, shelves upon shelves of books. Turning promptly on her heels, she entered the room leaving the door exactly as she found it. Standing in front of the book shelves, she frowned with her hands on her hips. There was so many books. Running the cloth along the shelves in the pretense of dusting, her eyes quickly scanned the shelves looking for anything that looked for anything familiar. Finally she spots a familiar image, a heraldic device. Grabbing the book eagerly, she laid it out on an out-of-the-way table. Looking up, she ensured that she couldn't immediately be seen. Satisfied, she began to quickly flip through it. With each page she paused, giving a little shake of her head, before going to the next one. Turning yet another page, her fingers trembled as she softly traced the image of a silver crescent moon overlapped by a golden sword. It was a simple image, hardly worthy of the color and the card the artist so clearly took with it.
Realizing time was short, she quickly yanked off the ring from her right-hand thumb, taking the cloth in her hand to knock off the clay she had coated the valuable trinket in order to hide its value. Once clean, she ran a reverent hand over it as she held it next to the book. Inside the wide silver band was a curiously cut light-blue stone that reflected the light oddly, as it's nearly flat surface was marred by weird ripples and grooves. Dismissing the puzzle of the gem for another time, Yesfir tilted the ring so she could look at the carving that was inside the band. The two images were identical. Placing the ring back on her finger, she began to look for some way to copy the page even as she eagerly tried to read what information it contained.
Hurriedly grabbing a sheet a paper, Yesfir began the tedious and slow process of trying to make a copy of the page she had found. Silent moments pass until suddenly she heard footsteps outside the door. Making a split-second decision, she tore the page with the matching image to her ring along with a few others just to be safe, closed the book, replaced it and began to dust the shelves as she began to carefully make her exit. Using the same methods that had gained entrance to the building in the first place, she exited with no one the wiser to her brief exploration.
Humming a tavern dirty about a lass named Sally, she wove her way back to where the rest of the group waited for Raben, stopping occasionally to gather a random wild flower. Plopping herself a safe distance from the men, her humming turned to a childish song as she began to weave her gathered flowers into a crown, her joy clearly showing in the sly grin tracing her face. Finally. Finally. After years of not knowing, she finally had a name: Sarka.
Outside the Mayor's Office
When the three depart, Joseph walks to the base of the arch and sits, facing away from the building. He leans his head back against the masonry and closes his eyes.
Garreth quietly waits outside the Mayor’s office while the others talk. He had already met with the man and it hadn’t gone well. He hoped that him not being involved in their discussion would yield different results.
When the rest of the party gathered at the town square, Gerard quietly introduces himself to each person. Afterwards, he keeps quiet and accompanies them to the Mayor's home. Content to remain waiting just outside the mayor's office, Gerard begins to quietly observe the area around him. He notes the activity of the servants, the movements of the guards. He notes the smells of people, horses, livestock, and manure mixed with the smell of of the Ulvenwald drifting from the south. The smell brings back memories of home and love ones lost, and happy days and of terror.
Stirring himself out of reverie, Gerard approaches the man that stated his name is Joseph leaning against one of the walls, but decides to not disturb him. A bit of time after the three churchmen have gone in to speak to the mayor, Gerard sees a young lady leaving the estate accompanied by two guards. She is dressed as one may expect of a lady her age that comes from a family of wealth and appears headed for the marketplace. "This must be Lorelei," he thinks to himself.
"Excuse me, Joseph. Sorry to disturb you. The young lady leaving the estate I believe is the mayor's daughter Lorelei. I have been told she knew the young man Pitre. I am going to try to speak to her. Will you please tell the others that I will either return here or meet them in the town square. Thank you very much!" Not waiting for a response, Gerard walks at a quick pace to catch to the young lady and guards.
The ranger opens his eyes, grasps his amulet, and lifts it slightly from his chest. "I'll tell Raben when he's out." He then closes his eyes again.
Speaking with the Mayor's Daughter
Once he approaches a respectful distance, he will speak up. "Excuse me, Miss Lorelei. My name is Gerard Waltgaud. May I speak to you a minute about a young man named Pitre?"
The guard are quick to establish a protective stance that shows a willingness to be on the offensive, but the young lady speaks without pause or slowing in her step. She wears a grey gown with white lines embroidered throughout her form that shadow her light frame. "I am on my way to Palmbriar Monastery, sir. Be quick, I do not wish to forestay here much longer." A carriage can be heard pulling up by the periphery of the mayor's grounds and seems to be slowing down as it nears the gates.
Gerard will match pace with the young lady. "Palmbriar Monastery? There are some good people there that are in the same profession as me; only I am not a member of the church proper. What can you tell me about Pitre, his death, and the one who slew him? Anything that you can remember may help even if you think it insignificant. His grave poisons the land. We must stop this and make sure that Pitre is undisturbed in the rest that he has earned."
"Sir Waltgaud, I would much appreciate not to speak about the matter. It is a cursed subject and I can't b-", she falters in her speech, as if holding herself from breaking. Her eyes sheen with water as she bites her lip. "I really can't. If you'll excuse me, Sir Waltguad. May Avacyn bless you and be merciful in your sleep."
"Thank you for your time Lady Garensun. I do appreciate it. I wish you a safe journey." Seeing that pursuing the matter further will only upset the young lady and not gain anything, Gerard stops and allows Lorelei and her escort to complete the walk to the carriage without him. He will stand there until the carriage leaves and give a simple wave goodbye. Looking down at the ground for a moment Gerard cuckles quietly for a moment. "Sir Waltgaud! Nice manners, but talk about dressing up a pig."
Since he was not gone for only a few minutes, Gerard returns to the courtyard where he was waiting before.
Returning to the Group and on to the Bloodied Grave
Joseph looks up. "You find out about that sword? Or who's got it?" He brings himself to his feet, and stretches.
“The Mayor wanted to prevent us from accessing the body.” - the Priest remarked - “He’d refused the Inquisitor’s service already, and refused to comment on his daughter’s involvement with the deceased. It is entirely possible that this is simple bias, but odds are he knows more than he’s letting on. Either way, we should move with caution, because if we rattle too many cages we’ll be risking having our access revoked.” - Syd said, furrowing his brow and gripping the bridge of his nose with his right index and thumb.
“... This makes no sense. Vampires, a curse, now werewolves. There are even claims of ghouls and a giant bird preying on townsfolk. These creatures are territorial. How could they coexist?” - a sigh escaped his lips as his hand moved from his nose to rub his forehead. “There is something seriously wrong with this town. And by the looks of it, we’re on our own. Does anyone know the whereabouts of the Mayor’s daughter?” - the holy man inquired of the party when they were a good distance away from the man’s office.
As they walk, Joseph considers Syd's words. “He might know more than he'll admit,” the ranger says, eyes moving about the droves of people, “an’ it might just be he ain’t keen on the church to begin with.”
“Look around.” The ranger nods towards a passing group of militiamen. “How many cathars you see here in Hanweir? I’ve been out and about this morning, and I’ll tell you: there ain’t hardly none. In fact, you four are about the only folk I’ve seen from the Church of Avacyn all day. You think he don’t want your help ‘cos he knows something. I think he’s just tired of relying on the Church for protection. Can’t say I blame him,” Joseph adds after a pause. “Pretty sure he’d be a popular mayor down in Kessig.”
“I spoke briefly to the mayor’ daughter, Lorelei. She was very upset and wouldn’t speak about Pitre. She was also in a hurry. Her and some guards got on a carriage. She said they were on the way to Palmbriar Monastery. She did not say why.” Gerard looks a little dejected, and then asks, “What is this about a giant bird?”
"Not sure what to make of that," Raben answers the druid ,then continues. "But a day prior, we encounted a witch who shapeshifted into a large black crow. Perhaps they are one and the same."
“I agree that he knows more than he is letting on.” Malekus chimes in. Looking to the shapechanger he says “The mayor mentioned a dark albatross that has been harrying travels near the town as one of the many problems they wish the church to take care of. Such a concentration of abominations is a bad omen. These people do not deserve the looming doom that hangs over this town.” The mayor’s daughter may provide some insight into the man at the head of this town but that may only bring more questions, he thinks to himself. The real answer lies buried with that body. They had permission now to examine it but not share publicly what they find. He smiles warmly to the group as he says, “I know it is not the most dignified worked but I would prefer to break ground at the cemetery during the day than under the light of the moon. I vote we begin our investigation there.”
An eternal optimist he has a smile and a spring in his step as the group sets out from the manor. He will bring some light into the gloomy town even if it is only a kind word from a brother of the faith.
Joseph grunts an affirmation. "I ain't got a deathwish. The moon is still all but full. We got no business outside at night. If people got a problem with us working during the day, they can go pound sand."
As the group makes its way through the administration district, the hunter is peering at each of the buildings in turn, a puzzled expression on his face. After a few minutes of rubbernecking at the various placards and hanging wooden signs, lips moving silently to himself, he turns to the cleric, his voice low and betraying a hint of frustration. "Syd. Who do you suppose knows how to find people? People who'll know that farmer we buried yesterday? An' the courier back near Thraben? Someone who can track down friends of theirs. Or family. Seems to me one of these buildings'd have someone like that."
Syd places a hand on Joseph's shoulder, leans in close, and whispers in his ear while pointing at various buildings. The hunter nods. "All right. I'll probably come on down in the morning, when we ain't got more important things to do. Those bodies ain't going nowhere."
The Bloodied Grave
The Hanweir grafs are behind the Lightspire Chapel, which is a decent walk from the mayor's estate through the town's administrative district. You see the same buildings having past them from the other side of town, crossing the chapel before on your way to speak with Mayor Garensun. Arriving to the gated perimeter of the grafs, the scent of aged limestone and sodden earth fills your nostrils as you pass cement fence posts. You see guardsmen in rivetted metallic armor posted in front of its vine-wreathed gates. They initially oppose the group's encroachment, but Raben trustfully makes short work of their opposition.
The iron gates creak on their rusted hinges and you walk through, your steps making dull crunches as your feet fall on a pebbled path. It is silent here other than these noises, as you walk amongst the stone aisles. Many of the headstones are Avacynian in make, with carvings of her collar or of angels watching over the body as its spirit sleeps, but newer tombs don't have such reverence.
Joseph looks around as he walks. After the party is a few minutes past the gates, he turns to Raben. "Why've they got two types of graves? How come the old ones are so fancy?"
Garreth takes in the details of the graveyard, happy that the group was able to secure what he could not alone- access to the body of Pitre. He doesn't care what they had to agree to make it happen, just as long as his work can proceed.
The cathar takes note of the ranger's perceptiveness. "I believe Hanweir was more devout in the past. With the current mayor, they've taken a turn, even in their blessed sleep."
As you round a turn to the right, the pebbles are no longer and you tread on peat grass. But even this begins to yellow and completely die off as you near Pitre's grave. You begin to hear buzzing, light at first but now insistent. The gravel and dirt of the ground begins to stick and cling to your soles, and you notice a stark change in its color- a deep scarlet halo stains the earth where Pitre's body lies. There are flies infesting the boy's tombstone allowing only glimpses of his epitaph as they crawl and scurry. "Here lies -- Pitre Thatcher -- Hero of Hanweir -- Ava. 702 - 719"
"Dear Avacyn, this is repulsive." Malekus states as he approaches and takes in the horrible site of the grave. "Does anyone know more about the Hero of Hanweir here? I am not familiar with the title or the poor boy's story."
Placing the wreath she had woven on her head, making sure to set it askew, Yesfir trailed behind the men, humming idly under her breath. Strangely, none of them seem to question her presence. They seemed to take little notice of her at all. No doubt they were distracted by other more pressing matters than wondering why she hadn't simply stayed at the manor after supposedly looking for a job there. Their distraction was overall a good thing as it meant she had been able to tend to her own errand, even if she still had questions for the mayor. One look around the manor had been enough to make her realize she wouldn't be able to get him alone and even if she did, he would be in no mind to answer her questions no matter how cleverly asked. No, the mayor was a dead end, at least for now, but thanks to her little trip she now has another lead that she couldn't wait to read in private. So despite the pages burning a hole in her pocket, she tagged along for little more than idle curiosity. After all, it wasn't every day one got to see such a sight and the tale might see her fed for many a night.
The graveyard, when they finally arrived, was unremarkable. She had seen many like it at home, too many really, and often far more simpler. The ground was hard at home in Stensia and it was difficult enough work to dig a deep enough grave, let alone marked beyond a simple pile of dug-up stone. Looking around, everything seemed...normal to her, if strangely quiet. It was only when they drew nearer to Pitre's grave that things began to change.
It was the stench that struck her first. The sharp iron tinge of blood mixed with earth, rot, and decay turning the air foul as swarms of flies broke the stillness of the cemetery with their buzzing. And the blood. So much blood. Turning the ground crimson, the earth sodden with it. Gagging, Yesfir turned away from the sight, her eyes closed tightly as she fought against memories. Blood had been everywhere. Not red, but dark, thick and drying as flies buzzed above a bloated corpse. Shuddering, she banished the image again even as bile filled her throat causing her hand over and cough as she fought against the urge to vomit.
Ironically, cemeteries were a good thing for members of the Flight of Goldnight. They, who were dispatched pretty much exclusively to deal with worst case scenarios, where bodies were being raised or preyed upon, this... seeing so many at rest, was soothing. That realization made in his mind reminded Blackmore of just how messed up his job was. Regardless, their little stroll had been going well, and soon enough the orderly graves were displayed before him. This site fully displayed the town’s secular leaning, which could be fair. The Priest himself had his moments of doubt, so why couldn’t the common man?
Unfortunately, as soon as the putrid stench and mushy earth, factors the mayor conveniently forgot to mention in his holier-than-thou speech, the little voice in the back of his head grew increasingly more concerning. The question of whether or not the daughter was skipping town, and how that managed to coincide with the arrival of a party sent by the Cathedral, nipped at him with renewed vigor. Alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Evidently, the young Pitre - or his remains, at least - required his full attention. So, releasing a long exhale to purge all other thoughts and focus on the assignment before him. Anything less might just result in casualties.
Gerard noted that the young lady that was with then this morning was accompanying them to the cemetery. He thought that she was supposed to be looking for work at the manor house, but perhaps they did not hire her. She seems a little off, humming to herself and wearing a wreath as if they were going to a celebration. "Whom am I to judge?" Gerard thought to himself. He wasn't sure of her relationship with the rest of the group and in fact knew little about any of them.
After entering the cemetery, it is the foul stench that hits Gerard first, a putrid smell of blood and sickness. The ground begins to soften and Geard stops and starts to circle around to examine the grave not wanting to step on the blood soaked earth. "Oh dear mother," Gerard mutters softly, "no wonder you are in such pain. The foulness is worse than I thought!"
Once he has made a complete circle of the grave Gerard will stop and mutter arcane words softly to himself. If anyone was paying close attention they would see his eyes glow for just a second and then fade to their normal hue. Gerard will say loudly enough for everyone in the party to hear, but not to anyone in particular, "I see the black aura of necromantic magic on this grave. It is the strongest and foulest I have ever experienced. Its poison will continue to spread if nothing is done to stop it."
Gerard will then continue to examine the grave and the area around it looking for some clue as to the cause of affront to man and nature.
Joseph squints his eyes and takes in the grisly scene. He sniffs the air tentatively. Then he looks to Raben. "It won't be much worse than shoveling old, rotten horseshit out of a springtime stable." He takes off his duster and drapes it over a nearby tombstone, away from the blood-sodden mess. Then he removes his sword belt and leans the blades against the same stone. Returning his eyes to Raben, he says, "Where's the shovel?"
The sound of shovels spiking the earth, displacing dirt, grunts and heavy breaths is steady and rhythmic. Raben along with a partner remove the blood-caked dirt shovel-full by shovel-full. It is heavy, and plasters itself against the tools' metal blades, requiring either a gloved hand or boot to peel or scrape off. As they dig deeper, a blood-curdled mud begins to fill the hole, now above the differ's soles. The digging is traded off among other members. Garreth and Joseph were in the hole now, almost two feet down, before Gerard begins to speak up.
Before he can finish his sentence, the sides of the grave erupt with teeming, red-slicked tiny things in a stomach turning slurp. The sounds of their multitudes of legs skittering over the ground and through the mud is nauseating as an infestation of rotgrubs has poured forth into the space of Pitre's resting place, and threaten to overcome the two unfortunates within it.
While Joseph and Garreth begin digging up the grave, Gerard stands away from the blood soaked ground quietly speaking in a strange tongue. In order to conserve mystical energy he weaves the incantation together slowly. When it is complete his awareness is extended and he can feel rather than see sources of disease. They are wiggling through soft dirt coming closer to Garreth and Joseph. As the things are at the edge of the hole that has been dug, he shifts his perception back to the mundane. Gerard begins to speak, but too late. Rotgrubs burst from the sides of the grave and attempt to swarm the two men that were busy shoveling earth.
Gerard rushes over and shouts, "Quick! Get out of there" He extends his hand and grasping one of Joseph's arms and pulls, helping the woodsman out of the grave.
"What the?" When the vermin come sloshing down from the embankment, Joseph flinches, lurching back to the center of the hole, splashing curdled blood-water and tacky mud onto his and Garreth's shins. He flings the shovel onto the bank, then reaches out to grip Gerard's hand. The druid quickly pulls the hunter up next to him, out of the hole. There the ranger retrieves his shovel, and grips it with both hands, poising to strike.
As the wave of rotgrubs chitter and hiss, they spill into the partially-dug grave. A swarth of them, climb onto Garreth's body but cannot seem to find entrance beneath his clothes or armor.
The chitinous creatures were swarming in the hole. He watches one of his champions escape the confined space but the other is being overrun. Muttering an incantation under his breath the ball of white energy forms in his left hand as he traces a symbol in the air. He hurls it at the creature attempting to swarm onto Garreth. The ball impacts the wet earth beside the creature harmlessly.
Standing with her back turned, Yesfir hugged herself, wincing a little at the sound of each shovel full of mud that landed beside the grave. Fighting against memories, she regretted the curiosity the brought her here and the weakness that kept her with her back turned to the grave. At the sound of the muffled curses and the uncanny clicking of hundreds of insects, Yesfir whirled around, legs momentarily paralyzed as the squirrel-man quickly stepped forward to assist the ranger out of the hole and the fat priest lifted his hand to release a ball of pure energy towards the swarm only to miss. The insects screeched, swarming, biting, hungry, devouring, destroying. Anger filled her as her vision went momentarily white, her eyes flashing silver as her vision cleared and an angry snarl poured from her throat.
Rushing forward last the others, she knelt next to the grave reaching her hand to the inquisitor, "Come on, grab hold!" Her voice for once at her normal power register, her Stensian accent thick and pronounced . Gripping his forearm as the man clambered out, Yesfir pulled him from the shallow grave, stumbling backwards a few steps with momentum before finally regaining her footing as the insects continued to swarm around the grave.
The pit of squirming and writhing insects dissects further, with a pulsing arm separating from the teeming mass and reaching Syd, but he is quick to action. With a small, quick blessing, he thrusts his holy focus and it expels a blinding light, pushing back the tide of pests, preventing them from getting under his attire.
Garreth nods thanks to Yesfir for the assist out of the hole but then turned and, very business-like, whipped out an oil flask, dumping the contents all over the bugs and used his tinderbox to light the things on fire. He hoped it would not end up destroying evidence, but there really was no other way to deal with the swarm of creatures.
Surrounded by bugs trying to get under his skin, the holy man stepped back out of their reach, and summoned a ball of radiant energy to smite the insects scrounging off of the dead body.
Dividing further, about half of the swarm left in the pit escapes the hole and scurries over its edge. This army reaches the soles and boots of Raben, who frantically swats and bats at the tiny things. Fortunately, they do not find entry to his skin and flesh. Brandishing his shortsword, he hacks at what vile pests he can, swatting them away from his body.
One final mass remains in half-dug grave, causing the muddied blood to slosh and spittle as they move. These swarms consist of foul bottom-feeders and parasites. Ticks, some already bloated and full to burst. Fat, black leeches and large segmented worms. Various maggots and larval species. Hide beetles and carrion beetles with sharp incisors and pincers. No doubt all disease-ridden.
As Gerard helps Joseph out of the grave, he doesn't notice danger following him. Pain lights up both of Gerard's legs and he almost passes out from the intensity. As soon as Joseph is clear Gerard holds his right hand up at chest, palm up fingers spread apart and curled upwards. He speaks a single strange word and orange and red flames appear in his upturned palm. They burn without fuel and don't harm Gerard's hand. He flings to flames out of his hand to the ground where many of foul insects that bit him are crawling on the ground. The flames mages to destroy , some but not all of the swarm. The smell of charred bugs wafts up and joins the fumes of insects burrowing already in the grave.
His face alight with determination, Joseph begins flailing away at the ground with his shovel. With each swing, he lets loose a short grunt of effort tinged with disgust; with each blow landed, the shovel head resonates with a wet, metallic slap, the staccato note hollow and accompanied by the sickening sound of crunching carapaces.
Leaving the flames of the druid, the assortment of beetles, leeches, and worms vacates the magical flame and engulf the small form of Yesfir. They stab, sting, and bite into her skin, but cannot break through. Her silver scale-speckled skin, it seems, is more durable than your average Stensian.
The foul insects are relentless in their assault. Malekus watches them continue to swarm out of the hole and engage the other members of his group. He begins the incantation and a ball of pure raw mana begins to form in his palm. As he is about to release it one of the swarms produces an alien-like clicking as it begins to chew on the lady’s cloths. The desecration of the hallowed ground is so repulsive the mana fizzles out in his hand before he can complete the spell.
His attack not being forceful enough, the tide of grave grubs scour and pour themselves all over the Avacynian cleric. This time they find entry to his flesh between the folds of his clothing and armor, piercing his skin with many pincers and incisors, tearing and latching onto Syd throughout his body.
The swarms of insects, the ground moist with the never-ending blood, the smell of iron heavy in the air all feed into this horror scene before him. He sees one group of insects’ swarms onto the cleric and Malekus reacts by invoking a holy incantation to close his wounds. Unfortunately, he is unable to concentrate, and the spell does not have much effect.
Turning the frustration and fear into a rage he attempts once more to call forth the pure mana to smite one of the swarms. As he begins to channel his power, he is flashed back to an encounter he had previously with some alchemically modified insects. After taking over the watch from Caen, the night is calm and peaceful. He noticed a small centipede crawling along a nearby rock and as his attention is focused on it, an audible clicking begins to play in his ears. As he tracks the small insect it scurries behind a larger rock. The clicking is growing more intense, but he is unable to locate the source of the noise. Suddenly an abomination of cobbled together insectoids burst from the earth before him. It lets out a piercing screech as it overwhelms the duo of Arms. They were forced to flee that night in a mad dash. The maddening screeches trailing them for hours. As the memory fades so to does the glow in his palm. He is unable to act as he tries to regain his grip on reality.
Screeching and hissing, a section of the millions of insects continues to burn from Garreth's ignited oil. They squirm within the pit, seeking to dowse the flames with the blood-caked earth but to no avail. A black smoke wafts as many of them perish, leaving charred black husks over the crimson ground.
Feeling the tiny insect swarm cover her body, Yesfir shuddered as she took a step back as an angry growl fought its way out of her throat coming out as a curse, "Fi blestemat de mormânt!". Eyes flashing silver as cackling energy sparked from her hands even as they were overlapped by shadow. Sweeping her hand downwards across her body, a skeletal form overlapped them, extending out from her own hand swatting the insects away from her body. Getting ever slightly closer to the clergyman, she made a rude gesture at the foul creatures as she cursed them again, "Să nu te odihnești niciodată!"
The swarm overtaking Yesfir's body hiss and chitter in reaction to the cold, many of them freezing solid on the spot and falling to the ground. They climb off of her but not before finding softer parts of her flesh and riddling her body with pocks and scrapes. They collectively mass what's left of their multi-form to the edge of the grave. Before a fat, black leech escapes her, Yesfir stabs into it's bulbous body, stabbing it straight into the ground in anger.
Garreth, seeing Syd covered in the swarm, quickly turns to his comrade and slashes at them with both of his hand axes, greatly reducing the number of bugs attacking the wounded man.
These pesky little insects seemed to have made their way under his armour despite his attempts, and have given Syd some serious trouble. As a result, despite remaining within their area of attack, Syd would summon his divine powers to heal himself.
Raben, still riddled with worms and other bottom-feeders, writhes and wriggles whilst slashing at what groups of them he can see, killing the swarm insect by insect. Angels be praised, none have yet to find the holes in his armor.
Gerard looks around and see a swarm of nasty, hell-spawned insects near Yesfir. Summoning another flame into his hand, he throws the fire at the swarm hoping to destroy them before they can cause anymore harm.
The flames in the pit die out as does the squealing of insects, leaving only few of the multitude that had previously filled the grave. They scatter in all directions, burrowing into the dirt- out of sight, but perhaps not out of mind. At this point, half of the original infestation remains: one part assailing Syd and the other Raben.
Reeling from his flashback Malekus tries to focus his eyes back to the group as they are assaulted by the insect swarms. As his companions fight for their lives he steels his nerves and begins another invocation, “In terra te vidi abominationes tuas.” The ball of mana forms without issue this time and he hurls it at the swarm that has engaged the priest. The energy releases into the mass of writhing bugs and with a pop some of the ones that were engorged explode into a fine red mist. He is panting with the effort to control his emotions and to control the divine magic within himself.
Despite the steady progress of fighting off and killing the swarms, Raben is still covered in leeches and beetles. Despite his best efforts, this time they crawl through the kinks in his chain, the sleeves of his garb. The things latch and pull at his skin, drawing blood, soaking his white garments red from the inside. He shouts in pain for help, continuing to slash at what he can with his silver sword, doing little against the flood of insects.
Gerard looks to Raben in his distress and sees a large group of the insects about to crawl up his ankle. Taking careful aim Gerard launches an attack of magical flame at them. His aim is too careful as he overshoots his intended target, the fire harmlessly hitting the blood soaked ground.
At Raben’s shout for help, Joseph’s shovel falls from his hands with a muted thump against the soft earth. “Shit, raise your arms!” he says, springing to the cathar’s side. The hunter then begins swiping at Raben’s body and legs with open hands, knocking loose dozens of bugs and grubs swarming over the cathar’s body.
As Joseph swats the bugs from the cathar Malekus sees an opening to blast the swarm again. “Begone you foul scavengers” he shouts before muttering another incantation. He traces the symbols in the air and the ball of energy forms in his palm. He throws the sphere at the swarm that has been dislodged from Raben. The resulting release of energy causes a few crackling pops as more of the insects are evaporated.
Muttering another curse, Yesfir gestured with her hand sending a spectral skeletal hand that just barely clipped a few insects off Raben.
Crawling over the edge of the grave like a cascading waterfall, screeching and squirming, burrowing into the ground, the insects make their escape. After a moment, there is only remnants of this swarm visible.
Seeing the last of the swarm on the hunter, Garreth rushes to his assistance with another slashing attack, quickly making short work of the remaining bugs. He breathed a sigh of relief because he so hated bugs.
Joseph picks the last of the bugs off the cathar's bloody armor, throws them to the ground, and crushes them underfoot. "Avacyn, Raben! You all right?"
Rushing over to the bloodied Cathar, Syd would mutter the same arcane words he had when healing himself, and bathe the Parish-Blade in divine light which would mend some of Raben’s wounds. Once the individual was fine, Syd’s attention would be directed to the scabs on his arm that marked the remnants of the healed insect bites. Something was off about them. As a result, he looked. Closer and closer until, after a few long moments of pondering, the holy man finally decided to speak. “I’ll need to take a look at everyone’s bitemarks.” - he said, more serious than usual, taking one final glance at the party before having a eureka moment. “Forcemage,” - the cleric spoke, now directly facing Gerard, before inquiring - “How familiar are you with treating illnesses?”
Seeing the last of the insects flee, Gerard turns his attention to the wounded. He remembers the words of his mentor, "If a healer is injured, they must help themselves before they can help others." Gerards speak a few arcane words and his hands glows very briefly as his applies them to his wounds restoring to him some of the vitality stolen by the creature's attack. Seeing Raben attended to by Syd, Gerard notices that the strange young girl, Yesfir, has been badly injured as well. A strange young girl that he has just witnessed using magic, albeit a different kind than his own.
Gerard approaches Yesfir remembering his teachings on body language and how to to frighten a patient. "I can help with your injuries, but I have to touch you for a brief moment. Is that alright with you?" If Yesfir agrees, Gerard softly speaks an incantation and briefly touches the young woman on her shoulder for a moment. Gerard begins to say something further to Yesfir, when he hears Syd speak to him.
Turning toward the cleric he says, "I know that these creatures are infected with Ghoulflesh and Gravehold and that everyone, including myself, that was bitten by them are in serious danger from the diseases. I can create a poultice that when applied to the wounds will draw the sickness out, but I will need time to make it. The process needs to start at once. Time is critical. I will leave the investigation to you while I go and prepare it now. Meet me at the Witherhall, as soon as you can." Gerard gathers up his belonging and begins walking a at a quick gait out of the cemetery and back into the town proper. He checks his supply of herbs and briefly stops at the market to supplement his stock with more of the needed supplies for the poultice and more bandages. Gerard then travels quickly to the Witherhall, and asks to use the kitchen stating that he needs to prepare medicine for some very sick people.
Letting Syd administer his healing magic, Raben's pained expression wanes to calm and he sighs in relief. "Thank you, Syd. Much appreciated." When the ranger comes by asking Raben to lift his garments, he reveals what he can without removing his armor. Several pocks dot his skin, but there's no sign of malignant disease.
Malekus looks over the group as well. Disturbed by the recent events he wanders over to the hole to check on the swarms that scurried back to it. With no signs of movement or anything else jumping out of the hole at him, he says to the rest of the group "I will take the next shift of digging so that we can root out the source of this curse." He rolls up his sleeves and begins the work anew with a smile, that does not betray his disgust at the work before him.
After some poking and prodding, he slaps Raben on the back. "I don't think they got deep enough in. You should be all right. Might want to take some of the druid's medicine, if he's got any left. Just in case." Joseph bends and picks his shovel back up. After a cursory glance down into the pit, he jumps in next to Malekus and returns to work.
Anger still coursed through her body as she stood staring, glaring really at the departing insects. Biting, crawling, desiccating things. They devoured everything, leaving nothing behind. Or worse still, when they ate at the dying, finishing death's gruesome task- hollowing them out. Making them a morbid display of never ending hunger. Lost in thought, she almost didn't hear the odd man's offer, a stranger who had recently joined the men who seemed to be on some sort of quest. Nodding tersely at the squirrel-man's offer, Yesfir watched him sparingly as he muttered some strange words wincing as he touched her. She only relaxed when the touch had passed leaving her feeling ever so slightly stronger than before. Uneasy and wary, Yesfir didn't even get the chance to convey whatever reluctant gratitude she may have felt before the priest, not the fat one but the one she had traveled with, Syd, she remembered. He brought up the dangers of disease and the individual who had healed her disappeared rapidly off to return to the manor to hastily begin preparing whatever was needed to prevent such illnesses. Crossing her arms, she shifted away from the group unsettled and more than a little upset at her own stupidity. How could she be so careless? Why had she let the memories...the anger...to overwhelm her? To so blatantly use....whatever it was that shivered beneath her skin and hummer through her veins. Turning away once more, she walked away from the group, her hands clenching into fists as she wordlessly left the group to their morbid chore.
After settling into a rhythm with Joseph, they make short work of removing enough earth to unveil the coffin. As the shovels strike the wet wood the normal thud is dulled. The spades dig into the coffin slightly are they must work to dislodge them after the swings. The coffin is soaked in the thick crimson blood and reeks of iron, and as they excavate the soil surrounding it the blood pools in the empty space. Once there is enough space around the coffin Malekus asks Joseph, “Do you think we will be able to lift this thing? With the amount of blood coming out of it I bet it is filled to the brim and heavy as a boulder.”
The Druid and the Stowaway
Walking through a door, Gerard finds a small kitchen that has just been cleaned from breakfast service. "Ey, I am just about to start on lunch. I can't have you barging in 'ere," states a middle aged woman that must be the cook. "The owner said I can use a bit of the space to prepare medicine for some deathly ill people. I will need a couple of hours. If you don't mind serving a bit meat, cheese , and bread for lunch, I'll be out of your way before you have to start for dinner." Not waiting for a response, Gerard makes a space for himself at the kitchen work table, setting down his supplies. Seeing a pot that is already set on the stove to boil, Gerard says, "I will need to use this as well." Once he has everything set, Gerard draws out a knife and begins to work.
Yesfir's footsteps carried her back to the inn where she soon found the strange man who had healed her busy at work in the kitchen. Clearing her throat, Yesfir felt a pinch as she forced her voice up into the higher sweeter childish voice of her adopted persona, "Nata help?" She queried , gesturing at the pots. "Nata can cook. Or fetch. Very good at finding things. Say thank you. Squirrel make Nata feel well." Cocking her head, Yesfir waited for an answer, her fingers twisting and insisting on her skirt the only sign of her unease. She did want to help. It was the least she could do after he. ...did whatever he did to make her feel better. And maybe get some answers as well. After all, this stranger was the first person she had met with powers similar to her own who wasn't a priest, a vampire, or possessed. Yet it was different somehow, what he can do to what she could do if she cared too. And she found herself curious. She didn't understand....this power. Not his. And certainly not hers. And she wanted answers. That's why she had traveled so far in pursuit of nothing more than a name.....for answers.
Gerard will curiously look at Nata in the eye for a few seconds and say, "Thank you, Nata. I can use the help." Handing her a small knife and a few herbs he'll say, "Will you please cut these into four pieces each?" As they work in the kitchen , Gerard will ask Nata to do small tasks that she seems comfortable with. After a few hours work, Gerard will start spreading a thick, earthy smelling paste unto a couple of clean bandages. "Well, let's see if I did this correctly." Gerard then bandages his wounds with the paste against his skin. "The poultice is slightly warm to the touch and soothing to the wound. It seems like this is right."
Gerard then looks Nata in the eye, "Nata, your secrets are your own. I respect that, but if you ever want to talk, I'll listen." Gerard will then spread the paste on a couple of more fresh bandages. "Now, do you want me to bandage your wounds, or do you prefer to do it yourself?"
Growing up and working at the Abbey had taught her how to fend for herself, but she knew little of what the other man was doing. So she kept silent and followed instructions until he was finished. Once he was done, she looked askance at his words. Shaking her head she muttered under her breath, "Ceea ce nu spunem, nu poate face rău.". Holding up her hands, she said louder as she continued shaking her head. "Nata fine. All well. Squirrel fix. What name? Tell as we go? Help Raben? " Changing her posture, she held out her hands in the universal gesture of helping to carry something. She truly felt fine. She had been certainly been bitten by worse in the past and survived but she worried about Raben who had proven kind. The sooner they went back and took care of the other injuries, the better.
"Okay, I have no idea what some of those words were, but you're right. We need to go. My name is Gerard." Gathering up all of herbs and other gear, Gerard hands Nata a small satchel of bandages and he picks up a small jar of the completed medicine. He leaves a couple of sweet smelling herbs slowly boiling on the stove and tells the cook that if she lets the herbs to continue to boil slowly over an hour that the vapors should get rid of the foul smell created by making the poultice. Gerard walks with Nata back to the cemetery making small talk. Upon arrival, Gerard surveys the scene noting that the grave digging is nearly completed.
Removing the Coffin
"Whoever is ready and wishes, I can bind your wounds now with a mixture that will help your bodies fight off any disease the rot grubs may have spread to you." As he binds people he tells them that the medicine will be warm for about eight hours. After that they should remove the bandage and clean the area with fresh, clean water. "The medicine smells bad and once you remove the bandage, the inside will look dirty. Burn the bandage on a very hot fire after you take it off and don't breath in any of the smoke from it."
Joseph crawls out of the hole, jabs the shovel into the ground next to him and leaves it. "I ain't sure," he says, leaning forward to inspect his mud-and-blood-covered pants. He holds his hands out to see, turning them in the air; they're red with blood. "It's gonna be heavy, an' it's gonna be stuck. That mud's going to want to suck it back down the harder we pull. If we all got on the rope, we might be able to get it out. An' it might turn out we'll need a horse or two to get the damned thing out." He lowers his hands to his sides and peers down into the blood-filled hole. "We probably won't want the rope afterwards, either."
Malekus shouts up out of the hole "Did anyone see a horse on the way here?"
"Threg has a horse," the ranger replies. His gaze sweeps distant, in the direction of the inn. "Had a horse." He looks down into the hole and extends an arm to Malekus. "Why don't you get out of that blood. Nothing we can do in that hole 'til we get some rope and muscle out here. But I think the druid and the Stensian girl aimed to treat some of these bugbites first."
"Lotta new folks helping the Church with this business today," he continues, looking around at the party. "News travels fast. It must be a pretty important thing, this corpse."
Gerard will look up from bandaging the last of the party members that were bitten. “Let me finish this up, and I’ll get a horse.” Tying off the bandage, Gerard places his medical bag on top of his pack and other gear. He unties a bundle of rope, walks over to Joseph and says, "Here you go.” Gerard walks to the foot of the grave outside of the area muddied with blood. He speaks in a strange language in a conversational tone and at once Gerard is gone and a large Clydesdale horse is in his place. The horse looks at Joseph and nods his head.
Joseph lets loose a snort of laughter. "Well, that's one way to do it. At least now I can picture you as something other than a squirrel." He carefully hitches Gerard up with a series of makeshift knots and bends, leaving a long length of rope trailing off the back of the horse, towards the hole. After he double checks the rope-work, he scratches Gerard's neck and leans in to nuzzle an ear, but catches himself. "Sorry," he mutters, "force of habit."
Without hesitation he wades into the pool of blood, loops the rope through two handles on the coffin, and knots the rope onto itself, forming a long loop. "Okay, this should be good," Joseph says out loud. He reaches up from the hole and grabs his shovel, then turns to Malekus. "While he pulls, you an' me might need to pry at the coffin from the sides to get some air under it. That mud is going to be sucking hard to keep hold of it."
The clydesdale swishes his tail lightly hitting Joseph as he passes. When all seem to be ready he will slowly pull the coffin out of the grave.
"Careful, there," the hunter says as he brushes the tail away. "Get too ornery an' I won't give you an apple when we're done." There's a faint trace of a smile on the Kessiger's fattened lip. "Let me know if them ropes are off-kilter when you get to pulling," Josephs shouts from the hole. "Most of the tension should be spread out on the front of your chest. But I never hitched such a big animal without proper tack."
With the effort of all three, the coffin is released from the ground's bloodied, earthly grip with a sickening schlick sound, and blood sloshes within, pouring more out of it as it is lifted up and outwards.
This was certainly an odd gathering of people. The Forcemage had had a real live soliloquy and swiftly exited stage left, while the two members of Goldnight and the ranger were caked in blood from digging up the remains of the poor Pitre, who seemed to bleed eternally. As covered slowly turned to soaked, from the literal pool of crimson that poured out of the casket, the Forcemage and the caster that had followed them into town returned, shifting his form into that of a draft horse. If this were a play, it’d be the work of a very odd composer.
The shifting process looked... uncomfortable. The Order of Herons was reputed to be packed to the brim with men and women with similar capabilities, but Syd himself had never had the interaction. Still, a practical man at heart, albeit a confused one, the young Blackmore simply decided to help the squirrel-turned-man-turned-horse pull this cart, unsure as to where the party would be taking it, if at all.
If there had to be a silver lining to this, it’d be that things couldn’t possibly get any weirder, right?... Right?!
Once the coffin has been pulled a few feet from the open grave, the horse halts. Gerard shifts back into human form and disentangles himself from the improvised rigging. He turns towards the priests, "Is there a proper church custom that must be performed before the coffin is opened?"
When Gerard finishes his question, Joseph moves to grab his shovel. As the others discuss ceremony, he sets quietly to work, digging a long, shallow trench from the coffin to the grave. Afterwards, he begins hacking another trench around the coffin itself; it immediately begins to fill with fresh blood pouring out from Pitre's body within. Finally, Joseph connects the two trenches. Like a macabre mountain creek, the thick, red liquid gurgles from the collecting trench, down the adjoining trench, and into the pit, creating a steady tinkling sound as it hits the pool of blood at the bottom.
As he climbs up the incline and out if the blood filled grave there is no reprieve for Malekus from the blood. It is everywhere and coating everything that gets near the coffin. In response to Gerrad he say, "As far as I know there is no proper way to handle something like this." He gags as he says the last words and turns towards the oozing coffin.
He says to the group "I can at least lead a brief prayer to help bring some light to this dark deed we must endure. " He makes the sign of Avacyn and begins "Avacyn may your holy light shine bright on this departed soul and grant into him peace. We will return him to the ground so that he may spend eternity there." With that he pauses for a moment of reflection. Then says "If any one is unwilling I will endure the burden of opening this coffin and whatever curse that may bring. " And whispers under his breath "Gisela grant me strength and protection."
Joseph, who has been maintaining the trenches to keep the mess around the coffin to a minimum, pauses. He looks up at Malekus, a puzzled look on his face as if he just realized he might have forgotten something. "What're we hoping to find in there, exactly?" His eyes jump to the cathar. "Raben?"
Staring blankly at the fattened wooden coffin, Raben answers grimly. "Hopefully a body. A still body. We'll have to reach in. And pull him out to properly inspect him. Anyone have a crowbar? And a spare blanket to lay him on?"
Joseph considers this a moment, and slowly walks to his swordbelt. He puts it on, then stands behind the clergy, one sword drawn and held loosely at his side.
Malekus looks around at the people gathered once Raben asked his question. When no one steps forward with a crowbar he pulls a dagger out of his pack. “I guess this will have to do.” He also fumbles through his pack to pull out his sleeping blankets and lays them out on the ground. “Once we are done with this business I can use a blessing to remove the filth for anyone who does not want to walk around looking like we just butchered a wild animal.” With that he takes the dagger to the edges of the coffin and begins to pry it open.
Malekus jams his dagger between the nailed wooden boards, using the leverage to pry the covering board from the rest of the frame. It is a long process, with each plunge of the dagger producing a squelch and splatter of blood. Malekus gets around to the other side and stabs under the lid once more, but with a gurgle, the wooden boards collapse and fall apart.
Deep red blood gushes and falls over the ground in a heavy, thick wave. Pitre's body is revealed within, his clothes dyed in the same crimson. It slumps halfway out of the dismantled coffin, his arm reaching upward toward town in a sickening angle. A round object thuds repeatedly as it rolls and bounces over Joseph's trench and along the ground, eventually coming to a stop. At this moment, you see that the body is not whole-Pitre has been decapitated. His head, blood-soaked, is now inches from the grave, its mouth and eyes agape in deathly, soft agony.
A shriek escaped her throat, as the decapitated head came to rest gaping at them. His body's wounds were still bleeding, his face a picture of torment. Throwing up her hands over her eyes, Yesfir tried to block out the sight but it seemed to be seared into her mind, a nightmarish apparition she couldn't quite shake. Turning her back to the body, she hesitantly lowered her hands only to begin shaking violently as the crimson mud that surrounded her filled her vision. Eyes widening at the sight of blood on her boots, in her skirts.....No. It wasn't Haldor, there wasn't blood on her hands, no stench of the alleys...just blood, so much blood. Thick, congealing, dark, crimson blood. This time there was no stopping the heaves as she lost the contents of her stomach. Coughing, she got sick once more, this time only hope as she clenched her eyes shut as softly began to form the well gestures of guarding against the evil eye, even as she shuddered once more.
Joseph draws back slightly, covering his mouth with the nook of an elbow. He slides his sword into its scabbard and looks to Raben. "We should make this fast. The longer we dally, the more that hole fills up with blood. What're we looking for?"
"Well," Raben clears his throat, his closed fist held against his mouth. "One question is immediately risen: Why was he decapitated? Is that how they found him? It's been said he was found dead, but no one, not even the mayor said he was found headless."
Raben steps precariously towards the desecrated corpse. He nods. "Do you see this?" He points towards Pitre's open neck.
Joseph nudges the body with the tip of his blood-soaked boot. "Ain't bleeding from its neck. Just that jab-wound in its gut." He walks over to the head and rolls it underfoot, towards the coffin, leaning down slightly to examine it. "I think they hacked his head off afterwards. After he was dead. An' whoever did it wasn't very strong. It took 'em quite a few swings to get it loose from the body."
Gerard stares at shock at the decapitated head as it speaks. His jaw goes slack and he can’t look away; can’t concentrate. He feels like he is in a dream and can not wake himself.
“Gerard why are you staring?” Gerard turns to his left and he sees his mentor, Herlewin , speaking to him. He looks the same and yet younger, whole, with no sign of where the werewolves shredded him into a gorey mess. “The body isn’t going anywhere.”
Herlewin smiles at Gerard, gives him a wink and is gone. Gerard closes his eyes, and shakes his head. His mind clears, and he remembers why he is here. The earth cries, and the poison spreads. He hears Joseph speaking and looks over towards him.
"Exactly," Raben responds, carefully getting closer to the gaping neck wound. "But why would they do that? Did they suspect vampirism?"
Raben ponders a moment, standing straight once more. "If he had killed the vampire in the past and proclaimed a hero, why would he be suspected of being a vampire upon his return? Has anyone heard where he went?"
Joseph shakes his head as he stares down at Pitre's hollow, gaping expression. "I only know what I've been told in the last week. And that fellow, Jofridus, he didn't seem too keen on sharing specifics. Syd seems to think the mayor here's the same way." He rolls the head over, face down, with his boot, then looks to Raben. "There were probably folks around here that knew this man. Went to his funeral. They might know."
"Nata can ask!" Yesfir pipped up a little too eagerly, her voice squeaky and shaking. "People respect church men, but scared, too. No talk. Tell only little. Nata is girl, " stating the obvious, Yesfir knew, but true. "Not scary. People tell Nata things no tell churchman. Yes? Nata go, talk, hear stories. Come back and tell." Shrugging, she hoped her offer was convincing enough. Truth be told, she do anything to get away from the sight and stench of impossible amounts of blood at the moment.
The hunter glances over towards the Stensian girl. "I'll bet you've got as good a chance as anyone to get people to talking. It's clear Hanweir ain't keen on Church-folk."
He looks over the rest of the group. "Anybody else notice anything out of place here?" He points down at the body, still oozing blood into the collection trench. "Any other mysteries for Nata to look into while she's askin' around?"
Taking a peak over her shoulder, Yesfir shuddered visibly before abruptly turning away closing her eyes once more. She hit her tongue on the mixture of vile curses and nausea that threatened to escape her at the sight of poor disfigured Pitre.
Raben takes to the task of notifying the graf's guard. He delicately, if not politely illustrates the current dilemma and a guardsman leaves his post, heading into town. An hour later, he returns with an empty wooden coffin on a cart pulled by a pony. Taking the casket to the grave and placing Pitre's still seeping body within it was painless, but lowering down carefully was a more difficult process. Using the rope as before, the now laden coffin, which was filling slowly as every second passed, was carefully placed in the pit. An hour later, Pitre's body was return to its former resting place with the still-sodden dirt above it.
"In my many years as an Inquisitor, I've not seen anything quite like this," Garreth mutters to whomever is listening as he observes the whole proceeding.
"Neither have I, Garreth," Raben responds. Little other words were spoken the entire time.
Using the blade of his shovel, Joseph tamps down the last of the soupy, red mud onto the grave mound with a few wet, metallic slaps. He frowns heavily. "This whole graveyard's gonna end up a swamp in another few fortnights, if that thing don't stop spittin' blood." He looks down at his hands and pants, which are nearly black from dry bloodstain. He turns to Raben. "Are we done here? I need to clean up an' take care of some business in town."
With the morning’s toil finally finishing, Malekus exhales the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He walks over to his pack and pulls out a water skin and takes a long pull. He is about to offer it up when the blood caked on his hand stops him. He digs into a pocket inside his pack and pull out a pristine white cloth. The edges of the cloth have a gold trim and embroidered in sanguine and gold is the collar of Avacyn. He whispers a brief prayer of thanks to his patron while tracing the outline of the holy symbol on the cloth.
He nods in agreement to the ranger when he mentions this whole graveyard will turn into a blood swamp. He begins wiping his hands and face clean with the cloth. With the amount of blood that is caked on his body the cloth should have turned crimson, however it was still pristine. He begins to wipe down his cloths and boots as well. When he finishes his cleaning ritual his appearance is good enough to conduct a mass and the cloth is still pure white. As the ranger continues as says he needs to clean up Malekus says “Here you can use this. It is something I learned as an arm. A way to help clean up once the dust settles.’ He extends his hand with the cloth in it towards the ranger. “If anyone else needs to clean you can use this cloth as well. The blessing should last long enough for anyone who wants to get cleaned up.”
“I do not think there is much more we can gather here. You are right the mayor does not seem to care for the men of the church. I think I might have more luck at the chapel where they discovered his body. It is almost lunch time and I am hungry. I can usually find someone at the church who is willing to invite me and my companions for a meal. We could also use the opportunity at the chapel to see if they can shed any light on this poor boy.”
Joseph takes the cloth from Malekus and inspects it curiously. He wipes a finger clean with it, then pauses to examine both finger and fabric. Seemingly satisfied, he cleans the rest of the hand, then pauses again. Furrowing his brow, he brings his hand close to his nose, and gingerly sniffs it.
"Huh," he says resignedly, then sets to work wiping the rest of the blood clean from his hands, arms, and body. When he finishes, his boots are cleaner than they had ever been the past week, now that months or perhaps years of mud and dust have been removed.
After turning the still-white cloth over in his hands for a final, incredulous inspection, he hands it back to Malekus. "Thanks. That just saved me a few silver. I was going straight to the clothier to buy new pants."
When the party prepares to leave, Joseph goes to the nearby tombstone to retrieve and don his overcoat. "I have some business to take care of in town," he says, tugging the flaps of the coat taut against his flanks. "Then I'll head back to the inn. Come get me if you need another hole dug." He steps to Gerard's side to chat as they make their way to the cemetery gates.
Raben removes the last remnants of stained dirt from his coat and buckles with the magical white fabric. "I shall accompany you, Malekus, if you're making way to Lightspire Chapel. Perhaps the village pastor has information we've yet to discover."
Moments later, the group begins to fall out as they make their way out of the graveyard, parting ways and seeing to personal matters or pursuing different but equally important potential leads on their investigation.
Taking the cloth back Malekus whispers another thanks to Gisela and folds the cloth before returning it to his pack. Looking to the group he says "Thank you Raben, hopefully we will have more luck at the church. Nata I know you said you would ask around but I am not sure you should be asking tough questions without someone at least to back you up. Does anyone else have any leads or ideas of where we can get more information? "
The Kessigers: Ranger and Druid
As the group makes its way back to town, Joseph falls in step beside Gerard. "Something's been vexin' me since last night. A question. About the werewolf attack." He looks inquiringly at the druid walking beside him. "Why in the hell a squirrel?"
Gerard chuckles softly and looking slightly downward begins speaking. "I was with the militia trying to catch the werewolf when we saw it trying to enter in the inn through a second story window. I am not practiced enough in my craft yet to shift into a flying animal, so a squirrel was the fastest climber I could think of. There is nothing that I can shift into that can cause actual harm to a werewolf, so my hope was to distract it and slow it down. That part didn't work out, but the climbing part did. Lesson learned."
He then looks at Joseph, "So, where in Kessig are you from, and how did you end up here?"
The ranger smiles and nods. "I think you distracted everyone. Including the werewolf. For a hot moment, when I saw a squirrel chasing a werewolf, I thought it was all a dream." His smile fades a moment as he glances away.
Returning his attention to Gerard, he continues, "I'm from Westerheid, towards the west side of the Hairpin. My family has business with the Church, and I'm sort of on loan for this curse thing. Like a hired hand for the season."
He grasps his silver amulet and lifts it slightly from his chest. "The name's Joseph Clarke, by the way."
"What about you? How does a Kessig shapeshifter find himself taking up with the Holy Church of Thraben?"
Gerard cocks his head slightly. “After the werewolf attack, I was in the street assisting a few members of the militia that were wounded. Raben found me and we spoke for awhile. He said that he thought that we were trying to accomplish the same thing; to stop what is ailing this town. How he guessed that I have no idea, but he asked if I would work with him and the group he was leading. It made sense to work together rather than try to do this on my own; more chance of success. He also didn’t seem like he wanted to burn me as a heretic, so there is that as well. The church has force mages in its ranks, but to be a force mage not endorsed by the church isn’t looked to kindly in many places.”
Gerard turn and looks Joseph in the eye. “I am not sure how it is in your part of Kessig, but where I am from the old ways still ran strong. Spirits of wood and wind, beast and fey have whispered to me for weeks that there was something wrong here before I heard rumors in the villages while traveling. The signs are becoming stronger and I am not the only one that has seen them.”
Joseph nods again. "Raben's a good guy. For a cathar. He seems to want to help folks. It ain't some act to get people to believe something or forget about something. An' when it comes time for the fork to hit the hay, he don't mind getting dirty."
He glances over his shoulder, to the south, then returns his gaze to the road ahead. "I never paid much heed to that stuff. The spirits and whispers and whatnot." He pats a sword at his side. "I tend to deal with more solid stuff. Problems I can get a blade into. Down in Kessig, I'd always left the invisible, wispy things to my little brother. He's training to be a wizard or priest or something."
After a few more steps, Joseph speaks up again. "So what do you make of that body back there? I never seen so much blood."
Gerard answers Joseph, “I have never seen or heard of anything like it. The mayor’s daughter was headed to a monastery with church force mages. I think she knows more than she has revealed and has gone to them for help.”
The ranger stares at the gravel while he listens. "Help with what, I wonder." He looks up. "Well, holler if you think I can do anything. Mind you, I'm no good with that sort of thing. Unless they're nervous and on the road, people don't pay much heed to me."
"You're better than you give yourself credit for." Gerard will then turn his attention to the rest of the group.
The ranger simply stares forward in response, scanning the streets ahead. “I’ll see you back at the inn. I have to try to track down a few people.”
Gerard's Journey to Palmbriar
After Joseph says his farewell, Gerard addresses the rest of the gathered investigators.
