Having made all of the necessary travel preparations, you embarked on the harrowing journey that it is to travel to the High City of Thraben. Along the way, you pray at crossway shrines or placate to other notions of faith, making steady affirmations of strength and resolve that you will safely, if at least successfully, arrive there. The occasional wayward geist can be seen off in the distance, its sorrowful wails dampened by the vast open expanse of Gavony. On the main thoroughfare, Angel's Way, small contingents of cathars and priests travel solemnly, with only the grimmest of hope for their continued survival.
In the Nearhearth, outlying villages that huddle closer and closer to the Thraben's Outer Wall, villagers and laborers, while polite enough, are seen in their life's work and toil, while extravagant carriages ride to and from the gates of the sacred city. Its resplendent outer wall shines alabaster in the sun's rays, with huge glyphs of Avacyn's collar visible throughout its make. Spiked wrought-iron gates are pulled open, allowing the denizens of Innistrad entrance to the plane's safest city.
Several walls still separate you from your destination, the cathedral's tallest towers visible behind them. The city rests on a perpetual upward slope, a climb that allows one to look over all of Gavony to the borders of the Ulvenwald, to the black ridges of Geier Reach, and the river deltas of Nephalia. Each one seems to signify a more refined living standard than the last. The merchant square is teeming, with several entrepreneurs shouting for your attention over their wares and carriages bustling up and down and to and fro. In the light of this prosperity, you continue your climb, passing the last walls and stepping on the holy grounds of the Cathedral. Its lawns are mowed and shrubbery maintained, all in order and geometrical in design. You are certainly not home.
Having been brought from your individual path in life, you stand outside the entrance to the Common Cloisters of the Cathedral of Avacyn, waiting for a member of the clergy to more formerly address you with more than an 'Avacyn bless you'. If you looked up to tallest of towers, you could see the faint shadows of a few angels flying overhead and into the lofts of the Cathedral, and you wonder, when was the last time I saw an angel?
For those in Thraben..
You awake from another quiet night. Performing your morning rituals, you make yourself ready for mass today. Father Jofridus will speak to and appease the masses within the Common Cloisters. There is talk, as there has been for many a season now, that Avacyn has disappeared, gone without a word. Just as well, some have heard of travesty and tragedy outside the walls. More families lose sons and daughters in the fight against abomination and horror, while geist sightings and wandering ghouls have become more commonplace.
Filled pews face a risen platform, where a group of clerics and a higher priest, the Father Jofridus, stand. The hall is lined with white-cloth banners emblazoned with Avacyn's collar, sifting quietly in the calm wind that breezes through the open windows. Several columns line the perimeter at regular intervals, each with angels chiseled in their form, their faces made to appear peaceful and at ease. The father's voice echoes off the decorated walls of the hall, "Avacyn is not gone! Our patron archangel is on leave of utmost import. It cannot be helped, but hold fast your faith! Her power is here! Thraben's walls stand high, and our priests and holy cathars walk the lands. Falter in your faith, so too shall falter your protection..."
The mass proceeds to a conclusion, with individuals forming a line between the pews, while searching their coin purses for donations. A cleric holds a silver bowl, collecting the contributions, whilst the father, blesses the contributing individual once they've given their offering. You know the Father Jofridus will be meeting you outside the doors along with others. You feel it best to wait there.
The day is bright surrounding the Cathedral, surrounding Thraben, and as you look up to face the sun, you can see the distant shadows of angels in the skies. As you look over the High City's walls from your vantage, you see that light quickly fade to grey and bleakness over the horizon. Stensia's Geier Reach perpetually covered in violet and crimson storms, Kessig shrouded by the mystic woods of the Ulvenwald, and three rivers of Nephalia becoming lost in the ever-present Nebelghast. You wonder, aren't there any angels out there?
The Ranger His back to a low stone wall overlooking the entrance from a short distance away, Joseph momentarily cranes his neck to peer at the the shadows dancing in and out of the Cathedral lofts, far overhead. Seemingly uninterested, his gaze drops down to the ground, towards his gear. With a slight movement of his foot, he scoots his pack, bow, and quiver a bit closer to the wall, and re-centers his body protectively over them. Then, with a slight sigh, he leans his torso back and begins to watch the people around him going about their business. The heavy bootsteps and metallic rustling of a passing Cathar in full armored regalia catches Joseph’s attention. He watches the holy warrior pass, eyes narrowing into a slight squint, his lips curling downwards at the corners. After the soldier passes, Joseph blinks and returns his attention to the crowds, occasionally glancing towards the Cathedral entrance.
The Paladin Uther Corwynn sighed a breath of relief as he approached the cathedral. His long journey to the city was finally done. Glancing up at the upper lofts of the cathedral he caught a glimpse of angels entering or leaving. It had been years since he had seen an angel, not since his training in Nephalia. Not seeing any church officials out to greet him just yet, he set down his pack and his shield and leaned against the wall, content to wait for the time being.
The Cleric, the Rogue and the Geistcatcher It wasn't difficult to hear her coming between the quick, meaningless apologies as she pushed through the crowd in merchant square, and the rattle and clatter that emanated from the shrouded contraption she dragged behind her. With a quick pace, she forced herself through the merchants and consumers, occasionally whipping her head back, as if looking for a companion. "Can you hurry, please?" Cynda shouted back, exasperated. "We're already late! And don't look up, everybody will know you're a tourist!" Pushing on, she ascended the slope, muscles strained as she dragged the hefty construct behind her. Her red hair clung to her face as sweat beaded up on it from the effort. As she reached her destination, the chain "leash" fell from her hand, she removed her coat and casually tossed it across the obscured device. With a sigh, she collapsed back against it, and glanced back again is search of her companion.
Shield tightly strapped to his back, arms dangling to either side, the man calmly and gracefully weaved through the crowds, a rather odd thing to watch from one that looked so incredibly tired. At her bark, Syd’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, before an eyebrow was raised. The left one. His gaze naturally fell upon the hulking mechanical monstrosity. That thing was the reason they walked so slowly and threw any possible notion of inconspicuousness out of the window. Under his breath, muffled by the sounds of countless people around, the man muttered “Attempting to shift blame, check.”, seemingly crossing an item off of an imaginary list as he did so. Hints of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as he watched his companion grumble her way to her destination. Finally stopping next to her, his breath steady unlike hers, patiently waiting for her to take back control of her lungs, while trying to decide if pointing out that this sight of her gasping for air after a simple stroll was as fitting a stage for a ‘crime does not pay’ remark as he seemed to think. Ultimately though, she was right about them being late, so voicing that out would probably lead to yet another argument that’d cost them more time still. So, choosing to address one proverbial elephant at a time, he finally spoke. “I’m a priest.” - he said, his voice the very notion of serenity and patience, with only the slightest hints of amusement peeking through - “Looking up is what we do.”
The End of Mass As the mass has concluded, a deep bell rings from on high, and the doors to the Common Cloisters swing open with a deep, steady yawn and stay so with dozens of commoners making their way back to the the Nearheath or, if fortunate enough, just within the Outer Wall. Many pause and look up to the skies, closing their eyes and whispering a quiet prayer under the light of the angels, clutching whatever precious beads or amulet they may have. Those that notice the paladin recognize the sigils proudly displayed on his armor and regard him happily, greeting him with proper etiquette. Children often ask to press their hands on either the hilt of his weapons or the face of his shield, believing the touch of those he protects, in fact, protects and guides him.
On the other hand, many of the common folk steer very clear from the large, complicated construction that a woman has brought with her, despite there being the presence of a fellow cleric nearby. Mothers hold to their children against them and pull away. Few standby ogling at the necro-mechanical wonder, as if waiting for something to take place. Priests and clerics, alike, mutter under their breath as they walk by, meeting the woman's eyes or gawking at the machinery.
If one would look inside the Cathedral doors, you could see a line getting shorter and shorter leading up to the podium at the head of the chamber. White figures, entirely covered in a long, white robes move about the pews, their bodies wrapped in chains.These figures are geists- white geists, to be accurate- faceless and bound by the chains of their past lives. Spirits such as these perform acts of kindness, each act removing a single link of their chains, being able to pass on to the Blessed Sleep once no longer bound. Small kinks and twinkles of their clattering chains can be heard as they gather and organize the holy scriptures of Avacyn between the pews.
Surely, it is not long now before someone addresses you and whoever else is to assist on the Church's holy mission.
Breath caught, she straightened herself back up. For a brief moment, she adjusted her garments and stood in silence. Then Cynda stepped toward her companion as she gathered up her hair into a loose ponytail. "Well, Syd," she cocked her head and maneuvered to make eye contact, "maybe you can keep your eyes down here once in awhile and watch my back. Things got a little dicey with those bandits on the way here." Cynda stood in Syd's face, one hand on her hips. She took a deep breath and raised her other hand, pointed index finger at the ready, as well as an epic rant. Then she paused, a beam of light reflecting from the tiny gemstone mounted on the simple band encircling her ring finger. Her hand dropped. With a pout, she exhaled. "Who are we meeting here again..." Her tone calm and even, except for the final word, "dear?" That word was candy coated in sarcasm, syrupy and soft.
As the doors to the Common Cloisters groan open, Joseph shifts slightly against the wall, refocusing his attention to the people ambling through the entrance. His eyes follow two children who, with hushed whispers, break away from their parents and make their way to the paladin leaning a short distance down the same wall. For only a moment Joseph stares, expressionless, at the exchange. Then his eyes return to the Common Cloisters. Crossing his arms, he gently raises the left heel of his dirt-coated boot and leans it against the grubby pack beneath him. He waits, continuing to watch.
With the line gone, the Father Jofridus instructs the remaining members of the cloth to collect and stow the various churchly objects resting atop the table and podium on the platform, and then proceeds towards and through the heavy, wooden chamber doors. He greets and holds hands with a few lingering commoners, assuring that their faith is essential, justified, and will be rewarded, and lets them on their way with parting words. A smile is spread across his wrinkled, worn face.
He looks around the holy grounds, eyeing for certain individuals. Strangers, unfamiliar faces amongst the flock of his commonwealth. Another joins him. A cathar. They shake hands and embrace each other with their free arms in greeting, speaking for just a moment, before walking and greeting each of you individually. Their salutation is short, if only to verify your name on a scroll the cathar has, and they insist to wait on formal introductions and sharing any concerns until the group has gathered.
Seeing the burden one of the members has brought, the Father Jofridus and the accompanying cathar greet the rogue and cleric last. "Good day, my sons and daughter. I trust I hadn't kept you too long. The blessings following the mass held a short longer." The Father's voice is a somber baritone with a steady cadence. He looks over the four of you, particularly eyeing the paladin and cleric, before shifting his gaze over the contraption behind the latter and the woman. "And what burden have you carried. I am obliged to discuss these matters a short distance away, as to not lose your wears." He points to a gate a few meters away, leading to the gardens before the Blessed Grafs. "Else we can discuss your task within my chambers."
At the Father's interest in her equipment, she snapped to attention and addressed him. "That..." Cynda nodded toward her Geistcatching Rig, "isn't a burden. That's a blessing. And I have doubt any of the pious people of your lovely city would attempt to abscond with my pet. Nor would it let them."
"Suredly not, miss.." The cathar quickly advises the name. "Miss Hudson. Thraben is of the safest of places. Never does something go unnoticed by the loyal guards. But take heed madam, there is legislation making way to the council of bishops. If passed, all geistcatching implements will be outlawed in the lands of Gavony, if not the rest of Innistrad. Surely if it comes to pass, you will acquiesce your.. device to just and proper authority."
The Father and cathar lead the group within a fenced garden. You come to a decently sized fountain of a griffon-like creature, called a hypogryff, taking flight among streams of water. The light of the sun reflects and dances on the majestic beast's outstretched wings, appearing as if its feathers were dancing in the wind. Around the fountain are four marble seats, sized for about two people each. Father Jofridus and the cathar take one.
"Your mission is a matter of occult significance. An unholy item has been pilfered from the vaults of the Cathedral and whisked away to parts unknown. This object cannot be left to the hands of sacrilegious cults or demon worshipers. We have received word from the mayor of Hanweir of signs of the item's use. A young man has fell victim. He is buried in the town graf, and where he lies.." The Father plucks a handkerchief from inside his robes and covers his mouth for a moment. "Where he is buried the ground is soaked, bathed in crimson.. for his cursed body has yet to stop bleeding. You must travel to Hanweir, investigate what has transpired, and find the stolen artifact. It has already taken the life of a young man, it cannot be allowed to transgress further."