“The mayor’s daughter, Lorelei, knows more than she has said. At least, the disturbing head of Pitre makes it seem that way. She traveled to the Palmbriar monastery, an order of Avacyn spring sages. She must think they can help. I’ll travel there as quickly as possible and should be able to make it there before sundown. If all goes well, I’ll journey back here tomorrow and share with you what I find out.”
Gerard then bids everyone farewell and sets off. He travels to the southern road and takes a break while still just inside the city. Sitting someplace off the road, Gerard rests and meditates for an hour. He makes a quick meal out of some rations and begins walking a quick pace out of town. After an hour Gerard stops and makes sure he is seen by no one. Calling upon primordial spirits, Gerard shifts into the form of a swift, gray dappled, riding horse and runs south along the road at a gallop heading to Palmbriar quickly as possible.
Joseph's Arrends
Joseph steps away from the group, heading towards the Administration District, but pauses. While digging into his coin pouch, he walks to Syd, then holds out his palm, which contain a few coins. "Here. I found this in that fox den a few days ago. I've been meaning to give it to you, but there wasn't a good time." He dumps the coins into Syd's hand. "If it weren't for you letting him into our camp to steal our silver, I'd have never dug through his den. So I figure half of that money is yours."
The hunter walked briskly back to the administration district, and entered the building Syd pointed out earlier: the Hanweir courier’s office. There, he paid a few silver to send notices to family members of the deceased farmer and courier, with detailed instructions on how to find the grave of the latter. After a brief consultation of the courier’s map of Hanwier, he headed to the market district, and stopped in front of a pawn shop, double-checked the sign, and stepped inside. The shop is attended by a woman, standing behind a glass counter filled with various jewelry and trinkets.
“I’m looking for Ekka,” says the ranger.
The woman speaks firmly. “Aye, sir if'n something was stolen and it ended up here, I won't just be givin' it to you. I ain't a Shylock but this is a business." She has a hand low under the counter, but her gaze remains trained on Joseph.
"Ain't nothing stolen, miss. More like something found. A few of us came across a dead courier on the road a few days ago. We were trying to figure out who he was to notify his kin, an' he had a letter to a Gundie in Thraben, which was sent from an Ekka in Hanwier. That you?"
Her face flickers a moment, a pained expression that is quickly obscured behind the guise of a shrewd business woman. "I am, sir. I take it the letter wasn't sent, then." She looks off towards the floor for a moment, as if in thought. "Do you have it?"
Joseph shakes his head. "I don't. The cathar I'm traveling with was going to send it when we arrived in Hanweir." The ranger considers this a moment. "It might do well for you to go talk to him and a couple of the clergy down at the Wandering Heron tonight. They're looking into the curse, an' most of Hanweir won't talk to the Church. In your letter, you asked for a cathar escort to Thraben. They might be able to help. The cathar might even have your letter still. We just arrived last night. His name's Raben."
"I see. Thank you, kind hunter. I'm certain you didn't have to go out of your way to tell me, but I'm thankful you did. Perhaps I'll stop by the Heron. Will you be here long, as you're seeing to the curse?" Her features begin to soften, and you realize she couldn't be much older than you are, though her pony-tailed hair has begun to grey.
Joseph's brow furrows slightly. "I'm helping the Church with this curse-thing. You'd have to ask one of them how long we'll be here. They seem like decent men, for church-folk. If Raben isn't there, ask for Syd or Malekus."
Joseph turns to leave, but pauses and thrusts a hand into his pants pocket. He draws out a necklace with three encrusted moon pearls, and spreads it out on the glass case. "You do appraisals? We found this in the ditch along the road."
"Just wait a moment." She disappears around a corner on the far side of the counter and returns with a felt-lined wooden case. She opens it to reveal jeweler's tools. Using small lenses and comparison materials, she inspects the moon-pearled necklace, each stone one after another. "This is quite a jewel for someone to just leave in a ditch." She says this giving you a glance over.
A few hmphs and hahs later, she replaces her tools and closes the case. "You can pawn it here for 80 sovereigns, or trade it for anything up to equal value. But to be honest, with a cleaning, you'd do right to give it to a private auctioneer. This is Nephalian craftsmanship, likely for a well-to-do miss or a vampire's pet."
Joseph stares down at the necklace. "I doubt nobody left it. It was stolen. Tucked away in a fox den. The little bastard stole my silver the night before." Joseph tugs at the amulet around his neck, and glances up at Ekka. "I'll take the 80 sovereigns, minus whatever your appraisal fee is."
"Suit yourself. I'll be right back." She leaves without taking the necklace, disappearing once more. You hear the muffled sound of footsteps that fade away, as if she was traveling downward. After a moment she returns with a knit pouch pulled tight at its opening with nylon. "It's seventy-two sovereigns. Is there anything else?"
Joseph takes the coin. "No, that was all. Stop in and chat with the clergy tonight, if you can. About the curse. I'll put a good word in to Raben. If we are returning to Thraben after our business in Hanweir, I'm sure he wouldn't mind bringing you along, to your cousin." The hunter looks up and proffers a smile, his fattened lip bulging slightly. Then he pinches his amulet, nods his head, and leaves.
Listening for Rumors, Yesfir's Way
Following the others as they made their way through town, she took the time to calm herself down banishing her earlier memories to the darkest recess of her mind. As they went farther into town, she looked down with a frown at her dirty hem and boots. Deciding cleanliness was the first order of business, Yesfir made a waving gesture with her hands humming a common bathing tune as she did so, causing a dull glow to briefly appear before disappearing leaving her garments as if they were freshly washed.
Although this was a work of a moment, she soon found herself separated from the others as they went about their various tasks. Shrugging, she wandered around briefly looking around town for some sort of tavern in hopes of appeasing both her stomach and her curiosity. However, it seemed as if Hanweir had very little time for idleness or drink, and a brief fruitless search, Yesfir decided to head back to the inn where they had stayed in hopes of finding something to fill her growling belly.
Wandering through the town after dinner, Yesfir noticed for the first time just how quiet it really was in Hanwier. Everyone seemed on razor's edge and what conversations she did overhear were hushed and quickly grew silent at her approach. Worse yet, no one seemed to have time for idle gossip, or even idleness at all. Those she passed on the street seemed to be rushing to and fro as if on pressing errands, giving her a wide berth, and with very little time for conversation. Frowning, she kept looking, her head down but her eyes watchful as she looked for what she knew to be the most ready source of information, drunk old men or old ladies who seemed nowhere to be found in Hanweir.
As the hour grew later and later, she was just about to give up when she spotted the flash of lantern light being carried in the early evening hours. Pausing half hidden in the shadows, Yesfir watched as an old woman walking with a cane emerged from around the corner. Wary from the earlier reaction of the townspeople to strangers, Yesfir passed her hand in front of her face as she softly muttered, "Masca," disguising herself as someone else. The trick, she had learned early, was not to change too much, lest people go poking where nothing really was, but instead to change just enough. As her hand passed over her face slowly, she felt her face and form subtly shift..She kept her form the same, but made herself look older, more mature, lightening her hair with grey, tanning her skin as if from years work, and darkening her eyes to a more common brown color. Shifting her posture to a more care worn manner, shoulder's hunched but back and feet straight, she stepped out of the shadows and into the woman's lantern light.
At her sudden appearance, the woman stumbled and gasped, and Yesfir quickly rushed forward, righting the old woman as she placed a hand on her heart, before looking up with watery eyes at her, "Gah! Holy Avacyn! You scared me child!"
"Forgive me, mother," Yesfir soothed keeping her voice soft and low, "I didn't mean to scare you so. I am a stranger to Hanweir and have found myself strangely lost as the hour grows late. May I share you lantern this night? I'd be glad to walk you home if you would be so kind as to point me on my way from there?"
"Certainly, certainly," the old woman muttered, waving her hand in a quick dismal of her apology, "No harm done. Can't be too careful, these days! Strange times, child, strange times!"
Struggling to keep her tone causal, Yesfir decided not to press too soon, and instead just queried a soft curious "Oh?"
"Not that I'm complaining, mind you! We are as good as any town in Gavony! Got us a good mayor, real religious, everything all proper. Everything done right to get us through hard times, chapel services, the lot. Not his fault that business is down and times be tight," pride filled the old woman's voice, but even Yesfir could detect the undercurrent of doubt there, the underlying 'but'...
Still she kept the conversation causal, asking about business and the old woman's life, letting her tell her of the golden days of prosperity before. "Hanweir decided to get all uppity and tried to rebel. Proud folk don't make good neighbors, and that squashed right quick! Things haven't been the same since. The harvest has been poor, strange birds and creatures stalk the night, and ill winds blow across the town. Poor Pitre! The only bright spot in dark times. I wouldn't be lying to say that it caused a bit of hope. I thought to myself, well, now, when common folk can be hero, times are bound to take a turn for the better. But just like that! Poof! Pitre's dead. No one knows how. At least no one's saying. Cause we know. Oh we know. 'Tis a sign, see! Hanweir's cursed and nothing good ain't going to happen again. Pitre's death is proof of that. Wouldn't be surprised if he met a foul end. Perhaps even his own. Ain't nothing right about our only hero dying, no surreh!"
The conversation had to come to an end there as they had finally arrived at the woman's residence, and Yesfir bid her goodbye after receiving some rather rambled directions to Whitehall. Turning, Yesfir was just about to head home as she let her disguise drop when she noticed something strange.
A black cat passed her, it's nose pressed to the ground, it's eyes focused straight ahead, almost as if it was tracking something. It was strange behavior for a cat, the kind of thing you would expect in a dog, but certainly never a cat. Curious, Yesfir decided to follow it, thinking that although it's behavior was strange it was just a cat and surely no harm could come of following it for a bit. Especially if what the feline was tracking turned out to be supper.
Hours passed unnoticed as she continued to follow the cat, never approaching too close as it continued its strange tracking behavior. Finally, it disappeared behind gated metal bars between stone pillars- a fence, one that is familiar, even in the low light of the evening. Looking up, Yesifr was startled to recognize the mayor's manor even as the cat meowed once more behind the fence. Cautious, she crept closer, her voice calling out for the first time to the feline, "Here, kitty, kitty..."
A black form lept out of the darkness landing on a pillar near Yesfir, startling her as she took a step backwards, looking up towards the feline. Searing, bright red eyes peered at her, the cat's gaze focused intensely on her almost as if looking through her, almost as if it could read her inner most thoughts. Locking eyes with the cat for one brief moment, Yesfir felt an eerie chill creep over her spine as the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end. Instinct kicked in and with one final backwards glance, Yesfir bolted back to the inn, running as one chased with one eye over her shoulder for the strange cat.
Lightspire Chapel Getting to the chapel takes almost an hour. On the approach, the group of Garreth, Syd, Malekus, and Raben notice a rather large number of people walking away from the direction of the chapel. You'd imagine perhaps mass was just held and has concluded.
Garreth nods at the parishioners as they pass them on their way towards the chapel.
"I hope they have a meal being prepared because I am famished. Ah it looks like mass just got out but these people look like they are still downtrodden. Mass should imbue them with the light of Avacyn and at least a temporary reprieve from their depressed reality. I am going to speak with someone about it." and with that Malekus smooths his cloths and puts on his best smile.
He approaches a couple that is leaving and greets them warmly "Hello there good people, may Avacyn's light guide you. I am traveling here to investigate the happenings around this town and lend a hand where I can. How did you find the mass today? I understand it has been decreed that daily attendance is mandatory, which I appreciate but also want to make sure it is not causing undue burden on the people."
The man holds the woman's shoulders and moves her to the side slightly, putting himself between her and Malekus. "A burden? No, it only ascertains our fears: we are cursed. We should've sent that body to the deepest pits of hellfire when it was found. Damn that Lorelei.."
"Lorelei? I am sorry I wasn't here and only heard about the body. Can you tell me what happened here?"
Garreth leans in to speak softly, seemingly quite out of character. “Lorelei is the Mayor’s daughter and she was betrothed to Pitre.”
Malekus nods. "Thank you both and may the light of Avacyn shine bright upon you." Malekus bids the couple farewell and then turns back to Garreth "Well damn. I am glad we have someone going to question her. Let's see if we can't find some hospitality in the chapel."
The Lightspire chapel has a large gated walkway. Graying concrete slabs stretch across a yellowing lawn with bare and wilting fruit-bearing trees in measured rows. You walk across this entryway as the last of the previous mass's flock vacate the premises. At first you pass an entry chamber with many examples of religious artworks. The walls are wooden but painted white. A set of double doors with golden pull handles are stuck open with grey rubber stops, and beyond is the central chamber where mass is held. The pews are arranged to allow passage from the double doors straight to a risen platform blanketed in a red rug. Iron sconces line the half-octagonal room, two to each wall, with a glowing white orb of light atop them. The air is neither cold nor warm. You smell a burning scent- dustwillow, a soothing herb that has a more substantial effect when consumed as a tea, and see an ebbing trail of smoke coming from a silver censer beside a pedestal. You see two individuals walking on the far right of the chamber, heading towards a door you'd imagine leads to the priory's quarters. The backs of their clothes are white, one wears a silver-trimmed white sash that covers across his shoulders. Their voices echo and bounce off the walls, distorting their words.
"Excuse us, but may we talk with you?" Garreth calls out, hoping to catch them before they go through the door.
The two robed figures turn a few feet before the door. A younger boy, only just a man, and an older gentlemen, whom speaks, "Yes, can we help you.." After recognizing the attire of the group, he finishes, "Good cathars?"
"Greetings brothers, may Avacyn light the way." Malekus says and traces the collar over himself. "We are visitors here on business from Father Jofridus. We were hoping to discuss our purpose here in a more private setting. We have had a rough morning and we're also hoping to find some refreshments if you have any available."
"The Father of the Commons? Please," the senior pastor opens the door to reveal the interior of his living quarters. "Come right this way. Eran will prepare a small pastime." He says looking to the younger priest, who nods in compliance. "We can speak while we wait over the table."
Unlike the rest of the interior, the chambers past this door are their natural colors and illuminated by wax candles and oil lamps at purposed places. You pass several doors before entering an open space with a square table surrounded by wooden chairs. Cupboards of similar make line the walls. The pastor makes himself a seat and gestures for the rest to do the same. "I take it to be Pitre?"
Malekus takes the seat across from him and leans back slightly in his chair. "Indeed. I am going to cut straight to it because we have seen with our own eyes the foulness that is saturating the ground here. Word has spread about the bleeding corpse and some of my group were sent to investigate. We do not have much information after meeting with the mayor. He does not seem to be overly fond of the church but I saw a mandate for mandatory mass attendance. Is there anything you can tell us about the boy and his unfortunate demise? It almost sounds like he was a hero before he passed and now is the embodiment of a curse."
"Yes. Pitre had slain a vampire that hunted our periphery. He came with its head, is said, and the mayor was quick to hold a feast in his honor. This was.. perhaps two moons ago, perhaps longer. He then disappeared in the following days, only to be found in the center of the main hall the week last." He looks absently to the center of the table. "There was so much blood.. I thought it impossible to remove it all."
Malekus nods his head in acknowledgement. "That must have been gruesome. That boy was being touted as a hero and disappeared for a month? I have to ask was his body whole when you found it? We were given permission to examine the grave and it was rather disturbing."
"Yes, the lad was whole. I imagine you didn't find him that way." His face becomes cast with a solemn look.
"What do you mean find him whole? Did something happen before the burial?" Malekus asks.
The pastor clears his throat and rubs his brow, troubled. "Well, Lorelei was here that night- the night we found Pitre. She was.. sharing with me her doubts, her fears, her concern for Pitre. It seems the fiends of the night answered her.." He clenches his face. "She-she.. beheaded him. She insisted. She had to."
Malekus' jaw drops slack in shock. He tries to recover quickly but stumbles out the first few words "She.. The body... How.." He takes a moment to compose himself and then begins anew with his questioning. "Why would his betrothed feel compelled to desecrate his body? Was she concerned he had been tainted during his hunt of the vampire?"
"I'm not certain- perhaps. There is little else that would make one go through such brutality, especially one has gentle as Lorelei. The toll it must have taken on her soul.."
At this time, the younger priest enters the room with a rolling tray. Atop it is a large steaming and fragrant pot, stacked clay bowls and simple eating utensils of similar make. He begins serving the prepared repast.
"Ah, thank you, Eran," the priest half-heartedly compliments, his mind clearly weighed by the topic.
Malekus smiles warmly at Eran and thanks him briefly. "Sorry brother in my hast I have forgotten my manners. This whole business is disturbing and is putting me on edge. Thank you Eran and ... I apologize I never asked your name father...? My name is Malekus and my companions here are Garreth and Raben. We sincerely appreciate the hospitality!" As he takes a plate being offered to him by the priest. He was famished when they entered but the recent revelations have soured his mood. As he eats his thoughts turn back to the information the priest has been giving him.
"There is clearly something else to this story that we must be missing. Part of our group was going to attempt to talk with Lorelei but this changes things...To have such violence from someone so close to him. I was hoping to find answers but this just leads into more questions...Who was it that found the body and did anyone mention seeing anything out abnormal? Is there anything else that is out side of normal that might help us figure out what is going on?"
"It is Bertram, bright Goldnight. Pastor Bertram, and this is Eran. I am training him as my future replacement." Eran smiles politely and silently at the group. "I couldn't bear watch the act be done. By Avacyn, it took several swings, as her own strength wasn't enough to save her the torment of more than one cut.." Pastor Bertram exhales heavily. "Save that the boy continued to bleed even after being beheaded, no. And we found him, that very night. Lorelei and I were in the confessional chambers, and when we returned to the main hall.." He clenches his face once again, the grotesquery too much to bear for his worn heart. "Lorelei had mentioned she made regular contact with Pitre on his journey, through letters. They caused her great worry that he was so far, despite Pitre's optimism on his quest."
As he listens his mood grows darker. Foul deeds and possibly foul intentions were at play here. Instead of finding answers he was beginning to think they were digging into a much deeper situation. He furrows his brow and slowly consumes the food before him.
"Thank you pastor Bertram for your hospitality" Malekus says as he finishes the small plate before him and wipes his mouth. Turning to the others at the table he says "Raben... Garreth is there anything you want to ask the pastor. I don't not want to badger him to death with my questions."
Garreth is ghost white after hearing the tale and just shakes his head in response, trying not to let his mouth gape open.
Syd has been silent for this exchange thus far. Malekus had a friendlier, more charismatic disposition that he felt would be more tactful in this situation. He completes his meal with a contrite smile towards their hosts, and sits up from his chair, pushing it under the table . "These letters.. Would Lorelei keep them, or have cause to dispose of them? If not, they would seem to tell us where our poor Pitre had gone to before.. his untimely end."
"If she had, I'd imagine them to be in her personal belongings. I shouldn't think of Lorelei to dispose of letters from her loved one."
"We'd speak to the mayor once more, I'm afraid," Raben responds. "Lady Lorelei lived with her brazen father until recently, according to our friend Gerard. He went after her, correct? To a monastery? Let us pray to the archangels that he is fruitful in his endeavor, and that he hasn't fallen victim to another of Hanweir's plagues."
With that, Raben bids the clergy of Lightspire Chapel farewell and expresses his appreciation for their more than gracious hospitality and their cooperation with the investigation, and leads the group outside and into the town.
At the edge of the holy grounds, Raben turns. "I believe it best we wait for Gerard to return from where Lorelei has absconded herself. We can try for Lorelei's letters during the day, and if our ally hasn't returned by nightfall, well, if nothing comes from any letters to be or not to be, we'll travel to the monastery ourselves." He looks at the members in the eyes. "Sound alright? Other ideas?"
"I agree. That would be the best course of action for us. I thank Pastor Bertram for his hospitality. May the light be with him in the dark times. " Malekus makes preparations to leave once the rest of the party is ready.
On the approach, the Palmbriar Monastery is a dome-like structure with many stained windows. A wall about 4 feet tall surrounds the compound, but it leaves an opening in the front to allow entrance. It is covered densely in vines and plant bulbs. When Gerard passes the wall, two woman holding staffs that are alight with bright glow are standing under a wooden canopy that encloses over a fountain. They notice him.
Gerard stops and nods respectfully the women. “Hello. My name is Gerard Waltgaud. I have traveled from Hanweir. May I speak to Lorelei?”
"You will hold there stranger, lest the light of the moon pierce you." The woman to Gerard's right raises a hand and speaks across the entryway. The other looks to the woman that just spoke and nods twice, softly, and lingers near the woman's ear for a moment before retreating to her original posture. "Approach, sir, calmly. You're looking for a Lady Lorelei? Say we knew the name, what makes you come here?"
Gerard slowly approaches as directed careful to not make any sudden movements.
"Lady Lorelei spoke to me earlier today just as she set off on her journey here. I am working with a cathar named Raben sent by the church to investigate the problems plaguing Hanweir. We have made some discoveries and are hoping that Lady Lorelei may be able to help enlighten us about what we have learned. Perhaps there is someone that resides here that also may be able to help. I suspect Lady Lorelei came here seeking aid in this matter, although I don't know that for sure."
Gerard looks down for a moment and then looks earnestly at the woman that spoke to him. "Please, the matter is urgent or I would not have come here during the evening." Gerard feels something probe his brain, hearing his thoughts and attempting to probe deeper, but it immediately fades away.
Once more the quiet woman whispers to the spoken one. After an exchange of words, the unspoken woman leaves and disappears within the monastery. "You'll wait here with me."
Gerard looks down and lightly pinches the bridge of his nose as if if he is having a sudden headache. He then looks up at the remaining woman and says, "Thank you very much. What is your name?"
She sizes him up as he approaches her watch station. "It's Gilda. My companion is seeing whether Lorelei is awake. The newly initiated should be readying for rest. I doubt they'll have her awoken just to speak to some stranger after hours."
“Gilda, it is nice to make your acquaintance. I am sorry. I had no idea that Lady Lorelei was being initiated in your order. “ Gerard pauses for a moment looking Gilda in the eye. “Gilda, what do you know about the situation in Hanweir?”
"They are troubled. At the periphery of our groves and gardens, we see crows larger than yourself above their tallest spires at times. Perhaps they've taken to the corpse trade. I would not presume to know why such large carrion would flock otherwise a ghastly meal." She turns to look back at the monastery, makes a soft sound of slight disappointment, then returns to gaze down the entryway.
Gerard looks to see if anyone is approaching. Seeing none he says, "I do not anything about the corpse trade, but the body of a man named Pitre is continuously bleeding although he has been dead for weeks. The ground all around his grave is soaked with blood. It poisons the earth and maybe why the large carrion birds are about. Lady Lorelai knew Pitre. She may know something that will aid us."
She looks at Gerard with a horrid expression. "That.. is an issue. And Lorelei was from there? I hope she told the Abbess during her indoctrination. That cannot be overlooked." Once more she looks back towards the light of the monastery, and two figures break shadows in its entrance. She motions her head in that direction with a quick movement. "Go, they'll have you now."
“Thank you.” Gerard looks over at the direction Gilda indicates for a brief moment. Straightening himself up, he briskly walks in the direction of the two figures not knowing what awaits him.
He was cold before, in the open air of southern Gavony, but walking into the main building of this holy site, the frigidity of his body is washed away as if entering a hot bath. A large rectangular room serves as the entry. Simply decorated and painted in light but warm colors with candelabras illuminating the room from the corners, it is a stark contrast to the night that is falling just outside the doorstep. He is taken down a corridor with arched ceilings to the right. Wooden archways segment this corridor, each with different rooms for various services. But pressing on, the rooms become smaller and more outfitted as living quarters, some occupied, some not. Gerard is led to one that is presently occupied. A woman sits poised on a chair at her desk. He recognizes Lorelei by her face, and not by the monastic robes she is now wearing. She gestures for him to sit at the foot of her bed. Gerard's guide does not leave from the doorway, and seems intent on watching what goes on.
Gerard nods and takes a seat on the bed as indicated. He removes his hat and sits it beside him. He is not disturbed by the presence of the guide and is in fact comforted by it as it helps avoid some awkwardness on his part. "Lady Lorelei, my apologies for disturbing you at this time in the evening especially since you are just joining this order."
"What I have to tell you is very shocking. The church has dispatched a cathar named Raben to investigate the problems that are plaguing Hanweir. Independently of him, I also traveled to Hanweir to see what has so disturbed the natural order. I met Cathar Raben last night, and seeing that our paths have intersected he invited me to work with him and some others also commissioned by the church and under his authority to see if we can find the cause of Hanweir's troubles and set things right. Here is where things become most disturbing. The cathar received permission from the mayor to exhume the body of Pitre, a young man that is a hero to the town, and as I understand it, was a friend of yours. The ground all around his grave was soaked in an impossible amount of blood. The ground was soft and stank of it. While digging up the grave, we were attacked by unnatural insects. Once we dealt with them, we were able to remove and open Pitre's casket. "
Gerard pauses once again and then continues on quickly. "Pitre has been beheaded. It is my understanding that is not how he died. His body continues to unnaturally bleed, more blood than any body could possibly contain. There are signs of evil magic coming from his grave. Normally, I would spare you these grisly details, but the fact that you seek to join this order," Gerard looks briefly around, "tells me that you are not a delicate flower to be coddled, but a woman of strength. Lady Lorelai, we need your help. We need to know the truth of what happened to Pitre, how he died, why he was beheaded, and who he truly was. We need to know what most do not know, or are unwilling to speak to us about. I believe that you can help us. Will you please help us?"
Gerard then stops talking and looks at Lorelei with a gentle expression. He is no great orator, but he is sincere, and hopes that he has reached the young noble woman.
The entire time Gerard speaks, Lorelei maintains her poised posture in her seat, as if sculpted of stone or ice. But ice melts, and even stone is weathered, his words like the wind or warm air. She trembles and bites her lip, bats her eyes, pads her hand at their corners. She fiddles with her fingers slowly. "Even in death, Pitre, you surround me. Your spirit may not haunt be, but still, you do.. Do you know what it is to be in love, Mister Walgaud? I did, with Pitre. It was the purest of loves, with no expectations, no conditions. Even with my father's disapproval, we were happy. It all fell to pieces after he slew that vampire.."
Her voice breaks and she places a hand on her chest below her neck, a pained expression glossing her eyes as she looks away, before continuing. "My father announced him a hero and for a time he elated in the adulation. What man shouldn't? But soon.. he was overcome with guilt. He felt he did not earn his accolades, saying 'It was just a newling and I got a lucky blow while it fed.' He said he'd have nightmares of the person he didn't save.. so he left, 'to hunt a vampire proper', and be the man and true hero I deserved." She looks at you, her eyes intense, her face severe. The stone has been made sharp, the ice into a knife, but she wanes and breaks into soft tears.
"I killed him.. My Pitre.."
Gerard gives Lorelei a few minutes and when it seems she is a bit composed, he gently speaks to her. “Pitre was capable of making his own decisions. Men sometimes feel that that they have to perform some extraordinary act to earn the affections of a lady. Sometimes the line between a grand gesture and foolish action can be blurred to a young man. The same can be said when a person feels guilt about something. Rather than admitting the truth, they try to make it up in deed.“
Gerard takes a moment and says slightly stronger, “You are not responsible for Pitre’s death. It was a combination of human nature and his own choices. Gerard pauses again, thinks of her words and says, “Where did Pitre go to hunt a vampire? What can you tell me about what happened to him?”
"..In his letters, he said he'd entered Nephalia, where he met a priest. He soon caught the trail of a fiend. He hunted it, but.. but.." She hides her face behind her hands, falling forward slightly. Her shoulders tremble. "Please, I mustn't speak more. I left his letters in my room." She lifts her face, sniffing abruptly and begins going through the contents of a drawer in the desk, retrieving a key. She hands it to you. "They're in a lockbox, in my boudoir. The closet, behind my sundresses."
Gerard accepts the key and puts it into a pouch on belt making sure it is secure. “Lady Lorelei, I know this was very difficult for you to talk about. Thank you for speaking to me, and for the key.” Gerard stands up, grabs his hat and places it on his head. “I will not take up anymore of your time, and wish you well in your initiation. You will be a great asset here.” He gives the young lady a gentle smile and says softly, “Thank you Lorelei.” Gerard gives a nod to his escort and follows her out of the room.
Just as his body crosses the threshold, Lorelei speaks up. "If you find that fiend that cursed my beloved, would you be so kind as to exact a grieving woman's vengeance?"
Gerard stops , turns toward Lorelei and says, “I will make my best effort to do so,” in a serious tone. He gives her a nod and then continues out of the room.
She nods in affirmation. The escort bids Gerard to vacate the room and to follow her once more. "We don't expect anyone to travel during the dark hours, lest the horrors that hide in its shadow claim your body and soul. We have guest rooms for wandering travelers, refugees, and villagers. You can sleep in one for the night. With your business done, you should make your way once its bright tomorrow morning." She leads Gerard to a simple room with all the necessary accommodations for a comfortable, momentary stay. It is warmed by a small hearth stand in the far corner, which also glows orange with its burning embers across the white and browns of the room. The woman waves him in, assuring you that the night's vigil also comes across this part of the building during their rounds. Whether to provide Gerard with the sense of safety or for ensuring he partake in no suspicious activity is left to obscurity with her tone.
Gerard thanks his escort sincerely, and once she leaves, prepares for bed and sleeps until morning.
Wakening refreshed after a full night’s rest in a warm room with a comfortable bed Gerard sits, stretches, and in performs his morning meditations. He washes up, shaves, and gets dressed. Gathering his belongings his opens the door and finds a young monk just outside. She nods a greeting and bids him to follow her. Gerard is led down a long corridor and into the courtyard that he had entered the evening before. Gilda, who guided him last night is waiting for him. His younger escort silently goes back into the corridor.
“We can not send you on your journey on an empty stomach. I have packed you a travel meal,” Gilda says holding a small bag to Gerard.
“Thank you for your kindness for the meal, shelter, and for the help. I am in your debt.”
“You owe us nothing. This is our service to Avacyn. A messenger hawk arrived this morning with a letter for you from Cathar Raben.”
Gerard accepts a small scroll from the monk. After a short but formal greeting the note explains that Raben and the group will wait for Gerard until nightfall, and after that they will assume that he is not returning and they will set out for Palmbriar. Gerard thanks Gilda once again and she speaks a blessing of Avacyn upon him. They bid each other farewell as Gerard begins walking a brisk pace on the road to Hanweir.
About an hour's walk from the monastery, Gerard makes sure he is not being watched and once again changes into a dappled gray riding horse. He runs for about an hour and shifts back to his human forms. After walking on two legs for an hour, he shifts again and runs for another hour. Gerard completes his journey safely to Hanweir walking a brisk pace on his own two legs again. He is relieved as he approaches the city gates. Thinking the rest of the group is at either inn, he checks the Witherhall first, and if they are not there, continues on to the Wandering Heron.
The Wandering Heron
Back at the Wandering Heron, Joseph is sitting alone in the common area, finishing up the last bites of a bowl of stew. When he hears the doors creak open, and sees Nata walk through them, he takes a gulp from a mug and wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand. Then he leans back in his chair, and watches the room, his eyes sweeping briefly across the Stensian girl from time to time.
More than a little relieved to leave the strange cat behind her, Yesfir quickly scanned the bar for the others but only spying the ranger she hesitated. He noticed far too much for her taste. Deciding caution was the better part of value, she sat down in a corner where she could watch the door as she quickly ordered a drink to calm her shattered nerves conscious that she was being watched.
With a grunt, the ranger pushes himself back from the table, and heads upstairs, towards the rooms. A moment later he returns, and heads straight for Nata's table, his hand clenched tight around some object. When he sits down across from her, he brings his hand down gently upon the table, the object clinking metallically, but he keeps his hand spread to keep the object concealed.
He leans forward and says in a low voice, almost a whisper: "Nata, is it?"
Edging backwards, Yesfir began fiddling with the material of her skirts as if nervous but in reality finding and gripping one of her knives. "Ranger know Nata," she hedged, looking everywhere but at him. " Why ask? Ranger Joe, no? Joe go, Joe know, isn't everything right no Joe? " Giggling nervously, Yesfir looked about for the others almost hopefully. "Would Joe like to know what Nata knows, or no wait and Nata to all story tell?"
The hunter watches Nata intently as she speaks, his eyes scanning coldly, unyieldingly. It's an expression familiar to his face; it's the way he looks when he's on the road, scanning an expansive horizon for anything out of place, anything that moves on its own accord.
When she finishes, his face softens slightly. "It's Joseph. Not Joe. Look, I don't know what you're hiding, or who you're hiding from. An' I don't want to know--don't need to. But if it weren't for your magic, things might've gone a lot worse with those ghouls and that werewolf."
He glances around the common room, then returns his gaze to Nata. "Raben wants you around. An' you ain't got fur, an' I'm pretty sure you got no fangs, either. That's all I need to know."
Keeping his eyes locked on Nata, Joseph slides his hand across the wooden table, producing a slinking, grating sound from beneath his fingers. Then he pulls away his hand, revealing a silver amulet with a silver chain wound around it. "You should take this. Wear it, out where people can see it. It was Threg's. It's mainly for our peace of mind. But it might also protect you, if people around you get wound up. If they they think you're hiding something you're not." He pauses a moment, then adds, "This amulet is what kept me from joining that scared mob of people outside Threg's door last night. It saved us all from becoming cold-blooded murderers.
Looking closely at the Ranger, Yesfir kept one hand in her skirts as the other cautiously fiddled with the amulet. "Joe-s-eth" she intentially slurred the common name, drawing it out as if testing it out for size as she looked at him from underneath her lashes. She didn't trust him or his amulet, but looking at him intently for a moment, she perceived no ill intent at least and only a genuine belief in the power of such a tiny trinket. Picking it up, she finally let go of her dagger to place the trinket around her neck, placing it carefully over her clothes. "Nata thank Joeseth. Not sure if stay. Nata only trying to help. You no harm Nata or friend. Protected. Helped. Nice. But no ask money. Money Nata no have. No like debts," very true, she hated feeling indebted to someone. You never knew what they would ask you to pay or when. "So Nata help instead. Pay back. Say thank you. While Nata look for way. Raben no ask Nata stay. Why ask? Not strong. Not church man."
Pausing she weighed her next words carefully, "Joe-s-eth no tell about...." waving her hands in a vague gesture to indicate magic. "Please." She allowed her eyes to go wide, innocent, and pleading giving him her best puppy dog look. She knew by now the others had gathered about her abilities, limited as they were. And how should she could keep them from dragging her to a stake and burning her as a witch, she had no idea. But she had a sneaking suspicion that if both Raben and Joseph asked them to, it would go alone way of not only keeping her secret but also keep her alive. "Very little protect Nata if more know. People say nasty things. Town already on edge."
After following Nata's words with a somewhat confused look, the ranger shakes his head. "Don't worry about paying it back. I'm not selling it to you. Wearing it is payment enough for me an' Gerard an' Raben an' everyone else." He pauses a moment in consideration. "Think of it like those mirrors you all keep up in the doorways in Stensia. Everyone has their own, but the mirror's for everyone's good. For peace of mind." He grasps his own silver amulet with his thumb and index finger, and lifts it slightly, for emphasis.
He looks around the room again, then leans forward, lowering his voice. "Your magic is your business. I only warn others of threats I see. An' the two times I've seen your magic, it helped us. With them ghouls, it might have saved my life." He leans forward a bit more, across the table. "Just a word of advice, though. Weird behavior and secrecy have a tendency to get people in trouble. You saw what happened outside Threg's door last night. He knew something was ailing him, but he wouldn't tell us what. He wouldn't let us help him. An' the next thing you know, he's got a half-dozen armed men ready to murder him for being a werewolf. So just be careful. Suspicious people get scared, an' scared people are dangerous."
"Nata understands, always careful." Yesfir nodded once to show she understood , she hoped that finished the matter, at least for now.
Joseph nods back, stands up, and grasps his amulet. Then he heads back to his table, where his mug and empty bowl are still sitting, and sits down, facing the door of the inn. He takes a drink, sits back, and watches.
The hour was late and growing later. Yet still the others did not come, and the long gruesome day was beginning to take a toll on Yesfir. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier as she watched the door anxiously. Thinking to just set her head down for just a moment, Yesfir crossed her arms on the table and rested her head on them turning her face so she could continue her wait. Her eyes closed. Once. Startling, she shook herself and stayed awake a moment longer. Then her eyes again. Again she fought against sleep, but then her closed once more, and this time, sleep took her.
--
Fitful, a low whimper escaped her as she borrowed her head deeper into the pillow of her arms. Flashes of images from the day passed through her mind overlapping with bits of memory distorting in a nightmare. A crow landed on a lone stone stately home on the mountain, it's cry strangely human, "Ca...be....ca...ware!". As it's cry deepened into a the deep tones of a warning church bell, it was joined by it's fellows, a murder of crows that flew straight at her, and she fled even as the birds formed and shaped into the form of a giant cat with glowing red eyes. A graveyard appeared in the distance, unadorned bits of stone decorated only with mirrors. The bits of silver flashing in the distance, refracting, and reflecting the glowing eye of the still pursuing cat.
Turning, she reached for the essence of power that had been with her since her later childhood years, but it wasn't there, and she found herself starring at her hands, even as the cat grew closer and closer, until it's red eyes were all she could see. As the feline grew closer and she smelt it's nauseating breath, she tried to find once more, but she found herself sinking, and sinking into the mud, only it wasn't mud at all but blood. Screaming she closed her eyes just as the giant mouth of the cat swallowed her whole, and darkness took her.
Opening her eyes, she found herself not in the belly of a cat, but in a shabby temple barely big enough to be called a chapel, being perhaps no more than ten feet wide and thirty feet long, it's only beauty a small crumbling statue of Avaycn who spread her arms as if to embrace the non-existent worshipers who would kneel to utter their empty prayers. The chapel should have been nearly empty except for this sole feature set on a small wooden pedestal, but there at the front, barely fitting into the small space before the altar was a wooden casket, it's lid open as if waiting for visitors to take their final look at the corpse.
She felt compelled to get closer, to look into the casket, to see who was in there. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears as she grew closer, and closer, until with a shuddering breath she looked within the casket. In the casket, his arms crossed and eyes closed as if merely asleep was the form of Haldor as she once knew him. Dark brown hair tipped with red, youthful cheeks too thin, small lithe body clothed in the shabby dull grey of the uniform given to the children of nighten, a boy no more than thirteen. Gone all too soon. Sobbing, she brushed a cautious hand against his cheek, knowing that it would be cold even as her heart hoped to find warmth. As her hand caressed his cheek, the corpses eye's snapped open, his attention immediately on her, and he spoke. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it! I wanted to come home! I'm sorry Yesfir. A vampire got me. Please forgive me. I can't go home, I can't go home! I'm sorry!"
Screaming, she felt the weight of an axe in her hand, and blindly panicking she swung the heavy blade, aiming it at his neck. The blade landed with a sick thud into his flesh yet even as she saw blood flow from the wound, the corpse sat up, his arms reaching toward her as the litany, of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't go home, I'm sorry" turned to a cat's piercing scream that filled her ears and his eyes turned red. Screaming once more, she swung again and again and again, until the head rolled from his body, landing with a thud at her feet. The last thing she saw as she began to scream was his face forever fixed with a mixture of horror, pain, and accusation.
--
A sharp pain awoke her, and she panicked, her arms swinging wide as she found herself on the floor of the barroom, the sound of screaming broken only by the sound of apologies. Scrambling backward on the floor, she looked around with wide eyes for the source of the voice, only to realize it was her own, her face wet with tears as she heard herself say one last time, "I'm sorry." Looking around at the startled faces of the people around her, Yesfir simply drew up her knees and buried her head in the pillow of her arms as sobs began to shake her body.
When Yesfir's screams filled the tavern, Joseph stood up, knocking his chair backwards, his hand going for the hilt of a sword. He wheeled around to face the threat, but saw only the Stensian girl thrashing about, alone on the floor, swinging her arms at some unseen foe. Joseph paused, his face clouding with uncertainty. Frozen in place, he watched helplessly--along with the rest of the patrons--as the girl had her nightmarish fit, awakening to her own sobs and apologies.
The hunter surveys the crowd. The room is full of whispers, murmurs, and wide eyes locked onto the girl. He blinks, grabs his drink, and hurries to Yesfir's side, placing himself between her sobbing form and the rest of the bar.
He crouches down and puts his mug on the floor next to her. "It's okay," he bellows in a commanding tone to the people behind him, as he fumbles his arms out from his overcoat sleeves. "It's all right. It's just...she's...she's my sister. My sister, Nata." He turns to face the awestruck crowd, and touches his own forehead. "She's touched. An' last night's attack set her off. She's been a bundle of nerves all day." Unconsciously, he grabs his silver amulet and holds it up slightly at the barroom.
He turns to Yesfir and drapes his coat over her frame, covering her from view. His voice is a hoarse whisper. "C'mon, let's get you out of here. Upstairs. Into your room." He lays a light but firm palm against her back, between her shoulder blades. His other hand grabs the mug from the floor, and holds it in front of her. "Here. It's water."
Still crouching around the hunched, shrouded figure of Yesfir, he looks up to the stunned audience. "She's all right," he scowls. "Ain't nothing to see. She just needs sleep."
As a huge form hovered over her, Yesfir's first instinct was to flinch away, visibly looking for a place to run to hide. Looking up to the source of the threat, she visibly relaxed but only slightly, her posture wary as she lifted her tear stained face and no doubt puffy eyes. Looking beyond him, she almost flinched again at the rear and the suspicion in the eyes of the other dinners.
Forcing herself to relax, putting down her knees, she offered a watery smile towards the others and Joseph even as she listened to him lie through his teeth about her. Picking up the tankers she took a cautious sip as Joseph continued to reassure the clearly suspicious and nervous patrons. Immediately, she began to cough, sputtering as she spit out the water she swallowed as the distinctive sharp metallic taste of blood coated her tongue. Coughing hard, she instinctively reached out and grasped the shoulder of Joseph who was kneeling next to her until her coughing stopped. When the coughing stopped, she wiped her face with her sleeve, dropping her hold of Joseph. Ducking her head to hide her face, she rasped out with a voice rough from coughing, "Sorry. Wrong way. No more. Please." Turning to Joseph her eyes begged for understanding , "Nata sorry. Bad dream. Joe-s-th help, up?". Trying to play along when all she wanted to do was hide, she reached out a cautious hand towards Joseph's kneeling figure.
"Yeah," the ranger replies, grabbing the girl's elbow and helping her to her feet. "I'll help." As they make their way to the stairs, he turns one final time, this time to the cook staff standing near the doorway to the kitchen. Again he scowls. "My companions will be back soon, an' they'll probably be hungry. Make sure there's enough stew in the pot for the five of them. I'll pay as soon as I'm back down."
The evening soon begins to adjourn as Raben and company leave the Lightspire Chapel, finishing their discussion. They'd come to consensus to wait for the results of Gerard's efforts until the morrow's sundown, if he'd return at all. It was not for having faith in the man's capability, but the dark preys on those that travel alone as fear, doubt, and wear encroach them.
Idle hours are passed in various means and endeavors before the dark paints the sky, Raben and the others return to the Wandering Heron, pushing the door open and walking past its frame as if on cue to Joseph's mention. It seems some event had just happened.
Raben stands for a moment, eyeing the sides of the room. Joseph was heading up the staircase, seemingly shielding their youngest companion. Syd enters behind him with a wry smile. "I know they're uncomfortable about the clergy but.. this seems awkward."
"I think that the only one who feels uncomfortable around the church is the mayor Syd." Malekus says under his breath. Looking towards the kitchen he says is a normal voice "Well the one thing all men can agree on is a good meal! What do you gentlemen say to some warm food?" He glances to the pair heading up the stairs and guesses they want or need some time away from people. He gives a knowing nod to Joseph before he turns back toward the dining room.
"A warm meal and a cup of ale for anyone who cares to join me," he says as he moves into the room to secure a table.
"Perhaps you're correct," Syd replies as he follows the larger man. "On both accounts," he says pulling a seat himself.
Raben looks to Garreth with a knowing glance and follows suit. "I could use a pint after today.. I've done and seen many things in the line of the Cathedral, but nothing has disturbed my soul quite like today's events."
"Agreed. There seems to be much more to the story but hopefully Gerard will have some success with his search. Until then let's enjoy a brief respite from the foul deeds of the day." Malekus raises his pint for a toast and says "To new companions trying to bring light to a dark place." And he slugs down his drink while flagging down a waitress for another round.
The soup is served, a warm pork broth with chunks of potatoes and carrots and cubes of lamb. The night is spent with the party taking it in it's rare pleasantry. No militiaman running down the streets warning of a fiend's attack. No shriek or cry of an endangered Hanweir resident, just outside or across the street. Conversing and finding comfort in each other's presence, Raben and his troop find solace once they retire to their beds. Innistrad is quiet for one night, at least, in Hanweir.
Morning arrives after the calm of night. A newspaper boy can be heard passing the inn on a noisy bicycle, weaving through the early morning commerce of Hanweir's residents. "Church seeing to curse! Mayor's backing investigation!"
Raben is early to rise, in the dining room in the same table the party shared the previous night. Syd is seated across from him. They are discussing something amidst the clutter of the Wandering Heron staff bustling and getting breakfast prepared.
Malekus comes downstairs refreshed and joins them at the table. "Well, it is amazing what a good night's rest will do for you. Gentlemen I hope you indulged like I did. From the crier outside it sounds like the mayor is a fan of the church today... Interesting times we are living in that a man with his power can change his views. Public office must be tough. "
"He more than likely needs a benevolent relationship with the church to even consider reelection," Syd replies. "But yes. Last night was an excellent respite." A calm before the storm, Syd thought to himself.
"What have you on the agenda, Malekus?" Raben asks, drinking from his cup.
"I have a lot on my mind this morning. I was planning on some meditation to help sort through everything we have learned"
Coming down in the morning, Yesfir looked a lot for the wear. Having spent a restless night towing and turning, she didn't feel particularly rested. Hair in tangles and face smeared in soot, she made her way to Raben's table but declined food as she rested her head on the table as she listened to the others talk. "Nata go to chapel in morning, maybe it help send bad dreams far away. Strange cat scare Nata."
As Nata joins the group and mentions the chapel Malekus says "I can accompany you and introduce you to pastor Bertram. If you will have me."
Yesfir tilted her head at the fat priest, she didn't know him but didn't see the harm as she most going for appearances sake, so finally she nodded to her show her agreement.
"Great!" Malekus says with a smile. Once the meal is concluded they begin to head out to the chapel.
He keeps a close eye on the young woman. He knows she has the gift of magic from their encounter with the werewolf but she seems timid around the group. As they walk he says "Nata, thank you for your help with the fight the other night and for going out to listen to people. You are very brave! I know you will do great things in you life." He gives her a big smile and continues "You said something about a scary cat? Have you seen it today?"
Shaking her head, Yesfir debated about answering but remembering Joseph's words the other night about secrets, she heaved a with and crossed her arms before answering haltingly. "No. No today. Last night. Late, sun to down. Nata meet nice lady, walk home, talk and listen. Not learn much. Wanted to go back. Go sleep when see something strange," cursing her choice to use halting simple language , Yesfir struggled to find words to describe the cat, and employed her hands to mime it's actions. "Black cat stalk. Hunt. Track. Sniff. Like dog. Strange. Nata think follow, maybe find dinner. Long time pass. Cat to mayor's house, over tall fence, meows. Call kitty kitty and it jump on fence. Look at Nata. Then Nata see red eyes. Red eyes stare. Look through Nata. So Nata run. Later Nata have bad dream and remember bad cat. No like. " clamping up , she shook her head clear of the memories.
"That is strange indeed." Malekus thinks to himself that seems almost demonic in nature but he weighs telling the poor girl that. Having an infernal presence here would explain the hostility towards the church but it also meant that things were likely to get much worse for the group if they attract its attention. He looks around to see if there is a cat in the area.
As he breaks his concentration from the dark thoughts he looks back to Nata, and tries to warm his expression. "Nata, that is very good investigating that you did. I am sure we will find out what is going on here. I want to help bring some happiness to the people of this town., everyone deserves to be happy!" He looks around again taking in the scenery of the town. He takes a deep breath and says, "Honestly, we have seen things here that are darker than I had ever thought possible. My meditations have been frightful lately. Hopefully some time at the chapel will help me reconnect. I always leave mass feeling better than before. Were you wanting to attend mass or were you looking for something else from the church this morning?"
Not trusting herself to speak, Yesfir avoided the question entirely by humming a simple Avacynian hymn, letting her eyes wander as she skipped ahead a few steps wanting to attend mass and be done with the formality.
"Ah well then. Let's go inside and enjoy some time with our faith." As they enter the church Syd and Raben are approaching the church. Malekus waves to them and then heads inside. It warms him to see this many people united in faith. Throughout the mass he has a hard time focusing. Eventually he is able to find his inner calm and feels like he was right to come here this morning.
--
At the church Malekus says to Nata, "The church will always be a safe place. I know you are scared but we are on the righteous path." Looking around he notices they are some of the last people in the sanctuary and Pastor Bertram has already retired.
"Unfortunately it looks like we missed our chance to talk with the good pastor. I will head back to the inn and see if our forcemage has returned."
After the mass he looks to the group and says "I feel much better now, spiritually refreshed even. How about you Nata? Would you like to meet the pastor? He maybe able to provide you some guidance or at least a small ward for you if you did not get that from the mass this morning."
Having spent the better part of the service people watching rather than paying attention, Yesfir's attention was brought up sharp by the priest word's. Frowning, she considered, and finally looked toward Raben as if seeking guidance, "Nata not sure....." Biting her lip she considered , "Nata still looking....try to find....to understand...for safe place. Need to find soon. Raben think good idea? Nata no know fat priest or pastor here but trust Raben." Her hands went instinctively to the amulet Joseph hand given her last night, playing with it as she tried to think.
--
It was late morning when Joseph found his way into the common area of the inn. He seemed to have been busy in his room before coming down to eat; his tattered duster boasted a few new patches, and his boots, scabbards, and sword belt were glistening with a fresh coat of oil. When he saw nobody familiar, he sat at a secluded corner table in the dining area and ordered a lavish and large breakfast. Then he spent the better part of an hour eating as he watched and listened to the comings and goings of the other patrons.
The Forcemage's Return
After seeing that the others are not in the Witherhall, Gerard begins the short walk to the Wandering Heron taking a little more leisurely pace than when we he traveling to the city. Merchants were still selling their wares, but many of them looked like they would not be open much longer. A group of day laborers crossed in front of him looking to go home for the evening or spend their wages at a nearby tavern. It all looked like normal everyday life in a city, but with an underlying tension that everyone notices but no one speaks about.
His travel meal long since eaten, Gerard’s stomach growls. “Time to quit dallying “ he thinks, and quickens he pace to the inn. The dining room of the Wandering Heron is the most opulent room Gerard is ever been in. Seeing no he knows there yet, he takes a seat at a large table telling the staff that others will be joining him. He is famished however, so would they be so kind as to bring him a meal and an ale. Receiving his food and drink, he eats while keeping an eye out for his companions.
Entering the refined inn, Raben's eyes lift as he makes his way to the dining room and sees the familiar tanned leathers of their friendly forcemage. "Ah, he's made it. Unharmed it seems," Syd adds. They walk across the red-rug and gold tasseled expanse. Raben extends and offers a hand with a hardy grin to the druid before seating himself.
"You've made it!" He motions for a waiter to bring some water and bread loaves. "Without injury, I hope."
At the inn Malekus heads straight for the dinning room to procure an ale and perhaps a snack. Seeing a few members of the group at a table he pulls up a chair to join them. "Glad to see you back Gerard. We have much to discuss!" He orders an ale and settles in to find out what was learned by the others.
Yesfir followed the others at a safe distance, humming softly as joined the rest at the table.
As the others join the table, Gerard stands and smiles. “Thank you all very much. The way was clear there and back.” Thank the spirits, he thinks to himself, but doesn’t say that aloud.
Gerard retakes his seat and waits for the others to settle in. Once the waiter has brought the bread and left Gerard looks around to make sure they are not being overheard. Keeping his voice low, he tells his companions the tragic story Lorelei related to him only withholding her request for retribution against the vampire that slew him. Holding the key briefly up for the others to see, he says, “We should retrieve the letters that Pitre wrote to Lorelei. They may contain clues as to the source of these problems. Should we call upon the mayor again, or perhaps take a more indirect route to obtain the letters?”
Malekus looks around the room again to make sure no one is listening in too closely. "That is a lot of information to digest and based on what we found out at the chapel I think Lorelei is the key to this whole puzzle." He spends a few minutes relaying what the group found out at the chapel.
"I do not think an infiltration of the mayors personal grounds would be advised." He let's out a sigh. "And based on our previous encounter it might be best if the clergy of the group stays out of sight. Would the rest of the group like to approach him and see if they could search the rooms?"
When Joseph saw the party gathering around a larger table, he pushed his plate forward, grabbed his mug, and made his way to the group, taking a seat across from Raben. There, he listened intently as Lorelei's story was told in two parts.
He then nods at Malekus's suggestion. "Seems to me the mayor is a reasonable man. He did, after all, let us dig up a body in his graveyard yesterday. Asking for a few letters ain't much compared to that. Especially if we have the key, an' permission from his daughter."
He looks to Gerard. "Does Garensun know where Lorelei is holed up? Is she hiding from him? If she is, an' doesn't want us to give her away, I think that'll be a bigger problem then asking for the lockbox."
"Black cat make Nata worry, too." Yesfir pipped up, "Not cat. Strange. It hunted. But not mice. Go straight to mayor's house. Not good." Shaking her head, she spread her hands out. " Fear. Stories. Rumors. They all have reason. People here. On edge. Haunted. No trust. No tell Nata much, but they know Petre no die good death, if no how or why. See it as sign of curse or worse. It be good if churchmen act fast before the worse."
Gerard looks at Nata with a curious expression. "The cat does not sound natural at all. There are a number of things i could be. We should keep alert for it." He then turns to Joseph. "To tell you the truth, I did not think to ask Lorelei. When she left yesterday she has an armed escort, so I think i is safe to say he knows, but I can't be absolutely certain. I am willing to go talk to the mayor with a few others. He shouldn't object to us obtaining the letters."
Raben keeps his hands together as the other members each weigh in on the situation. He considers for a moment after Gerard's last word, then speaks. "Though not my preference, I've acted unlawfully one time or another for the sake of Avacyn and the Church. But you may be right. Perhaps if Nata, Gerard, and Joseph asked the mayor for these letters, he'd be more willing. If this is our plan, we should go now. If all else fails, we might have to trespass onto the good mayor's property in the dead of night. But, if this.. unholy feline prowls his expanse after dark, who knows its meaning. Or its motives. I've lived too long not to be wary of even smaller things."
Joseph watches Raben, his eyebrows raising slightly at the cathar's suggestion. "I'm not one to be afraid of cats, or any other critter smaller than a wolf, but after them crows a few days ago." He shoots a furtive look at Syd and Yesfir.
Then he finishes off his mug and clunks it down onto the table. "Well, if we got to go now, let's get to going. I'd bet the mayor will oblige, even if the Church asked him. Unless he's got his own way of sealing up that blood-well of his in the cemetery."
"Alright then," Gerard stands up. "Let's go speak to the mayor." Gerard turns and looks at Nata, "Are you coming?" Gerard leaves with Joseph and Nata, if she is willing to come, through the town and onto the mayor's estate.
Mouth thin, Yesfir followed the other two silently, making sure to dirty the right side of her face "accidentally" on the way.
The ranger stands and straightens his overcoat, flipping the flaps over the hilts of his swords. Once the three arrive on the street, he looks towards Gerard. "You got that key?"
"I do," Gerard says as the trio make their way along the street. "How do you two want to handle this?"
Joseph considers this a moment. "Probably best to have you do the talking. Me an' Nata can say something, if it's needed."
"Very well." Gerard will continue on in silence, only speaking when spoken to. He ponders what he is going to say. Gerard has spoken to more people in the last two days than he ever has before in his short lifetime. After leaving home, his conversations with people have centered on what is ailing people, and can he trade healing services for a meal or a warm place to sleep at night.
The people he has spoken to! High members of the church, nobility, a ranger, a mysterious young woman, and now a mayor. Although he was taught by his mentor how to speak to people of all stations in life, he stills feels just like a woodcutter's son from a backwoods town that no longer exists. "Give the gentile class the same respect you give to anyone else. We should be polite to all until it is no longer reasonable to be polite. Give the men that station themselves above others a little deference, but do not roll over for them. You are not their dog, even if they treat you as one. Do not respond in kind. Choose your words wisely, and do not violate your conscious." The words of his mentor speak in his head. Pushing doubts away from him, Gerard readies himself for what is necessary.
A Reddened Sky
Having decided to pay Mayor Garenson a visit now, the party vacates the Wandering Heron and heads towards the administrative district. It is markedly warmer, you can feel, as if the ambient temperature has risen a few degrees. Just as well, the sky has taken a reddish hue. This would be otherwise unremarkable during sunset so close to Kessig, but the sun still hangs low in the sky. The clouds are purple and black, like bruises spreading over irritated skin.
Traveling deeper into Hanweir, the heat seems to only rise and the sky deepens in hue as the minutes pass by.
As the group is walking Malekus begins to get uncomfortably warm. As he begins to take off his over coat he says “The weather has taken a turn for the better it seems. A little warmth and light at the end of the day must be Avacyn shining on this town.”
After a few more minutes of walking he begins to sweat. He begins to think something is not quiet right with the current situation. He begins to scan the horizon for trouble instead of taking in the brief respite from the gloom. As his gaze shifts toward the east he notices a plume of smoke. He says to the group “Look, over there! Smoke rising. There must be a mighty fire to create this much heat.” He stops walking as he realizes that is the direction of the chapel. “Everyone that is where the Lightspire Chapel is! I must go help! Pastor Bertram will need all the help he can get. Friends, brothers will you join me to help?”
He paces impatiently as he waits to see who will join him in helping with the fire.
Gerard briefly speaks strange words softly under his breath as Malekus is talking. This is a barely noticeable shimmer from his eyes for a second and then it is gone. “Someone has been using conjuration magic in that direction. I fear that this fire may not be of natural origins. We should go there quickly!” Gerard nods to Malekus and begins to run in the direction of Lightspire Chapel.
Tossing up her hands in resignation, Yesfir just shrugged and took after Gerard.
Without hesitation, Joseph bounds after Gerard, flipping the flaps of his duster back, behind his sword scabbards, as he runs.
The party's hastened footsteps thud against the grey cobbles of Hanweir's administrative streets. The ambient air only gets warmer, and bits of black and orange cinders waft ever so gracefully. A foul stench begins to be discernable, like rotting eggs; sulfuric. At that moment, the Lightspire tower bell begins tolling, a deep, bellowing ring.
Approaching the chapel, a scene of panic ensues as Hanweir's denizens flee in the opposite direction of the group. Some are crying, others shouting and screaming in fear. Some have burns and various wounds, what look to be scratches and minor stabs. The cacophony of voices is difficult to understand.
From the party's vantage, it can be discerned that the column of smoke is not rising from the holy structure, but behind it, from the grafs behind its western wall. A few militiamen can be seen arriving from alleyways and streets across the way or other directions, brandishing swords, clubs, and spears. They all share a mixed look of fury and confusion as they head to the chapel's grafs.
The ranger slows to a trot, his head jerking to and fro to examine the chaos. He looks to Gerard, speaking loudly to the whole party. "On your guard. Last I checked, fires ain't put out with spears." He draws one of his own shortswords and keeps it ready at his side as he moves towards a crowd of civilians fleeing the other way.
Gerard readies his staff and follows after Joseph.
Wary, Yesfir follows the others already putting her mind to work into solving this puzzle.
Malekus slows his run as well. Panting from the effort he stumbles towards a man fleeing the scene. "Phaww, excuse me, bwah, sir, can you tell..." He is trying to get the question out but is clearly out of breath. "...us what happened." As he doubles over holding onto his knees while he regains his breath.
The crowd the ranger approaches is a collective of men and woman whom have taken the trouble to help more severely injured persons in their escape, while Malekus meets an older individual, an aging merchant, eyes wild with fear.
The crazed man slobbers, almost falling over his own feet as he scrambles forth, putting his hands on the angel-blessed warlock. "The church, thank the hosts! From the graf- the graf!" He begins coughing profusely.
A stern woman whom the ranger had met before pulls at a man in guardsman clothing over her shoulders. The man's left leg is torn open and in a make-shift splint and tourniquet. The woman speaks to the ranger. "You! Ranger with the church! Find your cathar!" Her eyes well over in fright. "Hell has come for us!"
Instinctively, Gerard checks the guardsman's splint and tourniquet and quickly adjusts them if needed. He knows that they want to flee, so the splint and tourniquet are not nearly to standard that he would normally like for a person with this severe an injury. Gerard stands up and looks at Joseph uncertainty visible in his face. "Joseph should we press on or get the cathar?" He then looks in the direction of the grafs to see whatever may be coming that has caused all of these people so much fear.
"I go! You more useful here. Nata fast!" So saying, Yesfir took off in the direction of the inn, her every instinct telling her this was nothing but trouble and that they would need the help. She only hoped the more formidable trio could hold on until she retrieved help. Determined , she ran faster to find Raben.
Joseph looks to Ekka, then to Gerard. His mouth tightens briefly in contemplation, but just as he's about to reply, Nata speaks up and sprints away. His gaze falls back upon Gerard. "There's our answer. Let's go."
Before he resumes running towards the graf, Joseph turns to Ekka, pointing in the direction Nata is running. "Ekka, watch for the cathar. Raben. Point him in the right direction when he gets here."
Malekus still wheezing pauses for a second to try and catch his breath. Then follows the ranger toward the graf.
Gerard nods and runs after Joseph looking back for a second to check on Malekus.
Gareth draws his hand axes ready to face whatever comes.
The air becomes noxious and scratches at your throats as you reach the periphery of the Lightspire Chapel grafs. The surroundings has a reddish tinge, painting the headstones and nearby buildings various shades of crimson, as if a dark-red sheet has been placed before the sun.
Before the open gates of Hanweir's grafs, darker pools have collected beneath still bodies, their arms outstretched for aid that never came. Shadows dance over their bodies, cast by a great, luminous, fiery light that originates from deeper in the graf- where the black plume rises into the blood-smeared sky. Four thin, red-skinned, impish creatures frolic with various ghastly implements amidst these bodies. With torches, pitchforks, daggers, and clubs, they chitter and laugh like maddened hyenas as they search for any unfortunate soul they can get their claws on.
The small, dagger eyes of these devils catches the party. Their jaws open and hang loose with long tongues slipping through needle-like teeth in greeting. They wish to play.
Garreth rages at the sight of the foul demons. "RAWWRRRR" he roars as he charges at the devils, but his rage blinds his reason and he overestimates his own speed. The targeted devil sidesteps the charge at the last second and Gareth speeds past it without connecting. Except, as he comes to a stop, he grins as he is now flanking the beasts.
Seeing the devils scattered and about to charge, Gerard picks two that are closer together than the rest. Calling upon the strength of the earth, he directs power into the grass and weeds in the grafs. Immediately they begin to writhe and grow, thickening and twisting. The plants wrap themselves about one of the foul beasts. The second devil seeing what is happening to its fellow fiend jumps and scrambles out of the way before the plants can wrap around him as well.
Malekus takes in the scene and surveys the area for anyone still alive. He sees a pair of guards and three innocent civilians strewn across the ground with dark pools of blood soaking the ground. He presses forward and is greeted by the view of the fiendish creatures. Of the four one is carrying a torch and seeing the plume of smoke he wants to prevent further fires from being started. He begins to focus his energy into the palm of his left hand and mutters a few words “benedicite maledicentibus vobis”. As the energy finishes forming, he hurls it at the creature hitting it squarely in the chest. The blast is devastating to the creature and causes it to drop the torch to clutch its chest as it staggers.
The blasted devil's chest erupts in a bloody mess, the thing landing on its back with a pained squeal. But the devil is not felled. Scurrying to its feet, its nails rake against the pavement of the street as it runs on all fours and jumps, limbs outstretched, latching onto Garreth. Meanwhile, the devil to its left, one wielding a club, raises the weapon above its head wildly and charges towards the celestially favored warlock.
As the scene unfolds before Joseph, he draws his second sword and watches, waiting for the fiends to make their move. When one devil charges towards the rear of the party, intent on Malekus, the ranger springs at the reddened thing and swings his blade, but the devil blocks the attack with its club, staggering back under the weight of Joseph's blow. It bares its fangs and begins laughing gleefully at the attempt. The hunter cocks his head in bemusement, then comes in with a low thrust from his off-hand sword, piercing the creature's side, its laughter cut off by a raspy howl of pain. Another of the devils, watching the two from beside Garreth, snarls and charges the ranger to help its ally, lashing out at Joseph with its whip, but the Kessiger is quick on his feet, and easily sidesteps the attack.
Late to spring into action, the two others join the fray. One with a nasty-looking, black dagger rushes behind the annoying nature-man. Just as well, the other moves behind Joseph with a nail-ended whip in hand. It sneers as it draws the lengthy weapon back, smiling crookedly as it believes to have caught the ranger unawares. But the ranger, ever vigilant of his surroundings in battle, quickly dodges what would have been a stinging attack.
Garreth, recovered from the missed charge, slashes his axes at the nearest devil, the one attacking the druid. One attack is all he needs to end the foul beast. His intended secondary attack slashes through nothing. The beast erupted in flames and he used the momentum from the second attack to dodge the blast.
Gerard steps forward toward the devil with the dagger menacing him. He shouts, "Streic yn wir". His staff illuminates for a second with a green glow as he swings, The devil anticipates a high strike falling for the feint as Gerard twist his wrists and pulls the swing low catching the creature in the body nearly knocking it of its feet.
Malekus turns his attention from the small eruption that replaced the devil he injured to the devil that is rushing up to engage him. The devil bares it teeth and snarls at him and Malekus stands his ground. He begins to focus the energy into his palm again and shouts “Ad infernum apud vos”. He releases the energy directly into the creature and it screams in its death rattle. As the devil falls it begins to swell and Malekus stands looking at it dumbfounded. The body suddenly bursts into a gout of flame. He tries to jump back but is caught in the burst. He pats out the flames before they can take hold on his armor. He looks up to see that Joseph was able to evade the explosion and is unscathed.
A moment after the explosion, Joseph spins about and attacks his new assailant with a furious swipe, slashing a deep wound in its gut. He follows with a quick swing of his second sword, but misjudges the attack, cutting nothing but air as the devil flinches and leaps back from the pain of the first blow. With infernal rage in its eyes, the creature raises its whip a second time and brings it down hard with a powerful crack. This time the blow lands its mark, connecting with the ranger's arm. A wide gash appears on Joseph's overcoat sleeve, but the tarnished scale mail beneath seemed to have absorbed the blow.
Nearing its rather explosive end, the dagger-handed devil drops its dagger. It clangs and clatters away from the fray, and the devil abruptly jumps, aiming to grab onto the forcemage, but fails its attempt as the druid nimbly dodges the flailing creature.
---
The streets were crowded with people. Some like her were hurrying away from the scene, nursing minor sounds and fearful glances back towards the graf. Most, however, we're gathered out of curiosity, drawn to chaos like flies to meat. A few, a very few, rushed forward to help. One such, a guard, caught her as she endeavored to date through the crowd, caught her mid-step and she wasted several precious minutes convincing him to let her go to fetch the cathar and a priest, and then he only let her go when he was convinced she was unharmed. Growling in frustration, she darted towards a nearby alley, fighting last carts and barrels as she sought a back way to the inn.
---
With only one devil left Malekus sees an opportunity to strike in between the ranger’s attacks. He mutters a quick prayer and forms the ball of energy in his left hand. In the shuffle one of the bodies is kicked and he sees a reaction. Thinking he might be able to save someone he tries to hurl the ball at the devil but in his distracted state it turns towards the rangers back. “Joseph dodge!” he shouts giving the ranger a warning and fearing it might be too late. The ranger dodges the blast without breaking his direct engagement with the devil. Malekus looks down at the body again and sees the head has rolled back to reveal lifeless eyes staring back at him. “Avacyn have mercy” he breathes out quietly and brings his focus back to the last remaining devil.
After stepping aside the errant ball of energy, Joseph squares off against the remaining foe. With a swift motion he bring his blade upwards, below the creature's armpit. An infernal shriek fills the air, and the arm falls writhing to the ground. Instinctively, the ranger turns and steps away, holding his arm up to block the fiery explosion with the flap of his duster. When the air clears, he seems unharmed, through the side of his overcoat is smoking.
A Moment of Respite
As the last of the devils explodes in a fiery blast, Malekus takes a moment to survey the chaos. The bodies strewn about the graft are unsettling but also unmoving. The group looks like there were some minor burns sustained but no major injuries. He looks to his companions and asks, “Is anyone seriously wounded?” and receives a few grumbles but no one requests aid. After determining there was no immediate threat of danger or death for his companions he turns his gaze towards the glowing hole in the middle of the graf. He notices smoke bellowing out with swirling embers rising into the sky. There is a warm orange glow from within. As he begins to approach the hole cautiously he says to his companions “We need to see what is causing all of the smoke. Hopefully we can enlist some of the local militia to help extinguish the blaze.” He leans in to get a look at the source of the smoke.
"I advise caution Malekus. These devils came from a lower realm beneath us. They typically gather and flock in areas of pain, suffering, and calamity to frolic in the chaos. There has been plenty of pain and suffering in this town of late that may have attracted them. This hole may very lead to there place of origin."
Joseph sheathes his left-hand blade, keeping his main weapon in hand. He shakes his head. "I'm all right. None of 'em got a good crack at me." He pats out a smoldering section of his overcoat, then glances around at the mayhem surrounding them. "Can't say the same for a lot of these people."
When Malekus begins to approach the glow, Joseph takes one more look around, and rushes to his side, sword at the ready. "It might do well to wait for Nata to get back. Raben might know more about what's going on, here, an' what we can do about it. He seems to be Thraben's resident expert on occult matters." The ranger stares forward into the reddened air. "Meanwhile, we can post up an' make sure nothing else gets out to do more damage."
Panting, slightly out of breath, Yesfir arrived at the Wandering Heron, wildly looking around for Raben. Spotting the Father by the bar, she ran up to him and tugged on his arm. "Fire at grafs. Trouble. Raben come, priest too. Come, quick, quick. Joe-sp-eth need help.". Dragging the slightly confused but willing Cathar has behind her, who saved to Syd, Yesfir tried to urge them to hurry out the door towards the grafs.
The heat is unbearable at this proximity to the glowing hole that has spawned in the center of the graf. The noxious smoke obscures vision intermittently, and brings the heavy discomfort of nausea at the back of your throat down to the pit of your stomach. A low, resonant tenor can be heard from below- a rumbling. It is ever constant. Every so often, jets of flame leap out of off the searing, red-hot walls, making immediate approach and searching down the hole a risky and dangerous maneuver.
As a few moments pass, a chorus accompanies the deep tone. Laughter of the most malevolent kind. Inhuman and crazed, bouncing off the molten walls of the hellhole. This searing maw is a door to another realm; its inhabitants are eager to visit.
Joseph wipes the sweat from his brow with the crook of his elbow, then scrunches his face up in thought. The scars on his face bulge grotesquely in the rich red glow. "The mayor," he mutters, "ain't gonna be happy about this." He looks at his companions. "We need Raben. Unless one of you knows what this thing is, an' how to get rid of it. Cos I don't know either."
He scans the crowds of people on the periphery. "We'll want to keep an eye out for Jurgenson. Keep him away from Raben and the other clergy. From what I heard of his opinion of us to begin with, he might lose his head, an' try to jail them on the spot. One of us need to talk to him first. Put some sense in his head if he starts acting mad."
Sword still in hand, at his side, the hunter's vigil moves between the fiery pit, and the throngs of people surrounding the graf. As his gaze is sweeping the graf, something catches the ranger's attention. He cocks an ear a moment, then turns to Malekus beside him. "Something's flying around down there. I hear wings." He reaches over his shoulder for his bow, but catches himself short. He'd left it at the inn, along with his pack.
Gerard thinks for a moment and then says to Malekus, “This portal was summoned by someone on our side. It isn’t here by chance. I believe it can be dispelled by magic, or the ground can be reconsecrated to close it. The father of Lightspire Chapel may be able to help. Does that sound right to you, Malekus?”
"The father may be of help but he might not be here in time to stop whatever is heading into our realm." Malekus says. "Nata and the other priests may also be able to aid us, I just hope they make it here in time. Everyone be on your guard this conflict is just beginning!" He takes a defensive stance a steps back slowly from the pit.
“I disagree. We need the father here sooner rather than later.” Gerard mutters “Ceffyl” and shimmers a moment before a horse has taken the place of the force mage. The horse sprints away to the front of the chapel.
Joseph watches Gerard depart, sucking in a hiss of air between clenched teeth in anticipation. Then he glances back in the direction Nata had gone, towards the inn. Finally, he turns to Malekus and Garreth. "We might want to get back a bit. Whatever's coming outta that hole is on wings. We don't want to get overtaken." The ranger turns to the crowd. "Arms up front! Bows, if you have them!" He waves a hand, indicating the wounded and bewildered masses. "The rest of you, get on back from the graf! Indoors, if you can! There's more trouble coming!"
The smoke and ash rising from the pit slowly shift in the wind and begin to burn at Malekus’ eyes. He takes a few more steps back from the edge of the pit for relief and heading the ranger’s warning of more trouble on the way. He takes a moment to survey the chaos around the gaff. The bodies strewn about the ground, the fear on the faces of the remaining guards and the handful of civilians cowering in fear. The moans and wails of the injured and fearful add to the cacophony that surrounds him. The smell of burning flesh and the stench of the battlefield add to the assault on all his senses.
All this destruction and chaos on the hallowed grounds he thinks to himself. We need to do something. To stand up to the fiends and unite the people again in the faith of the church. He looks to the leader of the guards and says “Captain, listen to the ranger. Get your men formed up and ready to fight whatever comes out of that pit. If you have any injured see if they can help get the civilians out of here and to safety. We need to stand united to defend this town and these people from any more harm. Avacyn will shine down on us today!” With that exclamation he mutters a phrase under his breath and rubs a small amount of moss he was holding against his staff and it begins to shine with a bright light as he raises it above his head.
Joseph, a single sword held before him, cocks his head slightly and glances towards the sky before returning his focus to the hole. "You see anything weird before we got here?" he asks Malekus, still staring forward. "Anything up in the air? The wings I hear are up high. Not in that hole after all." There's a pause. "An' they're moving away." He shifts his weight uncomfortably, eyes still forward. "Somethin' might have already gotten out of that hole."
The captain musters what little courage he can find within himself, embers of faith that have kindled alight from Malekus' words. "Form up now, Hanweir! By Avacyn or by our hands, we push back the infernals!" He shouts, then quickly delegates sparing guards to address to the wounded, the rest position themselves around their captain with resolve anew.
Moments, like small eternities pass. At this juncture, most of the injured civilians and their accompanying guardsmen have vacated the vicinity of the cursed graf. The ground tremors, and crumbling of stone and peat can heard from inside the hellhole, like something clinging to its walls and rising towards the surface. Not a frantic scrambling, but a measured and deliberate sound, like something climbing with a headed eagerness, tempered by a malicious patience.
A small pause. The guards hold their breaths. Sweat on their brow no longer falls down to their chins. Time seems to stop. A guttural, satisfied rumble overlaps the pit's poisonous symphony. A blackened hand, larger than any man's breaks from the smog abruptly. With bony, knuckled fingers that betray the creature's immense strength, the thing's nails pierce into the surface ground as its arm crooks over the mouth of the maw in its sudden motion.
The ranger squints, taking an unconscious half-step backwards. He shoots a look of trepidation to his two companions, then hastily glances behind him, scanning the dispersing crowd. He mutters under his breath, cursing. He turns back to Malekus and Garreth and blinks, as if he forgot they were there. Curling his lip, he draws his second sword, letting it dangle loosely at his side. Then he takes a full stride forward, placing himself beside and just ahead of Malekus. "Hope you have Avacyn's favor today, friend," Joseph says, keeping his eyes forward. "Got a feeling we'll need all the help we can get."
He proffers a final glance over his shoulder, towards town, and again mutters with irritation. Then he doubles his grip on his swords, settles into a low stance, and stares intently at the smoking chasm. There's the slightest hint of a breeze bringing in the scent of freshly cut hay.
The black hand, fingers crumbling the dirt, pushes down with measured strength, raising the rest of the creature's body above the lip of the pit, its humanoid body breaking through the black plume. The existence of the dark and malevolent forces that dwell in some realm other than your own has always been truth. They are spoken of in scripture, Avacynian or pagan. They are spoken as warnings to children and men as punishment for wrongdoing. They are depicted in works of art, horrible visages and gargoyles that still the heart and remind you to step on the path of good. But this was no scroll. This was no statue. The twisted smile of evil, the unholy perversion of humanity has dawned before you with sharp, gnashing teeth, blackened claws and reddened eyes.
It speaks with a voice like charred steam as it reveals itself from its shroud of smog. "I am free, and I am.. ravenous."
--- Within Chapel Lightspire
"Father! Father! We need you! Come quickly!"
The main chamber interior is unperturbed, but there's muffled sounds, what sounds like a struggle, behind the walls in the far back: the Father's chambers, Gerard remembers are back there. Believing the Father may be in trouble, Gerard rushes to the back.
As he approaches and nears the entryway to the interior chambers, Gerard begins to hear a struggled voice, the father's, but also one he don't know, male. It is evident of the tone of the Father that this other's presence is not welcome. Just before he reaches the door, Gerard hears Pastor Bertram shout,"You vile abomination! Devil! This was your doing! It must be!"
Gerard opens the door a crack slowly to get a peek inside.
He sees Pastor Bertram, the Father of Lightspire back against a cabinet in a confident, but defensive position. A person is before him, their back to the druid.
At first you would have thought this a normal human being. But after you moment, you realize there stands something no one has ever seen before. This thing is as tall as any other man, and has the frame of a slender human. They are wearing styled clothing with a fitted leather coat, very fine in appearance, but not quite Thraben elite, perhaps a middle-class man from Nephalia. But your eyes avert to the red, glowing, seething magic in his left hand, like pain convalesced in his palm. And a tail. A long, thin red tail not unlike those things the party felled out in the graf.
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," the thing says with a delivery that is educated in enunciation, mocking. He twirls the red, almost flame-like magic in his fingers. "I follow pain, pain follows me. And there is nothing quite like the pain of the faithful amidst a faithless flock."
Gerard silently shifts into a large wolf that has white fur streaked with silver. He then barges through the door and charges the vile creature attempting to knock him down to the ground and away from the Father. As he bursts through the door, it slams against its hinged wall, and Pastor Bertram, not expecting a wolf suddenly entering the room, exclaims wide-eyed and mouth agape. The devilish figure in front of him turns to face whatever has astonished the man and looks at the beast, immediately recognizing an adversary.
"Oh my, who let the dog inside?" He tunes. With a side-step he wraps his right arm around Gerard. He then presses the pain spell against the wolf's temple. Sharp, blinding pain like lightning surges through his brain and through his mind, disorienting the woodsman. After a yelp, the wolf pauses, disoriented and unable to act.
The good Pastor grasps his necklaces pendant, raising the small silver Avacyn's Collar before his lips and whispers, his voice growing into a brazen exclamation. "Though I see the hand of evil before me, the light of Avacyn is in me, and I shall see the darkness as it hides its cowering face!" The silver shines brilliantly, and a holy glow radiates from the pastor's person, as well as the druid's. "Now, blasphemer, bane of all of the angel's hosts, you shall shield your red face from all that is just and right!"
The man-devil twists his body, dodging an attempted bite by the wolf-formed druid and positions himself against the wall behind an overthrown desk, its contents spilled across the carpeted floor. He didn't care much for cornering himself, but, at least now both of these two fools were in front of him. He grins, flashing white, elongated fangs. "If you're happy and you know it," he cants and claps his hands together. When he releases them, a blast of intense flame erupts forward, threatening to engulf the elder pastor and the younger druid.
The poor pastor is not so agile in his age and is met with the brunt of the blast, knocking him onto his back several feet away, his hand releasing his holy focus. An aching, held grunt escapes him as he clutches his body, fumes rising from his raiment.
Gerard curses himself for missing the opportunity to knock the devil down. Before he can make another attempt fire slams into the druid knocking him into the floor and forcing him to transform back into human form. Rarely does Gerard get angry, but this is one of those few times that he does. Springing to his feet, he almost shouts the Druidic word s for “Strike true!” Briefly a green glow alights his weapon and his eyes as he swings the wooden staff hard into the hellion’s body.
"Oof!" The red-skinned grunts as the druid's wooden weapon slams straight into his gut. His stumbles back into the wall behind him and chuckles, hand over his belly. That's sure to bruise. "Two against one is a little unfair, no?" He then raises his hands, fingers outstretched, palms facing downwards. Red magic swirls from both extending to the floor where the wooden flooring begins to burn and ignite in a bright orange flame. The pyres vanish and in their place are two small devils, sneering and chortling. They are not unlike the fiends that made an audience just out of the hellmaw in the graf. "There! That's better."
The two impish fiends scurry forwards and harass Gerard, raking their thin nails across his cloth and leather. One of them finds its way past the druid's protective attire, lashing long striations across the man's skin.
Now on his feet, Pastor Bertram wields his holy symbol once more. "I wield the light. The light is my weapon, and it shall fell you, beasts!" A white, shimmering mace in the shape of Avacyn's Collar appears next to one of the devils and hurls itself with a mighty swing. With a bright light, it slams into the scrawny thing, bashing it against the upturned table. It scrambles for a moment before becoming still, and then vanishes in red wisps of mana. With a purpose he hasn't felt in much too long, the good pastor wields his silver focus as a weapon and attempts to stab at the other devil's flesh, but is not swift enough to catch it.
The small demon’s slash cuts deep. Losing blood Gerard come close to losing consciousness. Calling upon the healing power of the earth his hands glows green for a moment while Gerard presses it to the area of the wound.
The devil retaliates against the pastor now for attempting to strike it, jumping onto the older gentleman and raking its claws into his shoulders. Seeing blood, the foul thing begins to laugh high in hysterics. Seeing the outlander using green healing magicks, the fiend-blooded frowns. "Oh that won't do," he snarls and aims his outstretched palm at the druid. Black magic expels forward, attempting to envelope the younger man. Like wispy tendrils it invades the druid's body, passing into and out of him. "That should do it!" He shouts excitedly.
Seeing the small devil continue to hurt the Father, Gerard takes a swing at it with his staff. The creature laughs mockingly as it easily ducks the druid's intended blow.
The pastor mentally commands the mace of light to strike the last devil, landing a successful hit against the creature's face. In this moment of opportunity, Pastor Bertram attempts to attack the fiend, but it recovers just in time, grabbing the man's arm before the pastor can stab his silver focus into the monster's red flesh. "I have the little one! Don't let the fiend-blooded escape! He is a blasphemer, a murderer!" The pastor exclaims.
The red man coos. "Sticks and stones, my good priest." With a celebrant grin, he bursts his hands open. The devil then begins to bloat and glow a bright red. With a sick pop, it's torn flesh, broken bones, and splattered guts are expelled in all directions, wreathed in flames. Unable to free himself, the pastor is barraged by the splinter of bones and slather of flesh, his white and gold vestments soaked in blood and covered in red bits. With a deep grunt, Pastor Bertram falls onto his back on the mottled and burning carpet.
Gerard stands there for a moment, eyes wide with shock before recovering his senses. He moves quickly to the where the father is lying prone and checks for a pulse and readies either a healing incantation or a final benediction.
The pastor groans but lifts his head up and props an elbow to the wooden floor. "I am fine," he utters. "You mustn't let that thing escape."
Gerard points his staff at the redman and speaks an incantation. "Gealt" His eyes briefly glow green and plants spring from the floor seeking to wrap the redman.
Seeing the thick, grasping vines burst from the ground and encroaching on him, the devilman quickly brings his thumb to his mouth and bites hard. A blood red portal begins to envelope him, with dark flames like fingers wrapping around his body, pulling him in. "I see that I am rather unwelcomed, and shall bid you adieu." The bleeding portal collapses around the fiend-blooded. And then he is gone.
--- The Ravenous Demon, Lord of the Pit
The foul creature towers on the edge of the pit and at first it sounds like a hiss. As Malekus comes to the realization that devil's are real, the words he had heard sink in. This thing has broken free and is going to leave a trail of destruction where ever it goes. How can this be, the arms of Avacyn dealt with people not fiends. They were stories from the scriptures and do not walk in the light of day.
Behind him he hears someone stumble and the man stammers "Whha wha what the fuuuuck is that!?" He can smell the fear from the men and it smells like warm piss. They were barely being held in place by his words before. He had to try to inspire them again. United in the light was the only way to triump over a real fiend.
Adjusting his robe he grips his staff and addresses the fiend from his current distance with conviction in his voice. "We have naught for your kind here. This place is blessed by the light. Go back to the internal prison you crawled out of or we, the blessed of Avacyn will smite you where you stand!"
"Fat one, are you blind? Your shepherd is gone." The demon outstretches his gangly arms. "I was welcomed here by the weak and peccant and have done as asked." He points at Malekus with a long clawed finger. "I do not take orders from you and your cloth.. but I do take bargains." It grins dastardly.
The ranger gives a slight scowl, and repositions himself slightly closer to Malekus. "The shepherd's away," he says loudly and firmly, "but you might find the sheepdogs she left behind aren't so long in the tooth that they'll turn a blind eye as the wolves invade the pasture." Joseph raises his sword horizontally, pointing towards one of the red, mangled bodies lying on the ground from the prior engagement. "An' what bargains are you lookin' for when you introduce yourself with dealmakers such as these?"
The ranger glances briefly towards town again, then in the direction of Lightspire Chapel, before returning his deadpan gaze to the demon.
The towering demon seems undisturbed by the comment of his brethren. "I will take one soul, and be on my way. Offer a lamb, save the flock, as it were. As was promised." The demon looks to the hapless guards. They tremble in their chain and leather. Faces and knuckles stark white, they hardly hold onto their weapons, a mix of both tears and sweat drenching their faces and necks. They look at each other frantically. How many of them thought of it, how many of them agree?
When the infernal creature finishes speaking, the hunter takes a half step back, directly abreast of Malekus. He lowers his swords slightly, and turns to his companion to offer a quizzical, almost confused look that says, I'm not sure where we're going, here. What've you got?
A moment later, Joseph again glances towards town, scanning the streets momentarily, before returning his attention forward. Then he lowers his head, eyes at his own feet, face scrunched up in thought. He makes a loud sucking sound with his teeth. Finally, Joseph raises his head to meet the demon's gaze. He speaks slowly, with an air of careful consideration. "An' what'll you do with the soul? What happens to the man it belongs to?" Malekus and Garreth, who have known Joseph slightly longer than the demon, have the feeling that the ranger is stalling for time.
Malekus returns the rangers glance and quickly turns his eyes to the town and back again. Then he turns his focus back to the infernal that has confronted the group.
As the ranger address the demon he adjusts his grip on his staff and grabs the holy symbol he wears around his neck. Silently he prays to his patron for more time and an opportunity to defeat it.
"It'll then be out of your concern," the demon hisses with disdain. "Or perhaps I'll tear yours out of your weak flesh for testing my patience? When no angel comes to reap you, then you'll know you've been abandoned, and I shall relish in your misery." The tall demon takes a single step forward as he speaks, as if indicating his resolve, his inapprehension at slaughtering the likes of you.
The ranger stands unwavering. "It never was my concern. I wasn't offering. Just getting the deal laid out on the block for everyone to see ahead of time. Good business and all that." He looks around at the corpses, then returns his eyes to the demon. "But it sounds like your deal was done long before you came crawling out of that hole," Joseph adds, pausing in careful thought. "Who promised you a soul? Seems to me that's the man you're looking for."
"Speak of the devil," the demon chortles darkly, a guttural, molten sound.
Following the fiend's gaze, you see a young man approaching from the periphery. His white and yellow vestments are now stained from the black peat and red blood that it grazes over, and his face is contorted in a mix of emotions, but familiar. It was Eran, Pastor Bertram's friar.
Joseph's attention slides slowly across the battlefield, following the demon's own eyes. He squints at the sight of the bloodstained clergyman, then leans his head slightly towards Malekus and Garreth. "Any idea who he is?" the ranger whispers. "Looks guilty as charged." He clears his throat loudly, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Well then," Joseph bellows across the mud at the demon, "the piper's come to pay your promised goods, himself. In person. No need for any more negotiation with us, or the rest of this town. Harvest your soul from the one who promised it, and begone!"
Joseph gives an indicative glance towards his companions, then towards the readied town guard, before returning his attention to the massive devil. "I'm pretty sure you'll have no interference." His sword-tip wavers at his own feet slightly, as he tightens his grip. "At least with that transaction in particular."
Malekus leans into the ranger and whispers back, "That's the pastor's friar...." He trails off as he tries to process what this could mean. "I do not like where this is going." He turns to the approaching friar and says "Son what have you done?? Have you made a deal with this devil?"
With hands clasp together furiously, as if to reassure himself, to solidify his position in the horror and chaos that has proceeded, Eran speaks with a slight tremor to his voice, but then loudly and firmly has is conviction is roused. "I-i.. Don't misunderstand, Spearsage. This was for the greater good, it told me so! I know it to be true- look! The church has arrived here, just as the demon said! I've brought the light of Avacyn to the most faithless of people! And now.." Eran trails off. "Now, I must make it go away, as promised."
The demon smiles a menacing, toothy grin and nods as the young, naïve friar speaks. "Yes, child. All I have said has come true. We have brought the light, and I shall shy away from such brightness, but only with your help, Eran. They need your help." It speaks coercively, a dark enticing tone that swaddles the young lad, ready to strangle him.
At the demon's words, Joseph's mouth tightens slightly. His head swivels to Malekus, and he raises his eyebrows inquisitively.
Upon hearing the friars words Malekus slowly shakes his head disapprovingly. He tries to make eye contact with the boy while saying "You poor young lad. I am sorry the church failed to teach you about the evil of a deal with a demon."
He looks to the demon with a snarl on his face and begins a slow clap. "Well done! Well done I say. You have corrupted a young and inexperienced soul. This poor boy did not know any better. You did however do one thing right and that is to under estimate the power of faith. You may have frightened a few of the young or sick, but these people will see the light of Avacyn shine today!"
---
The Druid and the Pastor
Gerard bends down to the injured clergyman and speaks to him in an urgent tone. "Father, a portal to the hells has been opened in the grafs. Devils have already come through and more will enter our world until it is closed. Do you have the talent of dispelling magic, or have some means of doing so?"
The pastor groans and his body trembles as he gathers himself, stepping up to his feet laboriously. At Gerard's words, a look of astonished horror overcasts the older man's face, but he puts two and two together. After a moment, clarity returns. "Yes, I have a scroll of hallow. It should dispel such a blight of holy grounds. But I am old, it will take me some time to read it and cast the spell properly. If Eran were here, he could help me, have you seen him- my friar?"
With a limp, he begins to make his way through the disaster that is now is chambers, and starts rifling through a wooden chest near a heavy upturned boudoir. "It's in here, I know it.."
"I have not seen your friar Father, let me help you please." Gerard will help search through the wooden chest for the scroll.
Luckily, the chest itself seemed unperturbed by the violence that had taken place, and its contents were in one piece. The scripture is found shortly, its edges laced in silver trimming, its celestial script written beautifully in perfect calligraphy. "Ah, here it is.. we must go now, before that devil shows his face once more." Pastor Bertram pains himself up to his feet once more, and briskly hobbles towards the chapel's entrance.
Gerard will come alongside Pastor Bertram. "Allow me to help you Father." He goes to the side that the pastor is hobbling on and and helps support his weight on his weakened side. Gerard has helped villagers in the same manner during his travels, but it is usually to take them to a home so that they can be treated. Gerard thinks darkly to himself, "Now I am helping this poor injured man to walk to the edge of hell." He feels a tinge of guilt but pushes it away knowing that what he is doing is necessary. There are many lives at stake and he knows that the pastor will do whatever is needed to protect the people under his care.
--- The Rest of the Party
Yesfir was not a slow person. She was sly, and knew how to discreetly and elegantly weave through a town such as this. But the recent happenings has turned many of the civilians mad, like screaming sheep running amok and shepherdless. She knew she had to quickly return to the others at the graf. They had safeguarded her thus far, and with their help, she can continue her travels and discover herself.
Raben was inside the Wandering Heron, along with Syd and Garreth. Garreth was amidst sharing a grizzly story and showing a scar on his arm tracing around his elbow, a glass of brown liquid in his hand before Nata burst through the door, exasperated, her little chest heaving in and out. "Graf! Devils at graf! Next to chapel, big hole with smoke! Others there! We go, now! People dead, many people dead!"
The three men looked at each other and not a moment passed before they were on their feet, the wooden seats clambering to the ground.
Raben was concise with his questions towards the simple girl as they made haste towards the Hanweir grafs, but what little she had said in her brisk entrance had in general surmised the predicament. Somehow, a hellmaw had opened within or near Pitre's grave. Coincidental? Unlikely. Caused by the magic of the sword? Raben didn't know. Lost in his thought, Raben runs into some passersby who scream in fright, fallen to the ground.
"Come, Raben! You mustn't lose focus! The devils will bleed on our blades!" Garreth shouts.
Malekus traces a pattern in the air with his staff and shouts "Luceat lumen vestrum!" A flash of light streaks from his staff and strikes the demon. It snarls at Malekus, but the holy light flashes brightly drowning out the sound. After the flash there is a subtle glow of light illuminating the dark demon. His lip curls up into a slight grin and he says to the ranger "Avacyn's light will help you strike true!"
A dour expression seeps across the hunter's face, and he charges, raising both swords behind his right shoulder for a fierce attack. The demon is still reeling from the warlock's magic when Joseph arrives and brings both blades down hard across the front of his foe. Two fine, parallel, bloodless lacerations are left behind, from shoulder to navel.
Now it's Joseph who's reeling, hunched low and to the left. He tries lurching backwards to create some defensive space, but the demon snatches the stooping ranger with both claws, then pulls him close, trapping him against its gut. With a raspy growl of irritation, it leans over the human, opens its jagged maw, and begins inhaling deeply. Bound up by spiny red flesh and muscle, both swords pinned helplessly to his left side, Joseph looks up just in time to see a dark, purple glow emanating from deep within the demon's gullet.
A flash of comprehension flashes across the Kessiger's scarred face. He closes his eyes, leans his shoulder and head against the demon's stomach, and digs his boots into the dirt. Then, with a primal shout, he thrusts his entire weight forward. The demon's mouth snaps shut, and its eyes widen with surprise at the unexpected advance. Stumbling backwards, the creature flings its arms wide, then windmills them to regain its balance. When Joseph feels the thing relinquish its grasp, he opens his eyes and leaps back, regaining his own posture. He raises both swords, settles into a solid stance, and locks gazes with the demon. The demon growls in response, this time a hint of rage creeping into its voice.
The guardsmen stay back from the immediate vicinity of the bought, hands clasped around the hilts and handles of their blades. Even the captain is at a loss for words, as he never thought he'd live to see the day a demon walking the ground before him. "The Church has it now, men, steady," he stumbles, hoping he or his men wouldn't have to join. They've already lost so many of their comrades to this fiend's minions, he couldn't stand to sacrifice more. He looks to the young friar, hatred brewing in his eyes.
Eran, the naïve boy, cowers back, falling to the ground a few short feet away from his original stance. He faces the ground in a pained expression This is exactly what he didn't want. The fool ranger was lucky, just this once, but the next time, the demon will have him and his soul. He can make the monster leave. If only these troublesome men would let him, the town would be saved!
After seeing the guard's wavering he stands up taller. The demon just tried to consume the ranger and he knows it will not stop with just one soul. It must be stopped he thinks and begins to trace his staff in the familiar pattern. He says "Lux divina benedictione" and a bolt of energy flies from his left hand. As it connects the creatures grin does not waiver.
Joseph, heaving from exertion, turns to Malekus and holds a palm up. Then he faces forward, lowers both swords slightly, and glares up at the demon. "The rest of us ain't so willing to give up our blessed sleep." He points a sword backwards, towards the splayed friar. "Collect your sheep's soul an' leave this place." He raises his voice for Eran to hear. "I'll hand-deliver the bastard myself, if you like." With a subtle shuffle of his feet, the ranger inches back, readying his blades to counter an attack, his body coiled into its stance like a set bear trap.
The demon snarls as the ranger escapes his grasp, surprised at the man's force of will. "Deliver him unto evil," he smiles. "I should like to see the fat one churn in agony as the poor lamb is lead to slaughter." The demon makes a welcoming gesture with is hand, but from him it is an invitation to a place of blood, pain, and turmoil.
The captain speaks up, shouting at the fallen lad. "This is by your doing, and by you it will be undone! If it will prevent further death in our Hanweir, then be at your master's side and begone!" The men behind the sullen captain shout and mutter agreements.
Cowardice, weakness, subservience-the colors of Hanwier have shown themselves in the face of the evil before the party. This is what demons thrive on, and where they prosper. Hanweir was a feast. "What say you and your angels, Spearsage?" The demon mocks, chortling like gravel nesting amidst molten rock.
Joseph turns his head slightly to see Malekus's response, keeping the demon's towering form in his periphery. The man's body remains still, drawn into a fierce defensive stance, swords low and at the ready. The ranger conspicuously and slowly glances from the warlock to Eran, then back to the warlock. He tilts his head slightly towards the demon, frowns slightly, and widens his eyes suggestively.
Emotions of anger and rage run across Malekus’ face as the ranger looks at him. It is clear the mood has turned. The guard has lost their faith and their pride. They have already let the demon win and do not realize that this small sacrifice will only open the door for more darkness.
This town is full of good people who deserve better than to be tormented by demons. They need to see that there is strength in uniting in the light of Avacyn. He prays silently to his patron asking for her blessing to be the inspiration that this town needs. He resolves himself and he begins to grin at the demon. “This is only the beginning and that boy’s soul will be this demons anchor to this place.” He says to the ranger. “This thing wants to sow more discord than just a single soul.”
He looks up at the demon and says louder “The boy was deceived, and you will not stop with just one soul. Even one soul, as misguided as he was, is too many to lose to the darkness.” Turning back to the captain of the guard he shouts “We must purge this evil now or the darkness will consume Hanwier. Fight now for your friends, your wives and children! End this reign of darkness and take back your town, in the light of Avacyn!”
Joseph's face slackens, a pained look clouding his features. For a quick moment, to the line of men standing behind him, his eyes betray a hint of fear. It quickly passes. He turns back to the demon, glowering up at the grinning menace from underneath his eyebrows. The scar across his forehead bulges, white and knobby, like knuckles on a tightly clenched fist. "My mistake," the hunter growls. "It seems the soul-harvest is off. Weather took a turn for the worse."
He pivots, settling back onto the ball of his rearward foot. His voice rallies loud and clear, for all behind him to hear. "The choice is yours, imp. You can leave with your life, or you can die clutching onto that wretched, cowardly soul that was promised to you." He raises his swords slightly, eyes flickering fiercely. "An' of course, you're welcome to have another go at mine."
The spearsage's mighty and courageous words seem to return color and spirit into the bodies of the Hanweir militia. They grasp their swords and pikes with strength anew. "You heard him, men," the captain starts. "Better us today than the town tomorrow!" With fists and teeth clenched in both fear and bravery, they shout and run for the demon, weapons brandished.
The ravenous demon shakes its horned head. "So unwise. Come, then. Nothing better than a feast that serves itself."
The lot of them swarm the demon, striking to and fro in attempts to pierce its thick hide, dodging the beast's swipes with its deadly claws, knowing that one well-placed slash means the end of them. Despite their initial fear, with the aid of an Avacyn's spearmage, they assault the demon, slashing and piercing into its body, causing the demon to roar and snarl as it is momentarily overcome by the force of human courage.
Behind the raw shouts and belts of battle, Eran pleads behind the attacking mass, "No! You'll lose your lives for it! Please!"
And as if on cue, the demon fights back. With a hissing sneer, the demon wheels a wide swipe with its right claw. The guards miraculously all duck in time, but in their recovery, the demon lunges its left claw, straight into the ribcage of one blonde young man. Blood pours from the youth's mouth as he looks down at the giant black hand that's plunged into his chest, and hangs is head low, lifelessly. A man to the fallen lad's left is awestruck by the blow, eyes wide and filled with terror. He whimpers and mumbles as he feels his diaphragm wanting to squeeze a scream from out his lungs, but the demon's shadow looms over him. The man's steely blue eyes look up to meet the shadow's castor, but he sees only teeth and blackness, before the demon's maw clamps shut. Headless, the body drops to the ground, steel clattering against the bloodied dirt.
As the fight escalates Malekus is thankful his words got through to the guard. He grins proudly until he sees the men fall at the hands of the demon. He grits his teeth traces a symbol in the air with his staff and he says, “Nam gloria Avacyn”. The ball of energy forms in his left hand and he hurls it at the demon. As the demon is looking down at its most recent kill a ball of energy collides with the side of its head with a spark of light. Its focus snaps to Malekus as he shouts “Today will be a victory for the light! Be gone you foul beast!”
The demon's eyes immediately focus on the dual-bladed assailant, but these miscreants are in his way. If they won't offer their souls in fealty, then he will send them to the ether. He raises a heavy fist and thrusts it downward, but the chain-clad man lifts his shield, protecting his head from the blow. Living in a small moment of victory, the man's head is almost completely severed from his neck as the demon's left claw slashes through his jugular. A thick cord of blood streaks and slicks across the graf, splashing onto several headstones and across the chest and face of Eran, who emits a small squeak as his face is painted with man's death.
The militia captain, in a fury, lunges forward aiming for the dark heart of the beast, but his arm is caught by the fiend's black hand. It pulls him close, its malicious grin opening for a fresh and warm meal once more. The demon's jaw crunches bone and steel, removing a sizeable mass from the upper body of the stalwart captain. The man goes into shock, his chin quivering, eyes staring back at the party lifelessly, the light in them clearly gone. The demon drops the two segments. A sick mix of metal clattering and flesh squelching resonating through a now silent graveyard. Eran's constant whimpering is all that breaks this momentary stillness.
With a languid lick of its lips, the demon speaks satisfied, looking to the skies. "I see naught but red clouds, smeared by the blood of the weak and foolish. There is no light, but my proposition still stands- I shall 'be gone' with the martyr's soul."
Tower of Crows
"Still want to stop at the tower, Gleb?" Joseph shouts from behind, over the grating sound of wagon wheels. The question feels rhetorical, like the ranger knew the answer before asking it.
The aged merchant speaks with a stuttered whisper, "N-n-no, I.. I think Nata and I will pass. Turn your eyes, lass, lest the omen befall you."
Joseph glances at the tower. "You know," he shouts, "if you need to eat, I can drive that wagon."
As if in reply to the ranger's snide remark, a shout is heard from the tower. "No, n-no! No! No!" It is immediately followed by a man's painful scream. The crows do not stir.
Joseph stops, his hand moving to his sword. He looks up and down the road, bites his lip, and runs a few steps, putting himself between the tower and the party, where he pauses. "Get that cart out of here!" he shouts over his shoulder, pointing south. "Stay near the cathar!" He turns to the cleric. "I'll see what it is! Syd, I might need your help!" He draws a sword and jogs towards the tower.
Noticing the bowman rush off towards a visibly ominous location, the Cleric is immediately torn. Once again, the possibility of danger in the front and the rear is presented, and threat levels increase. Fear and uncertainty lead to a moment of hesitation. By the time Syd's hand could move to stop Joseph in his tracks, the man was too far away. A sigh escapes the priest's nostrils as he closes his eyes for another moment to think. When they snap open, they're directed at Raben. "I was about to state that our party is already smaller than it was. Being further separated will jeopardise the assignment. It is imperative that we three remain together."
Another sigh, this one appearing to steel his breathing and showing a not often seen seriousness in an otherwise amicable and relaxed expression. "Normally I would defer to you on this, but if something were to happen, we'd have to fight while protecting them. And all things considered," - Blackmore mentioned, referring not to the ominous scene before them but the details of their assignment - "getting a feel for this tower may not be a bad thing, for us. So we should separate. Each of the three groups should go their own way."
Now directly facing Gleb, the Holy man would continue. "Apologies, but your ponies and cart will offer you mobility we three do not have, and I believe Avacyn's torch can hold off danger until you reach Hanweir. Blessings are not my forte, but should it steady your hearts, I can try to grant you one, if you wish. And you," - he continued, this time to the peasant that had tagged along previously - "Threg, was it? Your horse should get you there faster than any of us."
Shuddering, "Nata" whined pitifully, "Murder of crows, crows of murder. No like. Get away, far away. Gleb hurry cart." She didn't like the look of the tower or its watchers to begin with and the scream just reinforced her desire to flee far from the place. Pity, compassion, heroics. ..these were things not taught in the slums were she grew up. No, it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. Moving to place the cart between her and the tower, she continued to try to urge Gleb to move along while staying well away from the horses who she had found disliked her presence. The other group could pry all they like but her priority was Gleb's safety and her own.
Hearing the cleric of Goldnight's words, Threg and Gleb look onto Raben, pathetic and pleading. "No, ya' can't, " Threg starts.
Raben gives Syd a hard look. He pulls his silver sword from its scabbard. "Worry not, I will escort the cart by this cursed tower. Hurry, Syd. Join Joseph before he gets too far. We will try to get a shout's distance on the other side." With that, Raben, Threg and his mount, along with Gleb, Nata and the cart start down Angel's Way at a steady pace. As the ranger makes his advance, the crows on the northern side, one by one, they aim their beady eyes on him. Some ruffle their breast, others pick their wings, but they do not release their perch.
His words had fallen into deaf ears yet again. For the third time in this cart, the holy man let out a sigh. This one was considerably longer than the other two, and made no attempt to hide the frustration therein. He'd been having horrible feelings since the encounters with the ooze, and both the Ranger and the Cathar seemed too confident for their - and most importantly his - own good. With a light step, the Cleric stepped down from the cart and then jogged closer to Joseph, his chain mail clinking as he did.
Murders at the Tower
As Syd catches up to the advancing Joseph, the crows, each and every one of them, take flight. The gust of their numerous wings is like a storm, causing the windows to batter. They swarm the area, surrounding, encircling the cleric and ranger. A cacophony of cries escapes their black craws, in tandem to the hurricane of wing beats, so loud it pierces the eardrums- so erratic, it stabs at the mind. For the sounds they make sound all too familiar. All.. too.. human.
"No! What is it? No-I don't know, a cloud?-no! Aaaaugh! Please-no! Stop! Arrrgh!"
Joseph's jog slows to a stop; his last few steps are nearly a stagger as he gazes upwards, wide-eyed, at the mass of feathered blackness crashing down from the heavens. His sword arm sags loosely at his side as a sinister shadow sweeps over the land like an ocean wave. As the murder enveloped the duo, Syd's sigil of Goldnight was raised to his lips and did what he did best: he closed his eyes and prayed. For a second, countless inaudible words escaped his lips, further muffled by the countless wing flaps and the rapidly approaching threat. With a glint of holy light, the Priest's eyes shot open and he shouted "Ranger, avert your eyes!", bringing his right hand, that had turned pale from clasping the religious token with such force crashing down onto his shield. The moment it struck, the Cleric's body emanated a bright, golden, divine light, reminiscent of a grandiose summer sun, throwing the crows and their unhallowed whispers into disarray.
The sharp command from Syd breaks Joseph free from the spell. Turning his torso, he raises his sword arm high into the air, closes his eyes, and tucks his face sideways into the crook of his upraised elbow. The harsh flash of the cleric's holy light illuminates the poised, scale-clad hunter, making him seem a stoic statue in the middle of the moors, leading the charge of some lost and forgotten army. Without hesitation, he draws his other shortsword, turns back towards the road, and lumbers the first few steps of a harried retreat. "Back! Back!" he shouts to Syd. As he leans forward into a stooped charge towards the cart, Joseph desperately flails his swords--first the right, then the left--above his ducked head. Amidst the gentle thunder of the hundreds of wings, a few blood-curdling squawks are heard, and four crows hit the rocky dirt at his feet with a soft thump, their black bodies twitching and writhing in the dust. Shoulders hunched, loping erratically but steadily away from the tower, he looks up towards Raben and the wagon in the distance and bellows, "Go, go, go, go!"