Cynda had turned a bright red at the suggestion that she would relinquish her Geistcatcher. Eyes wide, her mouth agape with a prepared tirade of blue language and other verbal barbs at the ready as she felt Syd's hand on her shoulder. She bit her tongue and her jaw slammed shut. Her gaze met Syd's, and she softly stammered, "Did you hear him? Nobody is taking my pet from me." Her usual fearlessness had vanished at the idea of such a loss, and a rare vulnerability was painted on her face.
Cynda grabbed at his hand on her shoulder, tight at first. As the group began to move, her grip loosened, "I'll never let that happen." She whispered before she let go. She stayed silent as their mission was disseminated, but her mood was impossible to hide. Frequently, she looked back toward her Gesitcatcher, fearing the worst.
When the priest and the cathar sit on the marble bench, Joseph takes a step back, then drops his pack onto the cobbles. A small cloud of dust escapes from the canvas. He shifts his grip on his longbow, holding it close to the end, then carefully rests the other end in a groove between the stones. As he listens, he’s looking around the garden.
After Father Jofridus concludes, when there’s a moment’s silence, Joseph speaks up. His voice, deep and clear, carries little emotion with it. “This ‘artifact.’ What exactly is it? You said what it does, an' how dangerous an’ important it is to your big, holy church. But you ain’t told us what it is, exactly.”
“And why is it,” he continues, ”you need the help of outsiders to find this thing?” Joseph raises his bow by the end, pointing it at the statue of the hypogryff. “Surely, if you can afford this,” he begins, sweeping the end of his bow to indicate the rest of the garden, as well as the city of Thraben, “an’ all of this an’ that…surely you can afford to send a few of your mighty gilded cathars to get your dirty little trinket back.”
His gaze comes to rest upon Father Jofridus’s face. “Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve been sent here as part of a transaction. I’m duty-bound to help in this task. But we Kessig ain't fond of secretive people.” Unconsciously, with his thumb and forefinger, Joseph grasps the concave disc of silver hanging from his neck, then drops his hand back to his side. “There’s enough of that rubbish coming out of Stensia these days. An’ when we see it, more often than not someone ends up dead come sunrise.”
Collected as usual, the Cleric stretched out a hand that was softly placed on Cynda’s shoulder, giving her a warm smile that she’d know all too well by now. One that asked that the hothead stop and weigh whatever pleasure she’d get from rebuking this strange man and the consequences that would follow insulting said holy-man in front of his own church.
Staying silent, the Cleric made a mental note of who they’d be working with, and for. Like the Kessig had said, choosing the wrong people would be akin to marching towards an early grave.
So far he’d seen another Priest - their employer - who’d gathered relatively unimpressive people from the four corners of the land for what he called a ‘pressing’ matter. And he’d done this when he could’ve gathered twice as many for half as much had he picked them up a few streets in any direction… and that’s not even mentioning how shorter the process would be, in a supposedly time-sensitive situation. Try as he might - and he did - there was no feasible way this could’ve possibly been the correct call, given the information he was provided. Which meant the two options that now stood at the top of his list read that they were working for fools, or that they'd been sought out for their ignorance of the situation, which meant that they’d been hired because they were fools. Neither option felt remotely close to safe.
After that came the aforementioned Kessig. He’d asked the right question. One Syd himself could not broach so cleanly, due to his commitment to the Flight of Goldnight and the Church. So, just as the Cleric prepared to relish in what appeared to be a small victory, the archer had gone and thrown any leverage he had for an answer away by saying ‘I’ll do it regardless of how stupid it sounds or however many answers I don't get’…
… And then there was Cynda. She could hold her own surprisingly well in some situations, but her straightforwardness could do every bit as much harm as it could do good, depending on the scenario they faced.
Despite his turbulent thoughts brewing beneath the surface, Blackmore’s expressions stayed as serene and immovable as always. The way he saw it, shrewdness was a requirement in these lands. And if he was the only one who actively sought to think steps ahead, then things were not looking up for this simple Priest who very much wanted to not die.
The cathar's mail shifts with metallic kinks as he moves to refute the Kessiger's lack of propriety in his questioning, but the Father stops him with a raised hand. He responds with a more serious tenor. "Master hunter, your mind is sharp, but your suspicion is misplaced, I assure you. I'm sure you're aware of the rise of attacks in all of the realm from every manner of monstrosity. Even Kessig hasn't been so fortunate, with the loss of Avabruck to the Mondronen Howlpack. Our cathars are spread thin throughout the provinces. Faith in Avacyn and her light is strong, but we require every man and woman that can muster and use that light against the dark." Father Jofridus clears his throat.
"The artifact is a weapon," he continues. "A cursed blade of unholy eminence. It it believed to be of use to demonic cults. It is best if this knowledge is kept close. You may believe yourselves a motley crew, but you shan't travel alone. Raben, here, will accompany you." He proudly places a hand on the cathar's shoulder. "I've tasked him several times to acquire items of various significance. I believe the whole of you will succeed, and be rewarded for your service to the Church."
Uther followed the priest and cathar, but remained standing when they sat. He remained silent and listened to the discussion.
"Father, while I understand that every able body is needed, surely collecting an unholy artifact is a job for a contingent of cathar's is it not? Why would you have chosen us specifically for this task?" He had no doubts in his faith, nor did he doubt the church's desire to protect the people, but his training had taught him to question everything. "And even if a group were to be sent on this task, should they not be comrades who have fought together before, rather than those that have only just met?"
Joseph glances over at Uther. “A contingent, indeed,” he says wryly. “The Church said for months how their holy warriors are spread thin in the provinces. Today I see the butterknife spared Gavony.” Joseph’s eyes move deliberately from Uther to Raben. “Here, cathars are as thick as coneys in the Ulvenwald.”
Joseph turns back to Father Jofridus, resuming his level tone of voice. “Sending your personal cathar is a show of faith. An’ it’s one I ain’t going to turn down. Southern Innistrad knows the church is stingy with two things: silver and soldiers. In that order.” Again, Joseph touches his crudely-fashioned pendant unconsciously. “You ain’t going to send your gilded cathar to get killed. That, I’m sure of.”
“But more about this evil blade of yours. Why’d the church have it, if it was cursed? Who managed to steal it? How’d they know where it was? An’ how’d they get past…” Joseph pauses, looking around the garden, as if searching for something. He gestures back towards the gate, opening into the rest of Thraben. “How’d they get past all this?”
He turns to face the marble seat with the two holy men, and leans forward. “Most important,” the ranger says direly, “what power does this cursed blade have? I’m guessing your corpse in Hanweir ain’t going to just bleed in that grave forever.”
Cynda's mood had tempered as the conversation progressed, although she would still occasionally glare in Syd's direction. She chose not to sit, and stood quietly with her arms folded. It was impossible for her not to fidget and shift her weight nervously, as she felt very much the outsider among all these holy men.
This provided her opportunity to study her newfound companions though. Although she had been traveling with Syd for some time now, his level head and protective nature had increasingly made her resentful, feeling more like he was parent than partner. Cynda had rarely spent any significant time with others since her parents death, and the idea was intriguing, if a bit frightening. The living scared her much more than the dead in some ways.
Her arms had unfolded and she had moved onto fussing with a stray lock of hair in her face. She was listening, but she was obviously somewhat preoccupied with Uther and Joseph.
"You should mind your tone. As you speak to the honorable priest of the Commons." Raben speaks up. He bites his lip as he wanted to insert a disreputable label regarding the hunter's attitude during the whole exchange.
"Come now, Raben," the Father jovially starts. "Fellows, I am not one to presume to know every logistic of our cathar orders. You would speak with Master Lothar, Guardian of Thraben, and he is a busy man, I'm sure, in these grave times." The Father's eyes peer off for a moment before continuing. "Including Raben, more than half of you were trained by the warriors of Goldnight in Nephalia. That should suffice for familiarity in any hostile situation.
"It shouldn't surprise you that the Church makes it their business to find occult objects and destroy them if at all possible. If it can't be shattered or dispelled, it is contained, never to be used again" The Father exhales and shakes his head as if in regret. "This blade was such an object. Now as to its theft.. perhaps in your recovery of the blade, you'll find the culprit, and ask them how they did it."
With a grunt, the Father steadily lifts himself to his feet and straightens his robes. "Now, I must be going. Lunarch Mikaeus is gathering the bishops and elder priests within the Chapel of Noble Peers. Please regard any further questions to Raben. We have utmost faith in you all. May Avacyn and her archangels guide you." Without any interruptions, the Father vacates the cathedral gardens and disappears around the Cathedral's corners while Raben remains on the marble seat.
His position had hardly changed. Finally he spoke. "We should make for Hanweir soon. I've documents written and notarized by the Goldnight scribes and signed by the Father, stating our just authority in the investigation." He ruffles through the inside of his coat, producing tri-folded papers and holding them forward. "Any last inquiries of import?"
After Jofridus finishes, Joseph opens his mouth, but then closes it. The priest is already gone. A barely perceptible sigh escapes the hunter’s lips.
When Raben holds out the papers, Joseph turns to the cathar. “Does the Church have healer’s kits to spare for this…this ‘matter of occult significance?’ The Avacynian monks I arrived with needed the last of mine after a tussle along Westvale Road. The trip from Lambholt was…well it was long. Especially for them.”
Joseph nods his head towards the rest of the party. “If these folks’ trips was as rough as mine, then I’m betting a few of ‘em might also be on their last roll of bandages.” The hunter returns his attention to Raben. “If healer’s kits, too, are spread thin,” he adds sharply, “then I’ll need half an hour in the merchant square to buy my own.”
While he's waiting for others' inquiries to conclude, Joseph, for the first time, takes a detailed look at each of his companions-to-be, one at a time. When there's a break in conversation, as the requests and questions are coming to an end, he looks back to Raben. “One last thing. Some of us might need a piece of blessed silver, as well.” He fingers the silver medallion around his neck and raises it, his eyes lowering slightly. It looks like a well-rehearsed, personal ritual. “Not just for their good. For all our good. Surely Thraben has a spare blessed trinket or three in its coffers.”
"Aye." Raben nods once. "I'll stop by the Alabaster lunarsmiths and runecrafters. See what I can gather." Raben looks to the rest of the group if they have other suggestions or concerns.
"Not to be rude, but I don't need blessings from strangers excited to take away my legacy." Cynda erupted, as she gestured back toward where she had left the Geistcatcher. A sardonic grin upon her face, "If we're asking for silver, how about some tipped arrows or daggers? I don't need trinkets. I need weapons." She looked to Raben, a rebellious glint in her eye, posture tense. Her hands had found their way into her back pockets, and she leaned in as she looked at him. "And what kind of reward are we looking at?" Unconsciously, she stayed close to Syd while she spouted off, in anticipation of his intervention.
Joseph parts his lips as soon as Raben finishes, then pauses. He clears his throat. "Avacyn bless," he says quietly.
He turns to Uther, his eyes dropping to the amulet in the paladin's hand. Joseph then grasps his own circle of silver, pulls it away from his chest slightly, looks up, and gives a very slight nod. His fattened lip raises slightly. It's not quite a smile, but it's the closest anyone has seen on the ranger's scarred face today. He then turns to Cynda, silver still in hand. "The blessing ain't for you, Ms. Hudson. It's for us." Joseph raises his misshapen silver medallion to eye level, away from his neck, pulling the chain taut. "This one, here, is for you. You an' anyone else wanting a good night's sleep on this journey, the nights I'm on watch." The chain makes a solemn, tinny slinking sound as it's dropped back to its resting place.
Raben frowns, beginning to feel it was certain he wasn't to enjoy his time with this rabble until the ranger spoke. "Blessed weaponry is not so simply dispensed... but I will request such affects." He exhales, as if settling with the situation and stands up.
"Perhaps yours will be to keep your wagon. I will be a few hours. I doubt any of you would wish to deal with the beurocracy." He takes a few steps forward and offers a firm, calloused hand to each of you. "Meet me just before the Outer Wall. May the host of Avacyn watch over our journey."
Joseph watches Raben leave the garden. Then he turns to the others. “I’m pretty sure that weren’t no promise. It might do well if we buy a few must-haves ourselves in the meantime. Just in case.”
With that, the hunter makes a quick scan of the garden. He leans down, pops open a flap on his pack, and pulls out a coin pouch. Pulling back the side of his duster, he strings the pouch through his belt, then straightens the coat back out, concealing it. Still crouching, Joseph produces a thick leather cord from inside the quiver. With a few swift motions, he lashes both the rickety bow and the quiver to the side of the pack. Standing up, he swings the entire assembly onto his shoulders. He turns to the group, pinches the silver circle hanging from his neck between his fingers, and gives a slight nod. Then he starts walking to the garden gate, towards greater Thraben.