Looking briefly behind her as she hurried alongside the slow moving cart, Yesfir eyes widened as she quickly increased her pace. "Faster, faster," Nata's voice rang a little deeper but the panic and fear in it were not faked. Casting another worried glance behind her, she worriedly bit her bottom lip before turning forward, pulling her cloak tighter. Reaching deep into the shimmering sea inside her, she felt her body begin to tingle with potential power yet to be released, hold the energy of a spell of mist and fog.
Despite his penchant for being the first one to step into trouble, the Ranger was certainly adept at being the first one out, Syd thought to himself as he watched Joseph run like the wind outside of the encirclement. Now in an awkward position, surrounded by a sea of black birds, some of which seemed to run against one another, presumably from the bright light that had no doubt done a number on their corneas, the Priest quickly decides to dip out not unlike the ranger had and, once far enough away from these menaces, strike them with more divine light: this time, a sacred flame that descended on these angel-forsaken menaces.
Awkward and clearly hindered by Syd's blinding aura, the crows haphazardly maintain their coherent form. They shriek and cry in disconcerted voices, mangling their mockery of human speech even further.
"Aughhh!-Caw!-N-no!-She's a-caw! Plea-caw-se! Witch! Don't!"
Their vision removed by the afterglow of the cleric's holy light, a portion of crows fly disorganized and horridly random to parts unknown, dissolving the overall size of the murder. Raben watches his two allies and their bout against the carrion, and decidedly well he thought. Many of the crows were dispersing, taking to the skies noisily on frantic wings while crying into the gray sky. Seeing the two flee back towards the cart and hearing Joseph's Go, go, go! however, Gleb reaches down to his young ward and pulls Nata up beside him. "Hold on, Nata!" He whisks the reigns and holds them tight, causing his two ponies to rear on their hind legs with distressed neighs and dashing forward. Threg does the same atop his mount, keeping pace with the speeding cart. Raben sprints after them, blade in hand, but falls shortly behind shouting, "Go! Go until you can't hear the crows, go! We'll be right behind!"
As he runs, Joseph peers backwards, past his shoulder. Seeing the cleric fall behind, and the whirling cyclone of crows swarm around him, the ranger's brow becomes troubled in brief, yet decisive thought. Continuing his charge towards the cart, he lets loose both shortswords, which ring and clatter to the rocky soil. He throws his arms straight back, and the travel pack slides loose from his back, along with the bow and quiver atop it. The pack lands at his heels, tumbling end-over-end a moment before coming to a rest. Not bothering to look back, the swordsman yells to the departing caravan, "They're too fast!" Then he points to the cart. "You two! Threg! Under the wagon! Cover your faces!" His brown eyes shift to the cathar, and he simply calls out, "Raben!"
Then, something from within twists the hunter's face, a solemn determination mixed with the slightest hint of fear. He whips around mid-run and skids to a halt, facing the cacophony of ebony feathers and jaundiced beaks, and rips off his duster, revealing his tarnished scale mail. "Syd!" he cries. "We make our stand at the wagon!" Gripping the overcoat by the shoulders like a matador's cape, the ranger faces the oncoming storm, widening his stance and clenching his teeth.
Yesfir wasted no time in obeying the orders given to her, move quickly under the cart. Huddled underneath she couldn't help but stare. There were so many crows. More than she had ever seen and they sounded so human. As her breath came in quick gasps, she raised her shaking hands right hand making a shaky waving gesture almost as if to his her face from the sight. "Asconde Va!" She stuttered loudly in a foreign tongue. Her eyes briefly flashed silver as the air shimmered around her and a eerie fog formed around the swarm of crows, concealing them from sight. Realizing how her ability had clearly shown, she panicked speaking in the higher tones of Nata's voice, "Cursed, we are all cursed. Doomed!" Wailing she curled up in a small ball to hide.
After some arcane chanting, a ball of radiance drops down from the sky and clips the murderous flock - albeit just barely - before the chinks of chainmail resonate through the air, largely muffled by a barrage of ominous caws. Syd had rushed out of there, to a full 60 feet away from the creatures, catching up with the Ranger, but still 20 feet off from the good Cathar, and a full 40 away from the Caravan they sought to protect. This day wasn't getting any easier, it seemed.
The swirling body of crows, at first erratic and incoherent, begins to expand in unison, uniform in fashion. Before you'd think they would take to the sky just as the other swarm had, they converge inward and convalesce, flying into the open door of the tower. Amidst the black blur, a woman appears. Her wardrobe is old, tattered, if not makeshift. Perhaps it once was a dress or long skirt, now blotted with stains and torn in pure disarray. A skull-like headdress shapes her long, mangy black hair down her back. She is pale and firm faced, eyes sharp, arms at her sides, purposed- an eldritch, twisted blade in her right hand, dripping dark crimson blood into the dirt. She shouts with a backwoods voice that carries over even above the litany of avian creatures- so clear, you'd swear you heard it not with your ears but with your mind.
"You are doomed! All that way- you are doomed!"
Stopping the horses abruptly, Threg and Gleb retreat underneath its wooden frame as cover. Tears run Threg's face, while Gleb puts his arms around the frail Nata and covers her face and whispers, "Do not worry, dear! They will keep us safe. Angels be gone, these men will keep us safe!"
With a look of relief, Joseph pulls his duster back on, catches his breath, then looks back to the road. He checks in on the cart, throws a furtive look of caution at Raben, and walks towards the tower a bit, past his dust-covered pack. Slowly, he stoops for one of his swords. "It seems all of Innistrad is doomed as of late," he shouts to the woman, without looking up. Then he wipes the dust off the blade and runs his thumb along the edges, checking for damage. He points it in the air towards the last of the retreating crows.
"What do you know of those foul creatures?" He slides the short sword into a scabbard. "They seem at ease in your tower." He crouches to retrieve his other sword from the ground.
Her right shoulder dips low, the tip of her wicked weapon almost touching the ground. A faint ghostly aura emanates from its black blades. Her face cocks slightly to the left as she does this, abruptly, birdlike. "I'd put that away if I was you.. ya' might hurt y'urself."
The ranger stares icily at the tower-dweller, casually continuing his task. "We've no quarrel with you, woman. Just collecting our things an' we'll be on our way." His demeanor is firm and aloof; yet he moves to sheathe his second weapon rather than inspect it.
Raben strafes his eyes between the demonic woman and the cart with its three passengers. They were all absconding themselves beneath it now, for shelter and safety. It seemed Joe held the situation now, in tenuous diplomacy. He wasn't about to stand astride the ranger and appear as if they meant to outnumber the witch. Once in front of the cart, he speaks in a hushed voice, "I don't know what will happen, but should we make a move, you have to go."
The woman shifts her weight to the other side of her pale, light body in a single, jaunt motion. "It is fine. Was done wit' my work," she says lifting the blade to her face, the blood now running down its hilt and over her fingers, her eyes watching its movement. "We both leave. The crows, they clean."
Joseph holds his icy gaze on the woman a moment, then slowly and deliberately turns, grabs his pack with one hand and collects his bow and quiver with the other, and begins heading back towards the wagon, dragging the pack in the dirt behind him. "Let's go," he whispers to Syd as he passes. "Whoever those wagons belong to was dead a long time ago."
In pensive silence, attempting to absorb as much of the current scene as he possibly could, Syd would do nothing but nod. At the bloodied woman's words, at the Ranger's whisper, or even to himself, who knew? Still, he would not move from his position. Not yet. Not to challenge the knife-wielding witch's authority, instead to follow it. When she left, so would he. After a moment elapsed and Joe had already begun his walk, Syd would take little more than a couple of steps to his hind, and no longer faced the witch straight on, but in a flank. The flank that was covered by his shield, true, but the action reinforced the willingness to comply and avoid bloodshed. This was him meeting her half-way. If she left, he would too.
Her words are slow and taunting. "And they say that the men wit' the collar are not so wise." She spreads her arms and you swear to see black feathered wings unfurl behind her, but what you witness is her form become that of a giant crow. She opens her shiny crooked beak and emits a mind rending screech, fluttering into the shroud of the Moorland gray sky.
After a quick look behind him, towards the tower, Joseph flings his pack into the cart with a grunt, then carefully places his bow and quiver next to it, spending a moment to straighten the arrows. He then looks up, towards the sun, squinting. He approaches the side of the cart, stoops down, and asks Gleb, "You two gonna be all right?" Then he turns to Threg and holds his hand out to the commoner, offering to help him out. "C'mon outta there. Pull yourself together. They're gone." He glances sidelong to Raben and Syd with a slight look of question and urgency.
The older peasant grabs the ranger's hand fervently and gets to his feet. He then helps the young Nata out from under the cart. "See that, Nata? They chased that hag away!"
The girl scuffles to her feet and searches around behind her cowl. "No crows? No witch?"
"That's right, girl."
Gleb continues to placate the frightened girl and situate her onto the cart. Threg climbs out from beneathe the wooden shelter, as well, looking to the sky. "Well," he starts, "hopin' that's that last of her."
"Yes, hopefully." Raben stands straight and fixes his affects. He stares at the tower's door, his mind obviously plagued with doubt.
The ranger moves to the ponies, checking them over. "We need to be moving. Threg, can you ride? If not, I can take your mount and you can ride in the wagon and rest until you're ready." He turns to Raben. "Once we are clear of this foul place, we can stop briefly--very briefly--to eat." He turns his attention back to the ponies and mutters, "Last thing we need is people panicking." It's unclear if he meant to be heard.
The priest unhurriedly approached the caravan, remaining in quiet introspection. The Ranger's desire to move forward swiftly had been made clear, but then it had been that very Ranger who'd insisted on this detour, and frankly, it wouldn't be these few seconds that'd make the difference. "I'll be paying my respects. Do what you will, just stick together this time." - he spoke after finally having reached the cart, and sitting down on it.
Closing his eyes, the Cleric would take a few moments to properly digest the previous scene and replay it in his mind, carefully combing it for any information he might've missed and, of course, paying his respects to the deceased in the form of prayers. His lips moved swiftly but calmly, and even despite his mumbling careful onlookers could tell there was diction involved. His amulet was brought close to his lips and his free hand made the required motions minutely and devoid of any real flare. It wouldn't be the same performing final rites, but whatever happened here was likely gruesome, and the least he could do was offer his condolences.
When he'd finished, his eyes opened and - depending on how swiftly or slowly the cart he sat on was travelling - the man would decide whether to walk by its side or remain there. Syd did not appear particularly shaken, but the trademarked smile was gone from his face, replaced with the stern gaze one might not find unusual for a preacher. But, whatever implications were to be made from his expression, conversation didn't seem to be on the menu for the time being.
"As soon as we're free of our unarmed folk, we'll have that liberty," Joseph replies to Syd as he makes his way around the wagon, giving it a cursory inspection. "How's your cart handle, Gleb? Can it take a bit of a faster pace?" After grabbing and jiggling various bits of cargo in the back, he turns to the group. "Let's get out of sight of this place. We'll go easy until we break for food. While you all eat, I'll tighten everything down and prepare the ponies for a quicker pace.
He glances to Threg, and his eyebrows lower slightly. "You doing all right? Need to ride with the girl, or can you take your horse, yourself?"
"Oh, she's a stubborn one. I remember riding in the back even when I was young, but she might be able to go a bit faster, if the road is nice enough." He watches tentatively as the ranger goes through the cart's contents.
"No, I.. I can hold my own on the road, Master Joseph." Threg mounts his steed. "Y'all are brave, facin' up to that hag, defendin' us. Thank Avacyn for you."
The Borders of the Moorland
Once everyone has gathered themselves, the band continues their travel. They should reach Hanweir by nightfall, Avacyn willing. The landscape grows in color as the hours pass by. The moorland's grey rocky landscape has given way into brown and yellow shrubs and trees with even a few leaves. On either side of road, plotted farmland can be seen once again, signs of human life which you hadn't seen in too long.
Enough time has passed now that the party stops once more for a small meal. Not wanting to waste valuable daylight, they simply stop on the crossway instead of traveling into a farmer's land and requesting some form of hospitality. At this time, Joseph inspects and ties down the contents of Gleb's cart. Nata had complained that the unscrupulous ranger was going through Gleb's belongings, but with some reassurance she quieted down and resumed her hermitic behavior. The ranger aims to make for a much faster pace compared to their previous travels. His worry about the nature of Threg's ails is not unfounded, and he wishes to arrive in Hanweir before the full moon shows its fickle alabaster complexion.
Their short meal of rations and water finished, everyone began to climb onto the cart with Joseph on the reigns, but as Raben was pulling on, a man's scream could be heard in the distance. Turning in the direction of the fright, you see a man with a farming tool running across his plotted field. Behind him, a short wall marks the perimeter of his land, and three figures are behind it, shadowed and blurred by the distance as well as by a sickeningly yellow mist.
Fumigator of the Fields
The scream sets the Kessiger into motion. "Get down! In the wagon!" Joseph hisses to Gleb and Yesfir as he hastily ties off the reigns. "Gleb, be ready to take the driver's seat." He then scrambles over the freight, to the back, while unclasping his swords' securing straps. He grabs his bow, two arrows from the nearby quiver, and vaults over the back. Muttering something in frustration, he moves to the side of the cart, near the driver's front seat, field-side. He then leans an arrow against the wheel, takes two steps towards the fleeing man, and nocks the remaining arrow before stopping, his weapon held low but at the ready in both hands. After a nervous sweep of the sky around him, he squints and peers forward. "You see what it is?" he says out loud, to no one in particular.
Seeing the distant figure fleeing to the farmhouse, the hunter clenches his mouth, the fattened corner of his lip protruding like a tumor. "We can't..." he begins out loud, but stops. He glances down the road to the south. His consideration is brief, nearly instant; he returns his gaze to the man in the field, and scowls. "Prepare yourselves," he says quietly. "We may have to fight, an' we may have to run." He then un-nocks the arrow and tucks it under his arm, places his fingers in his mouth, and lets loose an ear-piercing horse whistle that echoes across the rocky hills.
At the sound of the harsh, air-piercing whistle, the man looks to his right and sees the small cart and its entourage, but before he could even process a thought, he trips and falls into the toiled dirt with a heavy grunt. His frantic voice heightens in fearful panic as he attempts to scramble to his feet. "No, no, no! Help me, help me please!"
His tormentors have now reached the short border wall of his farm. They reach over the wood and mortar with gaunt arms. A sour odor now presses its way into your nostrils - musty and dank, like fuming mushrooms over the dead.
Before the man hits the ground, Joseph's arrow is re-nocked and his bow drawn. He lines a shot up with one of the three creatures in pursuit, cocks his head slightly, and looses an arrow. The bowstring snaps taut and the arrow whistles slightly as it sails across the field, towards one of the three figures. Immediately Joseph reaches back, grabs his other arrow from the wagon wheel, and begins running towards the fallen man. "This way! Get up and come this way!" he hollers.
The arrow soars over the distance and makes its mark in the center of the three shrouded figures. A breathless scowl is heard echoing across the farmlands, and the injured entity surges forward with surprising speed, lurching over the wall and making its way across the plotted grounds. As it moves, its yellow shroud lags behind it's animate corpse, allowing you to get a view of this unhallowed creature. Its body has been long dead, but that doesn't stop it from bounding forward arms outstretched, reaching towards the fallen man. The other two figures become more visible as the yellow haze clears around them. Specific details are still blurred by their distance, but they, too, are walking corpses- haunting the land and tormenting any living soul they meander across. They climb over this shallow wall and shamble across the farm.
This time, the Holy man didn't even need to look at the Ranger. Whatever was bound to happen had been written on his face already. Taking off running towards the trio of apparent undead about to gang up on this individual, the Cleric clutched his holy amulet in his hand and performed the required chantings before a radiant burst of light shone through this dusk-approaching afternoon and came crashing down onto the being that had pulled ahead of the pack, an attempt at preventing it from affecting the crawling individual who currently seemed to be in the middle of bawling his eyes out.
Raben brandishes his silver sword and takes point in front of the cart. "I've got the cart and the folk. Go and save the man!"
At the precise moment Raben shouts his words, the farmer gets to his feet and pulls a mattock from the dirt near him, swinging it at the smog-billowing ghoul but not quite reaching it. Seeing nothing but his own futility, he panics and attempts to flee, dropping the farm tool. As he turns, the undead thing lunges forward with a bony, rotten hand and digs deeply into the man's back, rending his flesh. A sickening squelch is heard as blood is splattered into the air and without a cry, the man falls into the ground.
"No!" the ranger shouts, his bow already drawn as he paused for another shot. Without taking the time to aim, he fires his last arrow at the sallow humanoid. The projectile lodges with a wet thump into the creature's forearm. Joseph then flings the worn longbow aside and draws his sword as he continues his charge towards the fallen man.
The other two ghouls slowly cross over the short wall, pulling themselves up in a vile mockery of life and begin closing in on this new victim. Their moans are hallow and devoid of air due to collapsed and dried lungs. One appears as a forlorn woman in a dress with sunken eyes and a sword through her stomach, while the other is an unarmed soldier- his armor tarnished and decrepit and uniform in dregs, barely recognizable as Avacynian. The man gives no indication of getting back up, and the wretched body looming over the farmer turns its yellow gaze at the ranger before him and reaches with an undead hand in an attempt to bash Joseph's face in. Quick on his feet, Joseph dodges the attack, the fog-ridden ghoul turning its head with a hissing wheeze.
Standing his ground, the priest would attempt to summon the flare of radiant light his collar was synonymous with, and aim it at the pale, yellow undead. Alas, the fog partly obstructed his sight and the beam missed its target. "Ranger! You're going to get surrounded! Fall back! Now!" - he bellowed, lowering his stance, raising his shield and assuming battle positions while his eyes canvased the surroundings.
At the cart, Yesfir watches the ranger and Goldnight cleric rush to the poor farmer's aid despite the clear danger. She turns to Gleb and Threg, who are intently watching the scene that was transpiring. She nods to herself and speaks an incantation beneath her breath. Black mana swirls around her small hands as she makes a swiping motion and as she does so, a magical, formless black claw slashes at the haze ghoul across the farmland, opening up sutures that are apparently keeping its body in one piece.
Raben watched his brave fellows. Deep down, he knew the farmer was gone now, and he hated staying behind, but someone had to defend their accompaniment. Should he leave and some other monster attack the defenseless, he'd never forgive himself. He shouts to his comrades, "Cover your mouths! Don't linger in the fog!"
Joseph takes a step back from the mist-shrouded ghoul and draws his second sword. The world seems to pause around him as he stands, a sword held out in either direction, his head snapping around to survey the scene. His eyes come to rest briefly on the fallen farmer. When he looks up, there's a primal glint in his eye, like that of a wolf that has cornered its prey. A snarl forms on his lips. It strangely resembles a smile. With a mighty shout he leaps forward, bringing a blade down towards the yellow fiend's shoulder. The thing flinches, the sword misses, and Joseph stumbles forward as his momentum pulls him along the weapon's arc. Looking up from a half-crouch, he twists his body away and staggers back, regaining his footing while desperately swinging the other blade around, back-hand. The tip barely finds the creature's chest, leaving a small, ragged gash.
Now clear of the ghoul, Joseph retreats, still facing his enemies. With one sword held before him, he waves the other in the air at the three undead. "Come on! Come on!" he screams as he backs up with surprising speed to the cleric's position.
Seeing the lively newcomers, the three living corpses grunt and rasp, hastily moving across the farmland with grotesque motion and catching up to the ranger and surrounding him. They're necrotized fingers are outstretched and ready to tear into his warm flesh, their putrid mouths open wide with rotten teeth waiting to pierce his skin.
Seeing their protectors getting swarmed by the undead, Gleb clambers to the back of his cart, opening the chest and pulling the Avacynian Torch. "Here, Raben! Throw it to them! It will help them!"
Raben momentarily looks at the wonderous torch and its silver inlays. Avacyn, please. Help your servants. He then tosses it, aiming for some vegetation not too far from his troubled comrades.
Having spotted a familiar torch flying through the air thanks to Raben’s shout, Syd would rush towards it, pluck it from the ground in a single, nimble swoop and pull it to his lips, mouthing off some arcane words. Within an instant, in the hooked edges of the item shaped like Avacyn’s collar, sparks would begin to emerge, which would swiftly turn into embers and, before anyone knew it, a full blown flame, bringing holy light to this plain darkened by evil. The instant the incantus finished and light was brought out, the priest would move the arm his shield was strapped to forward and, with another bout of prayer-like words, summon up another blast of radiance, that this time, the putrid ringleader of this trio of the dead would not be able to escape.
Once the deeds were done, Syd would retreat back, a full ten feet, keeping the Ranger and their foes bathed on the edges of the torch’s light. “The light will make them sluggish and dull! Move back!” - he added, hoping the Ranger would remove himself from the front lines.
A brilliant white light emits from the scene of battle and the living, breathing onlookers gaze in awe and wonderment while the ghouls stagger and emit horrible groans and breathless gasps.
Again, Yesfir ensures that the rest of the members not directly participating in the bout with the undead are wary of her actions. Currently enraptured by the cleric's holy torch, she affirms they've no attention to spare on her. She repeats the same chant and motions, producing a black ethereal claw just behind the gaseous one, slashing across its body. If the undead troop would swarm the defenders of her and the cart, she would cloak the ghouls in a fog to allow the fighters to escape.
Raben clenches his sword hand around his blade's hilt. No other threats had appeared thus far, thank Avacyn. If it gets any worse, he might have to join the ranger and cleric if only to help them retreat and save their lives. He didn't want to leave Gleb, Threg, and Nata defenseless for too long.
When the ghouls surround the ranger, so too do the vapors following the yellowed body. Joseph pulls his left arm over his face, trying with futility to keep at bay the noxious fumes, but to no avail; he begins coughing and hacking uncontrollably. Eyes all but closed, he makes a wild swing at the stench-ridden ghoul, but the sword swings slow and short. He wretches and gags a moment, and begins retreating out of the fog, hunched over in a coughing fit. Managing a look up, he sees the armor-clad ghoul reach out to attack, and counters with a quick upward swing, clipping the outstretched, rotted hand with the sword. Two tattered fingers fall to the ground. The third ghoul stumbles forward with an attack of her own, but stops mid-swipe, holding its hands up in pain to block the light of the torch. With erratic steps between coughs, Joseph manages to retreat to the cleric's side.
Seeing their immediate meal retreat from their vicinity, all three of the animated corpses surge forward together and surround Joseph. In the mass of attacks that ensued, it was a miracle of the angels- perhaps empowered by the cleric's blazing Avacynian torch, that only one had connected: a lung-collapsing slam from the undead soldier across the ranger's chest. During this unholy assault, the ghoul with the great weapon impaled through its belly had lunged too far. Its body twisted as it refaced Joseph, and the spin caused the blade to tear the she-ghoul's body in half. It falls to the ground with only its arms unusable, reaching and clawing for the ranger's legs.
The noxious fumes had begun to affect even the priest, now. With his eyes squinted and beginning to water at the acidity of this putrid gas, the holy man mumbled the divine words one might expect from him. It was beginning to be hard to breathe now that the poisonous particles had begun to take hold in his lungs. The strike was effective. But not enough. Beaten and battered it may have been, that thing was holding on to dear life... or whatever one might call it. Once again, three opponents stood before the ranger, and his party, despite having doubled in size, was still outnumbered. These foes it seemed, could take a beating. The best course of action would be for the two to distance themselves and meet Raben half-way. This way the undead’s number advantage would be lost, and so would the threat level. “Fall back! Move closer to the cart and use your arrows! Just put some space between you and them!” - he yelled to the Ranger who seemed to avoid using his bow and had already suffered a fairly nasty wound.
Raben's knuckles were stark white. Syd and Joseph were getting swarmed, if only one of them fell, it would mean death for them both. Raben was skilled, he knew. But he didn't believe he could fell two ghouls alone and simultaneously. He would more than likely retreat, rushing the cart forward to Hanweir.. unless he risked the common folk's safety and ran out to his comrades-in-arms. Nata chanted once more, growing tired of these things seemingly abundant constitution despite their bodies' decay. She conjures yet another deathly slash against the miasma-spewing ghoul, rending across its chess. A tube is torn and with a hiss the fog thins and clears, and the undead horror falls to ground, remaining silent and still.
With a final throaty hack, Joseph clears his airway and spits a large wad of phlegm on the ground before him, next to the yellow body. At that moment, with a sickening tearing sound, the walking scabbard falls apart at the torso, its two halves slamming down prone onto the dirt at his feet. Without hesitation the ranger grunts and springs like a wildcat, pouncing upon the upper half of the bisected ghoul, driving both swords through the back and into the dirt. The thing gurgles pathetically, its body convulsing, as its face slowly falls forward into the soil. He removes one foot from the body and kicks the torso free of his swords with the other--only to recoil instinctively when the rotten head snaps back up, mouth open and full of dirt, and lets out a curdled groan. It resumes clawing its way towards its target.
"Shit," Joseph mutters to himself, and leaps back behind the safety of Syd's shield, deftly stepping aside the other ghoul's clumsy swipe. "Its head!" he shouts. "Take its head!" Then he plants his feet, adjusts the grip of his swords held at his sides, and prepares to charge back in.
The two remaining ghouls close the distance between themselves and the cleric by foot or crawl, and flail their arms in the light of the torch. The crawling half-corpse slams an arm into the cleric's shield. With a sickening crack and a foul, nauseating stench filling the air, the bone breaks and splinters, the arm bent in an unnatural and horrid manner. The soldier ghoul screeches and snarls in the torchlight, unable to land a blow against the vessel of Goldnight.
The ghoul did not want to fall. Gritting his teeth, the Priest summoned that all-too familiar burst of radiance, which nailed the fallen ghoul, but failed to keep it down for good. Not too long after that, the growl they'd come to expect reemerged from its mouth as it reared up for another strike.
After two uses of her chill touch, Nata realizes that her phantasmal claw isn't as effective on the corpses' undead flesh, as they are animated by magic of black mana. She this time whispers of chilled nights and icy winds, bringing her palm to her lips and blows. A blue breeze gusts across the plowed farmland, through the ranger and cleric and over the fallen ghoul, lightly dusting its decrepid form in frost. It slowly freezes to a halt, but with a ghastly moan, it continues to crawl and reach for the ranger's shins. This thing was a relentless, undying evil, and Nata's eyes grew wide in horror and disbelief. The magic fueling these corpses was strong and unyielding, she believed. There was little she or this little band could do.
"Come back!" She shouts. "We run!"
Joseph darts past Syd, to the side of the grounded ghoul half, placing it between himself and the soldier-ghoul. Swinging his swords like a pair of hatchets he lands first one, then the other on the creature’s neck. Though the blades don’t cleave through, each blow seems to vanquish the fiend. Yet each time, after a moment of silence, it reanimates with a gasp and a gurgle, its vacant eyes staring up blankly and persistently at the ranger. He scowls with frustration, the three scars on his brow jutting out like a mountain range. “God DAMN it!” he shouts, readying his next attack. "Put the torch to it! Burn the bastard!"
The undead soldier steps forward, grating utterly as its chest presses against the cleric's shield and brings a rusted, metal-plated arm down on him. Syd turned at a slight angle, allowing the heavy-handed attack to clip his shoulder, minimizing the damage.
Unable to fell the foul, unliving beast, the crippled ghoul rasps and grabs hold of Joseph's leg with its wildly reaching arms and climbs up his body. Certain of its victim's location now, it reels an arm back, delivering a sizeable slam of its dead hand against the ranger's midriff, knocking the wind out of him and making parts of his vision go black.
When the crooked, rotted hand grabs Joseph's leg, he draws back, dragging the light torso across the dirt with him. He raises a sword, but when another undead arm latches onto his other leg, he drops both weapons, which land with a soft thump in the dirt. There's a slight grunt of panic as he grabs the dirt-covered head with both hands, trying to push the creature down off of him. But in the midst of the struggle, the ghoul's bent hand comes barreling into his gut. A hiss of air escapes from between his teeth, he cups his stomach and staggers back, the ghoul falling flat, next to the swords. He pulls his hands away, opens them, and turns them upwards, revealing blood on his fingers; the creature's bones, busted on Syd's shield, had opened a wound in Joseph's midsection. He staggers once. His gaze moves from his hands to Syd, who is surrounded. They move to Raben with a desperate, pleading look. Then he staggers a final time and collapses to the earth, unconscious.
When the ranger hit the ground, the priest’s frustration hit an all-time high. “Raben!” - he yelled, calling the Cathar by his name for the first time - “Get this guy out of here before he gets himself killed!” Keeping the shield levelled and bracing himself further, winging as one of the ghouls gouged some skin off of his side, Syd would place a hand on the fallen man and, following an incomprehensible prayer, circulate a golden light that would pull Joseph out of unconsciousness.
As soon as Raben sees the ranger collapse, Raben curses to himself and rushes to the scene of battle. He shouts to Threg and Gleb,"If anything happens, GO!"
Bounding across the tilled dirt, Raben leaps over the fallen Joseph as the Goldnight cleric uses his healing magic to restore the downed man and thrusts his silver blade into the she-ghoul's spine, just between her exposed shoulder blades. A sickening crack is heard when his sword plunges through the corpse, and the body stays still on the ground, returned to true death once more. With a flash of motion, fueled by adrenaline, Raben pulls the blade from the half-corpse and sidesteps across Syd to the other side of the undead soldier, stabbing at its midsection, piercing into its grey flesh in an exposed section of its tarnished armor. "Joseph, fall back if need be! Syd and I have it!"
The ranger awakens, rolls to his side, and looks up at Syd, a confused look on his face. “Easton?” he says.
The sound of Raben’s boot-falls startles Joseph, and he brings himself up on an elbow to watch the advancing cathar, who leaps over him. His eyes then fall on the remaining ghoul, and he blinks. His face hardens as he pushes himself to his feet. Grabbing one of his shortswords from the dirt, the hunter leaps towards the remaining ghoul, lets loose a loud growl of effort, and swings. The sword bites hard into the enemy’s shoulder, leaving a ragged, bloodless gash. He twists the sword free and takes a few steps back, well behind the enraged cathar, and leans down to retrieve his other sword from the field.
Another Burial
With the singular foe remaining attempting to nip at his sides, the preacher would deflect this desiccated soldier’s lunge with a blow from his shield. For the nth time in so few moments, the expected divine radiance would pour out of him to injure the foe. The priest had spoken these words so many times now he’d almost begun to wonder whether they’d lost or gained new meaning. The ghoul was still standing by the end, but there was no mistaking it now. Its time would be up very, very soon.
Joseph leans over and grabs his second sword, eyes still locked on the three figures just a few steps from him. With a sword in each hand he lunges back in, leading with a right thrust, through the ghoul’s chest. It staggers back, grasping at the steel. Immediately Joseph pulls it free, swinging his other weapon high, towards the head. It finds purchase in the target’s neck, and the blade slices clean through with a sickening crunch. The ghoul’s head tumbles from its frame, and the body topples sideways to the ground and remains still.
The ranger sheathes his swords and takes a knee, chest heaving from exertion. He cants his head slightly upwards, towards Raben. “Remind me not to piss off a cathar,” he says dryly. “Looks to me like you could have bested all three of those things, yourself.”
He stands and lifts his bloodied mail, revealing a large bruise but no bleeding. The cleric’s holy magic had healed the lacerations. The ranger touches it gingerly, then looks up to Syd. “Neither of my brothers had the favor of the angels,” he said. “When we got hurt bad, we had to get better the old fashioned way. You get carried home, an’ you stay in bed a week.”
He stands a moment, catching his breath. He glances up to the west, towards the sun, surveys the motley party of five scattered around him, then stares over the moorland to the south, lost in thought. A slight whisper of a breeze fills the silence. The ranger runs his knobby fingers through his hair, and lets escape a great, weary sigh. Then he turns to the party. His manner is confident and resolute, though his face looks weary. He points to the rotted corpses. “We’ll need a hole for those.” He nods towards the farmhouse. “I’ll see if anyone’s home. If not, we’ll need a grave for the man as well.” His gaze turns dourly to the dead farmer and rests there a moment. He turns back to the party. “I’ll see if I can’t find another shovel or two in the outbuildings to speed things up.”
Joseph walks over to the yellowed corpse and leans down to inspect it. There is a broken glass canister on its back, with tubes on either side. Using the tip of his boot, he rolls the thing over, revealing an identical shattered tube on its chest. He cranes his neck forward to sniff the thing, and flinches in reaction. Then he rises, wipes his boot in the tilled soil, and heads towards the farmhouse, pausing in the field to retrieve his hunter’s longbow from the dirt.
This had been the longest 48 hours in the man’s existence. His friend had left, and from that moment onwards everything had turned to shit, it seemed... Noting Joseph’s thanks, the holy man would raise his hand as if to say ‘It’s the job’ but, matching the explanation to the individual’s recklessness, he’d add, his eyes looking towards the fallen ghouls and the blood marks that his expedition member had left when he’d fallen. “You’re not home anymore, Ranger. If you were to fall here, in the middle of nowhere, there would be no home to bring you back to. We’re on our own, here. I can’t say how it might’ve been over there, but here second chances are hard to come by. Even for someone with holy magic...” - with a sigh of relief washing through him, further bolstered by having watched the ranger be hit and having been lucky enough to get there in time, before one of the ghouls had been able to do damage he would not be able to fix. To a priest in this forsaken continent, who was surrounded by death since he could care to remember, this entire sight pained him to his core.
For an hour after that exchange, Syd leaned over corpses, of ghouls and humans alike, to give them last rites. The process was gruelling and lengthy, but with perseverance and strength, it was completed. With his right side a tad stiff from the ghoul’s attack, in clear view of those around him, the priest would pluck three pieces of paper from the haze-ghoul’s rib cage area. After carefully inspecting them, he would pull out his notebook and jot a number of things down. To avoid jarring the three civilians beside them, he would wait until his process was finished, before calling Raben over and explaining, giving him the tokens, and asking him to explain things to the ranger away from unneeded attention.
When the ranger returns, he has a pair of shovels in his hands. He sticks one in the soil, and immediately sets to work helping to dig the ghoul-trench with the other. "We'll need another hole," he says coldly, his eyes remaining affixed on the task at hand. "He had a wife and little kid, but they're in Thraben right now." He gouges out a few more shovels of earth. "I think we ought to dig his a little closer to the house." After that he falls into a troubled silence.
The pit for the ghouls and a three-foot grave are dug for the corpses and the fallen man. The three now quiet and still ghouls are dragged and slopped into the pit, whereas the man is cradled and lain in his earthen internment. Syd says a prayer, not as affirming as he'd like, but he fostered his holy blessing onto the forsaken souls of those buried before them. You would hope their spirits pass on from this world.
Hanweir Township - The Arrival
Maintaining Joseph's suggested haste, especially after taking some time to hold an impromptu burial, the wooden and stone palisade of Hanweir comes into view. Ten feet high on average, it surrounds the perimeter of the entire town. As darkness falls, large torches illuminate the wall at regular intervals, and near these flaming braziers are heavy ballistae. Each one is loaded with a bolt and primed to fire at any perceived threat. The silhouettes of armored guards can be seen behind them. Two guards stand before the entry gate where Angel's Way meets the town. Joseph slows the pace of the horses, and the guards meet this tattered band with quizzical looks. The left guard hocks and spits to the ground. In a gruff voice he questions the party. "Passers-by? We 'aven't 'ad none too many visits in a while."
Raben approaches, reaching into his coats, procuring a document. He shows it to the questioning guard. "My name is Myles Raben. I've been tasked to look into the recent.. death. The hunter and the Goldnight are with me on this missive. The others are travelers seeking refuge. Where can they find shelter?"
The other guard speaks from behind his hooded helmet, lifting the visor. His voice is higher and softer. "The Wandering Heron takes visitors if you've the coin. Otherwise, the Witherhall is a tavern with rooms above it for late-nighters. You could go by the chapel. They have a small lodge that may have some space."
Raben thanks the kind guard as he gives directions to the various establishments and waves the group to begin moving through. The other whistles and after a moment, metallic whining and wincing is heard as the heavy doors allow entry. As the party makes way, the guard on the right asks "Will you be looking into the curse, get rid of it?"
Raben's mouth flattens, withholding a grimace. "I don't know about a curse, not yet. But we shall see."
With a few muttered words to Gleb, Joseph hands the reigns back to the old man, and crawls down from the cart. The lack of sleep and the day's events finally seem to have taken their toll on the stalwart hunter; his posture is sagging and his eyes worn and dim. He rubs the back of his neck and looks to the west, over the walls of Hanweir, where the blood-red sun is sinking over Stensia. Then he looks in the opposite direction, where a hint of silver is lightening the sky, splitting the deep blue heavens to make a path for the full moon, which looms just below the horizon.
Digging into his front pocket, he approaches Raben. He pulls out two electrum coins and holds them out to the cathar. "Here. I've been wanting to rid myself of these since I got 'em last night. Get everyone some hot food. Calm 'em down. Keep the rest as a donation for the church." He looks towards the town, then back to Raben. "You know where we're staying? I'll get the rooms ready for everyone, an' I'm going to bed. It'll be the fox's treat. I'm including the three tagalongs, too. Just make sure Threg sleeps in the room next to mine."
"Avacyn's blessing be with you." - the priest offered as a small but formal greeting as his free hand drew the cross, befitting of the authority of the church he represented. For the most part after that, as is to be expected of him, Syd remained silent, offering a friendly word here or there, and deferring to the Cathar, the leader of this particular expedition, for the arrangements.
Moving towards Gleb, once within city borders, the Holy man would return the torch apologetically, having expended one of its uses. "My sincerest thanks for your help." - he spoke, meaning every word - "Were it not for this particular item, us three may not have reached this place in one piece. We are in your debt."
Once instructions regarding what to do and where to head were received, should he find himself with some free time on his hands, Syd would procure a chapel or church in order to pray and get a sense of home in a foreign land.
Now within Hanweir's borders, the party walks amidst what appears to be a deserted town. Not a single living soul is seen walking the streets or under the light of the oil-lamp posts. Not a crier, not a stumbling drunk. Some windows and doors are barred. Papers are strewn and pinned on various poles and walls-most announcing that daily attendance at the chapel is mandated by law under the orders of Mayor Garensun, while others post a sizeable reward for a "Reika the Peddler". A few denote the heroism of the young Pitre, who is the focus of your current mission.
As the party follows Raben through the streets, you notice the light of several home interiors as their occupants lift their shades to peek at the newcomers, only to quickly obscure themselves once more after turning to face them. Now in the open space of the market, empty stalls line either side and at odd ends and turns. Vacant stalls and flattened tents offer a sense of silence and stillness you wouldn't imagine in such a large town. A block or so down, you reach a juncture where Raben begins to tell the group where they'll be eating and staying for the night.
"It seems we'll be eating on a Stensian's dime tonight. We'll get room and board for the night, and for any night after that it affords us."
Taking to the right, you pass the Whitemark Chapel, Hanweir's local place of worship. It's doors are shut but warm light illuminates the stained angelic glass from within. Keeping on for another few minutes, the extravagant Wandering Heron comes before you. It appears much as a manor, and less of a shop or inn, but upon entering a service clerk greats you with a voice of pomp and austerity. Raben displays his orders and spreads the two electrum pieces onto the desk, explaining the current matters, and the servicemen only barely contains his disdain, motioning for the group to follow. Seated in a large dining room with high ceilings and crystal chandeliers, the entire group is treated to a hearty meal. Roasted pork and shredded beef. Boiled potatoes and seasoned greens. Water, juice, and vintage ale abound. A moment of silence is requested by Raben before you grab your utensils, where he offers a solemn prayer to those that have been lost and those that have been found.
At a nearby table, a bearded man wearing a dirty coat of plates is quietly eating his own meal. He pauses his eating when Raben says his prayer and his vestments make it more obvious he is an Inquisitor. An equally dirty tri-corner hat sits on the table besides him. The servers seem annoyed by the amount of filth he has brought in with him; he has clearly had more than a reasonable amount of whiskey in a very short time.
While you eat, a flash of lightning and boom of thunder shakes the establishment, silver and dishware tinkling against one another, the candlelight flickering against your glasses and wine bottles. The heavy droning of a significant downpour is heard behind the closed windows, which now shudder with muffled clatter intermittently from buffets of wind.
The ranger, his face shadowed with melancholy and weariness, spends only five minutes at the table, silently wolfing down about half his plate of food. After the first peal of thunder he stands, pinches the silver amulet around his neck, and sweeps his eyes over the group. "I need sleep. I'll see you all in the morning." He leans down to Raben, whispers something in his ear, and clomps off to the rooms.
After effusively thanking the generosity of the ranger that kept them well fed and with a bed besides, Yesfir let her call into Nata's customary silences, humming under her breath as she kept a watchful eye on the others around her. They were to reckless, these strangers, but it seemed they were generous as well. Finishing her meal, she stretched her back, before plopping her head in her chin. Cocking her head under her cloak, she studied her companions for a moment, the childish nursery song she was humming being joined by a soft tapping of her fingers against the table as she did so. Study completed, she shrugged letting her curiosity go for the moment. After all, "Nata" would be leaving soon. Turning to her companion Gleb, she ceased her humming to suddenly ask, "Go see Mayor now? Uncle told me, mayor help Nata. " She didn't think she would meet the mayor tonight, but the sooner she found him, the sooner she could stop her childish farce.
The dinner comes to an end and two waiters arrive to collect the remnants of the feast. Raben explains once more that the rooms have been payed for and to not worry of any recompense: this was his duty. "I didn't actually spend my own coin, anyways," he states with a wry smile.
The Goldnight's Piety
As the Whitemark Chapel entered into his field of view, the Holy Man excused himself from his group and made his way into hallowed ground. As the smell of incense graced his nose, the man had found terra firma. As he stepped inside, the setting sun glistening against his shield, painted with the all-too-familiar double edged spear, a familiar murmuring began in the crowd. Approaching the Mausoleum Guards, stationed to ensure the safekeeping this sacred soil, the would-be Sage spoke for a moment with them, as well as the Acolyte who walked those halls - the priest, having been getting on in years, was resting by this point, it seemed. The serious face that had marked his features for a good, long while had faded, returning to the polite, serene smile it had once displayed. Despite his warlike beginnings in the Elgaud Grounds, this particular individual appreciated calming the population, especially in a town who seemed as distraught as this one, and so for the better part of half an hour, the individual would move to bless both Acolyte, Guards and visitors who stepped into this chapel, offering the blessings of the Flight of Goldnight, who sought to vanquish the forces of darkness wherever they may lie…
Lie was too strong a word, but this man was by no means about to even consider undergoing such an idealistic, unachievable claim. He did, however, understand the power of faith far better than most ever could. It was, after all, the singular reason magic was within him. Once those few moments had passed, Syd retired to the church’s altar, to bathe in the last few moments of sunlight coming in from the stained glass, and praying. This time for himself, and those he’d encountered. To level his thoughts and gain some purchase in these strings of events that were whirring past him, from chariot, to witch, to ghouls and, as he entered into the realm of Nightfall, he rise from his seat and move towards the previously agreed upon Wandering Heron, thanks to directions from the chaplains, feeling tired and injured, but more strengthened than he’d ever been.
A Stormy Night
Vacating to your rooms, you find the quarters are lavish and brimming with finery. A bed fit for a king with separate comforters and sheets. Dress pillows arranged in orderly fashion. Marble-knobbed furniture from the finest craftsmen in Nephalia, made of Kessig mournwillow and lacquered crimson. A bookcase contains material of a wide variety of subject matter, from Avacynian scripture and introductory chemistry and mathematics, to philosophy and non-fiction. Atop it is a small Avacynian collar with a candle rest and incense. The curtains currently covering the windows are a dark rouge with golden tassels. The rain continues outside, thick and hoarse, slamming into the glass. You discover your window looks to the east. Weren't the storm there, the face of the full moon would illuminate your chamber. Lightning flashes and unfamiliar shadows fill the room, threatening to hide the things that go bump in the night, like shapeless specters waiting for you to retire to bed. The rumble of thunder is immediate-the storm is atop Hanweir now, and heading west by your figuring.
Heading outside means becoming drenched in the burdening downpour. So thick, you can't see fifteen feet in front of you. Only the light of the oil-lamp posts guides you down the streets to wheresoever your destination. With the split-second brightness of the storm's lightning, the entirety of your open surroundings becomes clear, which only darkens that which it doesn't bring to light. Alleys are shrouded and dark. Homes are locked or boarded, and curtains are drawn part-ways. Any fiend could be watching with hungry eyes, sharpening its claws and baring its fangs unnoticed by any unwary visitor. The thunder rattles your bones, shaking the resolve of your soul as it threatens to crash down unto the streets with its heavy pounding.
Whether resting or awake, several hours pass before the storm moves on. The dark clouds part, and the full moon's full face becomes visible. Bright. Alabaster. Parselene. Moments pass as its radiant light bathes Hanweir; moments that are silent and still, and it is broken.
A harrowing howl resonates through the air.
The Beast Within
This had been expected. It was sad, but there was nothing that could have been done. Having rested only slightly and still fully clad in armour and shield, Syd rushed out of his room, to find Joe exiting his. Their eyes lock and move to Threg's room. They'd had the same thought, but very different intentions to execute. Having had some time to know the impetuous man before him, a very clear notion of what Joseph might end up doing crossed his mind. If one couldn't influence those around them to the extent one enjoyed, the only option left was to adapt. But the would-be Sage needed to find Raben. Wolves were out of his own personal wheelhouse, but he did know they travelled in packs. Not to mention, this Holy-man/Ranger duo had stood significantly close to failure in the past, so finding that Cathar was imperative.
"I'll get Raben. We'll be needing help." - he said, his back almost turned to the Ranger as he dashed off to the Parish-Blade's room - "Try not to do something too crazy." - he pleaded, almost like a prayer, knowing this time, with Threg being an acquaintance, the stakes were significantly higher.
Joseph's room door flings open, and the ranger steps out bleary-eyed, both his short-swords under one arm, still fastened in their scabbards. Though he's not wearing his overcoat, his armor is still donned. As soon as he enters the hall, Threg's voice is heard yelling and shouting, loud and manic, from inside his room. The hunter's eyes dart down the hall to meet Syd's, and the two look knowingly at each other. "We need to get in there and calm him down," he says hurriedly. "He might just be scared. Or he might be turning." Keeping his eyes towards Threg's door, he takes a few steps backwards down the hall, to the window at the end. Unconsciously he's undoing the scabbards from his swords, letting the leather sheaths fall to the floor. He leans back against the glass, turns his head, and begins to scan the moonlit darkness outside, but another shout from Threg's room yanks his attention back to the hallway.
The Inquisitor from the dinner hall emerges from a nearby room fully geared up and without any indication of having rested. He has drawn a shiny dagger and he looks far more alert than he should after having imbibed as much as he did. “Werewolf!” he exclaims with a mad look in his eyes.
Tonight’s meditation was cut short by the ear-piercing howl. As the hall begins to fill with people, Malekus opens his door and surveys the scene. He notices the hunter, the mad drunk and finally his gaze finds a fellow brother of the Goldnight. Knowing there is another of his order here instills a sense of comfort in the acolyte. As they knock on a door he approaches cautiously with his staff in hand. Opening his arms to show the symbol of the Avacyn embroidered on his shirt and the chain of silver hanging around his neck he looks to the hunter and says, “If you mean to calm down the poor soul who is going through the transition, then you are a fool.” He turns to the priest and asks, “Brother do you know the one that is turning under the light of the full moon? We cannot afford to hesitate when dealing with one of the cursed.”
"It came from outside," Joseph says to the inquisitor, back still to the window. His eyes flash in anger down the hallway, towards Malekus. "Those are the cries of a man, not a beast. Until that changes, we treat him as such." The ranger moves to Threg's door.
Raben's door is knocked upon. He hurries from his bed, putting on his cathar raiment. "I'll be right there." Threg's cries are now heard through his door, and Raben is reminded of tonight's full moon. He looks to the window. "Shit.."
Syd is at his door, who explains the situation to him. Raben moves quick to decision, and proceeds swiftly down the hall to Gleb and Nata's room, procuring them and placing them together in a single room. "We will handle this. Stay here and be quiet." All the while, Threg's pained mourning does not cease. Yet no movement is seen from the door. The howl is heard once more outside the walls and windows, closer this time, shuddering the skin in cold sweat.
Standing a good distance from the door, Joseph tucks his right sword under his left arm. Then, still facing the full hallway of onlookers, he raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. "Threg?" he calls out loudly. "Threg, it's all right. Come on out. We're all here. Ain't nothing to worry about." The ranger steps back and faces the door in anticipation.
"No! I can't! It burns! By Avacyn, my blood! I'm on fiiire!" His voice curdles as if drowned by his own spittle. The howl from outside the Wandering Heron is sung once more, long and baleful. It's ringing perturbs the eardrums, causing disorientation in those of low mental and physical fortitude. Threg answers this call with an anguished scream. This cry soon becomes a howl of his own, just off harmony with the howler outside. The combined dissonant sound pierces the mind, as one might grab their heads or cover their ears to dampen the bellows.
"Goddamn you, Threg!" Joseph shouts. He backs down the hallway, towards the onlookers, while still facing the end of the hallway. "Clear out these rooms!" he bellows. "Everyone with arms, at the ready!"
“Boy,” Garreth shouts looking at Joseph, “is that a Werewolf in there? Did you all knowingly bring a Werewolf into Hanweir and into this here inn filled full of people? Let me deal with it.” The large man moves to the door that’s Joseph stands in front of, indicating that he is going through whatever is in his way.
Joseph widens his stance, blocking the hallway off with his body. "Raben!?" he calls out desperately without looking back. He turns his head sideways, eyes locked on Threg's door. "If any man puts steel to someone that ain't got fangs or fur," he growls loudly over his shoulder, "I'll have his ****in' head." He faces the dead-end hallway again and calls out clearly and authoritatively, "Threg, come on out, now. Syd's out here. The angels can help you."
Being woken from what easily had been the best sleep of her natural life didn't exactly set Yesfir in the best of moods. Being dragged out to another room with little more than her shift just made her sullen mood worse. She felt exposed without a cover, fragile, almost panicked, adding to the sense of fear at the unnatural howls. Thank whatever stars were watching over her that she had decided to wait to bathe and that people would be too distracted by the full moon to pay attention to her much. Dragging her fingers through her braid, she hid behind the veil of her hair, hugging herself close as she stayed close to Gleb from the view of so many men. For her, despite the terrifying howls, the men represented a far greater threat to her safety than whatever Gleb was doing beyond the door or worse the thing still outside. She had heard of were's, every lad or lass of Innistrad did, but they didn't trouble Stensia much...the vampires did. Besides, that threat was there and they were here, and here, eyes of men with blades were usually just as deadly as men with fang and claws. But if they were kept busy...distracted, well they might not notice that little "Nata" wasn't such a little girl after all. Hesitating, she chewed on her lip debating about offering her aid. Weighing risk and reward, Yesfir decided, and lifted a hand to Raben's sleeve, "Nata can help, make threat slow. Cold. But Nata has to see. Can't help if can't see."
The Druid's Day
Striding along the road toward Hanweir, Gerard makes it to the city gates a couple of hours before noon. A brief chat with the guards convinces them that Gerard is just a country healer looking to restock his supplies in town and they grant him admittance. Unease settles on Gerard as he explores the town. He expected the city to be lively and bustling from the stories he had heard of the city. What he encountered, while busy, was a muted version of what he had imagined. People went about their business tersely. There was no laughing, no sharing of gossip, simply business being conducted people moving on their way.
Gerard attempted to visit the cemetary. However guards at the entrance told him politely , but firmly, that there was to be no admittance to the cemetery by order of the mayor. He thought about attempting to spin a tail of needing to attend the grave of a relative, but looking into the guards eyes he realized that the their good manner would change very suddenly if he pressed. Gerard simply bid them a good day and left. Trying the marketplace to gather information proved only moderately useful. He heard the story of the brave thatcher named Pitre, a hero that was recently decapitated while defending the city from a vampire. A feast was recently held in his honor and it is his grave is continuously bleeding; poisoning the earth.
Gerard did hear a rumor that Pitre and the mayor's daughter perhaps had a secret romance, but you can never be sure if this is fact or gossip. Gerard thought about calling upon the mayor and his daughter or perhaps members of clergy at Whitemark Chapel, but the sun was sinking low and people were already boarding up homes homes and businesses for the night. He thought it better to return to Witherhall where he had secure a room earlier and make a fresh start in the morning. Gerard ate a simple and hearty diner in the common room of the Witherhall and allowed himself an ale. He then returned to his room to retire for the eevening thinking that perhaps he could sneak out of the Inn and find a way to investigate the cemetary undetected. However, the sounds of an approaching storm made him think better of this plan. The storm would be good for cover, but trying to investigate the site would not be productive. Instead he thought it best to rest and get an early start.
Nightfall at the Witherhall
While asleep for a short time, he hears a commotion in the hallway outside of his room. Men are speaking of a werewolf in the city and are about to leave the inn to confront. Gerard's heart sinks and thoughts of his home fill his mind for a moment. He knows that ordinary men have no chance against such a powerful foe. He quickly rises, opens the door a crack and says to the men, "I have some experience with werewolves. Give me a half minute and I'll come with you!" Shutting the door Gerard quickly dresses, grabs his tricorn and his staff and quickly follows the men in the corridor out of the inn and into the night. One of the men turns to Gerard as the exit the inn, "Not sure if you really have 'perience with werewolves, but we militia men'll take all the help we can git!" The group of men break into a run through the streets, taking a left at a juncture. They pass the chapel and an inn that Gerard has never had enough coin to enter in his life. Coming to the city wall he sees men ripped by cruel long claws. They all appear dead at first glance, and Gerard instinctively reaches for his healing bag and realizes in his haste that he left it in his room.
Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, Gerard turns, looks up and sees the werewolf on the side of a building using his claws to dig into the mortar and propel himself upwards. Once reaching the roof, the creature lopes off in the direction that Gerard and the militia men just came from. Thinking it better to help prevent more deaths and injuries, Gerard points to the wolf and shouts to the men with him, "Look! It is running on the rooftops back the way we came!" Gerard then breaks into a run, following the werewolf from the streets and wondering to himself the best way to get to the roofs, or if pursuing him from the ground makes the most sense.