It’s still fairly early as Joseph retraces his steps to the merchant square. Crowds of shoppers scuffle about, their symphony of disparate voices filling the morning air. The ranger squints, peers through the throngs, and makes his way to a small, uncrowded stall. With just a few words between him and the merchant, the hunter walks away with his “must-haves”: a healer’s kit, wooden stakes, a few extra days’ worth of rations, two containers of oil, and three empty flasks. Afterwards he hurries back out to the edges of the crowded market, and scans the skyline.
Shifting under the new weight of his pack, he hastily heads in a direction where Thraben doesn’t seem intent on piercing the heavens with its architecture and masonry. Ten minutes later, he emerges into a district just inside the first wall of the holy city. The streets here, while clean, are worn down like the teeth of an aged field mule. The people on the streets look as weathered as their environment. Their clothes are soiled and mismatched, in various states of disrepair. Their faces show strains of weariness and overspent hope.
Joseph makes his way through the district until he spots a plain, gray-stone building with a short steeple. Stepping his pace up, he heads to the entrance. A sunbeaten, splintered wooden sign has newly painted white lettering: “Silv’arc Chapel.”
He glances upwards, looking at the steeple, then steps onto the doorstep. In a brief moment of self-awareness, the ranger stamps his boots on the stones, brushes his duster down with his hands, then presses his short, brown hair flat onto his scalp. He opens the heavy wooden door and steps inside.
When the door closes behind him, Joseph pauses, letting his eyes adjust. The chamber is a faint echo of the toilsome world outside. The twelve pews are scratched and dented, their varnish all but flaked away. The stone floor along the main aisle is shiny and rutted from years of use. A fine patina of dust covers everything. There’s a slight scent of wax from dozens of burning candles resting in horned sconces along the walls. A hint of breeze, blowing from some unseen door in the back of the church, tickles the flames into a silent, mournful dance. Sunshine splashes through three stained-glass windows along one wall, its light broken into vibrant, multicolored shapes, like the pieces of an unwanted jigsaw puzzle flung haphazardly into a long-abandoned wedding hall.
Towards the front of the chamber, a small group of disheveled peasants surround a single balding cleric, who is leading a prayer and offering blessings. His ceremonial garb, like the rest of the church, is shabby yet presentable. A few of the people around him are on their knees in prayer. One figure sits on the floor, swaddled in a blanket, head tucked between the knees.
Fragments of whispers echo around the otherwise silent chamber. The staccato breath of a stifled sob crescendos, then fades. Joseph sniffs quietly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Quietly, almost on tip-toes, he edges to the side of the entrance and stows his pack in a dark corner. Then he makes his way to the circle of souls surrounding the cleric, gingerly picking his way through the reds, blues, and greens of shattered sunlight. As he nears the circle, whispers become words; words become worries; worries become desperate pleas: “Father, please help me.” The ranger joins the circle, closes his eyes, and waits.
“And what blessing do you require, child?” Joseph looks up, his scarred, leathery face supple and helpless. The gentle, rotund visage of the cleric is hovering before him like an apparition.
“I, I need…” Joseph stutters, his voice breaking.“The road ahead of me is one of danger,” he whispers, almost imperceptibly. “Please, father, the Blessed Sleep. Should it come to that.”
The priest places his hand upon Joseph’s shoulder. The Kessig’s entire frame sags in acquiescence. A prayer is given, but the words are lost in the stillness that bubbles over with murmured hopes and shuffling bodies. The cleric moves his hand to Joseph’s cheek; the ranger looks up, startled.
“Go now. The angels watch over you.” Joseph nods once. He walks slowly to his pack, grabs it by a strap, and heads to the door. There he stops, almost as an afterthought, at a bowl atop a pedestal. Reaching his hand under his duster, the ranger grabs a fistful of coins from his pouch, and slides them quietly into the bowl. He casts one more look behind him, towards the circle. Then Joseph presses his shoulder to the door, pushes it open, and emerges into the blinding light.
The Cleric, the Rogue, and the Geistcatcher
With everyone finally gone, Syd is once again left alone with his female companion. ‘This went about as well as could be expected’ - his inner monologue affirms. A mere glance at Cynda suggests that the proverbial powder-keg has by no means been defused and that - for better or worse - that responsibility now falls to him. So, with an expression that’s about as neutral as he can muster - for ‘fear’ that a smile might be perceived as him enjoying himself at her expense - he directs the would-be geistcatcher back to her rig first, then towards the markets to purchase some much needed supplies. Sadly, what followed suit was… shall we say… unexpected.
In his mind, Cynda would’ve bartered for a bit and, considering his Priest status and her skills, gotten a discount, no matter how small, and this win would’ve abated the brewing storm. Instead, her previous state of mind caused her to ‘lash’ out during bartering, which didn’t stick. The merchants would not budge and the flames of her anger were fanned rather than quenched.
By the time they’d finished with their purchases, Syd was out of his element. Arguments were common between the two, but this was the first time the Priest had ever seen Cynda this angry for this long. Something had to be done, and for once he didn’t have an answer at the ready.
“So, Red” - he said, reaching the end of his rope - “I’m famished. Do you know where we might find a decent place to get a meal around these parts?”
"No. Never been here before." Cynda's voice was quiet, much more reserved than usual and absent of anger. She was more evasive than usual. Her gaze focused anywhere other than Syd, and her confident strut had become a slouched shuffle. Her usual abundance of complaints and comments had apparently run dry.
After the disaster with the merchants, she'd taken her hair back down and was hiding behind it. Perhaps her attitude could have been less confrontational in dealing with the locals, maybe she should have been less pushy. But Cynda wasn't known for her calm rationale. The threat of her Geistcatching Rig being stolen from her had filled her with fear and anxiety - feelings she wasn't used to being prolonged experience. They usually only accompanied brushes with danger.
As they walked, she fiddled with the ring nervously. "I'm s-" She began, and then stopped. After a strained sigh, "I'm really hungry. Anywhere?"
Rendezvous at the Outer Wall
The young cathar walks with hardened purpose, once again tasked by his father, both religiously and figuratively, on a holy mission- the retrieval of an unholy artifact. This time he wasn't alone, however. Perhaps this item was more vital to return to the Cathedral's Vaults, so it's retrieval required a higher margin of success, or perhaps the forces behind the occult object's theft are more powerful than the determined cathar has faced. Raben found his gloved fingers wrapped around his Avacynian amulet, but it was not out of fear, he rationalized, but faith.
His boots thudded without pause or hesitation against the cobbles of Thraben's districts, from the cathar barracks in the Cathedral district behind Child's Wall, through the market squares within Merchant's Wall, and all the way onto the pressed earth surrounding Outer Wall. The smell was different here, than up high behind all the rest of Thraben's walls. Earthy, sour, musky even. It was the smell of home. He stopped, and in a small ritual, he bent his knees and grasped some of that dirt, and rubbed his palms together, letting it sift and fall back to the ground. Assured, he pressed on once more.
The rest of his employed companions were already before the gate, waiting for him. Good, he thought to himself. As he approached speaking distance, he rifled through his coat pocket, procuring and presenting four amulets. "This is the best I could acquire from the runesmiths- traveler's amulets. They are blessed with the favor of Alabaster's angels. They may come in handy in times of need." Handing them to you he looks at you in the eyes; hard blue eyes that state he will fight for your life, so you do the same.
People of all kinds walk through the wood-iron double-doors: peasanty in their tattered clothing, artisans and merchants with sacks or carts, carrying the tools of their trade, and lavish carriages housing nobles and aristocrats. "If we're ready?" Raben asks, as he looks on to the gates of Thraben's Outer Wall.
For most of the wait Joseph has been sitting on his pack, watching, seemingly oblivious to any of the other party members who had arrived. Occasionally, the sound of something close by would garner his attention, but most of his time has been spent southwesterly, past the Lake of Herons, where Angel’s Way road meets the River Kirch, and the two thread away, side-by-side, towards the horizon.
When he notices Raben approaching, the ranger stands. Receiving the amulet, he stares at it a moment in his hand, running his fingers over the edges, then looks up to meet Raben’s demanding gaze.
Joseph gives a slight nod. “It’s more than I asked for,” he says plainly. “An’ it’s a hell of a lot more than I expected. At least from the Church.”
He drapes the new amulet into place, in plain sight, upon his chest. Then he grasps the old one by the chain at the back of his neck, pauses, and releases it. Instead, he grabs the round, battered medallion and drops it down the front of his shirt. With a quick adjustment of the chain, all signs of the old amulet disappear under his clothes.
Joseph watches carefully as the rest of the amulets are handed out, then kneels to his pack. He loosens the cord on the side, freeing the bow and quiver.
“How long a journey to Hanweir?” he asks, working at securing the flaps on his pack. “It about took us a week from Hanwier to Thraben the way up. Eight of us. But we had two injured. One of ‘em bad. We were lucky if we made 15 miles a day those last two days.”
Satisfied with his gear, Joseph stands up and mounts the pack onto his back, slinging the quiver into place over the top. He hooks his thumbs into the shoulder straps and bounces himself off his heels a single time, shaking his body slightly from side to side as he adjusts the balance of the load. Then he grabs his bow from the ground and watches Raben, ready to follow.
Raben subconsciously tightens the straps of his belongings after seeing the hunter do so. "Should be four days normal pace, angels willing. I pray to Avacyn we aren't so troubled." He says while tracing a a large collar on his chest. With that, Raben takes the first steps towards Hanweir.
Departure from Thraben
Once exiting Thraben's Outer Wall, you've entered the area known as the Nearheath- a collection of villages that huddle close to the wall to gain any measure of protection from the High City by virtue of their vicinity. As you travel farther in this province, the villages become more scattered. Those who live here are poor folk, not earning enough to live within the grand holy city. Specifically, the group has entered the Videns Parish, communally governed lands surrounding the River Kirch; one of three parishes comprising the lands of the Nearheath. Mostly constituting farmers in population, it is filled with orchards and vineyards irrigated by the sacred river, all segregated in orderly fashion with waist-high stone walls. Looking across and past the organized agriculture, you can see farm homes and small holds gathered for relative safety. Looking over the horizon, you notice a slight, white fog blankets the moors of Gavony. It isn't so discernible at close distance, but it is there, bringing a small, cold wetness to the air.
Joseph waits until the rest of the party begins to follow, then he falls in just a half-step behind the last person, almost walking beside them. His bow remains resting on his shoulder as his eyes move up and down the orchards on either side of the road. Occasionally, he twists his frame and turns his head to look behind him.
"Gavony get a lot of this late-morning fog?" Joseph tosses the question forward, to no one in particular.
Uther hefted his bag onto his back, before following the group. "It's not unusual for this time of year," he said, referring to the fog. "At least in the area that I grew up." He looked down at the amulet that Raben handed him. He placed it around his neck, leaving his mother's amulet underneath his armor.
The ranger grunts. "Reminds me of the Stensia lowlands. Always covered in fog. Can't stay dry for nothin'."
Some time after the party settles into the march, during a silent spell, something catches Joseph's eye while he's watching the peripheries.
With fluid motion he takes a step to the side of the path, places a hand on the low stone wall, and vaults over. Still moving alongside the party, he stoops down and scoops up a handful of fallen, bruised apples.
In the distance, towards the middle of the orchard, there is a rustling sound. The hunter looks up and catches sight of a scarecrow, its limbs twitching with magic as it senses an intruder. With a sour look Joseph drops the apples and vaults back over the wall, falling back into place behind the file.
"Cathars as heavy as fleas," he grumbles, "and they still got to bring in mindless constructs to protect their rotten apples. Must be a joy to grow up a kid in these parts."
The Moors' Fog
The air seems tense surrounding the unfamiliar members of this party. A grim feeling seems to loom over their heads as they travel Angel's Way. The sky is dense with greyed and darkened clouds, threatening to rain, acting as a filter against any hope the sun's rays could provide.
After a few hours, the distant fog begins to coalesce and thicken and has spread its reach across the River Kirch. It continues to roll in the party's direction, soon to sweep over and rob them of their sight. With it, a sharper cold chills the air, accompanying the dread the fog brings.
They are faced with a dilemma, to travel through this laden fog, or to veer off course into the hinterlands. They may be able to see, but their travel would be slowed; and other dangers may await any who travel off protected crossways.
Keeping to himself for the most part of the journey, save for a few friendly words here or there - namely to the one he’s known the longest - Syd continues on, listening to the occasional grumbling descriptions of the Ranger and the stoic silence of the cathars. His gaze moved, from time to time, to the world around him, even despite the fog, as one never really knows when things will go bad, in dangerous times like these.