The gaggle of men running down the street carry what simple weapons they mustered. Others, the guard stationed for the night, have crossbows and swords, wearing their personnel armor and brandishing torches. The large, loping figure slows its pace upon reaching the roof of the Wavering Heron. It stands upright, displaying its full form in the light of the moon, sniffing the cold, Innistrad air, it's breathe like hot steam. The men stand firm and let fly a volley of silver-tipped bolts, but many miss in the distance. The beast roars, it's eyes reflecting a bright sick green amidst its black shape. This bellow reaches into the bones and snatches the heart, intimidating many of the militia, causing more than a dozen to flee. The beast then descends onto the wall of the refined establishment, digging its razor-like claws into the side of the building.
A Beast Without
There is a deep thudding from the ceiling, steady, like something moving above, and slight scratching and scraping. Joseph flashes a fiery look at the inquisitor behind him. He raises a sword upwards, pointing at the ceiling. “There’s your werewolf, up there,” he says, adding in a low voice, “Let’s hope it’s the only one.” He leans sideways and shouts down the hallway, “It's on the roof! Get those doors open! Everyone away from the windows!”
Then he steps to the door of the tormented man’s room. “Threg,” he says calmly yet firmly. “We’re coming in.” Tucking a sword under an arm, Joseph reaches for the door. You can’t be certain, but it appears his hand is quivering. He slowly turns the knob, places a foot against the door, and pushes it open while simultaneously stepping back against the wall, away from the door.
The door is opened quickly with a trembling hand, revealing the room to be in disarray. The fabric of the bed fixing has been torn, the innards of the pillows and comforter spilt all over the floor. The window is uncovered, the blinds torn down and in tatters, their fixing pole bent and angled. The white moon light bathes the center of the room, with tiny pieces of fabric and dust swimming in its iridescence. Threg is fetal in the far corner, away from the light, pulling at his ragged clothes and hair. A deep wound is partially visible beneath his left arm as he writhes and coils. The beast roars above, shaking the rafters and frame of the rooms. "It's come! It's come for me! It's come for me!" Threg screams in horror.
The door swings rapidly open and bangs against the wainscoting. The hunter leans forward and to the side, peering around the doorjamb. When he sees the wretched figure hunched up in the corner, he lowers his weapons. “Syd!” he calls out, his eyes narrowing. “Syd, over here!”
With four strides he covers the distance of the room, and flattens himself against the wall next to the window, swords at the ready. “It ain’t going to take you,” the hunter booms, like a father to a scared child. “But you need to get out of here, Threg. Away from the window.” He crouches slightly down and leans closer to the window, his eyes craning upwards as he tries to get a glimpse of the eaves. “Syd’s coming. He’ll have Avacyn’s blessing on you.”
Garreth growls, but then turns back to his room and kicks out the window and begins to climb onto the roof, charging after the werewolf. From outside, Garreth yells back into his room "The damned thing is going for your friend's room!"
The door to Raben’s room opened, and the Sage in Training and the Parish-Blade had words. Not much needed saying. Raben was unprepared, but swiftly darted out of his room anyway… in order to help secure the safety of civilians. Now, this wasn’t exactly something a Divine Vessel would be able to find fault in, but it certainly meant that the Cathar had left the gruelling task of maybe having to kill an acquaintance for two almost perfect strangers to clean up. The Ranger had certainly demonstrated a ‘protector of the weak’ mindset so far, and he himself wasn’t particularly filled with a wrath so pure towards the cursed that allowed him to smite them wherever they may roam simply because they existed. Needless to say, however this went, it wasn’t going to be easy. As if this situation wasn’t bad enough as is, Syd then saw the emergence of an Inquisitor… One the Ranger may have outright lied to, in shouting about the werewolf being on the roof. Stereotypically, members of this Order weren’t keen on heroics, and this was a city led by a militia, so his own identity as would-be Spearsage wouldn’t do them nearly as much good here…
Quite pitifully, the Priest almost breathed out a full sigh of relief upon hearing from said Inquisitor that said wolf had indeed been there, before the realisation hit that two wolves were a hell of a lot worse than just the one, and then there was the howling… The final nail to what seemed to be the young Blackmore’s coffin was the emergence of another individual sporting the colours of Goldnight, voicing the very thoughts he knew to be true but was desperately trying to ignore.
“Yeah…” - the Holy Man would reticently and broadly reply to his sun-blessed kin. His head motioned to Malekus that he should follow, and the young Blackmore began the short tread to Threg’s room. His heart beat violently and passionately, like a drum, accompanying every step he took, and with every beat, the clergyman’s resolve was steeled further and further. The power Flight of Goldnight roared through his body, and the amulet clutched in his right hand seemed to suddenly emit a bright light. Upon having made the turn into Threg’s room, his walking having now shifted into a full-blown run. “I’ll slow the turn! Just get him away from the window! Now!” - Syd shouted to Joe and anyone else willing to listen, before preparing to cast a spell.
After the affirmation from the cleric Malekus pushes into the disheveled chambers on his heels. He takes in the scene before him as he hears Syd proclaim that he will help the man. Most of his training has been focused on destroying evil and the spell is foreign to him. He approaches him and extends a hand towards him. He tells Syd “Brother you are not alone. Allow me to call for a blessing of light in this darkest hour.” He slowly traces a symbol of Avacyn in the air and mutters the incantation “Gisela placet luceat lux vestra sancti de hoc homine.” As he finishes the words a warm light eminates from his hand and flows into the cleric.
Garreth gets up to the roof and sees the werewolf about to go into the window to the room Threg was in. He makes the rash decision to charge the beast, hoping to take him over the edge and use it to shield his own fall. Just as he is are about to jump, it notices him and opens its maw to greet him. Garreth was just able to jump at an angle and miss its teeth and escape death. He is able to grab onto the side of the building at the last minute, hanging just to the right of Threg's window.
The gap between Gerard and the militia and the werewolf steadily increases until the creature stops on the side of the Wavering Heron. The beast appears to be trying to enter someone’s room. “We’re not going to make it in time!”, Gerard thinks to himself. He slows his pace and once the militia are all ahead of him, ducks into a nearby alley. Making sure no one can see him, Gerard quietly mutters words of power calling upon the spirits of nature. A moment later Gerard is gone and a gray squirrel sits in the place that Gerard was just standing in. The squirrel scrambles up a water spout and onto the roof of one of the buildings that form the alley. Scrambling to and from, jumping from roof to roof, the squirrel quickly catches up to the monster perched on the side of the Inn. Hoping to distract the beast long enough for others to help, the squirrel leaps for a spot on the werewolf’s back that he shouldn’t be able to dislodge him from. Unfortunately, the gray furred would be hero misjudged the creatures reach and is effortlessly knocked off before he can sink his rodent buck tooth incisors into werewolf’s back. The blow is glancing, but enough to knock the small animal off and tumbling to the ground below. “Hope there is some soft trash below!”
With a few annoyances, the monster climbs off the roof and onto the wall of the Wandering Heron, shingles falling onto the ground. Another volley of bolts are loosened from the few guardsmen left, all clattering off or piercing into the wall of the establishment. Threg recoils as the two Goldnight holy workers approach him, white magic in Syd's hands. His cries lessen to whimpers, and the scraping sound above turn into wooden groans and splintering.
The man's eyes, red and sheered with his tears, widen in crazed fear. Syd is just within reach, hand outstretched, white mana swirling in his fingertips. Threg whimpers. "It's here.."
The window crashes open with an insidious roar, so powerful it whips the torn sheets from the bed. Glass shatters across the room. The dispersed cotton becomes a blizzard in the roar's force. In the place of the window, is a hulking figure with eyes like fire. It's maw is open, saliva dripping from its fangs. You know this beast-a werewolf.
The Werewolf in the Room
As the squirrel tumbles into the night his body rights itself and he lands on all fours. "That is handy." Gerard scrambles back up the wall and over the window sill and jumps to the floor inside the crowded room. The creature has his left leg slightly forward with its weight on the back foot on its right. Gerard runs to the back foot and takes a massive, from a squirrel's perspective, bite into the beast's Achilles tendon. His mouth is full of dirty, foul tasting werewolf fur and Gerard suppresses an urge to vomit.
Raben grabs his sword lash and scabbard and tosses it onto the bed. "Here! It's blessed silver! I'll get the patrons out of here!" With that, he shouts for Gleb to move up and out, down the hall and begins opening doors, one by one, and crowds them to the stairs. "Go! Go, werewolf attacking the inn, go!"
Gleb moves as much as his aching legs let him and he attempts to pull Nata with before taking off himself. "Come, girl, let the soldiers handle it! We'll be safe!"
Frowning at Gleb, Yesfir nearly dropped Nata's persona then and there, but with a sigh, she at least backed up further, allowing the armed men to get in between her and the threat. Protesting in Nata's higher tones, she resisted being dragged from the room however, "Nata can help!" Despite her words, her motives were far from noble however. Clad only in her shift with a thin layer of dirt and her hair to conceal here, if she left the security, and yes the confusion of the inn, she would be outside with the full light of the moon and with nothing to hide behind. Her journey with the cart driver had given her a cautious trust of his character but that trust didn't extend to whoever was out there. Outside meant light and curious people with nothing to do but sit there and stare and wonder. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed her, before someone noticed that she was.....Shaking her head at the remembrance of the bawdy jokes, lewd suggestions, and even out right threats she had come to know well as Yesfir in her home town. No, for now, she was safer here. Where she was hidden. Where people were distracted. Kept busy by anything else but herself.
The wolf enters the room, getting nicked by the human clinging to its left. It snarls a low growl, staring at this scrabbling man with searing eyes and clenched teeth, before looking into the room once more. It sees a room full of people. Standing sacks of flesh, meat, and bone. Food. It brandishes its claws and slashes the heavyset Avacynian across his arm, pushing him back. It snaps its neck forward open mouthed to bite into the flesh of the cleric, but in the closing moments Syd brandishes his holy focus and creates a blinding flash of light. The werewolf yelps in surprise and brings a long, crooked hand to its eyes, shaking off the effects. It lowers its head but rears its body tall, looming its lupine shape over everyone in the room. It is bigger. It is faster, and it is stronger; it is the shadow of the moon, the nightmare of this night.
When the lycanthrope crashed through the wall, Joseph managed to turn away just in time to avoid a face full of glass and splintered wood. By the time he looks up, the beast had already moved past him to attack the men of the cloth surrounding the inconsolable Threg. Curiously enough, an angry, chittering squirrel leaped into the room after it, bounded up behind the fiend, and bit into the back of its leg, eliciting a snarl of agitation.
The ranger blinks in disbelief, then turns his attention to the larger of the furry threats. For a moment he closes his eyes. Through his clenched teeth he begins making a slight hiss, which crescendos and fills the room. As if in answer to the sound, a sudden gust of cool wind blows down the hallway and into the door, leaving behind a mouldering, earthy smell, like that of a freshly raked leaf pile. When the hunter opens his eyes, they have changed; the brown is replaced by an arcane orange, shimmering dimly with energy.
He drops a sword and makes for the bed, his movements swift, erratic and jerky, like a blade of grass tumbling haphazardly on an autumn wind. Every step he takes is accompanied by an eddy of breeze, stirring up the fabrics of the room. He grabs Raben's sword, turns to face the werewolf, and charges. There is a rushing sound, like an incoming gale barreling through the treetops of a distant forest, but it suddenly cuts off and fades. The eddies of breeze from the hunter's feet had whipped the blanket off the bed, onto the floor in front of him, and he trips on it. His mighty attack is thwarted mid-swing as he stumbles, windmilling his arms to catch his balance. When he finally does recover, he quickly backs up to the room's door, blocking access to the wolf from entering the hallway.
Knowing she had to be useful in order to stay, she softly spoke words of ice and snow, before taking her fingers to her lips and blowing as if to blow a kiss. An ice-cold wind formed from her softly blown breath, wrapped around the werewolf briefly. Surrounded by cold, the werewolf flexed, howling; it shrugged off her icy blast as if it were no more than a fly, baring its teeth as the ice turned to steam around it. Uttering a soft curse under her breath, Yesfir took another step backwards once again trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
The sheer size and ferocity of the beast startled Malekus. He has encountered were's before but he has never seen one make such a brazen attack in the middle of a large town. He stumbles back to the interior wall as the glass and debris rain down on the room. After taking a swipe from the werewolf he does not want to be anywhere near it. He raises his hand once more and mouths another unique incantation. A ball of white light forms in his hand and small wisps of pure energy waft upwards from it. He hurls it at the werewolf and it impacts its chest with a flash. The energy that was contained within is released in that instant causing the beast to unleash another furious howl.
Garreth, ticked off that his charge didn't work and quickly sobering up, reaches in to grab the werewolf back. He grabs at the beast's tail and pulls it back, gaining a more solid footing into the room and pulling the ferocious creature back away from the others in the room. "Get back here you fleabag!"
Threg, previously thrashing about, now seemed to enter into a trancelike lull. Being careful as to the individual that might just become a ticking time-bomb right in the midst of his party, that had seemed to become even more rag-tag than previously, when all there was was a vaguely unkempt priest and an impetuous ranger.
The existing werewolf’s growling made it very clear that this would-be Sage needed to divide his attention a bit further, and made it abundantly clear that some issues needed solving. In a conditioned reflex, Syd mumbled the arcane words he’d spoken so often in the past day, and managed to clip the towering lupine being before him. Alas, his divided attention gave him the sneaking suspicion that this particular spell hadn’t been as powerful as it should’ve. Still, it was an absolute necessity that Threg not get away, and so this divided attention scenario would have to continue. One could only hope that next time he’d be able to do better.
The werewolf is barely aware of Gerard's attempts to distract it, and is not reacting to the squirrel in the way that he had hoped. Revealing his true nature may cause Gerard a death at the hands of the townsmen if he survives the fight with the werewolf. He very briefly considers running off to his room at the other inn and leaving this beast to the people already gathered to fight it. If just one death can be avoided by Gerard's actions... Thoughts of home start to come to mind and are quickly repressed. Gerard scurries to the corner on the creatures right on the side of the room with the window and once again calls up the spirits of nature. One second there is a gray squirrel sitting in the corner that most likely no one noticed in the chaos. The next minute, there is a man standing there wearing a tricorn hat, leather armor holding an ashe quarter staff at the ready.
Continuing down the hall to the opposite side of the stairs, Raben continues to open or break apart doors, getting weak and frail humans to vacate their rooms and head down the stairs. "There's a werewolf, go! We have it for now, leave while you can!"
Theg's shouting as quieted to sobs, and his erratic movements have dulled to quivers. His eyes are peeled, red-shot and wide, taking in the full form of the beast before him. He slowly rises to his feet. "No, no, I-it's.. it's not- I.." He walks over to the the silver knife on the floor, turns his body, and then stabs at the nearest person-Malekus.
The werewolf dug its long black claws into the wood of the floor as it was pulled back near the broken wall. It snarled deep in its throat and turned its body to slash at the lone man pulling at its tail, but couldn't get the proper angle. It uttered a bestial grunt and pulled itself and the man back into the room, tossing the flayed bed and mattress across the room. It slams upright against the far wall. Pulling its body close, the wolf twists sharply and opens its ravenous jaw, closing down and sinking its piercing teeth into the shoulder of Garreth, the inquisitor. The sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping is heard through the chaos of the room.
Joseph has been standing in the doorway, watching the events of the room transpire. When Garreth dragged himself through the gaping maw in the wall—the same which produced a werewolf and a seemingly rabid squirrel—the hunter furrowed his brow and leaned back to look down the hallway. Indeed, the inquisitor was no longer there. In fact the hall was all but empty, save for the strange Stensian girl. Joseph gave her a knowing look and turned back to the room. When the squirrel transformed into a man Joseph cocked his head, puzzled. When Threg lunges clumsily at Malekus with the knife, Joseph moves into action. “Threg, you stupid sonofa*****!” he shouts. “Put that down!”
The ranger squares up with the werewolf. Again he makes a hiss, this time loudly, the sound of cold water poured onto a hot wood stove. Again the cool, musty wind comes racing down the hallway, twice as hard, and blasts the ranger from behind. Bits of bed sheet and cotton swirl in the room. His eyes shimmering yellow-orange, the hunter charges the predator. There’s a distant roar, like a tornado bearing down on a grain elevator. When silver meets wolf-flesh, there is a deafening blast, then a deep-throated yelp of pain from the wolf, and it snaps its teeth at the blade. Autumn leaves flutter to the floor at the beast's feet. A deep, long gash parts the fur of its left shoulder, blood welling up to fill it. The ranger, swords held forward in a defensive stance, carefully circles the werewolf, man and beast face-to-face, the former glaring up in controlled fear, the latter staring down with unharnessed hunger; both pairs of eyes burn with hatred. When his back is to the clergy and the crazed, half-naked Kessiger, Joseph stops. “Threg," he says in a deathly calm voice. He hadn't forgotten the threat behind him. "I swear to the Angel Herself, if you don’t put that knife down…”
Cowering behind the veil of her hair where she stood in the hallway, Yesfir's eyes widened as she watches the true terror of the werewolf. Massive with frenzied yellow eyes, a wide snarling maw, it's claws slashing in quick lightening reflexes. It was a thing of pure brute force and animal instinct. Shifting nervously, her eyes flickered towards the others. As her chilly wind disappeared in steam and smoke, the ranger turned and giving her an odd look simply nodded once before returning his focus to the threat in front of her. By the Reach's teeth, somehow the bastard knew! Although how much he knew, it was impossible to tell. She could feel her breath come faster, panic beginning to take hold, and just as she blew another cool wind in the direction of the beast, a man popped into existence from seemingly nowhere. A startled wheeze nearly escaped her, breaking her from her soft incantation, she hastily covered her mouth with her hands muffling the sound. Feeling the cold or her breath against her fingers as the spell fizzled to nothing she forced herself to bite her tongue against the current of curses ready to spell from her throat. She took another step backwards, her mind rapidly racing as she tried to think of a plan-any plan.
Watching the mad man stagger to his feet and stumble towards him, Malekus noticed the knife being aimed at him in an instant. He shouts at the man as he deflects the blow with his staff "You fool. We are trying to help you. By Avacyn man get a hold of yourself, that thing is trying to kill us all!" With that he turns his attention back to the hulking beast that has sauntered further into the room. He begins tracing another holy symbol with the tip of his polished staff and mutter "Rursus per gratiam vestram in hac turpi bestia." The bolt of divine light that bursts forth strikes the werewolf head on and impacts with a small pop. The impact leaves a glowing mark of the collar of Avacyn burning bright on the foul creature's chest. The dark beast is bathed in a holy glow that makes it stand out against the dark night sky. He looks around the room at the group who is engaged in the melee. He shouts "Now is the time to strike true on that creature, Avacyn will guide you. Let's send it into the ground for good!"
Garreth tried to grasp the werewolf to get him back out of the room, but the werewolf struggled and resisted. Garreth was not about to let this beast get away from him.
Taking an instant to look around and situate himself and arrivals, Syd fired off another blast of Sacred Flame. Sadly, this one that the creature seemed more ready for, and as such was able to dodge. From mice turning to men, and men turning to mice, what once had been a room was now experiencing a tale it might not be forgetting.
Gerard mutters strange arcane words for a brief moment. As the words are finished his quarterstaff slightly glows for a second, then quickly fades away. After the glow fades the staff appears slightly different than it did before in a way that is hard to put a finger on. Perhaps it is larger, grander, or just more present than before. His countenance seems calmer than just a second ago. Gerard steps forward and delivers a solid strike with the lower end of the staff right into the beast's abdomen as if fighting a werewolf was as mundane as gathering wood for a fire or a tradesman practicing his profession.
White-knuckles clench the hilt of the brilliant silver dagger. Threg's teeth are clenched and his lips snarled wide, barring his gums. Saliva drips from either corner of his mouth as he heaves, his chest inflating and deflating. With a crazed shout, he lunges at Malekus once more while he's busy casting a spell against the furred beast, stabbing him in his side between the bars of the Goldnight's rib cage, grating into the bones. Threg exclaims in hideous delight as Malekus reels in pain, madness clearly overtaking him.
Opposite the injured Avacynian, the werewolf has had enough of the antics of the puny human that had gripped its tail, and now attempted to bring to the ground. Remembering the taste of the inquisitor's red-iron blood, it snaps its jaws forward but clasps its jaws on thin air, as Garreth lunges to dodge the second, and potentially lethal, crunch. In its fury, the next human the were sees is a man with a staff, whom it swiftly rips its razor-like claws into his arm, crimson spilling over the druid's torn coat and pushing him backwards. Small burns patch its body, and several slashes mark its pelt, but the werewolf spreads its arms and roars, the room shooting up several degrees as the beast's hot, humid breath fills the room.
Joseph stands at a diagonal stance, ready for attack from both sides, but neither comes. When the werewolf turns to deal with its own rear flank, the hunter hears a cry of pain from behind. He swivels his head to see wild-eyed Threg standing, bloodied silver dagger in hand, and Malekus holding his wound, blood pouring out from between his fingers. A flash of anger sweeps the ranger's face like a late-summer brush-fire. He takes a step to the side, lets loose a rage-filled shout and pivots, bringing his sword down on the peasant's clavicle. The blade cuts deep, through flesh and sinew, to the bone. Just then a roar explodes from the middle of the room. Without pause Joseph spins to face the werewolf, Raben's silver sword singing through the air in a swift lateral arc, and the blade hacks another bleeding wound into the werewolf's hide, this time on its hind flank. Eyes still flickering gold, he settles back into a defensive stance and prepares for the counterattack.
Confusion reigned everywhere she looked. Threg, clearly out of his wits, had stabbed a priest who even now stood bleeding. The rest of the battle was nothing more than a flash of silver and limbs. From where she stood in the hall, she could barely see what was happening clearly. Suddenly the sharp sound of animal in pain startled a low guttural curse out of her, her voice shaking as it dipped low "Fi blestemat de mormânt!" A brief flicker of a half formed ghostly shape appeared above the werewolf's head before just as rapidly flickering out. Backing down the hallway, Yesfir's eyes began to search for a place to hide.
After getting stabbed by the crazed man a fire begins to burn in Malekus’ eyes. The pain cuts through the chaos and confusion in the room, which he channels into a laser like focus. He staggers back a step clutching at the bleeding wound in his side with his right hand he looks up at Threg. Looking to the man who just assaulted him the acolyte speaks a common blessing “May you spend an eternity in the ground”. He begins the incantation and the small ball of warm light begins to form in his left hand. As the small tendrils of energy begin form around he hurls it at the lunatic. It impacts him on the right side of his chest and releases a burst of energy that tears a sizable chunk from his body. The wall behind him and the others close to him get coated in a warm spray of blood. As his body falls to the ground it impacts with a wet thud.
Having dispatched the source of his latest wound Malekus turns to survey the other combatants in this deadly struggle. Most of the people around him seem like they are holding their own but the inquisitor that has been wrestling with the werewolf has some open wounds. Calling forth a healing prayer he chants “Iam nocere tibi non potest” and the symbols in his staff begin to glow with a warm radiance. He focuses on the cut on the fighter’s arm and suddenly the symbols wink out and the wound scars over. Pleased that he was able to bring some light into this dark moment he thinks to himself ask for forgiveness later right now the focus is to keep the group of people alive.
Garreth roared and grabbed the werewolf firmly and leap out the window, taking the damned thing with him. The werewolf largely broke his fall but he came down hard on his left arm, loosing his grip on the hairy thing. “By the Angels!” he exclaimed in frustration, pain, and a bit of embarrassment.
Who Let the Werewolf Out?
Seeing Threg be torn to pieces wasn’t easy. They’d had very little interaction, but it seemed clear that whatever was happening to the individual was neither natural nor his fault. This is what Innistrad does, though. Some people just don’t make it out the best ways. Monsters aren’t always inhuman, and not all inhumans are monsters... Not straight away, at least. And yet, as per usual, there was a twisted form of relief. This person was likely spared the journey that followed, of gore and violence with moral ground suddenly being in short supply, and his death certainly cleared up the priority. Now the major, and only concern, was the hulking lupine being before him. As divine might pulsed through his body, before a blast of radiance hit the now fleeing wolf, Syd once again steeled his mind, and prepared for the future. Because whatever followed would not be good.
Gerard remembers that there are a good number of defenseless townsfolk are out in the street as the werewolf is pulled out of the window and falls to the ground. He knows that a fall will unfortunately not kill the beast. Quickly, Gerard goes to the window sill and looks below. Making a quick judgement about distances, angles, etc Gerard leaps out the window hoping to land safely near the werewolf and use the momentum of the fall to strengthen his staff attack. During the second of his fall he recalls his mentor teaching him how good judgement doesn't fully develop in a young man or woman until about their mid twenties. Sure enough he did not position himself correctly. As he lands, his weight is shifted too far back. Gerard falls backwards and to his right hitting his ribs and then his head hard upon the ground. His staff attack of course completely misses its intended target rebounds off of the street and hits him in the side of the head. Somehow he manages to hold onto his staff although had he let it go he may have not suffered the hit to his head. "This may be funny if it didn't hurt so much," Gerard say silently to himself.
The constant stream of fleeing panicked Hanweir residents begins to die down, He turns around when he hears a great thud followed by several smaller ones, seeing now that the werewolf and two others were recovering from an evident fall from Threg's room. The werewolf is first to it's lupine feet and emits a howl that bends the air, shattering windows and quaking the mortar and cobble of the street. The remaining commoners scream and fall to their feet, Raben included, but he stands and remains stalwart in his place between the shattered people and this bestial menace. The werewolf is beginning to feel worn, it's body covered in welts, its furred matted with its blood. It ends its howl with a heavy grunt and turns to face the nearest wall, and lopes on all fours towards it, growling along the way.
Yesfir watched with fascinated horror as one of the men dragged the werewolf out the window as another leaped after both man and beast. Her mouth hung open briefly not from horror but amazement at the sheer idiocy of these men who seemed intent on running straight into the open jaws of death. As both men and beast disappeared from sight there was a heartbeat of silence before a howl pierced the night, shaking the timbers loose from the destroyed wall. Yesfir winced covering her ears as several of the men in front of her dropped to their knees in pain while others stumbled backwards as their eyes glazed in a horrified stupor. Wincing even with her ears covered, Yesfir took one look around the devastation around her: one man dead, several clearly wounded, or incapacitated. And at that moment a life time of instinct kicked in as she rapidly bolted into a nearby room, darted underneath a bed, curled herself into a ball and hid.
Watching the crazed inquisitor tackle the werewolf out the window, Malekus begins to question if the pain is starting to cause him hallucinations. “That crazy fool just tackled a werewolf out of the building” he mutters under his breath as he struggles over to the gaping hole in the wall where the window once was. The broken glass crunches under foot as he leans over to peer down on the mess of people below. He sees the insane inquisitor on the street holding his arm and obviously in pain. Close by is Gerard who is looking like he hit hard when he jumped out of the window after them. He makes a brief request form his patron, “Gisela auxilium vobis” and the holy symbols embedded in his staff glow briefly before releasing the healing mana into the open wounds on Gerard. There is an ear-piercing howl from the beast again that scatters many of the on lookers. In the ensuing chaos in the street he is unable to see the werewolf. He notices a cathar in a defensive stance staring down the road away from the tangle of bodies. He scans the vicinity and finally spots the werewolf fleeing down the street. He calls forth another ball of warm radiating energy into his open palm and hurls it after the creature. It singes some of the fur on its back when the ball connects and releases the energy imbued within. He turns to the group still in the room with him and notices the woman has disappeared. He shouts loud enough for those in the room to hear but looks to the group below, “We cannot let it harm any of the townsfolk. We have to stop that accursed beast!”
Sitting up and groaning, Gerard feels a warmth spread throughout his body and his pain lessen. At first he thinks it may be shock, but then recognizes that someone has cast healing magic upon him. However, there is no time to figure out who has healed him and thank them. Catching the werewolf starting to run away out of the corner of his eye, Gerard quickly rises to his feet. "It can not be allowed to get away!," screams inside his mind. Gerard points at the beast and he begins to loudly speak in an arcane language, his voice lowering an octave below its normal range. Finishing the incantation with a shout and the clenching of his fist, a variety of vines and other plants spring up out of the ground between and pushing through the cobblestones. Speedily they wrap themselves all around the werewolf and pull it to the ground where they wrap themselves even tighter and even shut his jaws together. A cube of fifteen square feet around the beast become a mass thick vegetation moving on its own as if some breeze only felt by them swirls moving the leaves and stalks in different directions.
Amidst its retreat, vines begin the rapidly sprout around the werewolf, grasping first its wrists, then its ankles, body, neck and snout. They twist and coil around the lycanthrope while it struggled with heavy grunts and muted cries. But in a superhuman feat of strength, a claw tears from its verdant prison, followed by a shoulder, its back and face, and finally its hindquarters; it continues its escape for the animal was not so devilishly crazed to incite its own death. Slowed by these animate plants, it only gets so much nearer to the wall and, ultimately, its safety.
Joseph watches incredulously as the mad inquisitor and the snarling werewolf—staggering and circling each other in a savage waltz of blood, beard, spittle, and fur—approach the gaping hole of moonlit night, pause a moment, and disappear over the edge. His gaze then follows the druid who rushes straight after them, stares down a moment, and jumps. Just then a soul-wrenching howl cleaves the night air. The ranger’s face turns pale, and he crouches down next to the upturned bed, his eyes watching the wall-breach with terror. His steel shortsword clatters to the floor as his left hand rises to his face, gently touching the three parallel scars that stretch like a precarious rope bridge across his forehead. The shadow of fear passes from his face, and the ranger stands. He points to the dagger on the floor where Threg stood just seconds ago. “Put that silver to use!” he says out loud, then rushes to the hole in the wall. “Inquisitor!” he shouts, “Take my blade!” He tosses Raben’s silver sword over the edge. The ranger then whips around and sprints out the door, rounding the corner towards his own room, and disappears down the hallway.
Cowering under the bed wasn't probably the most cowardly thing she could have done. But bravery, she had found was normally reserved for the very, very stupid or the very, very short lived. She may be a coward for hiding underneath a bed while others chased after a werewolf, but she was alive and safe, and at the end of the day that was all that mattered. Curling up tighter against the wall, she willed herself to be as small as possible as she heard the ranger call down to his companions. However when she heard his footsteps enter the hall, she pursed her lips and blew making a cutting off gesture with her hands as she whispered, "Lights out. " A soft gust of wind flowed from her lips, swirling out from underneath the bed as every light within ten feet of her were blown out by an errant wind plunging the area into darkness.
After the werewolf broke free from the vines that had sprung up from the ground there was nothing else to hinder its flight to the wilderness outside the city. The town guard’s reaction time was to slow and Malekus knew it was up to the group of strangers in this melee to prevent further destruction. “We cannot let it reach the wall!” he shouts.
As the beast continues its desperate flight, he begins to chant an incantation “Hoc non liceat permanere.” Once again, the ball of warm light forms in his left hand and he hurls it at the back of the fleeing were. The energy streaks out faster than he expected, and he thinks this must be Gisela’s touch. The light impacts across the werewolf’s shoulder blade and rips a gaping hole in its torso. The beast falls to the ground unmoving. He mutters under his breadth a quick prayer of thanks to his patron. Addressing the other around him he proclaims “By the light of Avacyn’s mercy that foul creature has been vanquished! Her holy light will shine upon us this night.” He turns to the cleric and says “We should make sure to take proper care of the bodies. May they spend an eternity in the ground,” and he traces the sign of Avacyn before himself. As people begin to gather to take in the situation, he is silently working to ensure the proper steps are taken for the dead. He knows if anything is overlooked, they might one day rise again and harry innocents. After a brief ceremony he retires to his chamber for the night.
The window to Joseph's room clatter open, and the ranger stands backlit in the frame, bow in hand, with a silver arrow nocked. When he sees the scene, he shouts from his vantage point, "It's dead! The werewolf is dead!" His words echo through the dark streets of Hanweir. He returns to the hallway, retrieves his scabbards from the floor near the window, and heads to Threg's room, tying his sword belt on as he moves. He's still catching his breath when he enters Threg's room, but his face is blank and expressionless. He walks over to Threg, leans down, and grabs the silver chain around the mangled commoner's neck to inspect it. A second later he jerks it, snapping it free from the body, and puts it in his pocket. Then he collects and sheaths his shortswords. After a quick discussion with Raben, the ranger retires to his room without further word to anyone.
Gerard seeing the werewolf now dead exhales sharply in relief while bending at his waste. He quietly mutters some arcane words and uses healing magic on himself. Gerard looks around to see if anyone is hurt, and remembering once again that he left his medical supplies back in his room, will take off running to the inn he is staying in order to retrieve them.
Noting the other individual from the Order of Goldnight’s ragged state - a direct consequence of Threg’s handiwork with a dagger - Syd would offer a prayer of healing. Their divine powers seemed to react, and the man’s injuries closed better than the holy man would normally expect. He had ultimately ended the threat, and that had unfortunately left the young Blackmore with some unanswered questions, but nothing could be done. As the militia approached, and before this secularly-run town moved to take back control over the situation, Syd would perform last rites on the bodies, blessing them and hoping to ease them into the eternal sleep, so that they might not be disturbed again. The brouhaha seemed to die down, and the major players each went their separate ways. They were an interesting lot, that was for sure. But Syd’s work was not done yet. By the time he properly finished - in a relatively short time-frame thanks to Malekus’s help - he was exhausted, and could do nothing but slip out of his chain-mail and into bed, finally getting the sleep he was due.
The Militia's Arrival
The Hanweir militia either woke from their beds or recovered their bravery, for they soon arrived at the scene. A few members approach the lupine corpse with steady caution, as if it might wake from an apparent slumber, but the werewolf does not rise again. Raben sees to it that he finds and speaks to every member of the party, taking the time to even ensure young Nata was safe. He also makes a point to show his appreciation and gratitude to the individuals that aided in tonight's horrific bout; he wasn't sure if they would have made it without their help.
An affirmative man, perhaps an appointed captain or sheriff of the militia, begins to order the others around, to retrieve the corpse and isolate it from the public, remove the rubble from the street, and ferry the last of the few remaining commoners home. The dead werewolf's death reversion will soon occur. Hopefully, it wasn't anyone they recognized-one of their own. In the light of the men's torches, you could see denizens of the surrounding homes peering through their windows conspicuously, no doubt commenting on the grizzly spectacle. Hanweir is cursed.. Perhaps there's some truth to that.
After retrieving his healing kit, Gerard returns to the area of the werewolf attack looking to help those that need it. There are a few people with minor injuries he treats, but unfortunately most of the creature’s victims were killed outright. Speaking to his patients while treating them, Gerard finds out that either the townsfolk did not witness him using his art, they don’t care, or they are simply keeping quiet. While finishing up with a very young militia man that fell and bruised his forehead while running on the wet cobblestone, a church cathar approaches him. Gerard subtlety notes possible escape routes if needed when the holy man introduces himself as Raben. Raben says that he and some others are working to rid this town of the troubles that plague it, and that he believes that a man of Gerard’s skills may be helpful to them. He also mentions that he believes that Raben’s and Gerard’s goals are one and the same in this matter. Raben leaves him with an invitation to join him and his associates in the town square in the morning.
Gerard quickly undressed, fell into bed, and sleeps hard until morning. Waking in the morning, he washes up, dresses and begins his morning meditation. After thanking the spirits for their assistance during the night, and asking them for their help today, Gerard ponders Raben’s offer. It could be a trap but Raben doesn’t strike Gerard as the type of person that would burn a heretic that may be useful to him. Raben seems to be more concerned for the greater good. Gerard also believes that he will have a much greater chance to speak to mayor and visit the cemetery if he is in Raben’s company.
The Hunter's Dream
Joseph is lying atop his still-made bed, dressed in his armor. His sword belt lies neatly on the floor nearby, covered by a pool of square moonlight. His eyes are closed but his shoulder twitches, then his leg. His brow is covered with sweat, and his eyes are darting around under the lids. In his dream, the ranger is in the Ulvenwald, on the stretch of road between Aker’s place and one-eyed Neil’s farm. Beside him is the Old Man, sitting astride Sally. I like Sal, thinks Joseph to himself. The Old Man does, too. Says he hates her. She eats his tomatoes. But you know which horse he picks every time he goes out.
Behind the Old Man and Joseph was a doomed courier who had been coming out of Stensia that morning. It was a courier we were protecting that day. The one from Hanweir, with the eerie blue skin. Beside the courier, Thomas, clad in robe and leather belt, practicing some spell in his palm. Trailing on rear guard was loud and boisterous Easton, armor clinking, jaws flapping. The party was stopped. There’s an urgency, a dread. Joseph looks around. A deer stands nearby, in the treeline, staring hungrily at the group. Another is on the road, behind Easton, its head down, antlers forward, ready to charge. “Keep it back!” the Old Man thunders to Easton. Sal is gone and the Old Man stands with his sword and staff, facing the deer in the trees. “Away from Thomas!”
Joseph cowers down into the cart. It was a cart they had met, not a courier. The hunter holds his hands up. They are frail and fair, but brimming with strange energy. He instinctually tucks them between his legs, hiding the arcane glow. No, he thought to himself, I was being protected. I was a simpleminded, scared girl they’d found wandering the north Ulvenwald that day. “It won’t get near him, Old Man! Not past my blade!” Easton says with bravado, jostling his shield and sword to make his point clear. He shoots a glance back to gauge his audience’s reaction.
He’ll get it when we get home tonight. The Old Man hates when he talks more than he acts. And he’s too proud. Always showing off for Thomas. Joseph looks to the deer and sees the antlers are gone. It stands on two legs, snarling at Easton. It has fangs. It was a werewolf. We were attacked by a werewolf, on our way out of Gavony. Joseph raises an arm to point to the threat and warn the fighter, whose smart-ass eyes are still looking to the Old Man—but he gasps when he sees his own hand. His flesh is decaying, two fingers are missing, and in his fist is a dirt-caked mattock.
No, I was a farmer. A dead farmer they were taking to Gavony. My son had paid for my place in the blessed graf years ago, with his own life. The werewolf pounces, slamming the unsuspecting Easton onto the ground. The boy grunts and struggles with the fiend, using his shield to keep at bay the claws and teeth. “Fool!” the old man cries out to Easton. He looks to Joseph. “Joseph! Get up there! Protect Thomas!”
Joseph looks down and sees his familiar frame and attire. No, I am Joseph Clarke. I am a Gatekeeper. He touches his forehead, but there is no scar. He looks to the Old Man. “But Easton!?” he cries. How can I face a full-grown werewolf without Easton? The old man misunderstood. “Easton’s a warrior!” the man barks angrily, spittle flecking out onto his beard, “And so are you! Now, go!” He turns to face the flanking were, preparing to meet its attack with arcane force.
Pulsing with adrenaline, Joseph draws his other sword and steps in front of Thomas. Already the young boy was gibbering and hysterical at seeing his oldest brother fall beneath the claws of the werewolf. “Thomas!” Joseph says firmly, careful not to lower his gaze from the target, “He’s okay! Just burn it! Attack it!” Thomas is too sensitive. Too careful. Too hesitant. Even the Old Man thinks so. Won’t do anything without Easton around. And Easton eats it up. Makes him even more obnoxious.
Easton manages to roll the werewolf off, towards the rest of the party. Joseph hunkers down, preparing for attack. The werewolf explodes with an earth-rattling howl, shaking the leaves above the road. A flurry of spinning maple seeds come drifting to the ground like a gentle, golden snow. Joseph looks towards the sky in wonder. Just then, he feels a burning sear on his face as a giant, fur-covered arm rears over his shoulder from behind, raking its claws across his forehead, from eyebrow to hair. He stumbles forward, swords clattering to the ground as he clamps his hand over the wound, and he turns. Through the hot blood in his eyes he sees not Thomas but Threg, grinning and dancing, red-eyed and gibbering, a bloody silver dagger in his hand. At the madman’s feet lie Raben and Syd, both dead.
Joseph gasps awake in his bed in Hanweir. The moon has shifted; it casts a slender square of pallid light upon the bed. Flecks of sweat glisten silver on the hunter’s forehead. He gets up and gazes out the window into the darkness a while. The night is still, aside from the occasional creak of wood. With a sigh, the ranger returns to bed and sleeps.
Morning in Hanweir
The night, no matter how dark, does not last forever, and by the arms of Avacyn herself the sun, indeed, rises over the horizon the next morning. When he found you last night, Raben instructed to meet at the town square a couple hours after morning's light. From there, he plans to visit the Mayor Garenson and pay visit to the grave of Pitre. Finally, it seems, the investigation will start.
The hunter awoke early that day, a bit before sunrise. After spending some time in front of his window in thought, watching Hanweir from the anonymity of the second-story inn window, he heaved another long sigh. Morning preparations were brief. He spent some time with his oil and whetstone, honing the nicks and notches his blade had accumulated in the last few days, making certain to apply the leftover oil on the rag to his scabbards and sword-belt. Satisfied, he donned the belt and duster, left his pack, bow, and quiver in his room, and headed out into the township.
His first stop was Whitemark Chapel. Most of his time was spent alone in a pew, head down in thought or prayer—perhaps a bit of both. After nearly an hour he went to the front, wordlessly received a blessing, and departed, leaving a few coins in the small donation bowl on his way out. On the stoop of the chapel Joseph lingered, watching the street for a friendly face but finding few. The town was still ill at ease from the werewolf attack, and the ranger’s scarred face got little recognition other than brief looks of trepidation. Finally, the hunter spotted a grizzled old farmer wearing an amulet of silver outside his coat, and Joseph approached him with a single question: “I’m looking for a shop run by a woman called Ekka.” The farmer kindly gave him the information before heading inside the chapel.
When the hunter returned to the inn, Syd was downstairs. The ranger approached him, digging into his pocket. He held out to the cleric a chain of silver, adorned with an amulet of Avacyn. It was Threg’s amulet.
When Joseph returns to the inn from some morning errand, he sees the cleric and walks over to him. "Syd," he says. "Can you look at this?" He holds out a thin chain of silver with a small Avacynian amulet attached. It's Threg's. Are you holy-types able to figure out if it's blessed silver? Looks real to me."
This wasn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Though, it had become painfully evident over the past few days that ‘improvisation’ was the operative word, outside the church’s overt boundaries. As such, Syd received the amulet and stared at it for a good long few instants, mulling over the ways to tell whether this was in fact silver and/or blessed. Silver was a soft metal, he’d read. DId that mean he should take a bite out of it, like they did in the stories?... Naah. ... Unbelievable. He’d actually managed to amuse himself. Being left with this strange concoction of emotions, with the happiness of having made himself laugh, and the shame that came out of this having been what did it, made the Holy Man offer a fake cough to right himself and dispel loose thoughts. Before they could creep back in, however, his brow furrowed lightly. He wasn’t particularly gifted with metals, but he’d certainly handled his fair share of blessed silver in his day. And this felt particularly close. Werewolves weren’t really the focus of his training either, but if Threg was a wolf, then this couldn’t be right.
“... As far as I can tell, this is an object of worship.” - he said, surprise turning into full blown puzzlement - “... Wouldn’t Threg have reacted to this if he were a wolf?” - he added, unable to prevent himself from stating the obvious this time, returning the amulet to Joseph.
"Threg weren't no werewolf, Joseph says, lifting his eyes. "Pretty sure of that by now. But it don't matter much now. He's dead."
The ranger clenches the amulet, turning to leave. "Hey Syd," he asks suddenly, as if remembering. "You any good with visions? Like the stuff that jumps in your head when you're praying? When you're awake? Can you tell what they mean?"
Syd stood in silence, absorbing the information regarding Threg. Whatever this was, it was certainly not like something he’d learned in his training, before being half-jolted back into reality by a question regarding visions. “I’m afraid I don’t” - the priest replied a little absent-mindedly, clearly still wrapped up in the puzzle that was Threg - “Much like blessing of silver” - he added, by Pavlovian reflex - “That falls into the purview of the Moonsages. The Order of Alabaster. Goldnight, the order I belong to, tends to focus on smiting, I’m afraid.” - Syd replied, hoping to at least point the Ranger in the right direction.
Whether it was the touch of Gisela still coursing through his body or the feeling of impending doom that was hanging over this town he did not sleep well. The morning’s meditation brought a peace that had been hard to find the night before. He felt better after communing with his patron as part of the daily ritual. Today she had not see fit to grant him a vision but still he was a peace with the group’s triumph over the werewolf. Hopefully this small victory would help set of the townsfolk at ease and Avacyn knows they needed a light of hope to bring them through this dark time.
Malekus is pleased that the group had been sanctioned by the church to investigate the strange bleeding corpse. His attempts to investigate it had been rebuffed by the mayor because he was not visiting in official church capacity. He had come back to Hanweir to perform the last rights for a relative who had been ill. Unfortunately, the word had come to slowly and the road to Hanweir had been long and hard. By the time he had arrived 2 days ago his cousin, Saul, had already passed away. He was able to perform the burial ceremony, but that was moved away from the bleeding grave. After hearing about a curse on the town during his journey here and now with a ever bleeding corpse he wanted to help bring Avacyn’s light back to the town. He heads downstairs to have a prepared breakfast and notices the ranger and the cleric in conversation. He nods to acknowledge them but selects a table on the other side of the room to enjoy his meal. He then departs for the town square.
After eating a hearty breakfast in the inn’s common room, Gerard decides that the risk is worth it to stop whatever evil has beset this town. He can feels a poison seeping through the ground. The earth is calling him to cure this affliction it is suffering. Gerard gathers all of his gear, leaves the inn and travels to the town square looking for Raben and company.
After allowing herself to be convinced out from under the bed where she had hidden herself, Yesfir finally fell asleep in a restless slumber, tossing and turning before finally waking at the crack of dawn to obtain a few buckets for a cold bath as she finally allowed herself to wash off the dust of travel. As she aided the drying of her hair through one of her tricks, Yesfir looked at herself in the mirror for perhaps the third time in her life. Yet the sight although pleasing caused not but a frown. Without the cover mud, bits of grass, and filth her skin was too pale, her hair too dark, and the unusual color of her eyes far too noticeable. Biting her lip, she brought up a hand to a small pale patch of skin just under her right eye. She tilted her head watching the patch shift into iridescent shades of silver and blue as her fingers exploring the strange texture of it.
Dropping her hands, she momentarily fingered the clay-caked ring that encircled her thumb, her eyes distant for a moment. Dismissing her thoughts, she wrapped her chest tightly to a semblance of flatness with bands of cloth. She becomes 'Nata' for what she hoped to be the last time, hiding her hair under a grey scarf. Finally using some berries that she was given for breakfast along with some soot from the fireplace, she spread the mixture below her right eye covering the patch there as well as hopefully creating something just unremarkable enough that it would serve as a disguise of sorts. Going downstairs, she haltingly thanked Raben along with Gleb while also saying her own good bye. Leaving the inn, she eventually separated from Gleb under the guise of looking for work but in reality looking for something or someone else entirely.
Meeting with Raben
The town square is centered amongst three central parts of the city: the open-air market, the market district, and administrative district. However the party spends their morning, the hour draws near in which you must meet with Raben and finally start this accursed investigation. The square is wide, and some denizens of Hanweir can be seen traversing its area as they head to and from the market and market district, some with carts or livestock. The area smells of farm goods and animals of all kinds. The people speak of the werewolf attack that occurred late last night, though if you would look at the scene, you would notice almost all evidence of it was removed, other than any damage to the clawed buildings and the hole in the side of the Wandering Heron. Instead they speak of another scene, where the lycanthrope first struck: very near one of the guard posts in the palisade, many guards were found dead, massacred. Evidently the werewolf made its way through them before it found the party.
Raben stands near a post, apparently studying the pinned papers fixed to it, a pained look to his face. He has a small booklet in his hands, and he writes in it. Seeing his comrades approach he pays it mind no longer and puts his journal away. He makes small talk as you wait for everyone to arrive.
"Good," he says once everyone is present, "I hope your mornings have been good. We shall meet the Mayor Garensun. His offices are on his estate, in the upper part of the administrative district. If you'll follow me."
Traversing the administrative district, you pass by several government or service buildings. A press, a courier station, what looked to be a mint under construction besides a bank, the district chapel which was larger and in better keep than Whitemark, a barracks, the court house. Hanweir was practically a city, isolated as it was in the edge of Gavony, bordering the province of Kessig and its Ulvenwald.
Mayor Garensun's estate was a guarded, fenced area. Black iron fences with sharpened speared tips surrounded its area, with many men and woman traversing its perimeter. Raben made short work of entering this high-profile space, however, and the guard had made mention that Raben and his band have made waves in the mouths and minds of people of Hanweir along with where you'd find the mayor's office. Some of you, having tried to visit the mayor before, were stopped here at the guard's station, and now finally step onto the premises for the first time. The home itself was a mansion, spreading across wide with a wing on either side, making a sort of 'H' that was two stories tall. You proceed to the right wing. Under an arch, a door with "Mayor Garenson's Offices" is plated to its face. Raben turns to his accompaniment. "I'd imagine there's a waiting area, but I wouldn't believe his office itself can withhold the lot of us. I'll take two with me to speak with the good mayor."
On the way to the estate Malekus spends most of the walk talking with Raben. He learns that the man was an Arm of Avacyn. They trade tales of towns that they protected in the name of the church. Malekus confesses that lately he has spent more time in verbal arguments with disillusioned townsfolk questioning the disappearance of Avacyn. He is excited that the cathar was able to get them through the gate that had barred his was the previous day. After they reach the office and Raben asks who will join him, Malekus takes a moment to reflect on the situation. Malekus notices Gerard hanging back, more intent on scanning the grounds. He reflects that the group he is with seems very capable in a fight and would hopefully prove themselves with the investigation.
He turns and addresses the group “I know some of you were sent here on a mission from the church. I wish to lend my aid to your cause. Last night you all showed your abilities in a fight for our lives but this will require a more nuanced skill. I wish to investigate this strange curse and free this town from the looming omen. I will defer to you brothers Syd and Raben on who should be present for this encounter but I do hope we have unrestrained access to perform an investigation and cleanse this town."
“Raben,” - Syd asked, approaching the Parish-Blade on their way to the Mayor’s office - “A word in private, if you would not mind.” The Cathar and the Priest would move away from the group ever so slightly, to have a short conversation. Now, of course, during a trip like this, with as many people as it had and little to no time to lose, ‘privacy’ was a hard commodity to come by. Meaning, any who wanted to eavesdrop would probably be able to with no real difficulty. Those who did would hear Syd mention something about a Nightbird, and how curses, Eldritch blades and giant carrion were not unfamiliar to either of them, as well as how the chat with the Mayor would hopefully prove interesting.
Joseph stopped when he reached the town square, and glanced around. Wearing only his swords, armor, and duster—his pack, bow, and quiver he left in his room—he spotted Raben and approached him. But he left the cathar to his work, instead choosing a nearby boulder to keep company. There he sat and wordlessly observed the people of Hanweir going about their business. He watched as familiar faces arrived, some of them more familiar than others: the holy man with the staff, the crazed inquisitor, Syd, the squirrel-man, and the Stensian girl. His gaze lingered, if only slightly, on Nata. When Raben began leading the party to the estate, the hunter briefly stopped by the post, examining the papers pinned upon it. Then he silently caught up, and walked beside Raben to the Mayor's house. When the cathar speaks, Joseph sniffs, takes a step back, and begins surveying the estate grounds.
The Mayor of Hanweir
The day isn't greyer than any of the past week that you have experienced. The wind blows lazily from the south, carrying the wooden scent of the Ulvenwald. It's as if the previous night had never happened, honestly. Guards make their rounds across the perimeter of the mayor's estate, and servants and other Hanweir officials come and go from the main entrance.
"Syd, Malekus, if you wouldn't mind," Raben continues. He opens the door and allows his two requested to follow. You now tread on wool mat, intended to stamp the dirt and grime from the outside. The rest of the entryway is linoleum, fashioned from minerals no doubt from a stone quarry some miles away. Raben, as official as ever, makes short work of coercing the desk assistant to allow them audience with the good Mayor Garensun. Behind her desk, a little to the left is a darkly-finished door with a golden knocker and handle. In an engraved plate it says 'Mayor Jurgen Garensun - One with the Community, the Community as One'.
Momentarily surprised by the Parish-Blade’s choice of partners for this chat, before having an ‘Aha’ moment when he’d heard the Cathar utter the words ‘The Church’. It made perfect sense for this visit to look as official as possible. Noting the irate constable passing through the group, the man would have a gander around the room, to get a sense for who this Garensun was, and arrange his ideas in order to come away from this conversation, hopefully, with less questions than when he went in.
You hear several voices in heated discussion inside, but after a moment it quiets down. Shortly afterward, the door swings open on well-oiled hinges. A man exits, perhaps a sheriff or constable, and angrily vacates the premises. Raben grabs hold of the door before it closes. "Mayor Garensun, the Church would like a word."
A portly voice answers, begrudgingly. "Yes, of course. Come in."
Mayor Garensun appears as his voice sounds. Stout, rounded and stocky. His cheeks and nose are flushed red and his hair and beard are as grey as the sky outside. A silver chain hangs from his dark green vest's chest pocket. He sits behind a blackened wooden desk with papers and writing implements about it. Books and scrolls line a bookcase to his right, and a closed glass display case is placed against the wall to his right. Two cushioned leather chairs with brass studs are before his desk.
Malekus spends the first few seconds in the room taking in the rich wood furniture and the portly man who oversees the township. Glancing at the pristine tomes lining the shelves they seem to be mostly record keeping and official documentation. The glass case catches his eye, he takes a mental inventory of its contents. He turns his attention to the man, Jurgen Garensun. Malekus elects to remain standing after the introductions and listens intently as Raben outlines the reason for the visit.
"What is it?" The Mayor Garensun asks.
Without sitting, Raben places the Avacynian missive documentation in reading position before the official. The mayor grunts and clears his throat a few times as he leans forward, placing small, circular reading glasses from his pocket on the bridge of his nose. He takes several minutes, making small reading hmphs as his eyes treat the coarse of inked lettering, his forehead now coated in thin layer of sweat.
"I see. You've come about the grave. It says here you are to investigate. What exactly does that entail? These two going to read the mana at the murder site?" He points at Syd and Malekus with his knuckled chin.
"No, sir mayor. These two are with Flight Goldnight; they do not read the signs of mana. We've come to see the body; I'm understanding that the deceased is already buried. We will have to exhume him."