The wheels of the geistcatcher grinding against the axis, their hitting pavement, the party had gotten accustomed to these sounds and may have even tuned them out, but now was the time for them to be considered. Possibly for the first real time since they’d banded together, the Priest opened his mouth to voice serious concerns.
“Cynda’s… equipment. It can’t travel well through unpaved land. So our choice here is to walk through the fog where we can be picked up by sound, or travel through what might as well be the wilderness, with that machine making twice as much noise and slowing down our pace more than you might realise. These are our options. In the interest of fairness, I’ll leave it to you to decide where we go from here.”
The Ranger's Concurrence
Joseph’s head snaps up, as if he’d forgotten he was traveling with anyone but the lead cathar.
“As much as I’d love to see this clackity thing sink into a crick-bed,” he begins, indicating the geistcatcher with a nod, “I got to agree with the holy man. The road’s the safest bet. Especially out in the open hills, this close to the city. It shows us the way to go, an’ gives us a fast way to get there. The thickest fog in Innistrad ain’t going to change that. An’ should we hit trouble, the road also gives the chance of someone coming to help.”
Joseph pauses, glancing towards the incoming fog. “At least that’s how it is down on the Hairpin. Some folk get eaten ‘cos they get nervous and want to hide in the Ulvenwald. Ain’t no one out in the trees to hear their hollering when something finds ‘em.”
The ranger looks up towards Raben. “But I’m working for this here cathar. Wherever he chooses to go, I go.”
The Cathar's Decision
Taking little to no time deliberating his options, Raben agrees with the rest of the party. "You're right. We cannot waste time traversing off the crossway. We'll continue through the fog. Take care to stay close and pray that Avacyn guides our feet."
Keeping to the Crossway
Moments afterwards, the fog blankets the party- sapping away the warmth of their bodies. Breath, hot and humid, is visible when exhaled. Waves of fog undulate, changing the obscurity of sight from scarcely beyond one's reach to just short a few meters, as if a curtain flowing in an ebbing wind. Each time vision is completely shrouded, one might feel a certain measure of anxiety, imagining a form emerging when the fog pulls back, reaching out in one swift moment and-
The clack and clatter of the geistcatcher and sullen, deliberate footfalls of your peers provide a small comfort in the form of community- you're all in this dread together.
With Raben's nervous warning, Joseph quickens his pace, coming up alongside him. He leans in close to the cathar's ear. "See if you can't get that damned wagon to quiet down a little, for I can hear." He shoots a scowl back at the geistcatcher for emphasis; already the rear of the party is fading from view in the fog. Joseph then makes four or five quick bounds forward while pulling the sides sides of his coat away from his swords so the hilts are exposed. He reaches his bow back and hooks it around the quiver, letting it go so that it swings on his back with each step taken. When Joseph's silhouette just starts to dim in the white mist, he slows to match pace with the party, leading by just a few meters. The ranger's head swivels from side to side more frequently. Occasionally he pauses, mid-step, cocking an ear.
Uther keeps an eye on his surroundings as the fog becomes thicker, trying to keep all the members of the group in sight. He loosens his sword in its scabbard, prepared to take action if necessary.
Still keeping close to Cynda and her geistcatcher, Syd would do his best to let the party know, as silently as possible, that he believed he saw motion in the fog, and that as a result, everyone needed to be on their toes. The Hunter might have been a little too far ahead to spot without making a sound, but with a little luck, either of the Cathars would be able to warn him before anything happened. More often than not, these things he noticed would turn out to be nothing. But the times they weren’t made it so this borderline paranoia was very much worth it.
His shield was already out and he had no weapons to draw. Furthermore, as the goal was to not draw unneeded attention, no spell would be cast. But should someone attempt an ambush, they’d very likely be looking at a Sacred Flame spell coming down on them.
The slowest of moments go by as the party travels on despite the fog's dreary gloom. Only a few seconds pass, or was it a few minutes, before you hear an unnerving sound. It was the sound of someone whimpering. A lonely whine amidst this dense mist several paces away, hidden by the murk. It was the mournful sniveling of a distressed man, begging with his cries, but before you could move any quicker, before you can see whatever plagues his soul, the man releases a long, breathy gasp and the crying stops.
Joseph continues ahead of the party, listening for any impending danger. When he glances back, a particularly thick surge of fog makes even Raben hard to see. The ranger falls back in step, this time beside Raben instead of at the rear.
When the whimpering and crying begins, Joseph perks up. When it ends, he turns to the cathar.
"You hear that? The cries. Something's ain't right up there."
Joseph keeps even step with Raben. As the hunter walks, peering intently ahead into the white void, he ever-so-slowly draws the shortsword from his left side and holds it there, right arm across his chest, the sword pointing downwards and to the left, slightly at the ready.
"Yes," Raben whispers quickly. "Blast this fog.. Be vigilant now if you weren't so."
After a few feet forward, a dull, blurry glow becomes evident in the haze of the waving fog, becoming brighter and brighter as you take every step. The lazy white tide ebbs once more, and you see a harrowing scene:
There is a man, perhaps a scholar or trader in attire- his back on the cobbles of the crossway. His eyes, vacant and dim, are open and looking to the sky still pleading for the sight of angels. His skin is pale and clammy, almost blue in complexion, as if the red warmth of his blood has left him. Atop him is a ghastly apparition. Ephemeral, cloud-like, a form hovers over the man. The sound of the long sigh finally comes to an end, only as the figure abruptly cocks its head to the party, its white eyes bright with its awareness of your presence. To your horror, it bears a human face, but in a longing, dreary, dissonant cantor it speaks, "You're so waaarmmm..."
Not taking his eyes off the apparition, the ranger speaks in a cold, level tone. "Ms. Hudson. You deal with spirits. See if you can't get that thing away from him." While he's speaking, Joseph slows and steps a few paces to the left, putting about ten feet of space between himself and Raben. As he moves, he slowly inches his sword to his front, keeping the point down, a few inches above the ground. His left hand moves to grip the hilt of the sword on his right hip.
Cynda had been lost in thought for sometime and only seemed to return at the sight of the apparition. She studied it's form and made her usual assumptions. "I can get it away from him..." A wry smile crossed her face, "but I don't know how comfortable everybody is with my method." With a backward nod of her head, she indicated the Geistcatcher.
Joseph holds steady, poised to strike, his eyes fixed on the ghastly scene. "Do what you got to. The man needs help. 'An he needs it now."
In a swift motion, Cynda grabbed the shroud that covered the Geistcatcher and pulled it off. She released the fabric and it danced in the fog briefly as it fluttered to the ground. Cynda moved deftly around the device, released the safety catch and took her place behind if. In an instant, she squared up her shot. The Geistcatcher lurched and let out a loud mechanical thump as her finger squeezed the trigger.
The necromechanical device fires a sizable magical bolt. It pierces through the fog at incredible speed and impales the ephemeral body of the geist. The creature's sorrowful face contorts into agony as it shrieks in anguish, holding the rig's bolt with its hands. A resonant magnetic field becomes visibly apparent, encircling the spirit, forbidding its escape. "What is this? What have you done?" It wails pathetically.
Joseph raises his sword and approaches the geist. "Not so warm now, are we?" he says matter-of-factly. Keeping his sword up towards the geist, he reaches down with his left hand, grabs the man's arm, and begins dragging him from beneath the ensnared spirit.
When they are both clear of the geist--which is grasping vainly at the bolt stuck in its body--Joseph quickly sheathes his sword, pops his left arm out of his pack strap, and twists his torso to the right, rolling the pack off his back and onto the road. The bow clatters free onto the stones. He hastily untethers the flap, reaches inside, and pulls out a healer's kit, placing it on the ground beside him. Then the ranger starts feeling and prodding the man's forehead, face, and neck. A look of dismay contorts the scars on his face as he looks up from his work, towards Raben.
Noting the geist being hindered by Cynda's machine, and wanting to forego the complaining that would no doubt ensue should he choose to douse said creature in holy flame, and noting the complete stranger once connected to said spirit had fallen into the hands of the Ranger, who seemed rather cavalier in his ways. Knowing that this kind of behaviour can often lead to serious injury, the Priest would find himself once again having to play the less-than-kind 'voice' of reason. As such, with the raising of an emblem with the colours of Avacyn and the Goldnight in his shield-free hand, a flickering of silver light would grace it, prepared should this unknown seemingly human individual take any aggressive action against any party member.
The geist, caught in this new brand of turmoil, at first does not notice when the ranger pulls away its source of warmth. It attempts to evade and lose these thieves in the mist, but it finds it cannot. Something is wrong- it cannot move, and in its bewilderment, the geist sees its prey. "No-no-no... The warmth! Don't you take it!" And with that shout a gale of freezing wind bursts forth from the geist, threatening to sap the life and vitality from the ranger.
When he hears the geist’s startled shout, Joseph's attention swings back just as its mouth opens wide into a disembodied wail, releasing a blast of dense fog. Still crouching, the ranger instinctively clenches his eyes shut, pivots away from the threat, lowers his head, and hunches up his shoulders. Both he and the unmoving body beside him disappear in a crystalline billow of white, vaporized ice. When the geist’s wailing stops, Joseph’s voice bellows out from within the swirling cloud. He's brimming with uncharacteristic emotion. “God…DAMN it!”
A second later the ranger steps up out of the cloud, rubbing his bluish forearms down briskly, attempting to warm them up. His short hair sparkles with ice crystals, and his face --now rosy with frost-nip-- bears an expression more of annoyance than agony. He turns to face the geist and reaches for his sword. About a quarter inch of frost covers the entire back of his duster. Joseph's voice lowers into a seething growl. “Oh, you’ve had it now, spook!”
Uther approaches Joseph and places a hand on his shoulder. A warm light floods from his hands and heals his wounds.
"By Avacyn.." Raben says under his breath at the sight of the geist pierced by some magical implement. Raben draws his crossbow, places his body in an isometric stance, and fixes the weapon's sights on the phantasmal body of the geist. If it would intend on making another ranged assault once more, Raben would be sure to interrupt it with a helping of steel.
Joseph’s right hand finds the hilt of the blade on his left side. There’s a shimmying sound of steel-on-leather as he draws, his entire body coiled to strike. The blade stops a few inches short of clearing leather; Uther’s hand has fallen upon his shoulder. The frost on the back of the duster instantly melts into dew as healing energy courses into Joseph. The ranger glances back and gives a brief nod of thanks to the paladin. He returns his attention to the geist, which is still clawing at the bolt stuck in its midsection, its eyes full of hatred. Joseph’s brow furrows. With a sharp grunt the ranger steps forward, finishes drawing his blade, and swings it back-handed at the apparition in a single fluid motion…
The ranger's sword, though not magical, slices through the fog and finds purchase within the geist's misty form. The blade pulls wide to the right and the apparition fades away as if disembodied by a gust of wind. The fog seems to dispense soon after, as if the remorseful thing brought the gloom with it.
A Soul Lost to the Mist
You find yourselves standing amidst the crossway. The clouds still overhang and fill the skies. And a man lay amongst your feet, his soul now passed- hopefully- into the Blessed Sleep. By the looks of him, he seems to be a messenger of some sort, likely from some small village in the reaches of Gavony. You would think him a young man, now, barely reaching the age of having a voice in a town's council or being able to bear arms in a local militia. Whatever his potential, it has been snuffed out, taken with his last breath
Once the threat had been neutralized, Syd’s full attention was turned to the unfortunate man before him. As a Priest of Goldnight, and especially one living in Nephalia, death was not an uncommon sight, even if it was a pitiable one.
Giving the ranger a few moments to attempt to find any form of identity pertaining to the fallen - an admirable action, despite its chance at success - Blackmore would turn to the party and state: “Should you wish to give me around 10 minutes, I can perform the holy sacraments and give this individual his final rites.” - he said, hints of consideration poking through his usual practiced, calm tone - “There would be the matter of digging him a grave, as well.”
Feeling the Angels’ power responding to his prayer for an unknown individual that had met his end away from loved ones and civilization was, in his view, miraculous enough on its own. After all, the Elgaud Grounds were in the business of producing zealots and practical men, with Blackmore belonging firmly to the latter category. So, while moving onward now would no doubt prove discomforting, in no way was this Priest willing to endanger the living to provide comfort to the dead.
Joseph discovers several scrolls on the body, placing them in a neat row on the ground next to him. When he’s finished, he grabs three scrolls, all bearing wax seals, and hands them to Raben. “These look official. You can figure out what to do with them.”
He turns to Syd. “I think we can spare ten minutes. It’ll take me at least that long to dig the grave. Who’s got a shovel?”
He kneels back down onto the road next to the remaining scrolls. He flips his traveler’s pack over, frost-side-down, unties the strings on the scrolls one by one and unrolls them onto the dry side of the pack, scanning each one briefly..
Joseph carefully rolls one parchment up and re-ties the string before standing and facing the group. “Just letters. This man was a mail carrier.” The hunter hands the two unfurled letters to Syd, along with the strings that bound them. “You all might want to have a peek. There’s rumors that may or may not be our business. ‘An a few of you are from around here. You might know who these letters are going to. If not, we can get at least one back to its sender in Hanweir.”
He raises the single re-tied scroll. “This one’s from Kessig, going to a silversmith in Thraben. I’ll see if I can’t track him down when we get back to the city.” He looks at Raben. “I’m sure the Church is familiar with anyone working silver within its walls. Perhaps it can help come then. I couldn't find anything to tell who this messenger is, though. No name or nothing. Maybe we can find this Ekka in Hanweir. She might know more about him."
He carefully places the rolled scroll in his backpack, picks it and his bow up from the road, and places the two side-by-side on the shoulder of the cobbles. “Now, where’s a shovel? The sooner we get this fellow to rest, the sooner we can get on our way.”
The Courier's Grave Raben grasps the waxed letters and carefully looks at their seals with squinted eyes. "I don't believe it is in our purview to read the contents of these letters. We will find another carrier, a well protected one, and have these sent proper." He then shifts his pack from his shoulders and carefully places the envelopes within the outer pockets, and pulls out a collapsed shovel, handing it to the ranger. "You're doing right by him. But we should do it quickly. Geists aren't all that haunt these lands."
"What of this 'Scourge of the Moors?'" The ranger glances down the road towards Hanweir, then back to Raben. "Any truth to it that you know of?"
With practiced motions, Syd performed the holy sacraments on the corpse. This was a straining, grueling process that took the better part of 10 minutes and, despite having gone without a hitch, the priest's expertise surprised even himself. It appeared that, on this moment, for whatever reason, the Angels - be they the flight of Goldnight or any other - had watched over him, bestowing the young Blackmore with the ability to accomplish this task. Whether they had done it for their Priest, or the man, who could tell?
Having finished his ritual, the holy man's ears perked up to the conversation between the Ranger and the Cathar. Having been so taken by his work, he had missed Joseph attempting to hand him the carrier's letters, and at this point they had been taken by Raben, who had - to the best of his knowledge - refrained from opening them.
Syd would not have acted in this way. The dead were to be respected, but ultimately they were spared the horrors of the living. The man's remains should be protected, but the information he carried could prove of use to the living now, and carry information regarding the area this man came from, that could prove invaluable to the party. Alas, he was also very clear on the pecking order in this assignment and, for better and worse, the Cathar was top dog.
Taking the shovel for his turn, Raben grunts as he plows the dirt."You know of the stitched horrors? Skaabs? Well, they say there's such an undead abomination -more than twice the size of any man- roams the Moorlands. Stronger than a werewolf, and more bloodthirsty than a vampire. A grotesque thing. It's crooked smile is only matched by the curve of its hooked scythe. I've never seen it."
The grave is dug deeply and finished. Raben climbs out and stabs the metal end of the shovel into the dirt pile. "A skaab is monstrous enough, though not as common as ghouls. Should we face one, I wouldn't fault anyone for running. Very few I know of have faced one and lived."
Lifting and placing the messenger's body into the grave was a deliberate and careful thing. His life, body and soul, is to be respected even at its end. You pray his corpse would never be reanimated or used in some madman's experiments.
Joseph grunts in thought at the cathar's description. When the burial is finished, he covers the fresh dirt with loose leaves and grass, then places two round stones, side-by-side, on top. When he walks back to the road, he surveys the grave site from afar; unless one were to look for two random, round stones, the grave is all but invisible from the road. He collects his pack and bow, and follows Raben onward, to Hanweir.
The mission continues. Angel's Way, now visible as the fog has cleared, stretches onward through the Gavony moors, and after several hours of travel, hunger gnaws at the party's bodies, and thirst scratches at the back of their throats.
A Short Rest When the party stops to eat, Joseph takes up a spot next to Uther. Digging into his ration kit, the hunter breaks off a piece of dried meat and offers it to the paladin. "Ever have Kessig jerky?" He pops the other half in his mouth and begins chewing. "It's got a bit more flavor than most of Innistrad's cured meats," he mumbles out as he chews, "A lot of natural herbs grow in the woods down there. 'An the deer eat it up. Naturally spices the meat. Gives it a bit of gaminess."
With no response from Uther, Joseph turns back to focus on his meal, eyes on the road ahead as he chews thoughtfully.
Continuing on Angel's Way A few hours later, after a long spell of traveling in silence at the rear ranks, the ranger glances west, then moves to the front of the line, at Raben's side. "It'll be dark soon, Cathar. Did you have places for us to put up along the way? Or do we need to keep an eye out for a place to camp?" He reaches his hand back and thumps the empty waterskin dangling off the side of his pack. "Unless you've got a place for us tonight, we probably oughtta find a place to fill our water, too."
"I'm running low on water myself." - Syd said, somewhat dejectedly - "And once we do make camp it would serve us best to figure out who takes which shifts as, needless to say, we're at our most vulnerable when we're sleeping."
Raben makes a grunt of deliberation, swooshing what little is left in his waterskin. "We travel in a group, as long as we keep diligent watch, we should be fine for a night's camp near the road. We can seek amenities in light of day tomorrow. But I won't begrudge the group for wanting to seek more accommodable shelter now. If a village is nearby, we may be able to replenish and sleep more soundly, though regrettably I known of none in the area," he starts, slowing down his pace and turning his left ear to the party.
Joseph nods his head once in silence. "Keep an eye out for someplace sheltered within hollering distance to the road. If we don't stop soon, we'll be looking in the dark."
Before Night Falls
The last few hours of the evening crawl by dreadfully as not a nearby manor or hovel is seen. If some manner of shelter isn't found soon, the party must travel by torch or lamplight, which may repel common beasts, but can lure other more rapacious or determined predators of the night.
As if spurned by fate, however, the party comes to a crossway shrine. This isn't the first they've passed on Angel's Way, but it had been some time before they saw the last. The sun is smothered under the horizon, and the moon illuminates the flat, rocky marsh of the moors through the wispy furls of the clouds that blanket it. The moon is nearly full, bringing not only the anxiety of the approaching full-faced moon but a cold that reminds the party of the fog -and of the geist.
In consensus, the party decides to rest near the Avacynian shrine, and perhaps take shelter within its holy presence.
Raben claims a small spot within a pace's proximity to the shrine, unfurling two blankets from his pack. One is thick, but heavily matted, which he lays on the ground. Sitting down, he searches through his effects but retrieves nothing, as if it was only to reassure himself of something then faces the party, forearms on his knees. "I can take a middle watch. They are oft the most inconvenient, interrupting one's sleep mid-rest."
Joseph wearily flings his pack to the ground opposite the altar to Raben. “I’ll do last watch. I’m an early riser, anyways.” He rubs his arms briskly with his hands. “An’ I can’t get that spirit’s cold out of me for nothing. If I’m not in a warm bedroll soon, you’ll end up burying me in the ditch next.”
The ranger begins unfastening his pack, bringing out the needed equipment for sleep. As he's laying his bedding out, he touches the amulet around his neck as if remembering something. He stands up and steps to the altar.
The silhouette of Joseph's slender frame is lost in the darkness of the sky, save for the faint gloss of moonlight in his hair and shimmer of dew on his duster. With both hands he grasps the amulet at his neck, which glitters sharp and eerie silver, then he kneels down and begins moving his lips in silence. A gentle breeze begins blowing in from the river, making the unseen grasses alongside the road swish and sigh.
For some time Joseph prays, head bowed, amulet held in front of him. Seemingly finished, he looks up to the altar, then cranes his head back to look at the sky. He rises to his feet, absentmindedly lowers the amulet, and stares, then moves his attention back down to the altar. Slowly he reaches a single hand out, fingers outstretched tentatively, as if trying to gently touch some fragile thing of curiosity. With a start, he draws his hand back to the amulet and takes a half step back.
The hiss of the grass ceases as the breeze disappears, and a collapsing stillness settles all around. The faint burble and slap of the distant Kirch can be heard in the distance.
Without a word, Joseph steps away from the altar, eyes fixed forward, attention turned inward. He fusses with his bedding, unbuckles his scabbards and lays his swords side-by-side within reach. Using his duster as a makeshift pillow, he craws under his covers and lies down on his side, his back to the Avacynian shrine.
"I'll take first watch," Uther said. He drew his sword halfway from its sheathe as if to reassure himself of its edge. He settled near the shrine, in a place where he could easily see their surroundings.
Eyes nearly closed from an exhausting day, Syd would make himself known: "That leaves me to do the one before last. Wake me when it's time." - he spoke, half-heartedly preparing his sleeping arrangements and falling into a deep slumber before long.
Their First Night
The first few watches idle by. The river's buzzing and chirping creatures can be heard in the distance, as well as its coursing waters. The moon, a day or two perhaps before reaching its apex figure, illuminates the land, casting a cold, detached silver sheen to the thistle, rock, and brush. The crackling flames of the party's camp provides a measure of warmth against the night's frost and extra needed light to aid a watch's vigilance, as well as bringing some measure of safety against many night predators in the marsh -indeed, some say steady fires keep away even vampires.
The cleric is eventually woken by Raben for the party's third rotation, but the exhausted soul can nary keep his lids peered, and soon leans too strongly on his shield and slumbers. The campfire soon starves. Quietly, it's light dies.
A Predator Lurks, Quiet and White
In the pale light of the moon, a nocturnal creature becomes active. It is predatory by nature, and carnivorous. Knowing its prey lies close to the river's edge, it vacates its den with hardly a sound and makes its way, its body close to the ground. It smells the embers of burned wood. A familiar scent -one that signified another form of prey. Following this scent, it finds the slumped, sleeping bodies of the party, its eyes reflecting a sick green amidst the darkness.
One by one, it visits the unconscious bodies. A quick snap and its business is done, and it moves on. It flawlessly visits two of these unaware creatures, and trains its eyes on the third. The predator reaches this victim deftly and without sound, and opens its mouth once it can reach the neck-
And, by what can only be attributed to miraculous chance, the creature of the night loses its footing on the sleeping prey's body, slamming its head against a hard, angled object and yelps.
At the sound of the yelp, Joseph's eyes snap open, and his right arm shoots to the handle of one of his shortswords. He sits up, shaking the scabbard loose from the blade, and prepares to rise, pausing when he catches sight of the tail of a white fox as the creature is scampering off into the night. With his left hand, he grabs a handful of gravel from the road and flings it at the fleeing animal. "Fssssssssst, get out of here," he hisses in a whisper.
When he looks up and sees Syd watching the fox as well, Joseph whispers, slightly annoyed, "Don't let 'em wander around the camp. Those critters will eat our rations if we don't watch 'em." Then the ranger grabs a few more fists of gravel and tosses them underhand towards the packs of the sleeping party members, attempting to scare off any unseen stragglers that might have found their way inside.
Standing perfectly motionless, Syd's still hazy eyes would lock on with this white critter, attempting to sneak its way through the camp. Noticing itself be caught, it scampered off into the brush, just in time to be 'berated' by the ranger, and a handful of gravel was thrown in its general direction. Syd, noting Joseph's awakened state, would silently stare at the ranger while he explained his actions. At this moment, the priest knew his falling asleep on the clock had gone unnoticed. As such, the young Blackmore raised his left hand, palm facing the ranger in a gesture of silent apology, before whispering back "Sorry. We don't have very many of these little guys back home, so I didn't pay it much mind. Tomorrow we'll check to see if everyone has everything, and if need be I'll cover for what was taken."
Having finished his piece, Syd's eyes would dart around the forest, hoping to find anything else he might've missed, while awaiting the possibility of a retort from the ranger.
"Hmmmph," Joseph whispers, picking up his scabbard to put away the shortsword. "No need to cover anything. We're all in this together." He rubs his eyes wearily. "What's your name, Holy Man?" The ranger fluffs his duster-pillow.
"Fair enough" - the cleric replied, in the usual, serene tone. "I'm really not sure Holy's the word you're looking for there, but I'll take it. The name's Syd." - he paused, briefly, before continuing - "Blackmore. You?"
"Joseph Clarke," the ranger responds. He pauses, as if in thought, then lies down, back to everyone, and is still.
"A pleasure." - Syd mentions, seeing the man go back to sleep, and readying himself in his seated position and looking around, hoping not to fall asleep again until the end of his shift.