The mayor chokes and coughs on his breath. He brings a cloth to his mouth. "Excuse me?! What blasphemy is this? The boy is in the ground, you wish to desecrate his resting place?!"
“Our sincerest apologies, Mayor. But in what we’ve heard from the townsfolk...” - Syd interrupted the angry tirade, with a tone that was authoritative, but polite - “They seem to believe your town is cursed. And the rumours of this would-be curse being linked to the death of the very boy you refer to, are beginning to spread. This kind of dissent can be dangerous. Would it not set their minds at ease to know that the Church is doing everything that they can to investigate?”
Rhetoric was never Syd’s strong suit. The members of his Flight seldom suffered foolishness or indignation to begin with. To most, there was the assignment and nothing else. As a result, though idiosyncratic he may be, this Cleric’s words were typically to the point and could even border on callous. But, if anyone could get away the occasional lack of tact, it would be a man of the Cloth. One who spoke for Church and Angels.
"Hanweir isn't cursed!" he begins incredulously. "We're plagued! More and more ghouls in the moors have been sacking our farms, some farmers are losing crops to blight, and evidently," he adds, making an exaggerated gesture, "black albatrosses have been scaring away any trader or passerby. The Church should be seeing to it that these provincial menaces are dealt with! I've already began funding the construction of a completely stone wall to surround Hanweir. It should commence in the next few seasons."
“You misunderstand,” - Syd replied, his interest peaked by the man’s response - “This is a matter of perception. Your constituents are convinced that the troubles befalling the town relate to the felling of poor Pitre. As a result, whether you believe the rumours or not is beside the point. The fact is, these fears will continue until they are assuaged. The ability to quell those voices is something we can offer. If you have us leave however, then there is a chance that you might be fanning the flames of dissent. And in my experience, that does not usually work out well for those in public office...” - the Priest added, placing one hand on the Mayor’s desk before leaning over and whispering sweetly, with a smile blossoming across his face - “... Nor does not impeding the Church, for that matter.”
With a warm smile Malekus inserts himself into the tense conversation. His tone is even and jovial as he attempts to lighten the mood. He places and hand on Syd's shoulder and releases the energy of the cantrip he has been preparing.
“What I believe my colleague is trying to say that the church is working tirelessly to protect the good of all. We are all brothers and sisters in faith. Mayor Garensun having a ever bleeding corpse is a desecration of sacred ground and should be dealt with by the church. We carry with us the light of Avacyn and have the blessing of our flight's leader Gisela. We are equipped to deal with this curse properly.” The holy symbols and emblems in the armor of the two priests becomes more noticeable as the cantrip's effect begins to take full effect.
He continues as if the effect is completely normal, “I too have heard the rumors that the divine protection has been waning recently but I assure you we are all working towards a safer and more prosperous realm. We can request more regular patrols from Thraben or even a contingent of the Arms be deployed here, if we are provided the support we request during our investigation.” He turns back to look at the Cather and winks, “Isn't that right Raben?”
He puts on another warm smile as he returns his gaze and gestures to the man behind the desk. “I noticed a wonderfully inspired decree that all citizen are compelled to attend daily church ceremonies while the curse remains in effect. Surely the man who thought to unite his people is daily prayer would turn to the holy church's anointed servants for aid in purging the corruption? We would also make it known that our presence was requested by a Mayor who had the best interest of his people at the front of his mind.”
The Hanweir mayor only continues his contempt. "The daily attendance at the Lightspire Chapel was meant to put the people at ease! To curb the rumors! Bah! It's only strengthened their beliefs! Requesting aid from the Cathedral was meant to be a show of good faith, to quiet the town's people! I didn't think anyone would actually make their way here! Not when Tr- not when travesty happens across all of the provinces! This is why we've taken to our own!"
“I understand your plight. This is why I’ve refrained from giving you the pious and friendly speech that Brother Malekus here” - he’d motion politely to Malekus, before turning back to the Mayor - “Has delivered so well. But I don’t believe you’re the intended audience. How or why is not my concern, but clearly you lack faith in the church. And so you dislike our presence here regardless of the solutions we may bring.”
“Your people. They’re in the exact same situation you are. Only, where you deny us, they see us as the only tool that can get the job done. And, like your own personal feelings, theirs won’t be changing any time soon.”
Raising an arm to either side and offering a shrug of the shoulders, Syd would offer the Mayor a look that seemed to read ‘What can you do?’, before continuing - “So here are the practical terms, for a practical man. If you allow us to conduct our investigation to its full extent, we will allow you to parade us through the streets, put on our best smiles and let you regain the very support that seems to be waning. Or you could turn us away. And in the process tell your people you’ve turned your backs to the only ones who could deliver them from evil in what they believe to be their hour of need. So. What’ll it be?”
The Hanweir mayor glowers in a guff grunt. "So be it." He grabs the letters along with plumage and inkwell and begins signing his concurrence on the Avacynian missives. "See to it that as soon as you rid my town of my people's plight, you abscond yourselves. There." He hands the documents back to Raben. "Exhume the poor lad, and be sure to keep what you find between yourselves and I. Hanweir doesn't need anymore doomsayers."
With that, Raben bids the good mayor adieu and the two Goldnight mages vacate the premises with him, reuniting with the rest of the party outside the entryway. "Well, I had hoped that would have gone better," Raben states finally after a moment of silence.
Stowing Away
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Raben's entourage, young Nata has absconded into the manor as servants and other come and go for her own ends. She hopes to find a clue, any clue, and traverses thee mansion, room by room, unfailingly hidden from any eye or ear that would perceive her.
Walking purposefully but quietly down the hall wearing a borrowed apron and carrying a cloth, Yesfir carefully peered into each room she passed with no more than a brief glance. The trick to sneaking in anywhere, as she had discovered long ago, was not to sneak. If you looked and acted as if you belonged, as if there was someplace urgent you had to be and you knew exactly how to get there, no one would question your presence. Add in the inevitable invisibility of a servant in a clearly busy household, getting in bad been all to easy. Finding what she was looking for in the other hand while not actually looking like she was searching for anything- now that was a tricky part.
Turning her head slightly as she passed yet another door, her eyes caught the brief sight of books, shelves upon shelves of books. Turning promptly on her heels, she entered the room leaving the door exactly as she found it. Standing in front of the book shelves, she frowned with her hands on her hips. There was so many books. Running the cloth along the shelves in the pretense of dusting, her eyes quickly scanned the shelves looking for anything that looked for anything familiar. Finally she spots a familiar image, a heraldic device. Grabbing the book eagerly, she laid it out on an out-of-the-way table. Looking up, she ensured that she couldn't immediately be seen. Satisfied, she began to quickly flip through it. With each page she paused, giving a little shake of her head, before going to the next one. Turning yet another page, her fingers trembled as she softly traced the image of a silver crescent moon overlapped by a golden sword. It was a simple image, hardly worthy of the color and the card the artist so clearly took with it.
Realizing time was short, she quickly yanked off the ring from her right-hand thumb, taking the cloth in her hand to knock off the clay she had coated the valuable trinket in order to hide its value. Once clean, she ran a reverent hand over it as she held it next to the book. Inside the wide silver band was a curiously cut light-blue stone that reflected the light oddly, as it's nearly flat surface was marred by weird ripples and grooves. Dismissing the puzzle of the gem for another time, Yesfir tilted the ring so she could look at the carving that was inside the band. The two images were identical. Placing the ring back on her finger, she began to look for some way to copy the page even as she eagerly tried to read what information it contained.
Hurriedly grabbing a sheet a paper, Yesfir began the tedious and slow process of trying to make a copy of the page she had found. Silent moments pass until suddenly she heard footsteps outside the door. Making a split-second decision, she tore the page with the matching image to her ring along with a few others just to be safe, closed the book, replaced it and began to dust the shelves as she began to carefully make her exit. Using the same methods that had gained entrance to the building in the first place, she exited with no one the wiser to her brief exploration.
Humming a tavern dirty about a lass named Sally, she wove her way back to where the rest of the group waited for Raben, stopping occasionally to gather a random wild flower. Plopping herself a safe distance from the men, her humming turned to a childish song as she began to weave her gathered flowers into a crown, her joy clearly showing in the sly grin tracing her face. Finally. Finally. After years of not knowing, she finally had a name: Sarka.
Outside the Mayor's Office
When the three depart, Joseph walks to the base of the arch and sits, facing away from the building. He leans his head back against the masonry and closes his eyes.
Garreth quietly waits outside the Mayor’s office while the others talk. He had already met with the man and it hadn’t gone well. He hoped that him not being involved in their discussion would yield different results.
When the rest of the party gathered at the town square, Gerard quietly introduces himself to each person. Afterwards, he keeps quiet and accompanies them to the Mayor's home. Content to remain waiting just outside the mayor's office, Gerard begins to quietly observe the area around him. He notes the activity of the servants, the movements of the guards. He notes the smells of people, horses, livestock, and manure mixed with the smell of of the Ulvenwald drifting from the south. The smell brings back memories of home and love ones lost, and happy days and of terror.
Stirring himself out of reverie, Gerard approaches the man that stated his name is Joseph leaning against one of the walls, but decides to not disturb him. A bit of time after the three churchmen have gone in to speak to the mayor, Gerard sees a young lady leaving the estate accompanied by two guards. She is dressed as one may expect of a lady her age that comes from a family of wealth and appears headed for the marketplace. "This must be Lorelei," he thinks to himself.
"Excuse me, Joseph. Sorry to disturb you. The young lady leaving the estate I believe is the mayor's daughter Lorelei. I have been told she knew the young man Pitre. I am going to try to speak to her. Will you please tell the others that I will either return here or meet them in the town square. Thank you very much!" Not waiting for a response, Gerard walks at a quick pace to catch to the young lady and guards.
The ranger opens his eyes, grasps his amulet, and lifts it slightly from his chest. "I'll tell Raben when he's out." He then closes his eyes again.
Speaking with the Mayor's Daughter
Once he approaches a respectful distance, he will speak up. "Excuse me, Miss Lorelei. My name is Gerard Waltgaud. May I speak to you a minute about a young man named Pitre?"
The guard are quick to establish a protective stance that shows a willingness to be on the offensive, but the young lady speaks without pause or slowing in her step. She wears a grey gown with white lines embroidered throughout her form that shadow her light frame. "I am on my way to Palmbriar Monastery, sir. Be quick, I do not wish to forestay here much longer." A carriage can be heard pulling up by the periphery of the mayor's grounds and seems to be slowing down as it nears the gates.
Gerard will match pace with the young lady. "Palmbriar Monastery? There are some good people there that are in the same profession as me; only I am not a member of the church proper. What can you tell me about Pitre, his death, and the one who slew him? Anything that you can remember may help even if you think it insignificant. His grave poisons the land. We must stop this and make sure that Pitre is undisturbed in the rest that he has earned."
"Sir Waltgaud, I would much appreciate not to speak about the matter. It is a cursed subject and I can't b-", she falters in her speech, as if holding herself from breaking. Her eyes sheen with water as she bites her lip. "I really can't. If you'll excuse me, Sir Waltguad. May Avacyn bless you and be merciful in your sleep."
"Thank you for your time Lady Garensun. I do appreciate it. I wish you a safe journey." Seeing that pursuing the matter further will only upset the young lady and not gain anything, Gerard stops and allows Lorelei and her escort to complete the walk to the carriage without him. He will stand there until the carriage leaves and give a simple wave goodbye. Looking down at the ground for a moment Gerard cuckles quietly for a moment. "Sir Waltgaud! Nice manners, but talk about dressing up a pig."
Since he was not gone for only a few minutes, Gerard returns to the courtyard where he was waiting before.
Returning to the Group and on to the Bloodied Grave
Joseph looks up. "You find out about that sword? Or who's got it?" He brings himself to his feet, and stretches.
“The Mayor wanted to prevent us from accessing the body.” - the Priest remarked - “He’d refused the Inquisitor’s service already, and refused to comment on his daughter’s involvement with the deceased. It is entirely possible that this is simple bias, but odds are he knows more than he’s letting on. Either way, we should move with caution, because if we rattle too many cages we’ll be risking having our access revoked.” - Syd said, furrowing his brow and gripping the bridge of his nose with his right index and thumb.
“... This makes no sense. Vampires, a curse, now werewolves. There are even claims of ghouls and a giant bird preying on townsfolk. These creatures are territorial. How could they coexist?” - a sigh escaped his lips as his hand moved from his nose to rub his forehead. “There is something seriously wrong with this town. And by the looks of it, we’re on our own. Does anyone know the whereabouts of the Mayor’s daughter?” - the holy man inquired of the party when they were a good distance away from the man’s office.
As they walk, Joseph considers Syd's words. “He might know more than he'll admit,” the ranger says, eyes moving about the droves of people, “an’ it might just be he ain’t keen on the church to begin with.”
“Look around.” The ranger nods towards a passing group of militiamen. “How many cathars you see here in Hanweir? I’ve been out and about this morning, and I’ll tell you: there ain’t hardly none. In fact, you four are about the only folk I’ve seen from the Church of Avacyn all day. You think he don’t want your help ‘cos he knows something. I think he’s just tired of relying on the Church for protection. Can’t say I blame him,” Joseph adds after a pause. “Pretty sure he’d be a popular mayor down in Kessig.”
“I spoke briefly to the mayor’ daughter, Lorelei. She was very upset and wouldn’t speak about Pitre. She was also in a hurry. Her and some guards got on a carriage. She said they were on the way to Palmbriar Monastery. She did not say why.” Gerard looks a little dejected, and then asks, “What is this about a giant bird?”
"Not sure what to make of that," Raben answers the druid ,then continues. "But a day prior, we encounted a witch who shapeshifted into a large black crow. Perhaps they are one and the same."
“I agree that he knows more than he is letting on.” Malekus chimes in. Looking to the shapechanger he says “The mayor mentioned a dark albatross that has been harrying travels near the town as one of the many problems they wish the church to take care of. Such a concentration of abominations is a bad omen. These people do not deserve the looming doom that hangs over this town.” The mayor’s daughter may provide some insight into the man at the head of this town but that may only bring more questions, he thinks to himself. The real answer lies buried with that body. They had permission now to examine it but not share publicly what they find. He smiles warmly to the group as he says, “I know it is not the most dignified worked but I would prefer to break ground at the cemetery during the day than under the light of the moon. I vote we begin our investigation there.”
An eternal optimist he has a smile and a spring in his step as the group sets out from the manor. He will bring some light into the gloomy town even if it is only a kind word from a brother of the faith.
Joseph grunts an affirmation. "I ain't got a deathwish. The moon is still all but full. We got no business outside at night. If people got a problem with us working during the day, they can go pound sand."
As the group makes its way through the administration district, the hunter is peering at each of the buildings in turn, a puzzled expression on his face. After a few minutes of rubbernecking at the various placards and hanging wooden signs, lips moving silently to himself, he turns to the cleric, his voice low and betraying a hint of frustration. "Syd. Who do you suppose knows how to find people? People who'll know that farmer we buried yesterday? An' the courier back near Thraben? Someone who can track down friends of theirs. Or family. Seems to me one of these buildings'd have someone like that."
Syd places a hand on Joseph's shoulder, leans in close, and whispers in his ear while pointing at various buildings. The hunter nods. "All right. I'll probably come on down in the morning, when we ain't got more important things to do. Those bodies ain't going nowhere."
The Bloodied Grave
The Hanweir grafs are behind the Lightspire Chapel, which is a decent walk from the mayor's estate through the town's administrative district. You see the same buildings having past them from the other side of town, crossing the chapel before on your way to speak with Mayor Garensun. Arriving to the gated perimeter of the grafs, the scent of aged limestone and sodden earth fills your nostrils as you pass cement fence posts. You see guardsmen in rivetted metallic armor posted in front of its vine-wreathed gates. They initially oppose the group's encroachment, but Raben trustfully makes short work of their opposition.
The iron gates creak on their rusted hinges and you walk through, your steps making dull crunches as your feet fall on a pebbled path. It is silent here other than these noises, as you walk amongst the stone aisles. Many of the headstones are Avacynian in make, with carvings of her collar or of angels watching over the body as its spirit sleeps, but newer tombs don't have such reverence.
Joseph looks around as he walks. After the party is a few minutes past the gates, he turns to Raben. "Why've they got two types of graves? How come the old ones are so fancy?"
Garreth takes in the details of the graveyard, happy that the group was able to secure what he could not alone- access to the body of Pitre. He doesn't care what they had to agree to make it happen, just as long as his work can proceed.
The cathar takes note of the ranger's perceptiveness. "I believe Hanweir was more devout in the past. With the current mayor, they've taken a turn, even in their blessed sleep."
As you round a turn to the right, the pebbles are no longer and you tread on peat grass. But even this begins to yellow and completely die off as you near Pitre's grave. You begin to hear buzzing, light at first but now insistent. The gravel and dirt of the ground begins to stick and cling to your soles, and you notice a stark change in its color- a deep scarlet halo stains the earth where Pitre's body lies. There are flies infesting the boy's tombstone allowing only glimpses of his epitaph as they crawl and scurry. "Here lies -- Pitre Thatcher -- Hero of Hanweir -- Ava. 702 - 719"
"Dear Avacyn, this is repulsive." Malekus states as he approaches and takes in the horrible site of the grave. "Does anyone know more about the Hero of Hanweir here? I am not familiar with the title or the poor boy's story."
Placing the wreath she had woven on her head, making sure to set it askew, Yesfir trailed behind the men, humming idly under her breath. Strangely, none of them seem to question her presence. They seemed to take little notice of her at all. No doubt they were distracted by other more pressing matters than wondering why she hadn't simply stayed at the manor after supposedly looking for a job there. Their distraction was overall a good thing as it meant she had been able to tend to her own errand, even if she still had questions for the mayor. One look around the manor had been enough to make her realize she wouldn't be able to get him alone and even if she did, he would be in no mind to answer her questions no matter how cleverly asked. No, the mayor was a dead end, at least for now, but thanks to her little trip she now has another lead that she couldn't wait to read in private. So despite the pages burning a hole in her pocket, she tagged along for little more than idle curiosity. After all, it wasn't every day one got to see such a sight and the tale might see her fed for many a night.
The graveyard, when they finally arrived, was unremarkable. She had seen many like it at home, too many really, and often far more simpler. The ground was hard at home in Stensia and it was difficult enough work to dig a deep enough grave, let alone marked beyond a simple pile of dug-up stone. Looking around, everything seemed...normal to her, if strangely quiet. It was only when they drew nearer to Pitre's grave that things began to change.
It was the stench that struck her first. The sharp iron tinge of blood mixed with earth, rot, and decay turning the air foul as swarms of flies broke the stillness of the cemetery with their buzzing. And the blood. So much blood. Turning the ground crimson, the earth sodden with it. Gagging, Yesfir turned away from the sight, her eyes closed tightly as she fought against memories. Blood had been everywhere. Not red, but dark, thick and drying as flies buzzed above a bloated corpse. Shuddering, she banished the image again even as bile filled her throat causing her hand over and cough as she fought against the urge to vomit.
Ironically, cemeteries were a good thing for members of the Flight of Goldnight. They, who were dispatched pretty much exclusively to deal with worst case scenarios, where bodies were being raised or preyed upon, this... seeing so many at rest, was soothing. That realization made in his mind reminded Blackmore of just how messed up his job was. Regardless, their little stroll had been going well, and soon enough the orderly graves were displayed before him. This site fully displayed the town’s secular leaning, which could be fair. The Priest himself had his moments of doubt, so why couldn’t the common man?
Unfortunately, as soon as the putrid stench and mushy earth, factors the mayor conveniently forgot to mention in his holier-than-thou speech, the little voice in the back of his head grew increasingly more concerning. The question of whether or not the daughter was skipping town, and how that managed to coincide with the arrival of a party sent by the Cathedral, nipped at him with renewed vigor. Alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Evidently, the young Pitre - or his remains, at least - required his full attention. So, releasing a long exhale to purge all other thoughts and focus on the assignment before him. Anything less might just result in casualties.
Gerard noted that the young lady that was with then this morning was accompanying them to the cemetery. He thought that she was supposed to be looking for work at the manor house, but perhaps they did not hire her. She seems a little off, humming to herself and wearing a wreath as if they were going to a celebration. "Whom am I to judge?" Gerard thought to himself. He wasn't sure of her relationship with the rest of the group and in fact knew little about any of them.
After entering the cemetery, it is the foul stench that hits Gerard first, a putrid smell of blood and sickness. The ground begins to soften and Geard stops and starts to circle around to examine the grave not wanting to step on the blood soaked earth. "Oh dear mother," Gerard mutters softly, "no wonder you are in such pain. The foulness is worse than I thought!"
Once he has made a complete circle of the grave Gerard will stop and mutter arcane words softly to himself. If anyone was paying close attention they would see his eyes glow for just a second and then fade to their normal hue. Gerard will say loudly enough for everyone in the party to hear, but not to anyone in particular, "I see the black aura of necromantic magic on this grave. It is the strongest and foulest I have ever experienced. Its poison will continue to spread if nothing is done to stop it."
Gerard will then continue to examine the grave and the area around it looking for some clue as to the cause of affront to man and nature.
Joseph squints his eyes and takes in the grisly scene. He sniffs the air tentatively. Then he looks to Raben. "It won't be much worse than shoveling old, rotten horseshit out of a springtime stable." He takes off his duster and drapes it over a nearby tombstone, away from the blood-sodden mess. Then he removes his sword belt and leans the blades against the same stone. Returning his eyes to Raben, he says, "Where's the shovel?"
The sound of shovels spiking the earth, displacing dirt, grunts and heavy breaths is steady and rhythmic. Raben along with a partner remove the blood-caked dirt shovel-full by shovel-full. It is heavy, and plasters itself against the tools' metal blades, requiring either a gloved hand or boot to peel or scrape off. As they dig deeper, a blood-curdled mud begins to fill the hole, now above the differ's soles. The digging is traded off among other members. Garreth and Joseph were in the hole now, almost two feet down, before Gerard begins to speak up.
Before he can finish his sentence, the sides of the grave erupt with teeming, red-slicked tiny things in a stomach turning slurp. The sounds of their multitudes of legs skittering over the ground and through the mud is nauseating as an infestation of rotgrubs has poured forth into the space of Pitre's resting place, and threaten to overcome the two unfortunates within it.
Infestation
While Joseph and Garreth begin digging up the grave, Gerard stands away from the blood soaked ground quietly speaking in a strange tongue. In order to conserve mystical energy he weaves the incantation together slowly. When it is complete his awareness is extended and he can feel rather than see sources of disease. They are wiggling through soft dirt coming closer to Garreth and Joseph. As the things are at the edge of the hole that has been dug, he shifts his perception back to the mundane. Gerard begins to speak, but too late. Rotgrubs burst from the sides of the grave and attempt to swarm the two men that were busy shoveling earth.
Gerard rushes over and shouts, "Quick! Get out of there" He extends his hand and grasping one of Joseph's arms and pulls, helping the woodsman out of the grave.
"What the?" When the vermin come sloshing down from the embankment, Joseph flinches, lurching back to the center of the hole, splashing curdled blood-water and tacky mud onto his and Garreth's shins. He flings the shovel onto the bank, then reaches out to grip Gerard's hand. The druid quickly pulls the hunter up next to him, out of the hole. There the ranger retrieves his shovel, and grips it with both hands, poising to strike.
As the wave of rotgrubs chitter and hiss, they spill into the partially-dug grave. A swarth of them, climb onto Garreth's body but cannot seem to find entrance beneath his clothes or armor.
The chitinous creatures were swarming in the hole. He watches one of his champions escape the confined space but the other is being overrun. Muttering an incantation under his breath the ball of white energy forms in his left hand as he traces a symbol in the air. He hurls it at the creature attempting to swarm onto Garreth. The ball impacts the wet earth beside the creature harmlessly.
Standing with her back turned, Yesfir hugged herself, wincing a little at the sound of each shovel full of mud that landed beside the grave. Fighting against memories, she regretted the curiosity the brought her here and the weakness that kept her with her back turned to the grave. At the sound of the muffled curses and the uncanny clicking of hundreds of insects, Yesfir whirled around, legs momentarily paralyzed as the squirrel-man quickly stepped forward to assist the ranger out of the hole and the fat priest lifted his hand to release a ball of pure energy towards the swarm only to miss. The insects screeched, swarming, biting, hungry, devouring, destroying. Anger filled her as her vision went momentarily white, her eyes flashing silver as her vision cleared and an angry snarl poured from her throat.
Rushing forward last the others, she knelt next to the grave reaching her hand to the inquisitor, "Come on, grab hold!" Her voice for once at her normal power register, her Stensian accent thick and pronounced . Gripping his forearm as the man clambered out, Yesfir pulled him from the shallow grave, stumbling backwards a few steps with momentum before finally regaining her footing as the insects continued to swarm around the grave.
The pit of squirming and writhing insects dissects further, with a pulsing arm separating from the teeming mass and reaching Syd, but he is quick to action. With a small, quick blessing, he thrusts his holy focus and it expels a blinding light, pushing back the tide of pests, preventing them from getting under his attire.
Garreth nods thanks to Yesfir for the assist out of the hole but then turned and, very business-like, whipped out an oil flask, dumping the contents all over the bugs and used his tinderbox to light the things on fire. He hoped it would not end up destroying evidence, but there really was no other way to deal with the swarm of creatures.
Surrounded by bugs trying to get under his skin, the holy man stepped back out of their reach, and summoned a ball of radiant energy to smite the insects scrounging off of the dead body.
Dividing further, about half of the swarm left in the pit escapes the hole and scurries over its edge. This army reaches the soles and boots of Raben, who frantically swats and bats at the tiny things. Fortunately, they do not find entry to his skin and flesh. Brandishing his shortsword, he hacks at what vile pests he can, swatting them away from his body.
One final mass remains in half-dug grave, causing the muddied blood to slosh and spittle as they move. These swarms consist of foul bottom-feeders and parasites. Ticks, some already bloated and full to burst. Fat, black leeches and large segmented worms. Various maggots and larval species. Hide beetles and carrion beetles with sharp incisors and pincers. No doubt all disease-ridden.
As Gerard helps Joseph out of the grave, he doesn't notice danger following him. Pain lights up both of Gerard's legs and he almost passes out from the intensity. As soon as Joseph is clear Gerard holds his right hand up at chest, palm up fingers spread apart and curled upwards. He speaks a single strange word and orange and red flames appear in his upturned palm. They burn without fuel and don't harm Gerard's hand. He flings to flames out of his hand to the ground where many of foul insects that bit him are crawling on the ground. The flames mages to destroy , some but not all of the swarm. The smell of charred bugs wafts up and joins the fumes of insects burrowing already in the grave.
His face alight with determination, Joseph begins flailing away at the ground with his shovel. With each swing, he lets loose a short grunt of effort tinged with disgust; with each blow landed, the shovel head resonates with a wet, metallic slap, the staccato note hollow and accompanied by the sickening sound of crunching carapaces.
Leaving the flames of the druid, the assortment of beetles, leeches, and worms vacates the magical flame and engulf the small form of Yesfir. They stab, sting, and bite into her skin, but cannot break through. Her silver scale-speckled skin, it seems, is more durable than your average Stensian.
The foul insects are relentless in their assault. Malekus watches them continue to swarm out of the hole and engage the other members of his group. He begins the incantation and a ball of pure raw mana begins to form in his palm. As he is about to release it one of the swarms produces an alien-like clicking as it begins to chew on the lady’s cloths. The desecration of the hallowed ground is so repulsive the mana fizzles out in his hand before he can complete the spell.
His attack not being forceful enough, the tide of grave grubs scour and pour themselves all over the Avacynian cleric. This time they find entry to his flesh between the folds of his clothing and armor, piercing his skin with many pincers and incisors, tearing and latching onto Syd throughout his body.
The swarms of insects, the ground moist with the never-ending blood, the smell of iron heavy in the air all feed into this horror scene before him. He sees one group of insects’ swarms onto the cleric and Malekus reacts by invoking a holy incantation to close his wounds. Unfortunately, he is unable to concentrate, and the spell does not have much effect.
Turning the frustration and fear into a rage he attempts once more to call forth the pure mana to smite one of the swarms. As he begins to channel his power, he is flashed back to an encounter he had previously with some alchemically modified insects. After taking over the watch from Caen, the night is calm and peaceful. He noticed a small centipede crawling along a nearby rock and as his attention is focused on it, an audible clicking begins to play in his ears. As he tracks the small insect it scurries behind a larger rock. The clicking is growing more intense, but he is unable to locate the source of the noise. Suddenly an abomination of cobbled together insectoids burst from the earth before him. It lets out a piercing screech as it overwhelms the duo of Arms. They were forced to flee that night in a mad dash. The maddening screeches trailing them for hours. As the memory fades so to does the glow in his palm. He is unable to act as he tries to regain his grip on reality.
Screeching and hissing, a section of the millions of insects continues to burn from Garreth's ignited oil. They squirm within the pit, seeking to dowse the flames with the blood-caked earth but to no avail. A black smoke wafts as many of them perish, leaving charred black husks over the crimson ground.
Feeling the tiny insect swarm cover her body, Yesfir shuddered as she took a step back as an angry growl fought its way out of her throat coming out as a curse, "Fi blestemat de mormânt!". Eyes flashing silver as cackling energy sparked from her hands even as they were overlapped by shadow. Sweeping her hand downwards across her body, a skeletal form overlapped them, extending out from her own hand swatting the insects away from her body. Getting ever slightly closer to the clergyman, she made a rude gesture at the foul creatures as she cursed them again, "Să nu te odihnești niciodată!"
The swarm overtaking Yesfir's body hiss and chitter in reaction to the cold, many of them freezing solid on the spot and falling to the ground. They climb off of her but not before finding softer parts of her flesh and riddling her body with pocks and scrapes. They collectively mass what's left of their multi-form to the edge of the grave. Before a fat, black leech escapes her, Yesfir stabs into it's bulbous body, stabbing it straight into the ground in anger.
Garreth, seeing Syd covered in the swarm, quickly turns to his comrade and slashes at them with both of his hand axes, greatly reducing the number of bugs attacking the wounded man.
These pesky little insects seemed to have made their way under his armour despite his attempts, and have given Syd some serious trouble. As a result, despite remaining within their area of attack, Syd would summon his divine powers to heal himself.
Raben, still riddled with worms and other bottom-feeders, writhes and wriggles whilst slashing at what groups of them he can see, killing the swarm insect by insect. Angels be praised, none have yet to find the holes in his armor.
Gerard looks around and see a swarm of nasty, hell-spawned insects near Yesfir. Summoning another flame into his hand, he throws the fire at the swarm hoping to destroy them before they can cause anymore harm.
The flames in the pit die out as does the squealing of insects, leaving only few of the multitude that had previously filled the grave. They scatter in all directions, burrowing into the dirt- out of sight, but perhaps not out of mind. At this point, half of the original infestation remains: one part assailing Syd and the other Raben.
Reeling from his flashback Malekus tries to focus his eyes back to the group as they are assaulted by the insect swarms. As his companions fight for their lives he steels his nerves and begins another invocation, “In terra te vidi abominationes tuas.” The ball of mana forms without issue this time and he hurls it at the swarm that has engaged the priest. The energy releases into the mass of writhing bugs and with a pop some of the ones that were engorged explode into a fine red mist. He is panting with the effort to control his emotions and to control the divine magic within himself.
Despite the steady progress of fighting off and killing the swarms, Raben is still covered in leeches and beetles. Despite his best efforts, this time they crawl through the kinks in his chain, the sleeves of his garb. The things latch and pull at his skin, drawing blood, soaking his white garments red from the inside. He shouts in pain for help, continuing to slash at what he can with his silver sword, doing little against the flood of insects.
Gerard looks to Raben in his distress and sees a large group of the insects about to crawl up his ankle. Taking careful aim Gerard launches an attack of magical flame at them. His aim is too careful as he overshoots his intended target, the fire harmlessly hitting the blood soaked ground.
At Raben’s shout for help, Joseph’s shovel falls from his hands with a muted thump against the soft earth. “Shit, raise your arms!” he says, springing to the cathar’s side. The hunter then begins swiping at Raben’s body and legs with open hands, knocking loose dozens of bugs and grubs swarming over the cathar’s body.
As Joseph swats the bugs from the cathar Malekus sees an opening to blast the swarm again. “Begone you foul scavengers” he shouts before muttering another incantation. He traces the symbols in the air and the ball of energy forms in his palm. He throws the sphere at the swarm that has been dislodged from Raben. The resulting release of energy causes a few crackling pops as more of the insects are evaporated.
Muttering another curse, Yesfir gestured with her hand sending a spectral skeletal hand that just barely clipped a few insects off Raben.
Crawling over the edge of the grave like a cascading waterfall, screeching and squirming, burrowing into the ground, the insects make their escape. After a moment, there is only remnants of this swarm visible.
Seeing the last of the swarm on the hunter, Garreth rushes to his assistance with another slashing attack, quickly making short work of the remaining bugs. He breathed a sigh of relief because he so hated bugs.
Joseph picks the last of the bugs off the cathar's bloody armor, throws them to the ground, and crushes them underfoot. "Avacyn, Raben! You all right?"
Rushing over to the bloodied Cathar, Syd would mutter the same arcane words he had when healing himself, and bathe the Parish-Blade in divine light which would mend some of Raben’s wounds. Once the individual was fine, Syd’s attention would be directed to the scabs on his arm that marked the remnants of the healed insect bites. Something was off about them. As a result, he looked. Closer and closer until, after a few long moments of pondering, the holy man finally decided to speak. “I’ll need to take a look at everyone’s bitemarks.” - he said, more serious than usual, taking one final glance at the party before having a eureka moment. “Forcemage,” - the cleric spoke, now directly facing Gerard, before inquiring - “How familiar are you with treating illnesses?”
Seeing the last of the insects flee, Gerard turns his attention to the wounded. He remembers the words of his mentor, "If a healer is injured, they must help themselves before they can help others." Gerards speak a few arcane words and his hands glows very briefly as his applies them to his wounds restoring to him some of the vitality stolen by the creature's attack. Seeing Raben attended to by Syd, Gerard notices that the strange young girl, Yesfir, has been badly injured as well. A strange young girl that he has just witnessed using magic, albeit a different kind than his own.
Gerard approaches Yesfir remembering his teachings on body language and how to to frighten a patient. "I can help with your injuries, but I have to touch you for a brief moment. Is that alright with you?" If Yesfir agrees, Gerard softly speaks an incantation and briefly touches the young woman on her shoulder for a moment. Gerard begins to say something further to Yesfir, when he hears Syd speak to him.
Turning toward the cleric he says, "I know that these creatures are infected with Ghoulflesh and Gravehold and that everyone, including myself, that was bitten by them are in serious danger from the diseases. I can create a poultice that when applied to the wounds will draw the sickness out, but I will need time to make it. The process needs to start at once. Time is critical. I will leave the investigation to you while I go and prepare it now. Meet me at the Witherhall, as soon as you can." Gerard gathers up his belonging and begins walking a at a quick gait out of the cemetery and back into the town proper. He checks his supply of herbs and briefly stops at the market to supplement his stock with more of the needed supplies for the poultice and more bandages. Gerard then travels quickly to the Witherhall, and asks to use the kitchen stating that he needs to prepare medicine for some very sick people.
Letting Syd administer his healing magic, Raben's pained expression wanes to calm and he sighs in relief. "Thank you, Syd. Much appreciated." When the ranger comes by asking Raben to lift his garments, he reveals what he can without removing his armor. Several pocks dot his skin, but there's no sign of malignant disease.
Malekus looks over the group as well. Disturbed by the recent events he wanders over to the hole to check on the swarms that scurried back to it. With no signs of movement or anything else jumping out of the hole at him, he says to the rest of the group "I will take the next shift of digging so that we can root out the source of this curse." He rolls up his sleeves and begins the work anew with a smile, that does not betray his disgust at the work before him.
After some poking and prodding, he slaps Raben on the back. "I don't think they got deep enough in. You should be all right. Might want to take some of the druid's medicine, if he's got any left. Just in case." Joseph bends and picks his shovel back up. After a cursory glance down into the pit, he jumps in next to Malekus and returns to work.
Anger still coursed through her body as she stood staring, glaring really at the departing insects. Biting, crawling, desiccating things. They devoured everything, leaving nothing behind. Or worse still, when they ate at the dying, finishing death's gruesome task- hollowing them out. Making them a morbid display of never ending hunger. Lost in thought, she almost didn't hear the odd man's offer, a stranger who had recently joined the men who seemed to be on some sort of quest. Nodding tersely at the squirrel-man's offer, Yesfir watched him sparingly as he muttered some strange words wincing as he touched her. She only relaxed when the touch had passed leaving her feeling ever so slightly stronger than before. Uneasy and wary, Yesfir didn't even get the chance to convey whatever reluctant gratitude she may have felt before the priest, not the fat one but the one she had traveled with, Syd, she remembered. He brought up the dangers of disease and the individual who had healed her disappeared rapidly off to return to the manor to hastily begin preparing whatever was needed to prevent such illnesses. Crossing her arms, she shifted away from the group unsettled and more than a little upset at her own stupidity. How could she be so careless? Why had she let the memories...the anger...to overwhelm her? To so blatantly use....whatever it was that shivered beneath her skin and hummer through her veins. Turning away once more, she walked away from the group, her hands clenching into fists as she wordlessly left the group to their morbid chore.
After settling into a rhythm with Joseph, they make short work of removing enough earth to unveil the coffin. As the shovels strike the wet wood the normal thud is dulled. The spades dig into the coffin slightly are they must work to dislodge them after the swings. The coffin is soaked in the thick crimson blood and reeks of iron, and as they excavate the soil surrounding it the blood pools in the empty space. Once there is enough space around the coffin Malekus asks Joseph, “Do you think we will be able to lift this thing? With the amount of blood coming out of it I bet it is filled to the brim and heavy as a boulder.”
The Druid and the Stowaway
Walking through a door, Gerard finds a small kitchen that has just been cleaned from breakfast service. "Ey, I am just about to start on lunch. I can't have you barging in 'ere," states a middle aged woman that must be the cook. "The owner said I can use a bit of the space to prepare medicine for some deathly ill people. I will need a couple of hours. If you don't mind serving a bit meat, cheese , and bread for lunch, I'll be out of your way before you have to start for dinner." Not waiting for a response, Gerard makes a space for himself at the kitchen work table, setting down his supplies. Seeing a pot that is already set on the stove to boil, Gerard says, "I will need to use this as well." Once he has everything set, Gerard draws out a knife and begins to work.
Yesfir's footsteps carried her back to the inn where she soon found the strange man who had healed her busy at work in the kitchen. Clearing her throat, Yesfir felt a pinch as she forced her voice up into the higher sweeter childish voice of her adopted persona, "Nata help?" She queried , gesturing at the pots. "Nata can cook. Or fetch. Very good at finding things. Say thank you. Squirrel make Nata feel well." Cocking her head, Yesfir waited for an answer, her fingers twisting and insisting on her skirt the only sign of her unease. She did want to help. It was the least she could do after he. ...did whatever he did to make her feel better. And maybe get some answers as well. After all, this stranger was the first person she had met with powers similar to her own who wasn't a priest, a vampire, or possessed. Yet it was different somehow, what he can do to what she could do if she cared too. And she found herself curious. She didn't understand....this power. Not his. And certainly not hers. And she wanted answers. That's why she had traveled so far in pursuit of nothing more than a name.....for answers.
Gerard will curiously look at Nata in the eye for a few seconds and say, "Thank you, Nata. I can use the help." Handing her a small knife and a few herbs he'll say, "Will you please cut these into four pieces each?" As they work in the kitchen , Gerard will ask Nata to do small tasks that she seems comfortable with. After a few hours work, Gerard will start spreading a thick, earthy smelling paste unto a couple of clean bandages. "Well, let's see if I did this correctly." Gerard then bandages his wounds with the paste against his skin. "The poultice is slightly warm to the touch and soothing to the wound. It seems like this is right."
Gerard then looks Nata in the eye, "Nata, your secrets are your own. I respect that, but if you ever want to talk, I'll listen." Gerard will then spread the paste on a couple of more fresh bandages. "Now, do you want me to bandage your wounds, or do you prefer to do it yourself?"
Growing up and working at the Abbey had taught her how to fend for herself, but she knew little of what the other man was doing. So she kept silent and followed instructions until he was finished. Once he was done, she looked askance at his words. Shaking her head she muttered under her breath, "Ceea ce nu spunem, nu poate face rău.". Holding up her hands, she said louder as she continued shaking her head. "Nata fine. All well. Squirrel fix. What name? Tell as we go? Help Raben? " Changing her posture, she held out her hands in the universal gesture of helping to carry something. She truly felt fine. She had been certainly been bitten by worse in the past and survived but she worried about Raben who had proven kind. The sooner they went back and took care of the other injuries, the better.
"Okay, I have no idea what some of those words were, but you're right. We need to go. My name is Gerard." Gathering up all of herbs and other gear, Gerard hands Nata a small satchel of bandages and he picks up a small jar of the completed medicine. He leaves a couple of sweet smelling herbs slowly boiling on the stove and tells the cook that if she lets the herbs to continue to boil slowly over an hour that the vapors should get rid of the foul smell created by making the poultice. Gerard walks with Nata back to the cemetery making small talk. Upon arrival, Gerard surveys the scene noting that the grave digging is nearly completed.
Removing the Coffin
"Whoever is ready and wishes, I can bind your wounds now with a mixture that will help your bodies fight off any disease the rot grubs may have spread to you." As he binds people he tells them that the medicine will be warm for about eight hours. After that they should remove the bandage and clean the area with fresh, clean water. "The medicine smells bad and once you remove the bandage, the inside will look dirty. Burn the bandage on a very hot fire after you take it off and don't breath in any of the smoke from it."
Joseph crawls out of the hole, jabs the shovel into the ground next to him and leaves it. "I ain't sure," he says, leaning forward to inspect his mud-and-blood-covered pants. He holds his hands out to see, turning them in the air; they're red with blood. "It's gonna be heavy, an' it's gonna be stuck. That mud's going to want to suck it back down the harder we pull. If we all got on the rope, we might be able to get it out. An' it might turn out we'll need a horse or two to get the damned thing out." He lowers his hands to his sides and peers down into the blood-filled hole. "We probably won't want the rope afterwards, either."
Malekus shouts up out of the hole "Did anyone see a horse on the way here?"
"Threg has a horse," the ranger replies. His gaze sweeps distant, in the direction of the inn. "Had a horse." He looks down into the hole and extends an arm to Malekus. "Why don't you get out of that blood. Nothing we can do in that hole 'til we get some rope and muscle out here. But I think the druid and the Stensian girl aimed to treat some of these bugbites first."
"Lotta new folks helping the Church with this business today," he continues, looking around at the party. "News travels fast. It must be a pretty important thing, this corpse."
Gerard will look up from bandaging the last of the party members that were bitten. “Let me finish this up, and I’ll get a horse.” Tying off the bandage, Gerard places his medical bag on top of his pack and other gear. He unties a bundle of rope, walks over to Joseph and says, "Here you go.” Gerard walks to the foot of the grave outside of the area muddied with blood. He speaks in a strange language in a conversational tone and at once Gerard is gone and a large Clydesdale horse is in his place. The horse looks at Joseph and nods his head.
Joseph lets loose a snort of laughter. "Well, that's one way to do it. At least now I can picture you as something other than a squirrel." He carefully hitches Gerard up with a series of makeshift knots and bends, leaving a long length of rope trailing off the back of the horse, towards the hole. After he double checks the rope-work, he scratches Gerard's neck and leans in to nuzzle an ear, but catches himself. "Sorry," he mutters, "force of habit."
Without hesitation he wades into the pool of blood, loops the rope through two handles on the coffin, and knots the rope onto itself, forming a long loop. "Okay, this should be good," Joseph says out loud. He reaches up from the hole and grabs his shovel, then turns to Malekus. "While he pulls, you an' me might need to pry at the coffin from the sides to get some air under it. That mud is going to be sucking hard to keep hold of it."
The clydesdale swishes his tail lightly hitting Joseph as he passes. When all seem to be ready he will slowly pull the coffin out of the grave.
"Careful, there," the hunter says as he brushes the tail away. "Get too ornery an' I won't give you an apple when we're done." There's a faint trace of a smile on the Kessiger's fattened lip. "Let me know if them ropes are off-kilter when you get to pulling," Josephs shouts from the hole. "Most of the tension should be spread out on the front of your chest. But I never hitched such a big animal without proper tack."
With the effort of all three, the coffin is released from the ground's bloodied, earthly grip with a sickening schlick sound, and blood sloshes within, pouring more out of it as it is lifted up and outwards.
This was certainly an odd gathering of people. The Forcemage had had a real live soliloquy and swiftly exited stage left, while the two members of Goldnight and the ranger were caked in blood from digging up the remains of the poor Pitre, who seemed to bleed eternally. As covered slowly turned to soaked, from the literal pool of crimson that poured out of the casket, the Forcemage and the caster that had followed them into town returned, shifting his form into that of a draft horse. If this were a play, it’d be the work of a very odd composer.
The shifting process looked... uncomfortable. The Order of Herons was reputed to be packed to the brim with men and women with similar capabilities, but Syd himself had never had the interaction. Still, a practical man at heart, albeit a confused one, the young Blackmore simply decided to help the squirrel-turned-man-turned-horse pull this cart, unsure as to where the party would be taking it, if at all.
If there had to be a silver lining to this, it’d be that things couldn’t possibly get any weirder, right?... Right?!
Once the coffin has been pulled a few feet from the open grave, the horse halts. Gerard shifts back into human form and disentangles himself from the improvised rigging. He turns towards the priests, "Is there a proper church custom that must be performed before the coffin is opened?"
When Gerard finishes his question, Joseph moves to grab his shovel. As the others discuss ceremony, he sets quietly to work, digging a long, shallow trench from the coffin to the grave. Afterwards, he begins hacking another trench around the coffin itself; it immediately begins to fill with fresh blood pouring out from Pitre's body within. Finally, Joseph connects the two trenches. Like a macabre mountain creek, the thick, red liquid gurgles from the collecting trench, down the adjoining trench, and into the pit, creating a steady tinkling sound as it hits the pool of blood at the bottom.
As he climbs up the incline and out if the blood filled grave there is no reprieve for Malekus from the blood. It is everywhere and coating everything that gets near the coffin. In response to Gerrad he say, "As far as I know there is no proper way to handle something like this." He gags as he says the last words and turns towards the oozing coffin.
He says to the group "I can at least lead a brief prayer to help bring some light to this dark deed we must endure. " He makes the sign of Avacyn and begins "Avacyn may your holy light shine bright on this departed soul and grant into him peace. We will return him to the ground so that he may spend eternity there." With that he pauses for a moment of reflection. Then says "If any one is unwilling I will endure the burden of opening this coffin and whatever curse that may bring. " And whispers under his breath "Gisela grant me strength and protection."
Joseph, who has been maintaining the trenches to keep the mess around the coffin to a minimum, pauses. He looks up at Malekus, a puzzled look on his face as if he just realized he might have forgotten something. "What're we hoping to find in there, exactly?" His eyes jump to the cathar. "Raben?"
Staring blankly at the fattened wooden coffin, Raben answers grimly. "Hopefully a body. A still body. We'll have to reach in. And pull him out to properly inspect him. Anyone have a crowbar? And a spare blanket to lay him on?"
Joseph considers this a moment, and slowly walks to his swordbelt. He puts it on, then stands behind the clergy, one sword drawn and held loosely at his side.
Malekus looks around at the people gathered once Raben asked his question. When no one steps forward with a crowbar he pulls a dagger out of his pack. “I guess this will have to do.” He also fumbles through his pack to pull out his sleeping blankets and lays them out on the ground. “Once we are done with this business I can use a blessing to remove the filth for anyone who does not want to walk around looking like we just butchered a wild animal.” With that he takes the dagger to the edges of the coffin and begins to pry it open.
Malekus jams his dagger between the nailed wooden boards, using the leverage to pry the covering board from the rest of the frame. It is a long process, with each plunge of the dagger producing a squelch and splatter of blood. Malekus gets around to the other side and stabs under the lid once more, but with a gurgle, the wooden boards collapse and fall apart.
Deep red blood gushes and falls over the ground in a heavy, thick wave. Pitre's body is revealed within, his clothes dyed in the same crimson. It slumps halfway out of the dismantled coffin, his arm reaching upward toward town in a sickening angle. A round object thuds repeatedly as it rolls and bounces over Joseph's trench and along the ground, eventually coming to a stop. At this moment, you see that the body is not whole-Pitre has been decapitated. His head, blood-soaked, is now inches from the grave, its mouth and eyes agape in deathly, soft agony.
A shriek escaped her throat, as the decapitated head came to rest gaping at them. His body's wounds were still bleeding, his face a picture of torment. Throwing up her hands over her eyes, Yesfir tried to block out the sight but it seemed to be seared into her mind, a nightmarish apparition she couldn't quite shake. Turning her back to the body, she hesitantly lowered her hands only to begin shaking violently as the crimson mud that surrounded her filled her vision. Eyes widening at the sight of blood on her boots, in her skirts.....No. It wasn't Haldor, there wasn't blood on her hands, no stench of the alleys...just blood, so much blood. Thick, congealing, dark, crimson blood. This time there was no stopping the heaves as she lost the contents of her stomach. Coughing, she got sick once more, this time only hope as she clenched her eyes shut as softly began to form the well gestures of guarding against the evil eye, even as she shuddered once more.
Joseph draws back slightly, covering his mouth with the nook of an elbow. He slides his sword into its scabbard and looks to Raben. "We should make this fast. The longer we dally, the more that hole fills up with blood. What're we looking for?"
"Well," Raben clears his throat, his closed fist held against his mouth. "One question is immediately risen: Why was he decapitated? Is that how they found him? It's been said he was found dead, but no one, not even the mayor said he was found headless."
Raben steps precariously towards the desecrated corpse. He nods. "Do you see this?" He points towards Pitre's open neck.
Joseph nudges the body with the tip of his blood-soaked boot. "Ain't bleeding from its neck. Just that jab-wound in its gut." He walks over to the head and rolls it underfoot, towards the coffin, leaning down slightly to examine it. "I think they hacked his head off afterwards. After he was dead. An' whoever did it wasn't very strong. It took 'em quite a few swings to get it loose from the body."
Gerard stares at shock at the decapitated head as it speaks. His jaw goes slack and he can’t look away; can’t concentrate. He feels like he is in a dream and can not wake himself.
“Gerard why are you staring?” Gerard turns to his left and he sees his mentor, Herlewin , speaking to him. He looks the same and yet younger, whole, with no sign of where the werewolves shredded him into a gorey mess. “The body isn’t going anywhere.”
Herlewin smiles at Gerard, gives him a wink and is gone. Gerard closes his eyes, and shakes his head. His mind clears, and he remembers why he is here. The earth cries, and the poison spreads. He hears Joseph speaking and looks over towards him.
"Exactly," Raben responds, carefully getting closer to the gaping neck wound. "But why would they do that? Did they suspect vampirism?"
Raben ponders a moment, standing straight once more. "If he had killed the vampire in the past and proclaimed a hero, why would he be suspected of being a vampire upon his return? Has anyone heard where he went?"
Joseph shakes his head as he stares down at Pitre's hollow, gaping expression. "I only know what I've been told in the last week. And that fellow, Jofridus, he didn't seem too keen on sharing specifics. Syd seems to think the mayor here's the same way." He rolls the head over, face down, with his boot, then looks to Raben. "There were probably folks around here that knew this man. Went to his funeral. They might know."
"Nata can ask!" Yesfir pipped up a little too eagerly, her voice squeaky and shaking. "People respect church men, but scared, too. No talk. Tell only little. Nata is girl, " stating the obvious, Yesfir knew, but true. "Not scary. People tell Nata things no tell churchman. Yes? Nata go, talk, hear stories. Come back and tell." Shrugging, she hoped her offer was convincing enough. Truth be told, she do anything to get away from the sight and stench of impossible amounts of blood at the moment.
The hunter glances over towards the Stensian girl. "I'll bet you've got as good a chance as anyone to get people to talking. It's clear Hanweir ain't keen on Church-folk."
He looks over the rest of the group. "Anybody else notice anything out of place here?" He points down at the body, still oozing blood into the collection trench. "Any other mysteries for Nata to look into while she's askin' around?"
Taking a peak over her shoulder, Yesfir shuddered visibly before abruptly turning away closing her eyes once more. She hit her tongue on the mixture of vile curses and nausea that threatened to escape her at the sight of poor disfigured Pitre.
Raben takes to the task of notifying the graf's guard. He delicately, if not politely illustrates the current dilemma and a guardsman leaves his post, heading into town. An hour later, he returns with an empty wooden coffin on a cart pulled by a pony. Taking the casket to the grave and placing Pitre's still seeping body within it was painless, but lowering down carefully was a more difficult process. Using the rope as before, the now laden coffin, which was filling slowly as every second passed, was carefully placed in the pit. An hour later, Pitre's body was return to its former resting place with the still-sodden dirt above it.
"In my many years as an Inquisitor, I've not seen anything quite like this," Garreth mutters to whomever is listening as he observes the whole proceeding.
"Neither have I, Garreth," Raben responds. Little other words were spoken the entire time.
Using the blade of his shovel, Joseph tamps down the last of the soupy, red mud onto the grave mound with a few wet, metallic slaps. He frowns heavily. "This whole graveyard's gonna end up a swamp in another few fortnights, if that thing don't stop spittin' blood." He looks down at his hands and pants, which are nearly black from dry bloodstain. He turns to Raben. "Are we done here? I need to clean up an' take care of some business in town."
With the morning’s toil finally finishing, Malekus exhales the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He walks over to his pack and pulls out a water skin and takes a long pull. He is about to offer it up when the blood caked on his hand stops him. He digs into a pocket inside his pack and pull out a pristine white cloth. The edges of the cloth have a gold trim and embroidered in sanguine and gold is the collar of Avacyn. He whispers a brief prayer of thanks to his patron while tracing the outline of the holy symbol on the cloth.
He nods in agreement to the ranger when he mentions this whole graveyard will turn into a blood swamp. He begins wiping his hands and face clean with the cloth. With the amount of blood that is caked on his body the cloth should have turned crimson, however it was still pristine. He begins to wipe down his cloths and boots as well. When he finishes his cleaning ritual his appearance is good enough to conduct a mass and the cloth is still pure white. As the ranger continues as says he needs to clean up Malekus says “Here you can use this. It is something I learned as an arm. A way to help clean up once the dust settles.’ He extends his hand with the cloth in it towards the ranger. “If anyone else needs to clean you can use this cloth as well. The blessing should last long enough for anyone who wants to get cleaned up.”
“I do not think there is much more we can gather here. You are right the mayor does not seem to care for the men of the church. I think I might have more luck at the chapel where they discovered his body. It is almost lunch time and I am hungry. I can usually find someone at the church who is willing to invite me and my companions for a meal. We could also use the opportunity at the chapel to see if they can shed any light on this poor boy.”
Joseph takes the cloth from Malekus and inspects it curiously. He wipes a finger clean with it, then pauses to examine both finger and fabric. Seemingly satisfied, he cleans the rest of the hand, then pauses again. Furrowing his brow, he brings his hand close to his nose, and gingerly sniffs it.
"Huh," he says resignedly, then sets to work wiping the rest of the blood clean from his hands, arms, and body. When he finishes, his boots are cleaner than they had ever been the past week, now that months or perhaps years of mud and dust have been removed.
After turning the still-white cloth over in his hands for a final, incredulous inspection, he hands it back to Malekus. "Thanks. That just saved me a few silver. I was going straight to the clothier to buy new pants."
When the party prepares to leave, Joseph goes to the nearby tombstone to retrieve and don his overcoat. "I have some business to take care of in town," he says, tugging the flaps of the coat taut against his flanks. "Then I'll head back to the inn. Come get me if you need another hole dug." He steps to Gerard's side to chat as they make their way to the cemetery gates.
Raben removes the last remnants of stained dirt from his coat and buckles with the magical white fabric. "I shall accompany you, Malekus, if you're making way to Lightspire Chapel. Perhaps the village pastor has information we've yet to discover."
Moments later, the group begins to fall out as they make their way out of the graveyard, parting ways and seeing to personal matters or pursuing different but equally important potential leads on their investigation.
Taking the cloth back Malekus whispers another thanks to Gisela and folds the cloth before returning it to his pack. Looking to the group he says "Thank you Raben, hopefully we will have more luck at the church. Nata I know you said you would ask around but I am not sure you should be asking tough questions without someone at least to back you up. Does anyone else have any leads or ideas of where we can get more information? "
The Kessigers: Ranger and Druid
As the group makes its way back to town, Joseph falls in step beside Gerard. "Something's been vexin' me since last night. A question. About the werewolf attack." He looks inquiringly at the druid walking beside him. "Why in the hell a squirrel?"
Gerard chuckles softly and looking slightly downward begins speaking. "I was with the militia trying to catch the werewolf when we saw it trying to enter in the inn through a second story window. I am not practiced enough in my craft yet to shift into a flying animal, so a squirrel was the fastest climber I could think of. There is nothing that I can shift into that can cause actual harm to a werewolf, so my hope was to distract it and slow it down. That part didn't work out, but the climbing part did. Lesson learned."
He then looks at Joseph, "So, where in Kessig are you from, and how did you end up here?"
The ranger smiles and nods. "I think you distracted everyone. Including the werewolf. For a hot moment, when I saw a squirrel chasing a werewolf, I thought it was all a dream." His smile fades a moment as he glances away.
Returning his attention to Gerard, he continues, "I'm from Westerheid, towards the west side of the Hairpin. My family has business with the Church, and I'm sort of on loan for this curse thing. Like a hired hand for the season."
He grasps his silver amulet and lifts it slightly from his chest. "The name's Joseph Clarke, by the way."
"What about you? How does a Kessig shapeshifter find himself taking up with the Holy Church of Thraben?"
Gerard cocks his head slightly. “After the werewolf attack, I was in the street assisting a few members of the militia that were wounded. Raben found me and we spoke for awhile. He said that he thought that we were trying to accomplish the same thing; to stop what is ailing this town. How he guessed that I have no idea, but he asked if I would work with him and the group he was leading. It made sense to work together rather than try to do this on my own; more chance of success. He also didn’t seem like he wanted to burn me as a heretic, so there is that as well. The church has force mages in its ranks, but to be a force mage not endorsed by the church isn’t looked to kindly in many places.”
Gerard turn and looks Joseph in the eye. “I am not sure how it is in your part of Kessig, but where I am from the old ways still ran strong. Spirits of wood and wind, beast and fey have whispered to me for weeks that there was something wrong here before I heard rumors in the villages while traveling. The signs are becoming stronger and I am not the only one that has seen them.”
Joseph nods again. "Raben's a good guy. For a cathar. He seems to want to help folks. It ain't some act to get people to believe something or forget about something. An' when it comes time for the fork to hit the hay, he don't mind getting dirty."
He glances over his shoulder, to the south, then returns his gaze to the road ahead. "I never paid much heed to that stuff. The spirits and whispers and whatnot." He pats a sword at his side. "I tend to deal with more solid stuff. Problems I can get a blade into. Down in Kessig, I'd always left the invisible, wispy things to my little brother. He's training to be a wizard or priest or something."
After a few more steps, Joseph speaks up again. "So what do you make of that body back there? I never seen so much blood."
Gerard answers Joseph, “I have never seen or heard of anything like it. The mayor’s daughter was headed to a monastery with church force mages. I think she knows more than she has revealed and has gone to them for help.”
The ranger stares at the gravel while he listens. "Help with what, I wonder." He looks up. "Well, holler if you think I can do anything. Mind you, I'm no good with that sort of thing. Unless they're nervous and on the road, people don't pay much heed to me."
"You're better than you give yourself credit for." Gerard will then turn his attention to the rest of the group.
The ranger simply stares forward in response, scanning the streets ahead. “I’ll see you back at the inn. I have to try to track down a few people.”
Gerard's Journey to Palmbriar
After Joseph says his farewell, Gerard addresses the rest of the gathered investigators.
“The mayor’s daughter, Lorelei, knows more than she has said. At least, the disturbing head of Pitre makes it seem that way. She traveled to the Palmbriar monastery, an order of Avacyn spring sages. She must think they can help. I’ll travel there as quickly as possible and should be able to make it there before sundown. If all goes well, I’ll journey back here tomorrow and share with you what I find out.”
Gerard then bids everyone farewell and sets off. He travels to the southern road and takes a break while still just inside the city. Sitting someplace off the road, Gerard rests and meditates for an hour. He makes a quick meal out of some rations and begins walking a quick pace out of town. After an hour Gerard stops and makes sure he is seen by no one. Calling upon primordial spirits, Gerard shifts into the form of a swift, gray dappled, riding horse and runs south along the road at a gallop heading to Palmbriar quickly as possible.
Joseph's Arrends
Joseph steps away from the group, heading towards the Administration District, but pauses. While digging into his coin pouch, he walks to Syd, then holds out his palm, which contain a few coins. "Here. I found this in that fox den a few days ago. I've been meaning to give it to you, but there wasn't a good time." He dumps the coins into Syd's hand. "If it weren't for you letting him into our camp to steal our silver, I'd have never dug through his den. So I figure half of that money is yours."
The hunter walked briskly back to the administration district, and entered the building Syd pointed out earlier: the Hanweir courier’s office. There, he paid a few silver to send notices to family members of the deceased farmer and courier, with detailed instructions on how to find the grave of the latter. After a brief consultation of the courier’s map of Hanwier, he headed to the market district, and stopped in front of a pawn shop, double-checked the sign, and stepped inside. The shop is attended by a woman, standing behind a glass counter filled with various jewelry and trinkets.
“I’m looking for Ekka,” says the ranger.
The woman speaks firmly. “Aye, sir if'n something was stolen and it ended up here, I won't just be givin' it to you. I ain't a Shylock but this is a business." She has a hand low under the counter, but her gaze remains trained on Joseph.
"Ain't nothing stolen, miss. More like something found. A few of us came across a dead courier on the road a few days ago. We were trying to figure out who he was to notify his kin, an' he had a letter to a Gundie in Thraben, which was sent from an Ekka in Hanwier. That you?"
Her face flickers a moment, a pained expression that is quickly obscured behind the guise of a shrewd business woman. "I am, sir. I take it the letter wasn't sent, then." She looks off towards the floor for a moment, as if in thought. "Do you have it?"
Joseph shakes his head. "I don't. The cathar I'm traveling with was going to send it when we arrived in Hanweir." The ranger considers this a moment. "It might do well for you to go talk to him and a couple of the clergy down at the Wandering Heron tonight. They're looking into the curse, an' most of Hanweir won't talk to the Church. In your letter, you asked for a cathar escort to Thraben. They might be able to help. The cathar might even have your letter still. We just arrived last night. His name's Raben."
"I see. Thank you, kind hunter. I'm certain you didn't have to go out of your way to tell me, but I'm thankful you did. Perhaps I'll stop by the Heron. Will you be here long, as you're seeing to the curse?" Her features begin to soften, and you realize she couldn't be much older than you are, though her pony-tailed hair has begun to grey.
Joseph's brow furrows slightly. "I'm helping the Church with this curse-thing. You'd have to ask one of them how long we'll be here. They seem like decent men, for church-folk. If Raben isn't there, ask for Syd or Malekus."
Joseph turns to leave, but pauses and thrusts a hand into his pants pocket. He draws out a necklace with three encrusted moon pearls, and spreads it out on the glass case. "You do appraisals? We found this in the ditch along the road."
"Just wait a moment." She disappears around a corner on the far side of the counter and returns with a felt-lined wooden case. She opens it to reveal jeweler's tools. Using small lenses and comparison materials, she inspects the moon-pearled necklace, each stone one after another. "This is quite a jewel for someone to just leave in a ditch." She says this giving you a glance over.
A few hmphs and hahs later, she replaces her tools and closes the case. "You can pawn it here for 80 sovereigns, or trade it for anything up to equal value. But to be honest, with a cleaning, you'd do right to give it to a private auctioneer. This is Nephalian craftsmanship, likely for a well-to-do miss or a vampire's pet."
Joseph stares down at the necklace. "I doubt nobody left it. It was stolen. Tucked away in a fox den. The little bastard stole my silver the night before." Joseph tugs at the amulet around his neck, and glances up at Ekka. "I'll take the 80 sovereigns, minus whatever your appraisal fee is."
"Suit yourself. I'll be right back." She leaves without taking the necklace, disappearing once more. You hear the muffled sound of footsteps that fade away, as if she was traveling downward. After a moment she returns with a knit pouch pulled tight at its opening with nylon. "It's seventy-two sovereigns. Is there anything else?"
Joseph takes the coin. "No, that was all. Stop in and chat with the clergy tonight, if you can. About the curse. I'll put a good word in to Raben. If we are returning to Thraben after our business in Hanweir, I'm sure he wouldn't mind bringing you along, to your cousin." The hunter looks up and proffers a smile, his fattened lip bulging slightly. Then he pinches his amulet, nods his head, and leaves.
Listening for Rumors, Yesfir's Way
Following the others as they made their way through town, she took the time to calm herself down banishing her earlier memories to the darkest recess of her mind. As they went farther into town, she looked down with a frown at her dirty hem and boots. Deciding cleanliness was the first order of business, Yesfir made a waving gesture with her hands humming a common bathing tune as she did so, causing a dull glow to briefly appear before disappearing leaving her garments as if they were freshly washed.
Although this was a work of a moment, she soon found herself separated from the others as they went about their various tasks. Shrugging, she wandered around briefly looking around town for some sort of tavern in hopes of appeasing both her stomach and her curiosity. However, it seemed as if Hanweir had very little time for idleness or drink, and a brief fruitless search, Yesfir decided to head back to the inn where they had stayed in hopes of finding something to fill her growling belly.
Wandering through the town after dinner, Yesfir noticed for the first time just how quiet it really was in Hanwier. Everyone seemed on razor's edge and what conversations she did overhear were hushed and quickly grew silent at her approach. Worse yet, no one seemed to have time for idle gossip, or even idleness at all. Those she passed on the street seemed to be rushing to and fro as if on pressing errands, giving her a wide berth, and with very little time for conversation. Frowning, she kept looking, her head down but her eyes watchful as she looked for what she knew to be the most ready source of information, drunk old men or old ladies who seemed nowhere to be found in Hanweir.
As the hour grew later and later, she was just about to give up when she spotted the flash of lantern light being carried in the early evening hours. Pausing half hidden in the shadows, Yesfir watched as an old woman walking with a cane emerged from around the corner. Wary from the earlier reaction of the townspeople to strangers, Yesfir passed her hand in front of her face as she softly muttered, "Masca," disguising herself as someone else. The trick, she had learned early, was not to change too much, lest people go poking where nothing really was, but instead to change just enough. As her hand passed over her face slowly, she felt her face and form subtly shift..She kept her form the same, but made herself look older, more mature, lightening her hair with grey, tanning her skin as if from years work, and darkening her eyes to a more common brown color. Shifting her posture to a more care worn manner, shoulder's hunched but back and feet straight, she stepped out of the shadows and into the woman's lantern light.
At her sudden appearance, the woman stumbled and gasped, and Yesfir quickly rushed forward, righting the old woman as she placed a hand on her heart, before looking up with watery eyes at her, "Gah! Holy Avacyn! You scared me child!"
"Forgive me, mother," Yesfir soothed keeping her voice soft and low, "I didn't mean to scare you so. I am a stranger to Hanweir and have found myself strangely lost as the hour grows late. May I share you lantern this night? I'd be glad to walk you home if you would be so kind as to point me on my way from there?"
"Certainly, certainly," the old woman muttered, waving her hand in a quick dismal of her apology, "No harm done. Can't be too careful, these days! Strange times, child, strange times!"
Struggling to keep her tone causal, Yesfir decided not to press too soon, and instead just queried a soft curious "Oh?"
"Not that I'm complaining, mind you! We are as good as any town in Gavony! Got us a good mayor, real religious, everything all proper. Everything done right to get us through hard times, chapel services, the lot. Not his fault that business is down and times be tight," pride filled the old woman's voice, but even Yesfir could detect the undercurrent of doubt there, the underlying 'but'...
Still she kept the conversation causal, asking about business and the old woman's life, letting her tell her of the golden days of prosperity before. "Hanweir decided to get all uppity and tried to rebel. Proud folk don't make good neighbors, and that squashed right quick! Things haven't been the same since. The harvest has been poor, strange birds and creatures stalk the night, and ill winds blow across the town. Poor Pitre! The only bright spot in dark times. I wouldn't be lying to say that it caused a bit of hope. I thought to myself, well, now, when common folk can be hero, times are bound to take a turn for the better. But just like that! Poof! Pitre's dead. No one knows how. At least no one's saying. Cause we know. Oh we know. 'Tis a sign, see! Hanweir's cursed and nothing good ain't going to happen again. Pitre's death is proof of that. Wouldn't be surprised if he met a foul end. Perhaps even his own. Ain't nothing right about our only hero dying, no surreh!"
The conversation had to come to an end there as they had finally arrived at the woman's residence, and Yesfir bid her goodbye after receiving some rather rambled directions to Whitehall. Turning, Yesfir was just about to head home as she let her disguise drop when she noticed something strange.
A black cat passed her, it's nose pressed to the ground, it's eyes focused straight ahead, almost as if it was tracking something. It was strange behavior for a cat, the kind of thing you would expect in a dog, but certainly never a cat. Curious, Yesfir decided to follow it, thinking that although it's behavior was strange it was just a cat and surely no harm could come of following it for a bit. Especially if what the feline was tracking turned out to be supper.
Hours passed unnoticed as she continued to follow the cat, never approaching too close as it continued its strange tracking behavior. Finally, it disappeared behind gated metal bars between stone pillars- a fence, one that is familiar, even in the low light of the evening. Looking up, Yesifr was startled to recognize the mayor's manor even as the cat meowed once more behind the fence. Cautious, she crept closer, her voice calling out for the first time to the feline, "Here, kitty, kitty..."
A black form lept out of the darkness landing on a pillar near Yesfir, startling her as she took a step backwards, looking up towards the feline. Searing, bright red eyes peered at her, the cat's gaze focused intensely on her almost as if looking through her, almost as if it could read her inner most thoughts. Locking eyes with the cat for one brief moment, Yesfir felt an eerie chill creep over her spine as the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end. Instinct kicked in and with one final backwards glance, Yesfir bolted back to the inn, running as one chased with one eye over her shoulder for the strange cat.
Lightspire Chapel
Getting to the chapel takes almost an hour. On the approach, the group of Garreth, Syd, Malekus, and Raben notice a rather large number of people walking away from the direction of the chapel. You'd imagine perhaps mass was just held and has concluded.
Garreth nods at the parishioners as they pass them on their way towards the chapel.
"I hope they have a meal being prepared because I am famished. Ah it looks like mass just got out but these people look like they are still downtrodden. Mass should imbue them with the light of Avacyn and at least a temporary reprieve from their depressed reality. I am going to speak with someone about it." and with that Malekus smooths his cloths and puts on his best smile.
He approaches a couple that is leaving and greets them warmly "Hello there good people, may Avacyn's light guide you. I am traveling here to investigate the happenings around this town and lend a hand where I can. How did you find the mass today? I understand it has been decreed that daily attendance is mandatory, which I appreciate but also want to make sure it is not causing undue burden on the people."
The man holds the woman's shoulders and moves her to the side slightly, putting himself between her and Malekus. "A burden? No, it only ascertains our fears: we are cursed. We should've sent that body to the deepest pits of hellfire when it was found. Damn that Lorelei.."
"Lorelei? I am sorry I wasn't here and only heard about the body. Can you tell me what happened here?"
Garreth leans in to speak softly, seemingly quite out of character. “Lorelei is the Mayor’s daughter and she was betrothed to Pitre.”
Malekus nods. "Thank you both and may the light of Avacyn shine bright upon you." Malekus bids the couple farewell and then turns back to Garreth "Well damn. I am glad we have someone going to question her. Let's see if we can't find some hospitality in the chapel."
The Lightspire chapel has a large gated walkway. Graying concrete slabs stretch across a yellowing lawn with bare and wilting fruit-bearing trees in measured rows. You walk across this entryway as the last of the previous mass's flock vacate the premises. At first you pass an entry chamber with many examples of religious artworks. The walls are wooden but painted white. A set of double doors with golden pull handles are stuck open with grey rubber stops, and beyond is the central chamber where mass is held. The pews are arranged to allow passage from the double doors straight to a risen platform blanketed in a red rug. Iron sconces line the half-octagonal room, two to each wall, with a glowing white orb of light atop them. The air is neither cold nor warm. You smell a burning scent- dustwillow, a soothing herb that has a more substantial effect when consumed as a tea, and see an ebbing trail of smoke coming from a silver censer beside a pedestal. You see two individuals walking on the far right of the chamber, heading towards a door you'd imagine leads to the priory's quarters. The backs of their clothes are white, one wears a silver-trimmed white sash that covers across his shoulders. Their voices echo and bounce off the walls, distorting their words.
"Excuse us, but may we talk with you?" Garreth calls out, hoping to catch them before they go through the door.
The two robed figures turn a few feet before the door. A younger boy, only just a man, and an older gentlemen, whom speaks, "Yes, can we help you.." After recognizing the attire of the group, he finishes, "Good cathars?"
"Greetings brothers, may Avacyn light the way." Malekus says and traces the collar over himself. "We are visitors here on business from Father Jofridus. We were hoping to discuss our purpose here in a more private setting. We have had a rough morning and we're also hoping to find some refreshments if you have any available."
"The Father of the Commons? Please," the senior pastor opens the door to reveal the interior of his living quarters. "Come right this way. Eran will prepare a small pastime." He says looking to the younger priest, who nods in compliance. "We can speak while we wait over the table."
Unlike the rest of the interior, the chambers past this door are their natural colors and illuminated by wax candles and oil lamps at purposed places. You pass several doors before entering an open space with a square table surrounded by wooden chairs. Cupboards of similar make line the walls. The pastor makes himself a seat and gestures for the rest to do the same. "I take it to be Pitre?"
Malekus takes the seat across from him and leans back slightly in his chair. "Indeed. I am going to cut straight to it because we have seen with our own eyes the foulness that is saturating the ground here. Word has spread about the bleeding corpse and some of my group were sent to investigate. We do not have much information after meeting with the mayor. He does not seem to be overly fond of the church but I saw a mandate for mandatory mass attendance. Is there anything you can tell us about the boy and his unfortunate demise? It almost sounds like he was a hero before he passed and now is the embodiment of a curse."
"Yes. Pitre had slain a vampire that hunted our periphery. He came with its head, is said, and the mayor was quick to hold a feast in his honor. This was.. perhaps two moons ago, perhaps longer. He then disappeared in the following days, only to be found in the center of the main hall the week last." He looks absently to the center of the table. "There was so much blood.. I thought it impossible to remove it all."
Malekus nods his head in acknowledgement. "That must have been gruesome. That boy was being touted as a hero and disappeared for a month? I have to ask was his body whole when you found it? We were given permission to examine the grave and it was rather disturbing."
"Yes, the lad was whole. I imagine you didn't find him that way." His face becomes cast with a solemn look.
"What do you mean find him whole? Did something happen before the burial?" Malekus asks.
The pastor clears his throat and rubs his brow, troubled. "Well, Lorelei was here that night- the night we found Pitre. She was.. sharing with me her doubts, her fears, her concern for Pitre. It seems the fiends of the night answered her.." He clenches his face. "She-she.. beheaded him. She insisted. She had to."
Malekus' jaw drops slack in shock. He tries to recover quickly but stumbles out the first few words "She.. The body... How.." He takes a moment to compose himself and then begins anew with his questioning. "Why would his betrothed feel compelled to desecrate his body? Was she concerned he had been tainted during his hunt of the vampire?"
"I'm not certain- perhaps. There is little else that would make one go through such brutality, especially one has gentle as Lorelei. The toll it must have taken on her soul.."
At this time, the younger priest enters the room with a rolling tray. Atop it is a large steaming and fragrant pot, stacked clay bowls and simple eating utensils of similar make. He begins serving the prepared repast.
"Ah, thank you, Eran," the priest half-heartedly compliments, his mind clearly weighed by the topic.
Malekus smiles warmly at Eran and thanks him briefly. "Sorry brother in my hast I have forgotten my manners. This whole business is disturbing and is putting me on edge. Thank you Eran and ... I apologize I never asked your name father...? My name is Malekus and my companions here are Garreth and Raben. We sincerely appreciate the hospitality!" As he takes a plate being offered to him by the priest. He was famished when they entered but the recent revelations have soured his mood. As he eats his thoughts turn back to the information the priest has been giving him.
"There is clearly something else to this story that we must be missing. Part of our group was going to attempt to talk with Lorelei but this changes things...To have such violence from someone so close to him. I was hoping to find answers but this just leads into more questions...Who was it that found the body and did anyone mention seeing anything out abnormal? Is there anything else that is out side of normal that might help us figure out what is going on?"
"It is Bertram, bright Goldnight. Pastor Bertram, and this is Eran. I am training him as my future replacement." Eran smiles politely and silently at the group. "I couldn't bear watch the act be done. By Avacyn, it took several swings, as her own strength wasn't enough to save her the torment of more than one cut.." Pastor Bertram exhales heavily. "Save that the boy continued to bleed even after being beheaded, no. And we found him, that very night. Lorelei and I were in the confessional chambers, and when we returned to the main hall.." He clenches his face once again, the grotesquery too much to bear for his worn heart. "Lorelei had mentioned she made regular contact with Pitre on his journey, through letters. They caused her great worry that he was so far, despite Pitre's optimism on his quest."
As he listens his mood grows darker. Foul deeds and possibly foul intentions were at play here. Instead of finding answers he was beginning to think they were digging into a much deeper situation. He furrows his brow and slowly consumes the food before him.
"Thank you pastor Bertram for your hospitality" Malekus says as he finishes the small plate before him and wipes his mouth. Turning to the others at the table he says "Raben... Garreth is there anything you want to ask the pastor. I don't not want to badger him to death with my questions."
Garreth is ghost white after hearing the tale and just shakes his head in response, trying not to let his mouth gape open.
Syd has been silent for this exchange thus far. Malekus had a friendlier, more charismatic disposition that he felt would be more tactful in this situation. He completes his meal with a contrite smile towards their hosts, and sits up from his chair, pushing it under the table . "These letters.. Would Lorelei keep them, or have cause to dispose of them? If not, they would seem to tell us where our poor Pitre had gone to before.. his untimely end."
"If she had, I'd imagine them to be in her personal belongings. I shouldn't think of Lorelei to dispose of letters from her loved one."
"We'd speak to the mayor once more, I'm afraid," Raben responds. "Lady Lorelei lived with her brazen father until recently, according to our friend Gerard. He went after her, correct? To a monastery? Let us pray to the archangels that he is fruitful in his endeavor, and that he hasn't fallen victim to another of Hanweir's plagues."
With that, Raben bids the clergy of Lightspire Chapel farewell and expresses his appreciation for their more than gracious hospitality and their cooperation with the investigation, and leads the group outside and into the town.
At the edge of the holy grounds, Raben turns. "I believe it best we wait for Gerard to return from where Lorelei has absconded herself. We can try for Lorelei's letters during the day, and if our ally hasn't returned by nightfall, well, if nothing comes from any letters to be or not to be, we'll travel to the monastery ourselves." He looks at the members in the eyes. "Sound alright? Other ideas?"
"I agree. That would be the best course of action for us. I thank Pastor Bertram for his hospitality. May the light be with him in the dark times. " Malekus makes preparations to leave once the rest of the party is ready.
Palmbriar Monastery
On the approach, the Palmbriar Monastery is a dome-like structure with many stained windows. A wall about 4 feet tall surrounds the compound, but it leaves an opening in the front to allow entrance. It is covered densely in vines and plant bulbs. When Gerard passes the wall, two woman holding staffs that are alight with bright glow are standing under a wooden canopy that encloses over a fountain. They notice him.
Gerard stops and nods respectfully the women. “Hello. My name is Gerard Waltgaud. I have traveled from Hanweir. May I speak to Lorelei?”
"You will hold there stranger, lest the light of the moon pierce you." The woman to Gerard's right raises a hand and speaks across the entryway. The other looks to the woman that just spoke and nods twice, softly, and lingers near the woman's ear for a moment before retreating to her original posture. "Approach, sir, calmly. You're looking for a Lady Lorelei? Say we knew the name, what makes you come here?"
Gerard slowly approaches as directed careful to not make any sudden movements.
"Lady Lorelei spoke to me earlier today just as she set off on her journey here. I am working with a cathar named Raben sent by the church to investigate the problems plaguing Hanweir. We have made some discoveries and are hoping that Lady Lorelei may be able to help enlighten us about what we have learned. Perhaps there is someone that resides here that also may be able to help. I suspect Lady Lorelei came here seeking aid in this matter, although I don't know that for sure."
Gerard looks down for a moment and then looks earnestly at the woman that spoke to him. "Please, the matter is urgent or I would not have come here during the evening." Gerard feels something probe his brain, hearing his thoughts and attempting to probe deeper, but it immediately fades away.
Once more the quiet woman whispers to the spoken one. After an exchange of words, the unspoken woman leaves and disappears within the monastery. "You'll wait here with me."
Gerard looks down and lightly pinches the bridge of his nose as if if he is having a sudden headache. He then looks up at the remaining woman and says, "Thank you very much. What is your name?"
She sizes him up as he approaches her watch station. "It's Gilda. My companion is seeing whether Lorelei is awake. The newly initiated should be readying for rest. I doubt they'll have her awoken just to speak to some stranger after hours."
“Gilda, it is nice to make your acquaintance. I am sorry. I had no idea that Lady Lorelei was being initiated in your order. “ Gerard pauses for a moment looking Gilda in the eye. “Gilda, what do you know about the situation in Hanweir?”
"They are troubled. At the periphery of our groves and gardens, we see crows larger than yourself above their tallest spires at times. Perhaps they've taken to the corpse trade. I would not presume to know why such large carrion would flock otherwise a ghastly meal." She turns to look back at the monastery, makes a soft sound of slight disappointment, then returns to gaze down the entryway.
Gerard looks to see if anyone is approaching. Seeing none he says, "I do not anything about the corpse trade, but the body of a man named Pitre is continuously bleeding although he has been dead for weeks. The ground all around his grave is soaked with blood. It poisons the earth and maybe why the large carrion birds are about. Lady Lorelai knew Pitre. She may know something that will aid us."
She looks at Gerard with a horrid expression. "That.. is an issue. And Lorelei was from there? I hope she told the Abbess during her indoctrination. That cannot be overlooked." Once more she looks back towards the light of the monastery, and two figures break shadows in its entrance. She motions her head in that direction with a quick movement. "Go, they'll have you now."
“Thank you.” Gerard looks over at the direction Gilda indicates for a brief moment. Straightening himself up, he briskly walks in the direction of the two figures not knowing what awaits him.
He was cold before, in the open air of southern Gavony, but walking into the main building of this holy site, the frigidity of his body is washed away as if entering a hot bath. A large rectangular room serves as the entry. Simply decorated and painted in light but warm colors with candelabras illuminating the room from the corners, it is a stark contrast to the night that is falling just outside the doorstep. He is taken down a corridor with arched ceilings to the right. Wooden archways segment this corridor, each with different rooms for various services. But pressing on, the rooms become smaller and more outfitted as living quarters, some occupied, some not. Gerard is led to one that is presently occupied. A woman sits poised on a chair at her desk. He recognizes Lorelei by her face, and not by the monastic robes she is now wearing. She gestures for him to sit at the foot of her bed. Gerard's guide does not leave from the doorway, and seems intent on watching what goes on.
Gerard nods and takes a seat on the bed as indicated. He removes his hat and sits it beside him. He is not disturbed by the presence of the guide and is in fact comforted by it as it helps avoid some awkwardness on his part. "Lady Lorelei, my apologies for disturbing you at this time in the evening especially since you are just joining this order."
"What I have to tell you is very shocking. The church has dispatched a cathar named Raben to investigate the problems that are plaguing Hanweir. Independently of him, I also traveled to Hanweir to see what has so disturbed the natural order. I met Cathar Raben last night, and seeing that our paths have intersected he invited me to work with him and some others also commissioned by the church and under his authority to see if we can find the cause of Hanweir's troubles and set things right. Here is where things become most disturbing. The cathar received permission from the mayor to exhume the body of Pitre, a young man that is a hero to the town, and as I understand it, was a friend of yours. The ground all around his grave was soaked in an impossible amount of blood. The ground was soft and stank of it. While digging up the grave, we were attacked by unnatural insects. Once we dealt with them, we were able to remove and open Pitre's casket. "
Gerard pauses once again and then continues on quickly. "Pitre has been beheaded. It is my understanding that is not how he died. His body continues to unnaturally bleed, more blood than any body could possibly contain. There are signs of evil magic coming from his grave. Normally, I would spare you these grisly details, but the fact that you seek to join this order," Gerard looks briefly around, "tells me that you are not a delicate flower to be coddled, but a woman of strength. Lady Lorelai, we need your help. We need to know the truth of what happened to Pitre, how he died, why he was beheaded, and who he truly was. We need to know what most do not know, or are unwilling to speak to us about. I believe that you can help us. Will you please help us?"
Gerard then stops talking and looks at Lorelei with a gentle expression. He is no great orator, but he is sincere, and hopes that he has reached the young noble woman.
The entire time Gerard speaks, Lorelei maintains her poised posture in her seat, as if sculpted of stone or ice. But ice melts, and even stone is weathered, his words like the wind or warm air. She trembles and bites her lip, bats her eyes, pads her hand at their corners. She fiddles with her fingers slowly. "Even in death, Pitre, you surround me. Your spirit may not haunt be, but still, you do.. Do you know what it is to be in love, Mister Walgaud? I did, with Pitre. It was the purest of loves, with no expectations, no conditions. Even with my father's disapproval, we were happy. It all fell to pieces after he slew that vampire.."
Her voice breaks and she places a hand on her chest below her neck, a pained expression glossing her eyes as she looks away, before continuing. "My father announced him a hero and for a time he elated in the adulation. What man shouldn't? But soon.. he was overcome with guilt. He felt he did not earn his accolades, saying 'It was just a newling and I got a lucky blow while it fed.' He said he'd have nightmares of the person he didn't save.. so he left, 'to hunt a vampire proper', and be the man and true hero I deserved." She looks at you, her eyes intense, her face severe. The stone has been made sharp, the ice into a knife, but she wanes and breaks into soft tears.
"I killed him.. My Pitre.."
Gerard gives Lorelei a few minutes and when it seems she is a bit composed, he gently speaks to her. “Pitre was capable of making his own decisions. Men sometimes feel that that they have to perform some extraordinary act to earn the affections of a lady. Sometimes the line between a grand gesture and foolish action can be blurred to a young man. The same can be said when a person feels guilt about something. Rather than admitting the truth, they try to make it up in deed.“
Gerard takes a moment and says slightly stronger, “You are not responsible for Pitre’s death. It was a combination of human nature and his own choices. Gerard pauses again, thinks of her words and says, “Where did Pitre go to hunt a vampire? What can you tell me about what happened to him?”
"..In his letters, he said he'd entered Nephalia, where he met a priest. He soon caught the trail of a fiend. He hunted it, but.. but.." She hides her face behind her hands, falling forward slightly. Her shoulders tremble. "Please, I mustn't speak more. I left his letters in my room." She lifts her face, sniffing abruptly and begins going through the contents of a drawer in the desk, retrieving a key. She hands it to you. "They're in a lockbox, in my boudoir. The closet, behind my sundresses."
Gerard accepts the key and puts it into a pouch on belt making sure it is secure. “Lady Lorelei, I know this was very difficult for you to talk about. Thank you for speaking to me, and for the key.” Gerard stands up, grabs his hat and places it on his head. “I will not take up anymore of your time, and wish you well in your initiation. You will be a great asset here.” He gives the young lady a gentle smile and says softly, “Thank you Lorelei.” Gerard gives a nod to his escort and follows her out of the room.
Just as his body crosses the threshold, Lorelei speaks up. "If you find that fiend that cursed my beloved, would you be so kind as to exact a grieving woman's vengeance?"
Gerard stops , turns toward Lorelei and says, “I will make my best effort to do so,” in a serious tone. He gives her a nod and then continues out of the room.
She nods in affirmation. The escort bids Gerard to vacate the room and to follow her once more. "We don't expect anyone to travel during the dark hours, lest the horrors that hide in its shadow claim your body and soul. We have guest rooms for wandering travelers, refugees, and villagers. You can sleep in one for the night. With your business done, you should make your way once its bright tomorrow morning." She leads Gerard to a simple room with all the necessary accommodations for a comfortable, momentary stay. It is warmed by a small hearth stand in the far corner, which also glows orange with its burning embers across the white and browns of the room. The woman waves him in, assuring you that the night's vigil also comes across this part of the building during their rounds. Whether to provide Gerard with the sense of safety or for ensuring he partake in no suspicious activity is left to obscurity with her tone.
Gerard thanks his escort sincerely, and once she leaves, prepares for bed and sleeps until morning.
Wakening refreshed after a full night’s rest in a warm room with a comfortable bed Gerard sits, stretches, and in performs his morning meditations. He washes up, shaves, and gets dressed. Gathering his belongings his opens the door and finds a young monk just outside. She nods a greeting and bids him to follow her. Gerard is led down a long corridor and into the courtyard that he had entered the evening before. Gilda, who guided him last night is waiting for him. His younger escort silently goes back into the corridor.
“We can not send you on your journey on an empty stomach. I have packed you a travel meal,” Gilda says holding a small bag to Gerard.
“Thank you for your kindness for the meal, shelter, and for the help. I am in your debt.”
“You owe us nothing. This is our service to Avacyn. A messenger hawk arrived this morning with a letter for you from Cathar Raben.”
Gerard accepts a small scroll from the monk. After a short but formal greeting the note explains that Raben and the group will wait for Gerard until nightfall, and after that they will assume that he is not returning and they will set out for Palmbriar. Gerard thanks Gilda once again and she speaks a blessing of Avacyn upon him. They bid each other farewell as Gerard begins walking a brisk pace on the road to Hanweir.
About an hour's walk from the monastery, Gerard makes sure he is not being watched and once again changes into a dappled gray riding horse. He runs for about an hour and shifts back to his human forms. After walking on two legs for an hour, he shifts again and runs for another hour. Gerard completes his journey safely to Hanweir walking a brisk pace on his own two legs again. He is relieved as he approaches the city gates. Thinking the rest of the group is at either inn, he checks the Witherhall first, and if they are not there, continues on to the Wandering Heron.
The Wandering Heron
Back at the Wandering Heron, Joseph is sitting alone in the common area, finishing up the last bites of a bowl of stew. When he hears the doors creak open, and sees Nata walk through them, he takes a gulp from a mug and wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand. Then he leans back in his chair, and watches the room, his eyes sweeping briefly across the Stensian girl from time to time.
More than a little relieved to leave the strange cat behind her, Yesfir quickly scanned the bar for the others but only spying the ranger she hesitated. He noticed far too much for her taste. Deciding caution was the better part of value, she sat down in a corner where she could watch the door as she quickly ordered a drink to calm her shattered nerves conscious that she was being watched.
With a grunt, the ranger pushes himself back from the table, and heads upstairs, towards the rooms. A moment later he returns, and heads straight for Nata's table, his hand clenched tight around some object. When he sits down across from her, he brings his hand down gently upon the table, the object clinking metallically, but he keeps his hand spread to keep the object concealed.
He leans forward and says in a low voice, almost a whisper: "Nata, is it?"
Edging backwards, Yesfir began fiddling with the material of her skirts as if nervous but in reality finding and gripping one of her knives. "Ranger know Nata," she hedged, looking everywhere but at him. " Why ask? Ranger Joe, no? Joe go, Joe know, isn't everything right no Joe? " Giggling nervously, Yesfir looked about for the others almost hopefully. "Would Joe like to know what Nata knows, or no wait and Nata to all story tell?"
The hunter watches Nata intently as she speaks, his eyes scanning coldly, unyieldingly. It's an expression familiar to his face; it's the way he looks when he's on the road, scanning an expansive horizon for anything out of place, anything that moves on its own accord.
When she finishes, his face softens slightly. "It's Joseph. Not Joe. Look, I don't know what you're hiding, or who you're hiding from. An' I don't want to know--don't need to. But if it weren't for your magic, things might've gone a lot worse with those ghouls and that werewolf."
He glances around the common room, then returns his gaze to Nata. "Raben wants you around. An' you ain't got fur, an' I'm pretty sure you got no fangs, either. That's all I need to know."
Keeping his eyes locked on Nata, Joseph slides his hand across the wooden table, producing a slinking, grating sound from beneath his fingers. Then he pulls away his hand, revealing a silver amulet with a silver chain wound around it. "You should take this. Wear it, out where people can see it. It was Threg's. It's mainly for our peace of mind. But it might also protect you, if people around you get wound up. If they they think you're hiding something you're not." He pauses a moment, then adds, "This amulet is what kept me from joining that scared mob of people outside Threg's door last night. It saved us all from becoming cold-blooded murderers.
Looking closely at the Ranger, Yesfir kept one hand in her skirts as the other cautiously fiddled with the amulet. "Joe-s-eth" she intentially slurred the common name, drawing it out as if testing it out for size as she looked at him from underneath her lashes. She didn't trust him or his amulet, but looking at him intently for a moment, she perceived no ill intent at least and only a genuine belief in the power of such a tiny trinket. Picking it up, she finally let go of her dagger to place the trinket around her neck, placing it carefully over her clothes. "Nata thank Joeseth. Not sure if stay. Nata only trying to help. You no harm Nata or friend. Protected. Helped. Nice. But no ask money. Money Nata no have. No like debts," very true, she hated feeling indebted to someone. You never knew what they would ask you to pay or when. "So Nata help instead. Pay back. Say thank you. While Nata look for way. Raben no ask Nata stay. Why ask? Not strong. Not church man."
Pausing she weighed her next words carefully, "Joe-s-eth no tell about...." waving her hands in a vague gesture to indicate magic. "Please." She allowed her eyes to go wide, innocent, and pleading giving him her best puppy dog look. She knew by now the others had gathered about her abilities, limited as they were. And how should she could keep them from dragging her to a stake and burning her as a witch, she had no idea. But she had a sneaking suspicion that if both Raben and Joseph asked them to, it would go alone way of not only keeping her secret but also keep her alive. "Very little protect Nata if more know. People say nasty things. Town already on edge."
After following Nata's words with a somewhat confused look, the ranger shakes his head. "Don't worry about paying it back. I'm not selling it to you. Wearing it is payment enough for me an' Gerard an' Raben an' everyone else." He pauses a moment in consideration. "Think of it like those mirrors you all keep up in the doorways in Stensia. Everyone has their own, but the mirror's for everyone's good. For peace of mind." He grasps his own silver amulet with his thumb and index finger, and lifts it slightly, for emphasis.
He looks around the room again, then leans forward, lowering his voice. "Your magic is your business. I only warn others of threats I see. An' the two times I've seen your magic, it helped us. With them ghouls, it might have saved my life." He leans forward a bit more, across the table. "Just a word of advice, though. Weird behavior and secrecy have a tendency to get people in trouble. You saw what happened outside Threg's door last night. He knew something was ailing him, but he wouldn't tell us what. He wouldn't let us help him. An' the next thing you know, he's got a half-dozen armed men ready to murder him for being a werewolf. So just be careful. Suspicious people get scared, an' scared people are dangerous."
"Nata understands, always careful." Yesfir nodded once to show she understood , she hoped that finished the matter, at least for now.
Joseph nods back, stands up, and grasps his amulet. Then he heads back to his table, where his mug and empty bowl are still sitting, and sits down, facing the door of the inn. He takes a drink, sits back, and watches.
The hour was late and growing later. Yet still the others did not come, and the long gruesome day was beginning to take a toll on Yesfir. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier as she watched the door anxiously. Thinking to just set her head down for just a moment, Yesfir crossed her arms on the table and rested her head on them turning her face so she could continue her wait. Her eyes closed. Once. Startling, she shook herself and stayed awake a moment longer. Then her eyes again. Again she fought against sleep, but then her closed once more, and this time, sleep took her.
--
Fitful, a low whimper escaped her as she borrowed her head deeper into the pillow of her arms. Flashes of images from the day passed through her mind overlapping with bits of memory distorting in a nightmare. A crow landed on a lone stone stately home on the mountain, it's cry strangely human, "Ca...be....ca...ware!". As it's cry deepened into a the deep tones of a warning church bell, it was joined by it's fellows, a murder of crows that flew straight at her, and she fled even as the birds formed and shaped into the form of a giant cat with glowing red eyes. A graveyard appeared in the distance, unadorned bits of stone decorated only with mirrors. The bits of silver flashing in the distance, refracting, and reflecting the glowing eye of the still pursuing cat.
Turning, she reached for the essence of power that had been with her since her later childhood years, but it wasn't there, and she found herself starring at her hands, even as the cat grew closer and closer, until it's red eyes were all she could see. As the feline grew closer and she smelt it's nauseating breath, she tried to find once more, but she found herself sinking, and sinking into the mud, only it wasn't mud at all but blood. Screaming she closed her eyes just as the giant mouth of the cat swallowed her whole, and darkness took her.
Opening her eyes, she found herself not in the belly of a cat, but in a shabby temple barely big enough to be called a chapel, being perhaps no more than ten feet wide and thirty feet long, it's only beauty a small crumbling statue of Avaycn who spread her arms as if to embrace the non-existent worshipers who would kneel to utter their empty prayers. The chapel should have been nearly empty except for this sole feature set on a small wooden pedestal, but there at the front, barely fitting into the small space before the altar was a wooden casket, it's lid open as if waiting for visitors to take their final look at the corpse.
She felt compelled to get closer, to look into the casket, to see who was in there. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears as she grew closer, and closer, until with a shuddering breath she looked within the casket. In the casket, his arms crossed and eyes closed as if merely asleep was the form of Haldor as she once knew him. Dark brown hair tipped with red, youthful cheeks too thin, small lithe body clothed in the shabby dull grey of the uniform given to the children of nighten, a boy no more than thirteen. Gone all too soon. Sobbing, she brushed a cautious hand against his cheek, knowing that it would be cold even as her heart hoped to find warmth. As her hand caressed his cheek, the corpses eye's snapped open, his attention immediately on her, and he spoke. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it! I wanted to come home! I'm sorry Yesfir. A vampire got me. Please forgive me. I can't go home, I can't go home! I'm sorry!"
Screaming, she felt the weight of an axe in her hand, and blindly panicking she swung the heavy blade, aiming it at his neck. The blade landed with a sick thud into his flesh yet even as she saw blood flow from the wound, the corpse sat up, his arms reaching toward her as the litany, of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't go home, I'm sorry" turned to a cat's piercing scream that filled her ears and his eyes turned red. Screaming once more, she swung again and again and again, until the head rolled from his body, landing with a thud at her feet. The last thing she saw as she began to scream was his face forever fixed with a mixture of horror, pain, and accusation.
--
A sharp pain awoke her, and she panicked, her arms swinging wide as she found herself on the floor of the barroom, the sound of screaming broken only by the sound of apologies. Scrambling backward on the floor, she looked around with wide eyes for the source of the voice, only to realize it was her own, her face wet with tears as she heard herself say one last time, "I'm sorry." Looking around at the startled faces of the people around her, Yesfir simply drew up her knees and buried her head in the pillow of her arms as sobs began to shake her body.
When Yesfir's screams filled the tavern, Joseph stood up, knocking his chair backwards, his hand going for the hilt of a sword. He wheeled around to face the threat, but saw only the Stensian girl thrashing about, alone on the floor, swinging her arms at some unseen foe. Joseph paused, his face clouding with uncertainty. Frozen in place, he watched helplessly--along with the rest of the patrons--as the girl had her nightmarish fit, awakening to her own sobs and apologies.
The hunter surveys the crowd. The room is full of whispers, murmurs, and wide eyes locked onto the girl. He blinks, grabs his drink, and hurries to Yesfir's side, placing himself between her sobbing form and the rest of the bar.
He crouches down and puts his mug on the floor next to her. "It's okay," he bellows in a commanding tone to the people behind him, as he fumbles his arms out from his overcoat sleeves. "It's all right. It's just...she's...she's my sister. My sister, Nata." He turns to face the awestruck crowd, and touches his own forehead. "She's touched. An' last night's attack set her off. She's been a bundle of nerves all day." Unconsciously, he grabs his silver amulet and holds it up slightly at the barroom.
He turns to Yesfir and drapes his coat over her frame, covering her from view. His voice is a hoarse whisper. "C'mon, let's get you out of here. Upstairs. Into your room." He lays a light but firm palm against her back, between her shoulder blades. His other hand grabs the mug from the floor, and holds it in front of her. "Here. It's water."
Still crouching around the hunched, shrouded figure of Yesfir, he looks up to the stunned audience. "She's all right," he scowls. "Ain't nothing to see. She just needs sleep."
As a huge form hovered over her, Yesfir's first instinct was to flinch away, visibly looking for a place to run to hide. Looking up to the source of the threat, she visibly relaxed but only slightly, her posture wary as she lifted her tear stained face and no doubt puffy eyes. Looking beyond him, she almost flinched again at the rear and the suspicion in the eyes of the other dinners.
Forcing herself to relax, putting down her knees, she offered a watery smile towards the others and Joseph even as she listened to him lie through his teeth about her. Picking up the tankers she took a cautious sip as Joseph continued to reassure the clearly suspicious and nervous patrons. Immediately, she began to cough, sputtering as she spit out the water she swallowed as the distinctive sharp metallic taste of blood coated her tongue. Coughing hard, she instinctively reached out and grasped the shoulder of Joseph who was kneeling next to her until her coughing stopped. When the coughing stopped, she wiped her face with her sleeve, dropping her hold of Joseph. Ducking her head to hide her face, she rasped out with a voice rough from coughing, "Sorry. Wrong way. No more. Please." Turning to Joseph her eyes begged for understanding , "Nata sorry. Bad dream. Joe-s-th help, up?". Trying to play along when all she wanted to do was hide, she reached out a cautious hand towards Joseph's kneeling figure.
"Yeah," the ranger replies, grabbing the girl's elbow and helping her to her feet. "I'll help." As they make their way to the stairs, he turns one final time, this time to the cook staff standing near the doorway to the kitchen. Again he scowls. "My companions will be back soon, an' they'll probably be hungry. Make sure there's enough stew in the pot for the five of them. I'll pay as soon as I'm back down."
The evening soon begins to adjourn as Raben and company leave the Lightspire Chapel, finishing their discussion. They'd come to consensus to wait for the results of Gerard's efforts until the morrow's sundown, if he'd return at all. It was not for having faith in the man's capability, but the dark preys on those that travel alone as fear, doubt, and wear encroach them.
Idle hours are passed in various means and endeavors before the dark paints the sky, Raben and the others return to the Wandering Heron, pushing the door open and walking past its frame as if on cue to Joseph's mention. It seems some event had just happened.
Raben stands for a moment, eyeing the sides of the room. Joseph was heading up the staircase, seemingly shielding their youngest companion. Syd enters behind him with a wry smile. "I know they're uncomfortable about the clergy but.. this seems awkward."
"I think that the only one who feels uncomfortable around the church is the mayor Syd." Malekus says under his breath. Looking towards the kitchen he says is a normal voice "Well the one thing all men can agree on is a good meal! What do you gentlemen say to some warm food?" He glances to the pair heading up the stairs and guesses they want or need some time away from people. He gives a knowing nod to Joseph before he turns back toward the dining room.
"A warm meal and a cup of ale for anyone who cares to join me," he says as he moves into the room to secure a table.
"Perhaps you're correct," Syd replies as he follows the larger man. "On both accounts," he says pulling a seat himself.
Raben looks to Garreth with a knowing glance and follows suit. "I could use a pint after today.. I've done and seen many things in the line of the Cathedral, but nothing has disturbed my soul quite like today's events."
"Agreed. There seems to be much more to the story but hopefully Gerard will have some success with his search. Until then let's enjoy a brief respite from the foul deeds of the day." Malekus raises his pint for a toast and says "To new companions trying to bring light to a dark place." And he slugs down his drink while flagging down a waitress for another round.
The soup is served, a warm pork broth with chunks of potatoes and carrots and cubes of lamb. The night is spent with the party taking it in it's rare pleasantry. No militiaman running down the streets warning of a fiend's attack. No shriek or cry of an endangered Hanweir resident, just outside or across the street. Conversing and finding comfort in each other's presence, Raben and his troop find solace once they retire to their beds. Innistrad is quiet for one night, at least, in Hanweir.
Morning arrives after the calm of night. A newspaper boy can be heard passing the inn on a noisy bicycle, weaving through the early morning commerce of Hanweir's residents. "Church seeing to curse! Mayor's backing investigation!"
Raben is early to rise, in the dining room in the same table the party shared the previous night. Syd is seated across from him. They are discussing something amidst the clutter of the Wandering Heron staff bustling and getting breakfast prepared.
Malekus comes downstairs refreshed and joins them at the table. "Well, it is amazing what a good night's rest will do for you. Gentlemen I hope you indulged like I did. From the crier outside it sounds like the mayor is a fan of the church today... Interesting times we are living in that a man with his power can change his views. Public office must be tough. "
"He more than likely needs a benevolent relationship with the church to even consider reelection," Syd replies. "But yes. Last night was an excellent respite." A calm before the storm, Syd thought to himself.
"What have you on the agenda, Malekus?" Raben asks, drinking from his cup.
"I have a lot on my mind this morning. I was planning on some meditation to help sort through everything we have learned"
Coming down in the morning, Yesfir looked a lot for the wear. Having spent a restless night towing and turning, she didn't feel particularly rested. Hair in tangles and face smeared in soot, she made her way to Raben's table but declined food as she rested her head on the table as she listened to the others talk. "Nata go to chapel in morning, maybe it help send bad dreams far away. Strange cat scare Nata."
As Nata joins the group and mentions the chapel Malekus says "I can accompany you and introduce you to pastor Bertram. If you will have me."
Yesfir tilted her head at the fat priest, she didn't know him but didn't see the harm as she most going for appearances sake, so finally she nodded to her show her agreement.
"Great!" Malekus says with a smile. Once the meal is concluded they begin to head out to the chapel.
He keeps a close eye on the young woman. He knows she has the gift of magic from their encounter with the werewolf but she seems timid around the group. As they walk he says "Nata, thank you for your help with the fight the other night and for going out to listen to people. You are very brave! I know you will do great things in you life." He gives her a big smile and continues "You said something about a scary cat? Have you seen it today?"
Shaking her head, Yesfir debated about answering but remembering Joseph's words the other night about secrets, she heaved a with and crossed her arms before answering haltingly. "No. No today. Last night. Late, sun to down. Nata meet nice lady, walk home, talk and listen. Not learn much. Wanted to go back. Go sleep when see something strange," cursing her choice to use halting simple language , Yesfir struggled to find words to describe the cat, and employed her hands to mime it's actions. "Black cat stalk. Hunt. Track. Sniff. Like dog. Strange. Nata think follow, maybe find dinner. Long time pass. Cat to mayor's house, over tall fence, meows. Call kitty kitty and it jump on fence. Look at Nata. Then Nata see red eyes. Red eyes stare. Look through Nata. So Nata run. Later Nata have bad dream and remember bad cat. No like. " clamping up , she shook her head clear of the memories.
"That is strange indeed." Malekus thinks to himself that seems almost demonic in nature but he weighs telling the poor girl that. Having an infernal presence here would explain the hostility towards the church but it also meant that things were likely to get much worse for the group if they attract its attention. He looks around to see if there is a cat in the area.
As he breaks his concentration from the dark thoughts he looks back to Nata, and tries to warm his expression. "Nata, that is very good investigating that you did. I am sure we will find out what is going on here. I want to help bring some happiness to the people of this town., everyone deserves to be happy!" He looks around again taking in the scenery of the town. He takes a deep breath and says, "Honestly, we have seen things here that are darker than I had ever thought possible. My meditations have been frightful lately. Hopefully some time at the chapel will help me reconnect. I always leave mass feeling better than before. Were you wanting to attend mass or were you looking for something else from the church this morning?"