Sunrise
After Syd wakes Joseph for the watch and goes to bed, the ranger picks a spot with his back to the shrine, and faces south. As he's scanning the darkness, he absentmindedly raises his hand and places it to his chest. A puzzled, startled look crosses his face, and he pats his chest a few more times. Standing up in a panic, he lifts the collar of his scale mail and shirt and reaches down with his other hand and feels around for something. With a silent, frenzied step he's on his knees, next to his bedroll, and rifling through the fabrics, patting and sweeping with his open hands.
"Son-of-a-*****!" The phrase started as a whisper, but crescendoed into a hoarse growl with the final word; the ranger leaned forward with it, directing the low noise towards his bed to keep from waking the camp. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, he peers through the darkness towards the river, sighs, and returns to his spot by the shrine to continue his watch, hand firmly grasping the Traveler's Amulet hanging from his neck.
When the sky is just breaking dawn, and there is barely enough light to see, Joseph exclaims loudly, "The new day's here. Best we get an early start." He bangs his bow on the road a few times. His bedroll is already put away, his swords back on his belt. "We had company last night. Greedy little fox decided to pop in an' nab a few shiny things. He got one of my pieces of blessed silver out of my pack." He shoots a sharp look at Syd. "I was on watch an' had my back to it. By the time I heard it, it was too late. So everyone check your things. See if anything's missing. I'm gonna look around to see if he dropped it nearby. If not, we'll take a half hour to see if we can't find his den. It'll be close by, near the river. Anything else I'd happily leave. You don't get silver every day, though."
After slowly combing the ground towards the river, the hunter returns. "He got away with it, but his tracks are pretty clear. Someone wanna head down to the river with me to help root him out and see what he's got in his den?" Joseph turns to the cleric. "Syd, you look like you could learn a thing or two about foxes. Want to come with me an' learn how to track one?"
After the ranger described the theft that happened in the night, Uther reached up for his own amulet. "Damn it," he muttered. It was gone. Somehow the fox had managed to slip it off his neck while he slept. He checked under his armor but was relieved to find his mothers amulet where he had left it. "It seems the fox paid me a visit last night as well. I'll do what I can to help find it." He nodded at the ranger and the priest. "My name is Uther by the way. Uther Corwynn."
The ranger nods to Uther. "Joseph Clarke." He looks around at the others. "Anything else missing? We shouldn't be away more than twenty minutes. The tracks are clear as day. Let's go then." Joseph leads, bow slung around his shoulder, heading towards the river. He leaves his pack at the shrine. After a few moments he pauses and crouches, picking up a twig from the ground to point at the dirt. "See this? Four teardrops and an upside-down heart? Fox. Size of a house cat's prints, but you can see the claw, there at the tip of each teardrop. The back prints are deep. He was running. We want to watch for when he's not. He'll be near home, then." The hunter stands again, and leads on. As they crest a rise, a small pond is visible in the distance.
The Fox's Den
A few minutes later, as the group nears the pond, and the brush begins to thicken, Joseph pauses again. "There. Look. The back prints are shallow now. The air's wet, though, so the dust is damp. Still holds a solid print. Look around for the den. It'll be sheltered, with lots of prints around it, maybe some matted grass." The ranger enters the brush, eyes to the ground, and creeps towards an uprooted tree. His eyes dart forward. "Over here." He points towards the tree. Then he removes his bow from his shoulder and takes off his duster. He hands the bow to Uther and wraps the duster around his hands. "Use this to poke around in the den and scare him out a bit. I'll grab him an' throw him clear so we can feel around in there an' not get bit. Hopefully we find our stuff. Who knows what's in there? These critters can be hoarders." Joseph kneels down in the dirt and rotten leaves, then holds his two hands, sheathed in the overcoat, out towards the depression beneath the fallen tree.
When the fox is rustled to the mouth of its den with the bow, Joseph lunges with his coat and grabs it. A high-pitched growling and snarling ensues, and the hunter drags the creature out as it snaps and bites vainly at the duster. With a grunt, Joseph flings the ball of white fury away from him. The fox lands on its side, springs to its feet, and darts off towards the pond, disappearing into the grass. "Well, that's that. Let's see what's in here." He lies on his side and reaches his arm deep into the den, and begins scooping out handfuls of leaves, twigs, and other bedding.
An amulet comes out with the third scoop, and Joseph grabs it and shakes the debris from it. He holds it up towards Uther. "I believe this is yours." With the next scoop he pulls out two more necklaces. "And this is mine. And an extra." He drapes his own blessed silver over his neck, tucking it into his shirt. He pockets the other necklace. After sifting through the disgorged bedding, he finds a handful of coins, and laughs quietly to himself as he places them in his coin purse. "Looks like this little guy is buying us all a hot meal when we hit Hanweir." When nothing else of interest is to be found, the hunter carefully stuffs the bedding back into the den and pats it down. "He'll stay away for a few days, until he's sure we're gone. An' then he'll move right back in as if nothin' ever happened." Joseph stands, shakes the fur out of his duster, and puts it back on. There are a few fresh scratches on its weather-worn fabric. Then he grabs his bow from Uther and hooks his shoulder into it. "C'mon, let's go."
On Angel's Way Once More
Filling their waterskins with the waters of the Kirch, the party returns southbound on Angel's Way. This day, to their fortune, has remained largely unperturbed during the morning hours. After some time, a fork, leading northwest can be seen. Looking down that way, one can see the dense, dark obscurity of a small forest huddled under the oppression of the northmost ridges of Geier Reach.
Coming closer to the actual fork, keeping true to the customs and normality of the Moorlands, a crossway shrine comes into view. A man and his horse are currently within its presence, the man on his knees, hands held before his bent face. The horse whines and neighs as it hears the rumbling and clatter of the geistcatcher but remains near its master. Small muttering can be heard from the man's slumped form. Surely, he prays to the angels to oversee his travels. Unlike the other shrines the party has come across, this one is wooden, carved out of the flesh of the wood with wreathes and flowers adorning its shape.
Joseph, who is last in file, regards the praying man with little more than a glance and briefly lowered eyebrows. After his animated, almost jovial, nature during the tracking of the fox (and retrieval of his silver), he has settled back into his silent, watchful self, a grim look upon his scarred face as he diligently scans the horizons while the hills creep past. Without a word, he watches Raben for sign of which fork the group will be taking.
Overall unperturbed by the commoner, Raben notes the sign but continues his pace southward. "That way leads to Estwald. Mostly a woodworker's village. Much of Thraben's wooden goods come from their forests. Our path to Hanweir continues south."
As the party passes the man by, he gets to his feet. Grabbing the horses reins, he trots next to the party, getting ahead of the ranger and asks the nearest man of visible faith, the paladin, "Sir cathar, are you headed to Kessig?"
As the peasant rises and begins to head towards the party, Joseph's attention locks onto him. The ranger casually grabs the flaps of his open coat and yanks them down taut, then flips the left flap back over the hilt of his shortsword. With slightly quickened pace he sweeps out to the flank of the group, towards the side of the road from which the man approaches, walking just off the shoulder of the road. The vantage point gives him sight around the massive geistcatcher and keeps the hunter slightly on the periphery of the stranger's attention. With a keen eye held on the newcomer, the hunter slows to match pace with the wagon. When the man passes him and talks to Uther, Joseph's attention loosens slightly, shifting occasionally to check the surrounding hills, as well as both direction of the road. But it always falls back to the stranger and the paladin.
Noting the momentary stop and Raben and Joseph approaching the newcomer, Syd's eyes canvas their surroundings, stopping momentarily on the shrine before moving on to the rest of the landscape, to see if any red flags popped out at him. They did not. The temple was not carefully tended to, but it existed nonetheless, a small beacon of light, in a particularly quaint and peaceful fork in the road.
Uther looks up at the man and shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. Our path takes us to Hanweir. Although Raben here surely wouldn't mind you accompanying us that far if you wished to join us. It is our duty to protect the people and the roads are dangerous these days."
A light flickers in Joseph's eyes, as if he's remembering something. He steps forward and asks, "What's your business in Kessig?" When the stranger looks his way, he grasps the end of his silver amulet, raises it slightly while lowering his eyes to the peasant's chest, then lets the silver fall loose upon his chain.
"Ah." The man nods a few times slightly. "If it not be too much trouble, let a lone man travel with you." His speech is idled by momentary pauses between his words. He then looks to the hunter, a slight smile of recognition appears, from one Kessiger to another. "I travel further, passed Hanweir. To Erikstead." His gaze leaves you. "I have family, matters to attend to. You lot on a church's errand, or be you Parish-blades?"
The hunter's scarred lip lifts slightly as a the slightest trace of a smile crosses his face. He points to Raben. "This cathar leads us. We are seeing to church matters in Hanweir. There's room enough on the road for you alongside us, if he'll allow it." As he speaks, Joseph nonchalantly re-covers his shortsword with his coat flap. When he's finished, he looks to the peasant, touches his amulet again, and returns to the rear of the group.
Turning his head slightly, Raben silently nods with closed eyes. "You're welcome to travel with us, sir. But as my fellow said, we stop in Hanweir."
"It be no issue, brave cathars. No issue." His demeaner becomes solemn for a moment, but the man then directly speaks to the cleric. "Pardon me, sir cleric, but may you impart a blessin' on me? I fear a darkness; it looms o'er me."
Syd would grasp his amulets and pray, chanting for the blessing the man had required. A rush of divine power flowed through him and everything seemed to be going well enough, until the moment of transition between caster and recipient where it seemed to abruptly cut out. The cleric stopped in his tracks, staring at his left hand, that had just performed these complex motions for a few instants of quiet contemplation before turning to the individual and stating: "Apologies, it would seem I am all tapped out for the moment. The Angels' blessings can be fickle things, it would seem."
Displaying a mildly self-derisive smile, the man would reach out with that very same hand and use the divine power within him to give the man bestow the man with Protection from Evil and Good, a blessing similar to the one he had otherwise failed to accomplish. Finally, after a few kind words to the individual he’d helped, and unless stopped by the party, the young Blackmore would move to the shrine to pray and restore usage in his Traveler’s amulet, as well as ask for forgiveness for any past transgressions that might have caused for their favor to not be fully present in his previous interaction.
Anguished terror was overtaking the man's face but then he saw the cleric raise his hands once more, and this time, the poor soul felt the divine protection of the resplendent spell. He sighs with a gratitude that could shudder mountains. "Thank you, cleric, thank you."
Perhaps only an hour later, the traveling party and their guest view a bridge come into view. It has no walls, only posts holding its wooded ceiling which has aged to grey. Its cement-brick foundations are covered in moss and drop below sight, submerged in the river's waters.
Joseph speeds up to match step with the front of the party. "It was beyond this river, to the south, that me an' the monks got hit with a final attack on our way north, to Thraben. The lands get more dangerous the further we go." He glances to the east horizon, and he scowls. "An' judging from last night's moon, tonight's will be full, or close enough that you can't tell. He looks to Raben. "I'm guessing we won't make Hanweir by dark today? We might wanna take all that into account well before today's sun hits the western hills." Without waiting for a response, the ranger speeds up and breaks slightly away from the group, reaching back to untie his waterskin from his pack, as he heads for the shoreline next to the bridge.
The party's footfalls thud and clod against the wooden floorboards of the bridge. The scenery is almost pleasant here: a clear river surrounded by a few conifers. Its bedding on either side and reaching beneath the bridge is dense with various algae, moss, and green fungi, molding together to form a "grass". The air is pungent with a musty verdant scent. With the head of the troop now in the center of the bridge, the steel wheels of the geistcatcher revolve onto the structure, causing it to groan under the mechanism's weight. The fit is narrow on either side of the machine, but with some care, it is guided down without rasping the pillars and fence-work. The rogue grunts with effort, as additional drag has weighed down on her geistcatcher's rig. A bridge shouldn't cause this.. she thinks as she turns to see and investigate any cause for strain, and what she finds pulls at her sanity. She screams in wretched horror.
An amorphous mass has seeped through the wooden boards and taken hold of her dear machine. You could see into the thing's shape, the metal of her contraption wilting and eroding.
At the sound of Cynda's scream, Joseph's eyes, which had been on some horizon or distant point on the road, sweep to the geistcatcher about 25 feet ahead of him. He stops dead in his tracks, his hand going to his shortsword. "Let go of it!" he shouts. His hand grips the hilt, but the sword stays in its scabbard. "Everyone back from the wagon!"