Not trusting herself to speak, Yesfir avoided the question entirely by humming a simple Avacynian hymn, letting her eyes wander as she skipped ahead a few steps wanting to attend mass and be done with the formality.
"Ah well then. Let's go inside and enjoy some time with our faith." As they enter the church Syd and Raben are approaching the church. Malekus waves to them and then heads inside. It warms him to see this many people united in faith. Throughout the mass he has a hard time focusing. Eventually he is able to find his inner calm and feels like he was right to come here this morning.
--
At the church Malekus says to Nata, "The church will always be a safe place. I know you are scared but we are on the righteous path." Looking around he notices they are some of the last people in the sanctuary and Pastor Bertram has already retired.
"Unfortunately it looks like we missed our chance to talk with the good pastor. I will head back to the inn and see if our forcemage has returned."
After the mass he looks to the group and says "I feel much better now, spiritually refreshed even. How about you Nata? Would you like to meet the pastor? He maybe able to provide you some guidance or at least a small ward for you if you did not get that from the mass this morning."
Having spent the better part of the service people watching rather than paying attention, Yesfir's attention was brought up sharp by the priest word's. Frowning, she considered, and finally looked toward Raben as if seeking guidance, "Nata not sure....." Biting her lip she considered , "Nata still looking....try to find....to understand...for safe place. Need to find soon. Raben think good idea? Nata no know fat priest or pastor here but trust Raben." Her hands went instinctively to the amulet Joseph hand given her last night, playing with it as she tried to think.
--
It was late morning when Joseph found his way into the common area of the inn. He seemed to have been busy in his room before coming down to eat; his tattered duster boasted a few new patches, and his boots, scabbards, and sword belt were glistening with a fresh coat of oil. When he saw nobody familiar, he sat at a secluded corner table in the dining area and ordered a lavish and large breakfast. Then he spent the better part of an hour eating as he watched and listened to the comings and goings of the other patrons.
The Forcemage's Return
After seeing that the others are not in the Witherhall, Gerard begins the short walk to the Wandering Heron taking a little more leisurely pace than when we he traveling to the city. Merchants were still selling their wares, but many of them looked like they would not be open much longer. A group of day laborers crossed in front of him looking to go home for the evening or spend their wages at a nearby tavern. It all looked like normal everyday life in a city, but with an underlying tension that everyone notices but no one speaks about.
His travel meal long since eaten, Gerard’s stomach growls. “Time to quit dallying “ he thinks, and quickens he pace to the inn. The dining room of the Wandering Heron is the most opulent room Gerard is ever been in. Seeing no he knows there yet, he takes a seat at a large table telling the staff that others will be joining him. He is famished however, so would they be so kind as to bring him a meal and an ale. Receiving his food and drink, he eats while keeping an eye out for his companions.
Entering the refined inn, Raben's eyes lift as he makes his way to the dining room and sees the familiar tanned leathers of their friendly forcemage. "Ah, he's made it. Unharmed it seems," Syd adds. They walk across the red-rug and gold tasseled expanse. Raben extends and offers a hand with a hardy grin to the druid before seating himself.
"You've made it!" He motions for a waiter to bring some water and bread loaves. "Without injury, I hope."
At the inn Malekus heads straight for the dinning room to procure an ale and perhaps a snack. Seeing a few members of the group at a table he pulls up a chair to join them. "Glad to see you back Gerard. We have much to discuss!" He orders an ale and settles in to find out what was learned by the others.
Yesfir followed the others at a safe distance, humming softly as joined the rest at the table.
As the others join the table, Gerard stands and smiles. “Thank you all very much. The way was clear there and back.” Thank the spirits, he thinks to himself, but doesn’t say that aloud.
Gerard retakes his seat and waits for the others to settle in. Once the waiter has brought the bread and left Gerard looks around to make sure they are not being overheard. Keeping his voice low, he tells his companions the tragic story Lorelei related to him only withholding her request for retribution against the vampire that slew him. Holding the key briefly up for the others to see, he says, “We should retrieve the letters that Pitre wrote to Lorelei. They may contain clues as to the source of these problems. Should we call upon the mayor again, or perhaps take a more indirect route to obtain the letters?”
Malekus looks around the room again to make sure no one is listening in too closely. "That is a lot of information to digest and based on what we found out at the chapel I think Lorelei is the key to this whole puzzle." He spends a few minutes relaying what the group found out at the chapel.
"I do not think an infiltration of the mayors personal grounds would be advised." He let's out a sigh. "And based on our previous encounter it might be best if the clergy of the group stays out of sight. Would the rest of the group like to approach him and see if they could search the rooms?"
When Joseph saw the party gathering around a larger table, he pushed his plate forward, grabbed his mug, and made his way to the group, taking a seat across from Raben. There, he listened intently as Lorelei's story was told in two parts.
He then nods at Malekus's suggestion. "Seems to me the mayor is a reasonable man. He did, after all, let us dig up a body in his graveyard yesterday. Asking for a few letters ain't much compared to that. Especially if we have the key, an' permission from his daughter."
He looks to Gerard. "Does Garensun know where Lorelei is holed up? Is she hiding from him? If she is, an' doesn't want us to give her away, I think that'll be a bigger problem then asking for the lockbox."
"Black cat make Nata worry, too." Yesfir pipped up, "Not cat. Strange. It hunted. But not mice. Go straight to mayor's house. Not good." Shaking her head, she spread her hands out. " Fear. Stories. Rumors. They all have reason. People here. On edge. Haunted. No trust. No tell Nata much, but they know Petre no die good death, if no how or why. See it as sign of curse or worse. It be good if churchmen act fast before the worse."
Gerard looks at Nata with a curious expression. "The cat does not sound natural at all. There are a number of things i could be. We should keep alert for it." He then turns to Joseph. "To tell you the truth, I did not think to ask Lorelei. When she left yesterday she has an armed escort, so I think i is safe to say he knows, but I can't be absolutely certain. I am willing to go talk to the mayor with a few others. He shouldn't object to us obtaining the letters."
Raben keeps his hands together as the other members each weigh in on the situation. He considers for a moment after Gerard's last word, then speaks. "Though not my preference, I've acted unlawfully one time or another for the sake of Avacyn and the Church. But you may be right. Perhaps if Nata, Gerard, and Joseph asked the mayor for these letters, he'd be more willing. If this is our plan, we should go now. If all else fails, we might have to trespass onto the good mayor's property in the dead of night. But, if this.. unholy feline prowls his expanse after dark, who knows its meaning. Or its motives. I've lived too long not to be wary of even smaller things."
Joseph watches Raben, his eyebrows raising slightly at the cathar's suggestion. "I'm not one to be afraid of cats, or any other critter smaller than a wolf, but after them crows a few days ago." He shoots a furtive look at Syd and Yesfir.
Then he finishes off his mug and clunks it down onto the table. "Well, if we got to go now, let's get to going. I'd bet the mayor will oblige, even if the Church asked him. Unless he's got his own way of sealing up that blood-well of his in the cemetery."
"Alright then," Gerard stands up. "Let's go speak to the mayor." Gerard turns and looks at Nata, "Are you coming?" Gerard leaves with Joseph and Nata, if she is willing to come, through the town and onto the mayor's estate.
Mouth thin, Yesfir followed the other two silently, making sure to dirty the right side of her face "accidentally" on the way.
The ranger stands and straightens his overcoat, flipping the flaps over the hilts of his swords. Once the three arrive on the street, he looks towards Gerard. "You got that key?"
"I do," Gerard says as the trio make their way along the street. "How do you two want to handle this?"
Joseph considers this a moment. "Probably best to have you do the talking. Me an' Nata can say something, if it's needed."
"Very well." Gerard will continue on in silence, only speaking when spoken to. He ponders what he is going to say. Gerard has spoken to more people in the last two days than he ever has before in his short lifetime. After leaving home, his conversations with people have centered on what is ailing people, and can he trade healing services for a meal or a warm place to sleep at night.
The people he has spoken to! High members of the church, nobility, a ranger, a mysterious young woman, and now a mayor. Although he was taught by his mentor how to speak to people of all stations in life, he stills feels just like a woodcutter's son from a backwoods town that no longer exists. "Give the gentile class the same respect you give to anyone else. We should be polite to all until it is no longer reasonable to be polite. Give the men that station themselves above others a little deference, but do not roll over for them. You are not their dog, even if they treat you as one. Do not respond in kind. Choose your words wisely, and do not violate your conscious." The words of his mentor speak in his head. Pushing doubts away from him, Gerard readies himself for what is necessary.
A Reddened Sky
Having decided to pay Mayor Garenson a visit now, the party vacates the Wandering Heron and heads towards the administrative district. It is markedly warmer, you can feel, as if the ambient temperature has risen a few degrees. Just as well, the sky has taken a reddish hue. This would be otherwise unremarkable during sunset so close to Kessig, but the sun still hangs low in the sky. The clouds are purple and black, like bruises spreading over irritated skin.
Traveling deeper into Hanweir, the heat seems to only rise and the sky deepens in hue as the minutes pass by.
As the group is walking Malekus begins to get uncomfortably warm. As he begins to take off his over coat he says “The weather has taken a turn for the better it seems. A little warmth and light at the end of the day must be Avacyn shining on this town.”
After a few more minutes of walking he begins to sweat. He begins to think something is not quiet right with the current situation. He begins to scan the horizon for trouble instead of taking in the brief respite from the gloom. As his gaze shifts toward the east he notices a plume of smoke. He says to the group “Look, over there! Smoke rising. There must be a mighty fire to create this much heat.” He stops walking as he realizes that is the direction of the chapel. “Everyone that is where the Lightspire Chapel is! I must go help! Pastor Bertram will need all the help he can get. Friends, brothers will you join me to help?”
He paces impatiently as he waits to see who will join him in helping with the fire.
Gerard briefly speaks strange words softly under his breath as Malekus is talking. This is a barely noticeable shimmer from his eyes for a second and then it is gone. “Someone has been using conjuration magic in that direction. I fear that this fire may not be of natural origins. We should go there quickly!” Gerard nods to Malekus and begins to run in the direction of Lightspire Chapel.
Tossing up her hands in resignation, Yesfir just shrugged and took after Gerard.
Without hesitation, Joseph bounds after Gerard, flipping the flaps of his duster back, behind his sword scabbards, as he runs.
The party's hastened footsteps thud against the grey cobbles of Hanweir's administrative streets. The ambient air only gets warmer, and bits of black and orange cinders waft ever so gracefully. A foul stench begins to be discernable, like rotting eggs; sulfuric. At that moment, the Lightspire tower bell begins tolling, a deep, bellowing ring.
Approaching the chapel, a scene of panic ensues as Hanweir's denizens flee in the opposite direction of the group. Some are crying, others shouting and screaming in fear. Some have burns and various wounds, what look to be scratches and minor stabs. The cacophony of voices is difficult to understand.
From the party's vantage, it can be discerned that the column of smoke is not rising from the holy structure, but behind it, from the grafs behind its western wall. A few militiamen can be seen arriving from alleyways and streets across the way or other directions, brandishing swords, clubs, and spears. They all share a mixed look of fury and confusion as they head to the chapel's grafs.
The ranger slows to a trot, his head jerking to and fro to examine the chaos. He looks to Gerard, speaking loudly to the whole party. "On your guard. Last I checked, fires ain't put out with spears." He draws one of his own shortswords and keeps it ready at his side as he moves towards a crowd of civilians fleeing the other way.
Gerard readies his staff and follows after Joseph.
Wary, Yesfir follows the others already putting her mind to work into solving this puzzle.
Malekus slows his run as well. Panting from the effort he stumbles towards a man fleeing the scene. "Phaww, excuse me, bwah, sir, can you tell..." He is trying to get the question out but is clearly out of breath. "...us what happened." As he doubles over holding onto his knees while he regains his breath.
The crowd the ranger approaches is a collective of men and woman whom have taken the trouble to help more severely injured persons in their escape, while Malekus meets an older individual, an aging merchant, eyes wild with fear.
The crazed man slobbers, almost falling over his own feet as he scrambles forth, putting his hands on the angel-blessed warlock. "The church, thank the hosts! From the graf- the graf!" He begins coughing profusely.
A stern woman whom the ranger had met before pulls at a man in guardsman clothing over her shoulders. The man's left leg is torn open and in a make-shift splint and tourniquet. The woman speaks to the ranger. "You! Ranger with the church! Find your cathar!" Her eyes well over in fright. "Hell has come for us!"
Instinctively, Gerard checks the guardsman's splint and tourniquet and quickly adjusts them if needed. He knows that they want to flee, so the splint and tourniquet are not nearly to standard that he would normally like for a person with this severe an injury. Gerard stands up and looks at Joseph uncertainty visible in his face. "Joseph should we press on or get the cathar?" He then looks in the direction of the grafs to see whatever may be coming that has caused all of these people so much fear.
"I go! You more useful here. Nata fast!" So saying, Yesfir took off in the direction of the inn, her every instinct telling her this was nothing but trouble and that they would need the help. She only hoped the more formidable trio could hold on until she retrieved help. Determined , she ran faster to find Raben.
Joseph looks to Ekka, then to Gerard. His mouth tightens briefly in contemplation, but just as he's about to reply, Nata speaks up and sprints away. His gaze falls back upon Gerard. "There's our answer. Let's go."
Before he resumes running towards the graf, Joseph turns to Ekka, pointing in the direction Nata is running. "Ekka, watch for the cathar. Raben. Point him in the right direction when he gets here."
Malekus still wheezing pauses for a second to try and catch his breath. Then follows the ranger toward the graf.
Gerard nods and runs after Joseph looking back for a second to check on Malekus.
Gareth draws his hand axes ready to face whatever comes.
The air becomes noxious and scratches at your throats as you reach the periphery of the Lightspire Chapel grafs. The surroundings has a reddish tinge, painting the headstones and nearby buildings various shades of crimson, as if a dark-red sheet has been placed before the sun.
Before the open gates of Hanweir's grafs, darker pools have collected beneath still bodies, their arms outstretched for aid that never came. Shadows dance over their bodies, cast by a great, luminous, fiery light that originates from deeper in the graf- where the black plume rises into the blood-smeared sky. Four thin, red-skinned, impish creatures frolic with various ghastly implements amidst these bodies. With torches, pitchforks, daggers, and clubs, they chitter and laugh like maddened hyenas as they search for any unfortunate soul they can get their claws on.
The small, dagger eyes of these devils catches the party. Their jaws open and hang loose with long tongues slipping through needle-like teeth in greeting. They wish to play.
Garreth rages at the sight of the foul demons. "RAWWRRRR" he roars as he charges at the devils, but his rage blinds his reason and he overestimates his own speed. The targeted devil sidesteps the charge at the last second and Gareth speeds past it without connecting. Except, as he comes to a stop, he grins as he is now flanking the beasts.
Seeing the devils scattered and about to charge, Gerard picks two that are closer together than the rest. Calling upon the strength of the earth, he directs power into the grass and weeds in the grafs. Immediately they begin to writhe and grow, thickening and twisting. The plants wrap themselves about one of the foul beasts. The second devil seeing what is happening to its fellow fiend jumps and scrambles out of the way before the plants can wrap around him as well.
Malekus takes in the scene and surveys the area for anyone still alive. He sees a pair of guards and three innocent civilians strewn across the ground with dark pools of blood soaking the ground. He presses forward and is greeted by the view of the fiendish creatures. Of the four one is carrying a torch and seeing the plume of smoke he wants to prevent further fires from being started. He begins to focus his energy into the palm of his left hand and mutters a few words “benedicite maledicentibus vobis”. As the energy finishes forming, he hurls it at the creature hitting it squarely in the chest. The blast is devastating to the creature and causes it to drop the torch to clutch its chest as it staggers.
The blasted devil's chest erupts in a bloody mess, the thing landing on its back with a pained squeal. But the devil is not felled. Scurrying to its feet, its nails rake against the pavement of the street as it runs on all fours and jumps, limbs outstretched, latching onto Garreth. Meanwhile, the devil to its left, one wielding a club, raises the weapon above its head wildly and charges towards the celestially favored warlock.
As the scene unfolds before Joseph, he draws his second sword and watches, waiting for the fiends to make their move. When one devil charges towards the rear of the party, intent on Malekus, the ranger springs at the reddened thing and swings his blade, but the devil blocks the attack with its club, staggering back under the weight of Joseph's blow. It bares its fangs and begins laughing gleefully at the attempt. The hunter cocks his head in bemusement, then comes in with a low thrust from his off-hand sword, piercing the creature's side, its laughter cut off by a raspy howl of pain. Another of the devils, watching the two from beside Garreth, snarls and charges the ranger to help its ally, lashing out at Joseph with its whip, but the Kessiger is quick on his feet, and easily sidesteps the attack.
Late to spring into action, the two others join the fray. One with a nasty-looking, black dagger rushes behind the annoying nature-man. Just as well, the other moves behind Joseph with a nail-ended whip in hand. It sneers as it draws the lengthy weapon back, smiling crookedly as it believes to have caught the ranger unawares. But the ranger, ever vigilant of his surroundings in battle, quickly dodges what would have been a stinging attack.
Garreth, recovered from the missed charge, slashes his axes at the nearest devil, the one attacking the druid. One attack is all he needs to end the foul beast. His intended secondary attack slashes through nothing. The beast erupted in flames and he used the momentum from the second attack to dodge the blast.
Gerard steps forward toward the devil with the dagger menacing him. He shouts, "Streic yn wir". His staff illuminates for a second with a green glow as he swings, The devil anticipates a high strike falling for the feint as Gerard twist his wrists and pulls the swing low catching the creature in the body nearly knocking it of its feet.
Malekus turns his attention from the small eruption that replaced the devil he injured to the devil that is rushing up to engage him. The devil bares it teeth and snarls at him and Malekus stands his ground. He begins to focus the energy into his palm again and shouts “Ad infernum apud vos”. He releases the energy directly into the creature and it screams in its death rattle. As the devil falls it begins to swell and Malekus stands looking at it dumbfounded. The body suddenly bursts into a gout of flame. He tries to jump back but is caught in the burst. He pats out the flames before they can take hold on his armor. He looks up to see that Joseph was able to evade the explosion and is unscathed.
A moment after the explosion, Joseph spins about and attacks his new assailant with a furious swipe, slashing a deep wound in its gut. He follows with a quick swing of his second sword, but misjudges the attack, cutting nothing but air as the devil flinches and leaps back from the pain of the first blow. With infernal rage in its eyes, the creature raises its whip a second time and brings it down hard with a powerful crack. This time the blow lands its mark, connecting with the ranger's arm. A wide gash appears on Joseph's overcoat sleeve, but the tarnished scale mail beneath seemed to have absorbed the blow.
Nearing its rather explosive end, the dagger-handed devil drops its dagger. It clangs and clatters away from the fray, and the devil abruptly jumps, aiming to grab onto the forcemage, but fails its attempt as the druid nimbly dodges the flailing creature.
---
The streets were crowded with people. Some like her were hurrying away from the scene, nursing minor sounds and fearful glances back towards the graf. Most, however, we're gathered out of curiosity, drawn to chaos like flies to meat. A few, a very few, rushed forward to help. One such, a guard, caught her as she endeavored to date through the crowd, caught her mid-step and she wasted several precious minutes convincing him to let her go to fetch the cathar and a priest, and then he only let her go when he was convinced she was unharmed. Growling in frustration, she darted towards a nearby alley, fighting last carts and barrels as she sought a back way to the inn.
---
With only one devil left Malekus sees an opportunity to strike in between the ranger’s attacks. He mutters a quick prayer and forms the ball of energy in his left hand. In the shuffle one of the bodies is kicked and he sees a reaction. Thinking he might be able to save someone he tries to hurl the ball at the devil but in his distracted state it turns towards the rangers back. “Joseph dodge!” he shouts giving the ranger a warning and fearing it might be too late. The ranger dodges the blast without breaking his direct engagement with the devil. Malekus looks down at the body again and sees the head has rolled back to reveal lifeless eyes staring back at him. “Avacyn have mercy” he breathes out quietly and brings his focus back to the last remaining devil.
After stepping aside the errant ball of energy, Joseph squares off against the remaining foe. With a swift motion he bring his blade upwards, below the creature's armpit. An infernal shriek fills the air, and the arm falls writhing to the ground. Instinctively, the ranger turns and steps away, holding his arm up to block the fiery explosion with the flap of his duster. When the air clears, he seems unharmed, through the side of his overcoat is smoking.
A Moment of Respite
As the last of the devils explodes in a fiery blast, Malekus takes a moment to survey the chaos. The bodies strewn about the graft are unsettling but also unmoving. The group looks like there were some minor burns sustained but no major injuries. He looks to his companions and asks, “Is anyone seriously wounded?” and receives a few grumbles but no one requests aid. After determining there was no immediate threat of danger or death for his companions he turns his gaze towards the glowing hole in the middle of the graf. He notices smoke bellowing out with swirling embers rising into the sky. There is a warm orange glow from within. As he begins to approach the hole cautiously he says to his companions “We need to see what is causing all of the smoke. Hopefully we can enlist some of the local militia to help extinguish the blaze.” He leans in to get a look at the source of the smoke.
"I advise caution Malekus. These devils came from a lower realm beneath us. They typically gather and flock in areas of pain, suffering, and calamity to frolic in the chaos. There has been plenty of pain and suffering in this town of late that may have attracted them. This hole may very lead to there place of origin."
Joseph sheathes his left-hand blade, keeping his main weapon in hand. He shakes his head. "I'm all right. None of 'em got a good crack at me." He pats out a smoldering section of his overcoat, then glances around at the mayhem surrounding them. "Can't say the same for a lot of these people."
When Malekus begins to approach the glow, Joseph takes one more look around, and rushes to his side, sword at the ready. "It might do well to wait for Nata to get back. Raben might know more about what's going on, here, an' what we can do about it. He seems to be Thraben's resident expert on occult matters." The ranger stares forward into the reddened air. "Meanwhile, we can post up an' make sure nothing else gets out to do more damage."
Panting, slightly out of breath, Yesfir arrived at the Wandering Heron, wildly looking around for Raben. Spotting the Father by the bar, she ran up to him and tugged on his arm. "Fire at grafs. Trouble. Raben come, priest too. Come, quick, quick. Joe-sp-eth need help.". Dragging the slightly confused but willing Cathar has behind her, who saved to Syd, Yesfir tried to urge them to hurry out the door towards the grafs.
The heat is unbearable at this proximity to the glowing hole that has spawned in the center of the graf. The noxious smoke obscures vision intermittently, and brings the heavy discomfort of nausea at the back of your throat down to the pit of your stomach. A low, resonant tenor can be heard from below- a rumbling. It is ever constant. Every so often, jets of flame leap out of off the searing, red-hot walls, making immediate approach and searching down the hole a risky and dangerous maneuver.
As a few moments pass, a chorus accompanies the deep tone. Laughter of the most malevolent kind. Inhuman and crazed, bouncing off the molten walls of the hellhole. This searing maw is a door to another realm; its inhabitants are eager to visit.
Joseph wipes the sweat from his brow with the crook of his elbow, then scrunches his face up in thought. The scars on his face bulge grotesquely in the rich red glow. "The mayor," he mutters, "ain't gonna be happy about this." He looks at his companions. "We need Raben. Unless one of you knows what this thing is, an' how to get rid of it. Cos I don't know either."
He scans the crowds of people on the periphery. "We'll want to keep an eye out for Jurgenson. Keep him away from Raben and the other clergy. From what I heard of his opinion of us to begin with, he might lose his head, an' try to jail them on the spot. One of us need to talk to him first. Put some sense in his head if he starts acting mad."
Sword still in hand, at his side, the hunter's vigil moves between the fiery pit, and the throngs of people surrounding the graf. As his gaze is sweeping the graf, something catches the ranger's attention. He cocks an ear a moment, then turns to Malekus beside him. "Something's flying around down there. I hear wings." He reaches over his shoulder for his bow, but catches himself short. He'd left it at the inn, along with his pack.
Gerard thinks for a moment and then says to Malekus, “This portal was summoned by someone on our side. It isn’t here by chance. I believe it can be dispelled by magic, or the ground can be reconsecrated to close it. The father of Lightspire Chapel may be able to help. Does that sound right to you, Malekus?”
"The father may be of help but he might not be here in time to stop whatever is heading into our realm." Malekus says. "Nata and the other priests may also be able to aid us, I just hope they make it here in time. Everyone be on your guard this conflict is just beginning!" He takes a defensive stance a steps back slowly from the pit.
“I disagree. We need the father here sooner rather than later.” Gerard mutters “Ceffyl” and shimmers a moment before a horse has taken the place of the force mage. The horse sprints away to the front of the chapel.
Joseph watches Gerard depart, sucking in a hiss of air between clenched teeth in anticipation. Then he glances back in the direction Nata had gone, towards the inn. Finally, he turns to Malekus and Garreth. "We might want to get back a bit. Whatever's coming outta that hole is on wings. We don't want to get overtaken." The ranger turns to the crowd. "Arms up front! Bows, if you have them!" He waves a hand, indicating the wounded and bewildered masses. "The rest of you, get on back from the graf! Indoors, if you can! There's more trouble coming!"
The smoke and ash rising from the pit slowly shift in the wind and begin to burn at Malekus’ eyes. He takes a few more steps back from the edge of the pit for relief and heading the ranger’s warning of more trouble on the way. He takes a moment to survey the chaos around the gaff. The bodies strewn about the ground, the fear on the faces of the remaining guards and the handful of civilians cowering in fear. The moans and wails of the injured and fearful add to the cacophony that surrounds him. The smell of burning flesh and the stench of the battlefield add to the assault on all his senses.
All this destruction and chaos on the hallowed grounds he thinks to himself. We need to do something. To stand up to the fiends and unite the people again in the faith of the church. He looks to the leader of the guards and says “Captain, listen to the ranger. Get your men formed up and ready to fight whatever comes out of that pit. If you have any injured see if they can help get the civilians out of here and to safety. We need to stand united to defend this town and these people from any more harm. Avacyn will shine down on us today!” With that exclamation he mutters a phrase under his breath and rubs a small amount of moss he was holding against his staff and it begins to shine with a bright light as he raises it above his head.
Joseph, a single sword held before him, cocks his head slightly and glances towards the sky before returning his focus to the hole. "You see anything weird before we got here?" he asks Malekus, still staring forward. "Anything up in the air? The wings I hear are up high. Not in that hole after all." There's a pause. "An' they're moving away." He shifts his weight uncomfortably, eyes still forward. "Somethin' might have already gotten out of that hole."
The captain musters what little courage he can find within himself, embers of faith that have kindled alight from Malekus' words. "Form up now, Hanweir! By Avacyn or by our hands, we push back the infernals!" He shouts, then quickly delegates sparing guards to address to the wounded, the rest position themselves around their captain with resolve anew.
Moments, like small eternities pass. At this juncture, most of the injured civilians and their accompanying guardsmen have vacated the vicinity of the cursed graf. The ground tremors, and crumbling of stone and peat can heard from inside the hellhole, like something clinging to its walls and rising towards the surface. Not a frantic scrambling, but a measured and deliberate sound, like something climbing with a headed eagerness, tempered by a malicious patience.
A small pause. The guards hold their breaths. Sweat on their brow no longer falls down to their chins. Time seems to stop. A guttural, satisfied rumble overlaps the pit's poisonous symphony. A blackened hand, larger than any man's breaks from the smog abruptly. With bony, knuckled fingers that betray the creature's immense strength, the thing's nails pierce into the surface ground as its arm crooks over the mouth of the maw in its sudden motion.
The ranger squints, taking an unconscious half-step backwards. He shoots a look of trepidation to his two companions, then hastily glances behind him, scanning the dispersing crowd. He mutters under his breath, cursing. He turns back to Malekus and Garreth and blinks, as if he forgot they were there. Curling his lip, he draws his second sword, letting it dangle loosely at his side. Then he takes a full stride forward, placing himself beside and just ahead of Malekus. "Hope you have Avacyn's favor today, friend," Joseph says, keeping his eyes forward. "Got a feeling we'll need all the help we can get."
He proffers a final glance over his shoulder, towards town, and again mutters with irritation. Then he doubles his grip on his swords, settles into a low stance, and stares intently at the smoking chasm. There's the slightest hint of a breeze bringing in the scent of freshly cut hay.
The black hand, fingers crumbling the dirt, pushes down with measured strength, raising the rest of the creature's body above the lip of the pit, its humanoid body breaking through the black plume. The existence of the dark and malevolent forces that dwell in some realm other than your own has always been truth. They are spoken of in scripture, Avacynian or pagan. They are spoken as warnings to children and men as punishment for wrongdoing. They are depicted in works of art, horrible visages and gargoyles that still the heart and remind you to step on the path of good. But this was no scroll. This was no statue. The twisted smile of evil, the unholy perversion of humanity has dawned before you with sharp, gnashing teeth, blackened claws and reddened eyes.
It speaks with a voice like charred steam as it reveals itself from its shroud of smog. "I am free, and I am.. ravenous."
---
Within Chapel Lightspire
"Father! Father! We need you! Come quickly!"
The main chamber interior is unperturbed, but there's muffled sounds, what sounds like a struggle, behind the walls in the far back: the Father's chambers, Gerard remembers are back there. Believing the Father may be in trouble, Gerard rushes to the back.
As he approaches and nears the entryway to the interior chambers, Gerard begins to hear a struggled voice, the father's, but also one he don't know, male. It is evident of the tone of the Father that this other's presence is not welcome. Just before he reaches the door, Gerard hears Pastor Bertram shout,"You vile abomination! Devil! This was your doing! It must be!"
Gerard opens the door a crack slowly to get a peek inside.
He sees Pastor Bertram, the Father of Lightspire back against a cabinet in a confident, but defensive position. A person is before him, their back to the druid.
At first you would have thought this a normal human being. But after you moment, you realize there stands something no one has ever seen before. This thing is as tall as any other man, and has the frame of a slender human. They are wearing styled clothing with a fitted leather coat, very fine in appearance, but not quite Thraben elite, perhaps a middle-class man from Nephalia. But your eyes avert to the red, glowing, seething magic in his left hand, like pain convalesced in his palm. And a tail. A long, thin red tail not unlike those things the party felled out in the graf.
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," the thing says with a delivery that is educated in enunciation, mocking. He twirls the red, almost flame-like magic in his fingers. "I follow pain, pain follows me. And there is nothing quite like the pain of the faithful amidst a faithless flock."
Gerard silently shifts into a large wolf that has white fur streaked with silver. He then barges through the door and charges the vile creature attempting to knock him down to the ground and away from the Father. As he bursts through the door, it slams against its hinged wall, and Pastor Bertram, not expecting a wolf suddenly entering the room, exclaims wide-eyed and mouth agape. The devilish figure in front of him turns to face whatever has astonished the man and looks at the beast, immediately recognizing an adversary.
"Oh my, who let the dog inside?" He tunes. With a side-step he wraps his right arm around Gerard. He then presses the pain spell against the wolf's temple. Sharp, blinding pain like lightning surges through his brain and through his mind, disorienting the woodsman. After a yelp, the wolf pauses, disoriented and unable to act.
The good Pastor grasps his necklaces pendant, raising the small silver Avacyn's Collar before his lips and whispers, his voice growing into a brazen exclamation. "Though I see the hand of evil before me, the light of Avacyn is in me, and I shall see the darkness as it hides its cowering face!" The silver shines brilliantly, and a holy glow radiates from the pastor's person, as well as the druid's. "Now, blasphemer, bane of all of the angel's hosts, you shall shield your red face from all that is just and right!"
The man-devil twists his body, dodging an attempted bite by the wolf-formed druid and positions himself against the wall behind an overthrown desk, its contents spilled across the carpeted floor. He didn't care much for cornering himself, but, at least now both of these two fools were in front of him. He grins, flashing white, elongated fangs. "If you're happy and you know it," he cants and claps his hands together. When he releases them, a blast of intense flame erupts forward, threatening to engulf the elder pastor and the younger druid.
The poor pastor is not so agile in his age and is met with the brunt of the blast, knocking him onto his back several feet away, his hand releasing his holy focus. An aching, held grunt escapes him as he clutches his body, fumes rising from his raiment.
Gerard curses himself for missing the opportunity to knock the devil down. Before he can make another attempt fire slams into the druid knocking him into the floor and forcing him to transform back into human form. Rarely does Gerard get angry, but this is one of those few times that he does. Springing to his feet, he almost shouts the Druidic word s for “Strike true!” Briefly a green glow alights his weapon and his eyes as he swings the wooden staff hard into the hellion’s body.
"Oof!" The red-skinned grunts as the druid's wooden weapon slams straight into his gut. His stumbles back into the wall behind him and chuckles, hand over his belly. That's sure to bruise. "Two against one is a little unfair, no?" He then raises his hands, fingers outstretched, palms facing downwards. Red magic swirls from both extending to the floor where the wooden flooring begins to burn and ignite in a bright orange flame. The pyres vanish and in their place are two small devils, sneering and chortling. They are not unlike the fiends that made an audience just out of the hellmaw in the graf. "There! That's better."
The two impish fiends scurry forwards and harass Gerard, raking their thin nails across his cloth and leather. One of them finds its way past the druid's protective attire, lashing long striations across the man's skin.
Now on his feet, Pastor Bertram wields his holy symbol once more. "I wield the light. The light is my weapon, and it shall fell you, beasts!" A white, shimmering mace in the shape of Avacyn's Collar appears next to one of the devils and hurls itself with a mighty swing. With a bright light, it slams into the scrawny thing, bashing it against the upturned table. It scrambles for a moment before becoming still, and then vanishes in red wisps of mana. With a purpose he hasn't felt in much too long, the good pastor wields his silver focus as a weapon and attempts to stab at the other devil's flesh, but is not swift enough to catch it.
The small demon’s slash cuts deep. Losing blood Gerard come close to losing consciousness. Calling upon the healing power of the earth his hands glows green for a moment while Gerard presses it to the area of the wound.
The devil retaliates against the pastor now for attempting to strike it, jumping onto the older gentleman and raking its claws into his shoulders. Seeing blood, the foul thing begins to laugh high in hysterics. Seeing the outlander using green healing magicks, the fiend-blooded frowns. "Oh that won't do," he snarls and aims his outstretched palm at the druid. Black magic expels forward, attempting to envelope the younger man. Like wispy tendrils it invades the druid's body, passing into and out of him. "That should do it!" He shouts excitedly.
Seeing the small devil continue to hurt the Father, Gerard takes a swing at it with his staff. The creature laughs mockingly as it easily ducks the druid's intended blow.
The pastor mentally commands the mace of light to strike the last devil, landing a successful hit against the creature's face. In this moment of opportunity, Pastor Bertram attempts to attack the fiend, but it recovers just in time, grabbing the man's arm before the pastor can stab his silver focus into the monster's red flesh. "I have the little one! Don't let the fiend-blooded escape! He is a blasphemer, a murderer!" The pastor exclaims.
The red man coos. "Sticks and stones, my good priest." With a celebrant grin, he bursts his hands open. The devil then begins to bloat and glow a bright red. With a sick pop, it's torn flesh, broken bones, and splattered guts are expelled in all directions, wreathed in flames. Unable to free himself, the pastor is barraged by the splinter of bones and slather of flesh, his white and gold vestments soaked in blood and covered in red bits. With a deep grunt, Pastor Bertram falls onto his back on the mottled and burning carpet.
Gerard stands there for a moment, eyes wide with shock before recovering his senses. He moves quickly to the where the father is lying prone and checks for a pulse and readies either a healing incantation or a final benediction.
The pastor groans but lifts his head up and props an elbow to the wooden floor. "I am fine," he utters. "You mustn't let that thing escape."
Gerard points his staff at the redman and speaks an incantation. "Gealt" His eyes briefly glow green and plants spring from the floor seeking to wrap the redman.
Seeing the thick, grasping vines burst from the ground and encroaching on him, the devilman quickly brings his thumb to his mouth and bites hard. A blood red portal begins to envelope him, with dark flames like fingers wrapping around his body, pulling him in. "I see that I am rather unwelcomed, and shall bid you adieu." The bleeding portal collapses around the fiend-blooded. And then he is gone.
---
The Ravenous Demon, Lord of the Pit
The foul creature towers on the edge of the pit and at first it sounds like a hiss. As Malekus comes to the realization that devil's are real, the words he had heard sink in. This thing has broken free and is going to leave a trail of destruction where ever it goes. How can this be, the arms of Avacyn dealt with people not fiends. They were stories from the scriptures and do not walk in the light of day.
Behind him he hears someone stumble and the man stammers "Whha wha what the fuuuuck is that!?" He can smell the fear from the men and it smells like warm piss. They were barely being held in place by his words before. He had to try to inspire them again. United in the light was the only way to triump over a real fiend.
Adjusting his robe he grips his staff and addresses the fiend from his current distance with conviction in his voice. "We have naught for your kind here. This place is blessed by the light. Go back to the internal prison you crawled out of or we, the blessed of Avacyn will smite you where you stand!"
"Fat one, are you blind? Your shepherd is gone." The demon outstretches his gangly arms. "I was welcomed here by the weak and peccant and have done as asked." He points at Malekus with a long clawed finger. "I do not take orders from you and your cloth.. but I do take bargains." It grins dastardly.
The ranger gives a slight scowl, and repositions himself slightly closer to Malekus. "The shepherd's away," he says loudly and firmly, "but you might find the sheepdogs she left behind aren't so long in the tooth that they'll turn a blind eye as the wolves invade the pasture." Joseph raises his sword horizontally, pointing towards one of the red, mangled bodies lying on the ground from the prior engagement. "An' what bargains are you lookin' for when you introduce yourself with dealmakers such as these?"
The ranger glances briefly towards town again, then in the direction of Lightspire Chapel, before returning his deadpan gaze to the demon.
The towering demon seems undisturbed by the comment of his brethren. "I will take one soul, and be on my way. Offer a lamb, save the flock, as it were. As was promised." The demon looks to the hapless guards. They tremble in their chain and leather. Faces and knuckles stark white, they hardly hold onto their weapons, a mix of both tears and sweat drenching their faces and necks. They look at each other frantically. How many of them thought of it, how many of them agree?
When the infernal creature finishes speaking, the hunter takes a half step back, directly abreast of Malekus. He lowers his swords slightly, and turns to his companion to offer a quizzical, almost confused look that says, I'm not sure where we're going, here. What've you got?
A moment later, Joseph again glances towards town, scanning the streets momentarily, before returning his attention forward. Then he lowers his head, eyes at his own feet, face scrunched up in thought. He makes a loud sucking sound with his teeth. Finally, Joseph raises his head to meet the demon's gaze. He speaks slowly, with an air of careful consideration. "An' what'll you do with the soul? What happens to the man it belongs to?" Malekus and Garreth, who have known Joseph slightly longer than the demon, have the feeling that the ranger is stalling for time.
Malekus returns the rangers glance and quickly turns his eyes to the town and back again. Then he turns his focus back to the infernal that has confronted the group.
As the ranger address the demon he adjusts his grip on his staff and grabs the holy symbol he wears around his neck. Silently he prays to his patron for more time and an opportunity to defeat it.
"It'll then be out of your concern," the demon hisses with disdain. "Or perhaps I'll tear yours out of your weak flesh for testing my patience? When no angel comes to reap you, then you'll know you've been abandoned, and I shall relish in your misery." The tall demon takes a single step forward as he speaks, as if indicating his resolve, his inapprehension at slaughtering the likes of you.
The ranger stands unwavering. "It never was my concern. I wasn't offering. Just getting the deal laid out on the block for everyone to see ahead of time. Good business and all that." He looks around at the corpses, then returns his eyes to the demon. "But it sounds like your deal was done long before you came crawling out of that hole," Joseph adds, pausing in careful thought. "Who promised you a soul? Seems to me that's the man you're looking for."
"Speak of the devil," the demon chortles darkly, a guttural, molten sound.
Following the fiend's gaze, you see a young man approaching from the periphery. His white and yellow vestments are now stained from the black peat and red blood that it grazes over, and his face is contorted in a mix of emotions, but familiar. It was Eran, Pastor Bertram's friar.
Joseph's attention slides slowly across the battlefield, following the demon's own eyes. He squints at the sight of the bloodstained clergyman, then leans his head slightly towards Malekus and Garreth. "Any idea who he is?" the ranger whispers. "Looks guilty as charged." He clears his throat loudly, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Well then," Joseph bellows across the mud at the demon, "the piper's come to pay your promised goods, himself. In person. No need for any more negotiation with us, or the rest of this town. Harvest your soul from the one who promised it, and begone!"
Joseph gives an indicative glance towards his companions, then towards the readied town guard, before returning his attention to the massive devil. "I'm pretty sure you'll have no interference." His sword-tip wavers at his own feet slightly, as he tightens his grip. "At least with that transaction in particular."
Malekus leans into the ranger and whispers back, "That's the pastor's friar...." He trails off as he tries to process what this could mean. "I do not like where this is going." He turns to the approaching friar and says "Son what have you done?? Have you made a deal with this devil?"
With hands clasp together furiously, as if to reassure himself, to solidify his position in the horror and chaos that has proceeded, Eran speaks with a slight tremor to his voice, but then loudly and firmly has is conviction is roused. "I-i.. Don't misunderstand, Spearsage. This was for the greater good, it told me so! I know it to be true- look! The church has arrived here, just as the demon said! I've brought the light of Avacyn to the most faithless of people! And now.." Eran trails off. "Now, I must make it go away, as promised."
The demon smiles a menacing, toothy grin and nods as the young, naïve friar speaks. "Yes, child. All I have said has come true. We have brought the light, and I shall shy away from such brightness, but only with your help, Eran. They need your help." It speaks coercively, a dark enticing tone that swaddles the young lad, ready to strangle him.
At the demon's words, Joseph's mouth tightens slightly. His head swivels to Malekus, and he raises his eyebrows inquisitively.
Upon hearing the friars words Malekus slowly shakes his head disapprovingly. He tries to make eye contact with the boy while saying "You poor young lad. I am sorry the church failed to teach you about the evil of a deal with a demon."
He looks to the demon with a snarl on his face and begins a slow clap. "Well done! Well done I say. You have corrupted a young and inexperienced soul. This poor boy did not know any better. You did however do one thing right and that is to under estimate the power of faith. You may have frightened a few of the young or sick, but these people will see the light of Avacyn shine today!"
---
The Druid and the Pastor
Gerard bends down to the injured clergyman and speaks to him in an urgent tone. "Father, a portal to the hells has been opened in the grafs. Devils have already come through and more will enter our world until it is closed. Do you have the talent of dispelling magic, or have some means of doing so?"
The pastor groans and his body trembles as he gathers himself, stepping up to his feet laboriously. At Gerard's words, a look of astonished horror overcasts the older man's face, but he puts two and two together. After a moment, clarity returns. "Yes, I have a scroll of hallow. It should dispel such a blight of holy grounds. But I am old, it will take me some time to read it and cast the spell properly. If Eran were here, he could help me, have you seen him- my friar?"
With a limp, he begins to make his way through the disaster that is now is chambers, and starts rifling through a wooden chest near a heavy upturned boudoir. "It's in here, I know it.."
"I have not seen your friar Father, let me help you please." Gerard will help search through the wooden chest for the scroll.
Luckily, the chest itself seemed unperturbed by the violence that had taken place, and its contents were in one piece. The scripture is found shortly, its edges laced in silver trimming, its celestial script written beautifully in perfect calligraphy. "Ah, here it is.. we must go now, before that devil shows his face once more." Pastor Bertram pains himself up to his feet once more, and briskly hobbles towards the chapel's entrance.
Gerard will come alongside Pastor Bertram. "Allow me to help you Father." He goes to the side that the pastor is hobbling on and and helps support his weight on his weakened side. Gerard has helped villagers in the same manner during his travels, but it is usually to take them to a home so that they can be treated. Gerard thinks darkly to himself, "Now I am helping this poor injured man to walk to the edge of hell." He feels a tinge of guilt but pushes it away knowing that what he is doing is necessary. There are many lives at stake and he knows that the pastor will do whatever is needed to protect the people under his care.
---
The Rest of the Party
Yesfir was not a slow person. She was sly, and knew how to discreetly and elegantly weave through a town such as this. But the recent happenings has turned many of the civilians mad, like screaming sheep running amok and shepherdless. She knew she had to quickly return to the others at the graf. They had safeguarded her thus far, and with their help, she can continue her travels and discover herself.
Raben was inside the Wandering Heron, along with Syd and Garreth. Garreth was amidst sharing a grizzly story and showing a scar on his arm tracing around his elbow, a glass of brown liquid in his hand before Nata burst through the door, exasperated, her little chest heaving in and out. "Graf! Devils at graf! Next to chapel, big hole with smoke! Others there! We go, now! People dead, many people dead!"
The three men looked at each other and not a moment passed before they were on their feet, the wooden seats clambering to the ground.
Raben was concise with his questions towards the simple girl as they made haste towards the Hanweir grafs, but what little she had said in her brisk entrance had in general surmised the predicament. Somehow, a hellmaw had opened within or near Pitre's grave. Coincidental? Unlikely. Caused by the magic of the sword? Raben didn't know. Lost in his thought, Raben runs into some passersby who scream in fright, fallen to the ground.
"Come, Raben! You mustn't lose focus! The devils will bleed on our blades!" Garreth shouts.
Malekus traces a pattern in the air with his staff and shouts "Luceat lumen vestrum!" A flash of light streaks from his staff and strikes the demon. It snarls at Malekus, but the holy light flashes brightly drowning out the sound. After the flash there is a subtle glow of light illuminating the dark demon. His lip curls up into a slight grin and he says to the ranger "Avacyn's light will help you strike true!"
A dour expression seeps across the hunter's face, and he charges, raising both swords behind his right shoulder for a fierce attack. The demon is still reeling from the warlock's magic when Joseph arrives and brings both blades down hard across the front of his foe. Two fine, parallel, bloodless lacerations are left behind, from shoulder to navel.
Now it's Joseph who's reeling, hunched low and to the left. He tries lurching backwards to create some defensive space, but the demon snatches the stooping ranger with both claws, then pulls him close, trapping him against its gut. With a raspy growl of irritation, it leans over the human, opens its jagged maw, and begins inhaling deeply. Bound up by spiny red flesh and muscle, both swords pinned helplessly to his left side, Joseph looks up just in time to see a dark, purple glow emanating from deep within the demon's gullet.
A flash of comprehension flashes across the Kessiger's scarred face. He closes his eyes, leans his shoulder and head against the demon's stomach, and digs his boots into the dirt. Then, with a primal shout, he thrusts his entire weight forward. The demon's mouth snaps shut, and its eyes widen with surprise at the unexpected advance. Stumbling backwards, the creature flings its arms wide, then windmills them to regain its balance. When Joseph feels the thing relinquish its grasp, he opens his eyes and leaps back, regaining his own posture. He raises both swords, settles into a solid stance, and locks gazes with the demon. The demon growls in response, this time a hint of rage creeping into its voice.
The guardsmen stay back from the immediate vicinity of the bought, hands clasped around the hilts and handles of their blades. Even the captain is at a loss for words, as he never thought he'd live to see the day a demon walking the ground before him. "The Church has it now, men, steady," he stumbles, hoping he or his men wouldn't have to join. They've already lost so many of their comrades to this fiend's minions, he couldn't stand to sacrifice more. He looks to the young friar, hatred brewing in his eyes.
Eran, the naïve boy, cowers back, falling to the ground a few short feet away from his original stance. He faces the ground in a pained expression This is exactly what he didn't want. The fool ranger was lucky, just this once, but the next time, the demon will have him and his soul. He can make the monster leave. If only these troublesome men would let him, the town would be saved!
After seeing the guard's wavering he stands up taller. The demon just tried to consume the ranger and he knows it will not stop with just one soul. It must be stopped he thinks and begins to trace his staff in the familiar pattern. He says "Lux divina benedictione" and a bolt of energy flies from his left hand. As it connects the creatures grin does not waiver.
Joseph, heaving from exertion, turns to Malekus and holds a palm up. Then he faces forward, lowers both swords slightly, and glares up at the demon. "The rest of us ain't so willing to give up our blessed sleep." He points a sword backwards, towards the splayed friar. "Collect your sheep's soul an' leave this place." He raises his voice for Eran to hear. "I'll hand-deliver the bastard myself, if you like." With a subtle shuffle of his feet, the ranger inches back, readying his blades to counter an attack, his body coiled into its stance like a set bear trap.
The demon snarls as the ranger escapes his grasp, surprised at the man's force of will. "Deliver him unto evil," he smiles. "I should like to see the fat one churn in agony as the poor lamb is lead to slaughter." The demon makes a welcoming gesture with is hand, but from him it is an invitation to a place of blood, pain, and turmoil.
The captain speaks up, shouting at the fallen lad. "This is by your doing, and by you it will be undone! If it will prevent further death in our Hanweir, then be at your master's side and begone!" The men behind the sullen captain shout and mutter agreements.
Cowardice, weakness, subservience-the colors of Hanwier have shown themselves in the face of the evil before the party. This is what demons thrive on, and where they prosper. Hanweir was a feast. "What say you and your angels, Spearsage?" The demon mocks, chortling like gravel nesting amidst molten rock.
Joseph turns his head slightly to see Malekus's response, keeping the demon's towering form in his periphery. The man's body remains still, drawn into a fierce defensive stance, swords low and at the ready. The ranger conspicuously and slowly glances from the warlock to Eran, then back to the warlock. He tilts his head slightly towards the demon, frowns slightly, and widens his eyes suggestively.
Emotions of anger and rage run across Malekus’ face as the ranger looks at him. It is clear the mood has turned. The guard has lost their faith and their pride. They have already let the demon win and do not realize that this small sacrifice will only open the door for more darkness.
This town is full of good people who deserve better than to be tormented by demons. They need to see that there is strength in uniting in the light of Avacyn. He prays silently to his patron asking for her blessing to be the inspiration that this town needs. He resolves himself and he begins to grin at the demon. “This is only the beginning and that boy’s soul will be this demons anchor to this place.” He says to the ranger. “This thing wants to sow more discord than just a single soul.”
He looks up at the demon and says louder “The boy was deceived, and you will not stop with just one soul. Even one soul, as misguided as he was, is too many to lose to the darkness.” Turning back to the captain of the guard he shouts “We must purge this evil now or the darkness will consume Hanwier. Fight now for your friends, your wives and children! End this reign of darkness and take back your town, in the light of Avacyn!”
Joseph's face slackens, a pained look clouding his features. For a quick moment, to the line of men standing behind him, his eyes betray a hint of fear. It quickly passes. He turns back to the demon, glowering up at the grinning menace from underneath his eyebrows. The scar across his forehead bulges, white and knobby, like knuckles on a tightly clenched fist. "My mistake," the hunter growls. "It seems the soul-harvest is off. Weather took a turn for the worse."
He pivots, settling back onto the ball of his rearward foot. His voice rallies loud and clear, for all behind him to hear. "The choice is yours, imp. You can leave with your life, or you can die clutching onto that wretched, cowardly soul that was promised to you." He raises his swords slightly, eyes flickering fiercely. "An' of course, you're welcome to have another go at mine."
The spearsage's mighty and courageous words seem to return color and spirit into the bodies of the Hanweir militia. They grasp their swords and pikes with strength anew. "You heard him, men," the captain starts. "Better us today than the town tomorrow!" With fists and teeth clenched in both fear and bravery, they shout and run for the demon, weapons brandished.
The ravenous demon shakes its horned head. "So unwise. Come, then. Nothing better than a feast that serves itself."
The lot of them swarm the demon, striking to and fro in attempts to pierce its thick hide, dodging the beast's swipes with its deadly claws, knowing that one well-placed slash means the end of them. Despite their initial fear, with the aid of an Avacyn's spearmage, they assault the demon, slashing and piercing into its body, causing the demon to roar and snarl as it is momentarily overcome by the force of human courage.
Behind the raw shouts and belts of battle, Eran pleads behind the attacking mass, "No! You'll lose your lives for it! Please!"
And as if on cue, the demon fights back. With a hissing sneer, the demon wheels a wide swipe with its right claw. The guards miraculously all duck in time, but in their recovery, the demon lunges its left claw, straight into the ribcage of one blonde young man. Blood pours from the youth's mouth as he looks down at the giant black hand that's plunged into his chest, and hangs is head low, lifelessly. A man to the fallen lad's left is awestruck by the blow, eyes wide and filled with terror. He whimpers and mumbles as he feels his diaphragm wanting to squeeze a scream from out his lungs, but the demon's shadow looms over him. The man's steely blue eyes look up to meet the shadow's castor, but he sees only teeth and blackness, before the demon's maw clamps shut. Headless, the body drops to the ground, steel clattering against the bloodied dirt.
As the fight escalates Malekus is thankful his words got through to the guard. He grins proudly until he sees the men fall at the hands of the demon. He grits his teeth traces a symbol in the air with his staff and he says, “Nam gloria Avacyn”. The ball of energy forms in his left hand and he hurls it at the demon. As the demon is looking down at its most recent kill a ball of energy collides with the side of its head with a spark of light. Its focus snaps to Malekus as he shouts “Today will be a victory for the light! Be gone you foul beast!”
The demon's eyes immediately focus on the dual-bladed assailant, but these miscreants are in his way. If they won't offer their souls in fealty, then he will send them to the ether. He raises a heavy fist and thrusts it downward, but the chain-clad man lifts his shield, protecting his head from the blow. Living in a small moment of victory, the man's head is almost completely severed from his neck as the demon's left claw slashes through his jugular. A thick cord of blood streaks and slicks across the graf, splashing onto several headstones and across the chest and face of Eran, who emits a small squeak as his face is painted with man's death.
The militia captain, in a fury, lunges forward aiming for the dark heart of the beast, but his arm is caught by the fiend's black hand. It pulls him close, its malicious grin opening for a fresh and warm meal once more. The demon's jaw crunches bone and steel, removing a sizeable mass from the upper body of the stalwart captain. The man goes into shock, his chin quivering, eyes staring back at the party lifelessly, the light in them clearly gone. The demon drops the two segments. A sick mix of metal clattering and flesh squelching resonating through a now silent graveyard. Eran's constant whimpering is all that breaks this momentary stillness.
With a languid lick of its lips, the demon speaks satisfied, looking to the skies. "I see naught but red clouds, smeared by the blood of the weak and foolish. There is no light, but my proposition still stands- I shall 'be gone' with the martyr's soul."