The ranger releases his sword and instead reaches back to his quiver and pulls an arrow from it. He quickly strides up to the corner of the wagon, turns sideways to face it, and begins shimmying along the edge of the bridge beside it, holding the arrow out gingerly by the fletching, keeping the shaft pointing mostly towards the ooze-covered geistcatcher; though it's clear he doesn't intend the arrow to be a weapon. As he sidesteps along the ooze-addled contraption, Joseph holds the arrow ahead of his path of travel, in his right hand. A tiny tendril begins to form on the side of the geistcatcher. The ranger moves the arrowhead to touch the tendril, giving the arrow a quick jiggle or two, then pulls it away, stretching the tendril with it.
The entire amorphous mass shimmies and pulsates in reaction, then the tendril begins to expand, like an overfilled waterskin. Joseph quickly moves his body past the arrow, swapping it to his left hand, and continues the jiggling and shaking, dragging the engorged tendril to touch a pillar on the bridge. Then he violently thrashes the arrow up and down the pillar, smearing blob onto it, which quickly inflates and covers the pillar as the abomination gushes its mass through the tendril, from the geistcatcher to the bridge support.
When there is just a bare inch or two left on the arrow between his hand and the blob, Joseph releases it and joins the party. Most of the creature is now wreathed around the pillar and adjacent fencing, with a fat, drooping tentacle still connected to the mostly-free geistcatcher.
Noting the brouhaha behind him, Syd would immediately stride towards his hind and stand between the girl - the one wearing the least amount of armor - and the beast, to offer protection. A bolt of sacred flame would fire off from behind his shield, exiting the clutches of his other hand, that clutched the Cleric's divine relic and focus, and struck true.
The green, ebbing mass contorts itself to hide the singed portion of its body within itself, making a grotesque squelch, and slathers its form onto the geistcatcher once more. Once its placed itself on its seat, or meal rather, the horrid thing launches a dolloped 'appendage' at the nearest living creature. Concentrating most of its form on the geistcatcher, the ooze doesn't use enough of its mass to reach the Avacynian cleric and misses just shy of his shield and legs.
At the sound of the woman's mind-shattering scream, the peasant's horse reels up on its hind legs and brays wildly, The man pulls the animal's reigns taught, placating to it, managing to keep the horse from galloping away. Raben pulls at a buttoned leash on his pack, grabbing his crossbow. Training it down the bridge, he shouts, "Make a hole!" and as soon as a path is clear, he fires a bolt at the writhing mass. Overcompensating for his comrades, however, he misses, with the bolt flying up and to the right of its target. "Dammit," he grits and begins loading another bolt.
With tears streaking down her cheeks, Cynda manages to regain some of her composure. She wished, oh so much, to just hack away at this jello-thing into tiny morsels and just squash them beneath her boots- but she was smarter than that. Taking a few steps back to get proper distance at her hated target after it failed to attack the Goldnight cleric, she slid her pack from her back. She began rifling through its contents, still crying, but she was purposed now. She retrieved and opened her tinder box and a candle, lighting the wick. Placing the lit candle in a presumably safe location, she then grabbed a flask of oil and began coating arrow tips in the amber fluid. She turns back at the thing devouring her beloved geistcatcher. "You will burn.. I swear it, you will burn!"
Uther takes this moment to stride by the other side of the geistcatcher, placing himself, his sword, and his shield between their traveling guest and the gelatinous creature, readying himself in the event it decides to move towards or stretch a grimy arm at the previously undefended man and his mount.
Joseph looks down the road towards Hanweir briefly, then to Raben, Uther, and Cynda, who are preparing to attack. Then he looks at the ooze-covered geistcatcher with a scowl. There's a slight grunt of resignation as he reaches back for his bow, then pauses with indecision. Instead, he flings his backpack to the ground and kneels next to it. He undoes the leather twine and digs out a flask of oil and carefully uncorks it. Then he stands, takes a step towards the enemy, and hurls the flask at the slime-covered wagon. The container lobs through the air, end-over-end, and shatters in an explosion of oil upon the frame. The shimmering golden liquid mixes among the green slime's mass; droplets of oil bead up and drip onto the bridge from the undercarriage.
Confused by the sight of a geistcatcher attacking her own rig, the Cleric would hesitate for a beat, watching as both ranger and rogue alike prepared to set the thing ablaze. Despite fire being his bread and butter, the Cleric willingly chooses to not strike the proverbial match in hopes of preserving whatever remained of the otherwise sensitive equipment, and blasted the ooze with a second Radiant cantrip.
Preoccupied by the one green ooze currently making a meal out of the rogue's geistcatching rig, not a single solid-bodied soul suspected another such creature lurking in the waters beneath the bridge. It slurps its way through the ragged wooden boards beneath the rogue, its sickly green mass threatening to swallow her boots. She's able to step back from immediate danger, but this second ooze creature lobs its tendrils at her. Too quick for the slow, molasses-like thing, Cynda dodges its attempts to lap her with its acidic slime.
The first ooze wretches at the Syd's holy fire, reeling its limbs back collectively and surging forward at the cleric, but the Syd carefully steps aside, dodging the corrosive assault. It lands with a sickening wet thump on the floorboards before the cleric of Goldnight. Looking back to the geistcatching rig, considerable damage can be see to much of its components, twisted and melted grossly out of specifications and design.
The horse has been calmed now by its owner, who looks at the scene on the bridge with worry. "Should I ride and find help?" He asks Uther.
"Not yet! Don't go out on your own." There hadn't been another village or manorial estate in many, many miles. Any aid that could be found would arrive much too late. Hating feeling useless, Uther was now not in a a good position, however: the rig immediately before him blocking his movement, and the now two green oozes just in front of that assaulting his allies on the far side of the bridge. More over, he saw what those things can do to metal- he didn't want to lose his sword and armor. He sheathes his sword and pulls his mace from its snap at his side, ready to bludgeon the things should they come his way in the even they feel his allies are too difficult a meal.
Cynda reaches an arrow-tip dipped in oil at the lit candle, immediately catching the flame. With not a second to lose, and not at proper distance to fire the bolt accurately, lunges at the oil-soaked slobber with a furious, impassioned, "Rraaaaghh!"
Sensing the immediate danger, or perhaps the encroaching heat, the sentient sludge attempts to evade and lurch back onto the geistcatching rig, but it was too slow. Cynda's improvised attack lands, the flames catching the oiled mass in intense flames. A gut-wrenching, ear-piercing squeal fills the air as the muck spasms and contorts in searing pain.
As the glob burns, much of its mass is consumed by the flames, leaving little of its original form left. It's recoiled between the cracks of the floorboards, ready to slink back into the river. The ranger purses his lips as he watches Cynda lunge at the creature with her flaming arrow. When the entire scene ignites with a whoosh, a look of satisfaction crosses his face. Seeing the remainder of the ooze wedge itself into the cracks like a giant amber-and-green flaming booger, he stoops to grab his bow from the ground, slides an arrow from the quiver lying close by, and prepares to attack. "Back, Miss Hudson!" he shouts grimly as he nocks the arrow, brings the bow to his face, quickly draws, and looses a shot that lands squarely into what's left of the retreating clotted slop. There's a shriek and a gurgle as the swelled green form collapses in on itself with a nauseatingly sloppy splash, sending rivulets of runny green liquid spreading across the bridge slats and down the cracks, dripping into the water below. A thin sheet of flame springs up from the oil that settles onto the wood after the ooze drains away.
Not waiting to watch the puddle's demise, Joseph has taken a knee to grab another arrow. "Away from the flask!" he reiterates to the rogue as he steadies his bow arm against his other knee. Leaning his head to the side, he nocks and draws, taking careful aim on the bottle of oil next to the candle.
As the first gooey creature squirms from the flames, Syd attracts the other's attention, still bent on keeping the rogue away from harm's way. Drawing the crossbow attached to his belt, the Cleric accurately lets loose a single bolt, that accurately hits the amorphous glop.
The other conglomerate slime begins retreating from the heat, dripping itself through the cracks in the bridge and attempts to bash Syd with corrosive arms but is unable to. It slinks through the wooden boards and splashes back into the river, disappearing from sight.
After a tense moment, Raben runs to the edge of the bridge, looking down into the water. The river flows normally, unperturbed by the happenings above it. With no further signs of the ooze, he sheathes his blade. A thudding sound is heard. Cynda is knelt on the floor, arms straddling her dear rig, shoulders quaking in slight sobs. "It's ruined.. I- I can't.." She begins fiddling the various parts and components in the rig, peering through tear-filled eyes at the acidic havoc done to her beloved machine. "I'm so sorry.."
Uther runs under the side of the bridge downriver, looking for the gelatin creature, mace and shield held firm, but the search is ultimately futile. He begins making his way back onto the wooden bridge.
"It seems the threat is over," Raben says.
Despite no injury dealt to any of the party members, the rogue's geistcatching rig is out of commission. She remains huddled by it, comforting it, comforting herself, assuring that it would be fixed; it would be alive once more.
Joseph watches with indifference as Cynda mourns her geistcatcher's rig. "For now," he replies to Raben, eyes still on the smoke- and tear-filled scene. "We need to warn travelers of the danger here. I'll find something. Let me know when she's...ready...to move that wagon off the bridge, 'an I'll lend a hand.
He fetches some rope from his pack, walks across the bridge, past the ruined rig, and begins to head off the trail. He pauses and turns to Uther and the newcomer. "Stranger, is your horse hardy? Care to come with me and move a few rocks? We need to warn others of the dangers below this bridge."
With few words, the men manage to find two midsize boulders by the river, hitch them to the horse with the rope, and drag them to either end of the bridge. They position them half on, half-off the right side of the road, with the flattest portion facing away from the crossing.
Satisfied with the placement, Joseph nuzzles the horse behind the ears and whispers to it; the animal champs and grunts in satisfaction. Then the ranger heads out, away from the trail, combing the hilly ground until he finds a large, fist-sized chunk of grayish-white chert. He returns to the far end of the bridge and raises the rock to the waist-high boulder, but pauses. He turns to Syd and Raben. "Someone want to do the honors?" he mutters, "My, uh, script isn't the best." He holds the stone out towards them.
Taking the blanche rock from the countryman, Raben writes in large bold lettering across both stones 'OOZES UNDER BRIDGE. BE QUICK TO PASS... ...OR NOT AT ALL'. "That should do it."
Early Departure..
The following event was a forlorn conversation. Cynda, the party's rogue and geist expert, was much too distraught over her ruined device. She insisted on returning to Nephalia and repairing her rig and could not be persuaded otherwise. She cared little for betraying or abandoning the Church in comparison to her overabundant regard for her machine. Fearing her travel alone, Raben insisted that someone should at least escort her part of the way. Uther volunteered for the task, stating he would also do well to warn village elders, as well as the clergy in Thraben, of this new danger beneath the bridge. He does not know if he would be seen as a dissenter for abandoning the mission, but he felt he would save more people by doing this, so he felt in the right.
With only three members, as well as the accompanying commoner, whom the party found to be named Threg after some conversation, and his horse, traveled across the moors. Not stopping for proper meals, the party maintained themselves with rations and their previously filled 'skins. Before naught, evening befalls the flat-marsh and envelopes the party's sight. The mist thickens and cools the air, creating the desires of comfort, to stop for the moment and pitch camp. Raben, however, insists the party trek on to make up time that has been lost due to previous events.
When the group parted ways, Joseph maintained a solemn, almost cold countenance. He mostly stood aside, keeping vigilant watch on the road and hills, as people said their goodbyes. His only contribution was a clap on the departing cathar's shoulder, and the words "Safe journey."
Once back on the road, the hunter seemed to walk a bit more lightly without the constant clatter of the geistcatching rig. While he still remained at the tail-end of the group, his march was much closer to the rest, almost beside the person in front of him. When night falls, however, a shadow seems to settle over the ranger's face. The moon, nearly opposite the setting sun, was an object of interest to him for nearly ten minutes after it crested the eastern hills; he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off it. At one point he grunts to himself, his appraisal complete, then pulls the coat flaps back from his shortswords, and pins them in place behind the scabbards. Without pausing, he reaches back and removes a leather-bound bundle from his quiver and unwraps it to reveal a handful of arrows, their tips glinting the color of the moon in the failing twilight. He gently slides each arrow into one side of his quiver, and stuffs the leather cloth into the space separating them from the other arrows. With renewed fervor he watches the surrounding lowlands, his eyes squinted in the dark so that the three scar-lines above his brow bulge monstrously, casting dark shadows across his forehead in the moonlight.
The Second Night
As the cloak of night blankets the Gavony sky, Threg, the accompanying traveler, seems to grow more and more anxious. His brow is slick with sweat and lips quivering. He scratches his wrists absentmindedly but at regular intervals, perhaps a nervous tick. A diligent person would notice he worriedly looks at the bright, shining silver moon every so often, ever so close to being full.
Joseph's intentioned gaze, normally focused far off into the distance, settles within the party. From behind Threg he carefully observes the newcomer's erratic behavior. "Hold a moment, cathar," he grumbles loudly. The hunter maintains purposed eye contact with Raben for a stern moment after it's made, then does the same with Syd, before continuing. He turns to Threg. "You look sick. Is the pace too much? You mentioned your soul felt heavy earlier today when you asked for the blessing."
Joseph fishes in his pocket for the moon pearl necklace found in the fox's den. He pulls it out and holds it towards the commoner. "Put this on," he says. The statement is forceful, with a hint of threat weaved into it. "It was my brother's. An' it has the blessing of Avacyn. Might make you feel at ease." Unblinking, he stares at Threg. "The chain is pure silver. Blessed by Father Halstead, himself, in Lambholt."
Raben nods in affirmation with the hunter, slowing to a halt. Threg at first still gazing absentmindedly, stares at the younger scarred boy once he notices the ranger's approach. Unastonished by the ranger's words, he pulls out his own chain from beneath his cloth. A bright, metal, mirror-like pendant hangs from a thin chain. "Have already got one, lad." A small smile irks on the left of his lips. "I do fear for myself, but it isn't what you think. E'eryone should be worried these nights."
"Suit yourself," Joseph replies, and pockets the necklace. He locks eyes with Raben, and when Threg turns away, the ranger places his hand upon the hilt of his sword, shoots a conspicuous glance at the peasant's back, then returns his gaze to the cathar. Then he shrugs.
Meanwhile..
Brief glimmers of touch light toss irregular patches of light against the path doing little to illuminate the way as a group of weary travelers trudge in the evening twilight. The caravan was small but imposing, it's humble group of a few merchants with a single chart blessed as it were by the presence of several armored guards who accompanied a heavily curtailed carriage. The group for the most part traveled in silence, their passage the creaking of wheels and the soft clump of hooves the only thing breaking the silence.
Walking between the two vehicles, a figure of cloaked peasant woman paused for a moment, looking up at the twilight sky as she took a deep breath. A breeze tugged at her cloak causing the hood to momentarily fall revealing a dirty face with uncanny blueish violet eyes and frazzled hair. Grasping the hood quickly, the young woman hurriedly pulled her hold forcefully back into place as the wind once against shifted and died.
The brief stench of something foul was her only warning to move quickly as she heard from behind her a muttered curse and The sounds of an armored rider, "The moon blight ye, woman! Move along or get out of the way!" Scrambling, the woman quickly darted to the side, glaring balefully at the guard before ducking her head, and walking quickly to catch up with the foremost cart keeping well away from the clearly nervous guards. A brief jog found her however in the more cordial company of Gleb the carts driver.
Keeping pace with the cart momentarily, she called up to Gleb, her voice soft and sweet like a child's, "Night time now? Sleep soon?"
"Aw, child, not yet. Soon, though. Boris be wanting to make the fork to take shelter around the shrine there. Keep your chin up, Nata, and it won't be much longer."
Falling behind the cart, the girl once more took her place in the procession. A momentary pant of regret filled her, but was quickly shaken off. The deception was a minor one but a necessary. Growing up in the slums under the care of the guardianship of the Abbey, she had learned one very important lesson. It didn't matter if they were man, were, or vampire, all men were thirsty for something. What they thirsted for varied, but the thirst remained the same and according to the Aunt's the only choice in a woman's life was to whether or not she got paid for providing for that thirst.
Of course there were ways that you could avoid being a victim of that thirst. The simplest and easiest she had found was to pretend to be sick, misshappened, insane, or stupid. Since no caravan in their right mind would take an invalid or a nut and faking a limp for the entire journey held no appeal as well as being a dubious deterrent at best, she had discussed the matter with Fillip before settling on her current deception. Besides, as of a late more and more people had begun to notice her, men in particular and it became apparent that all to soon the suggestions she take her place in the bower wouldn't be a suggestion at all.
The decision to leave had been easy and the decision to pretend to be "Nata" easier still. Gleb and the other men were nice enough to dimwitted, clumsy, curious Nata who was bound to Hanweir to sell her "Uncle's" wares and to find a job there especially since Boris owed Fillip a favor of some sort. Indeed Nata with her dirt, grime, and childlike innocence held very little interest to any of them, almost as if they were afraid her stupidity might be catching. Yet, the same could not be said for the beautiful, illegitimate, poor nobody Yesfir whose virtue was by birth dubious at best and whom nobody would certainly miss.
Pretending stupidity might be deception, but it was devotion she for one could very well live with especially since it would only have to last to Hanweir. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, "Nata" kept walking as she peered ahead to see if they were any closer to their destination for the night. In the dim light of twilight and glitches she could just barely catch the glimmer of distant torches as she silently picked up the pace, eager to rest for the night.
Melding of Paths
As fate would have it, these two traveling groups would approach one another at the next fork in the crossway. There is remnants of a would-be Avacynian shrine heading this area from Hanweir's direction. The ground has grown various weeds- bindweed, Shepherd's purse, Close-creepin' Clause- all intermingled like thatch-work weaving this once holy ground. The shrine, or where a shrine was- has been destroyed it seems, stones that once held the sacred shape of Avacyn's Collar now littered in a singular direction, as if a swift motion demolished the masonry. Broken rosaries, small cracked cups and bowls, and the glint of coin can be seen in the detritus.
The caravan that meets the troop is of two parts: one being an older peasant conducting a few ponies with a cart of various wares. A cloaked female figure walks beside this one. The other section consists of a furnished carriage, large and visibly obscured with sheets. An obtuse looking man holds the reigns of a draft horse with a scowl on his face as he notices the party's contingent. To armed men walk astride this cart with wielding torches, swords at their sides. On their backs one has a shield, the other a heavy crossbow. Unmarked armor glints in their firelight.
As Raben and his retinue near the carriage, the guardsmen assures with their position that no one unfamiliar get too near their charge. Just as well, as the party breathes the night air, a foul odor can be detected. It wafts lazily in the mist of the moors, almost mephitic.
Until now the ranger's eyes have stayed mostly on Threg, with diligent surveying of moonlit terrain to either side of the trail every few moments. With the arrival of the caravan, he seems torn. His focus has now shifted towards the oncoming group, and he's struggling to juggle his gaze between his prior to subjects of interest. Finally, he makes up his mind. Speeding up, he matches step with the cleric briefly. "Syd, watch for trouble on our flanks," he whispers. He nods towards Threg, not bothering to be subtle about it. "And him. I just got a bad feeling." He pauses, then reaches back to his quiver and pulls one of the newly revealed arrows, and hands it to the cleric. "In case you need it. Now, an' in the next few nights. The tip's blessed silver. Use it like a dagger if you have to."
Yanking the flaps of his duster down taut behind his shortswords, Joseph strides with confidence beside Raben. In this rare instance, he's not even a quarter-step behind the party's leader; he walks dead abreast of him, eying the caravan. "Careful with this one," he says in a low voice. "I've seen similar likes as these come down out of Getander Pass. An' there's a good chance we don't want no truck with who's in that wagon. Usually they just pass through, no trouble, when they're on the road, in plain sight."
As the two groups draw close, Joseph sniffs the air. His stony face doesn't budge from its stern poise. Joseph leans his head close to Raben and whispers, still watching the party on the other side of the road, "Whoever's in there ain't alive. I know the smell. An' there might be some alchemy at work behind them sheets as well. Be ready."
"Are you certain of this?" Raben asks, his eyes like daggers. At the mention of a smell, Raben too sniffs the air, resulting with a quizzical look. He then looks to the cart. The guards mean serious business, he gathers. And the carriage is on the higher side of make and fashion. Even the sheets drawn down are dangled with shiny metals across their seams. The wood, a stark, oily black, reflects the fires of the torches hellishly in the dark of night. "Should we stop them? I don't venture into Stensia often; I'll secede to your judgement, and have you told Syd of your suspicions?"
As the two groups pass the dismantled shrine, the peasant whistles. "That there.. can't be good. Tis much too past dark for omens like that. What you make of it, Nata? Bet you a gold sovereign Hanweir really is cursed."
The guardsmen astride the regaled carriage speak to each other in low, grunt voices. "Watch for the church-hat an' that hunter." "Aye. They got pryin' eyes." The carriage rider furls his overcoat closer to his body and clears his throat in a stately manner.
The hunter grunts in assent. "Certain as the hooves on that horse. There's scent of death in that carriage. Whether its rider still moves or not, I'd rather not find out. We've lost half our number today."
Joseph finally breaks his gaze and looks to Raben. "I only just realized, myself. If you want to let Syd know, I'll see what I can find out from them." He moves to break away, towards the other group, then pauses, looking back at the cathar. "Raben. Keep an eye on our new friend. He's got a queer way about him under this moon. An' it makes me nervous."
The ranger steps rapidly to lead the party, about three paces ahead. Well before reaching the lead cart, he waves a wide, sweeping greeting with his left hand. "Ho, driver!" his voice booms out. "Where are you headed this gloomy eve?"
As Joseph speeds up towards the fork's merging, Raben slows down to walk astride their cleric of Goldnight. "Syd, Joseph suspects foul play from the carriage in the rear. He smells death in the air. He wasn't clear as to what exactly he suspects, but I believe he supposes a vampire or ghouls. Keep your Collar close."
The ranger's voice echoes in the darkness past the balmy glow of the myriad of torches. A voice calls out barely above a shout. It is older in sound and jovial in connotation. "Best be quiet out in these lands, friend, lest ya' wake the dead." The carriage creaks and whines closer and its details become clearer. A balding man with bony wrists holds reigns. A small oil lamp is held up on a rod in front of the driver's seat. The man is smiling, lifting jowls that have just begun to wrinkle and droop with age. His cart is worn but functional. In the burning light you can see various crates and boxes filled with all manner of market goods. A feminine figure walks besides it to the driver's left, thoroughly cloaked with only shadow under the hood. "We are headed down south the crossway, sir."
As the two groups reach the junction, Joseph slows to a halt, and grasps his blessed silver from his neck and holds it up in greeting. "As are we." He nods forward, indicating the Stensian carriage and guards behind the two figures before him. "Do you all share the same destination?"
Underneath her cloak, "Nata" grimaced thinking that all they needed, or at least she needed was a bunch of noisy travelers. Boris wouldn't like this not one bit, he barely tolerated "Nata's" seemingly innocent questions before she learned to leave well enough alone. Deciding to keep close to Gleb, the cart driver until the tension eased, she let a plaintive whine build up in her throat. "Nata tired. Up, up. Ride now please.". Holding up a hand at the stilled cart, she attempted to clamber aboard next to Gleb, her momentarily falling from her mud caked from as she did so. Pulling her hold back up, she then began to hum a child's ditty about broken altars, her wary eyes observing the three strangers from beneath the hood gauging their intent and what threat they posed from their posture and weapons.
The cart, now within abreast of the ranger, has a dusty, aged mahogany scent to it. The driver looks down over the side to Joseph and says a bit more discreetly. "Don't care too much for them. Not too friendly. Me thinks they go to Thraben." He looks on down the northern path and sees the rest of Joseph's party. "Little late to be on foot. We'll be resting soon. Nata's already complainin'." He says nodding to the woman. "You are welcome to camp with us."
Letting Suspicions Grow, Letting the Suspicious Go
An instant passed, followed by another, and another after that. A torrent of information washed over him, and all of a sudden everything was right in the world. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. The realization creeping through that despite all his claims of wanting to live in a world of peace, this was an individual that thrived off of chaos.
“I must apologize for the Ranger’s manners.” - he told the man he’d blessed not too long ago. “He can be overeager and seems to lack much of a filter. I can assure you those of us with the church bear no ill will towards men who have not slighted us.” - he said, hoping to defuse a situation before one began. After giving Threg a polite nod, Syd looked to Joe, rushing ahead to grill those ahead and massaged his forehead in mild irritation, letting loose a mild sigh of frustration and a hint of resignation. Finally, he approached Raben and, keeping his voice down, made a few remarks about the situation ahead.
Raben listens to Syd's comments intently, a scowl slightly growing above his chin. He hated the undead. Well, he hated anything that preyed on humans. But this exact situation has been clouded with the suspicions of his two companions, which to Raben, was no mere coincidence- that ornate carriage held some sort of dread beast.
Joseph considers a moment, leaning to get a good look at the other group behind the cart. He looks up to the two in the seat above him. "I don't lead this group. But I'll fetch the cathar who does." Seeing Joseph engage with others so freely and willingly is odd. In this context, with strangers under a full moon, it seems to come naturally to the hunter, as if he's an actor following a well-memorized script.
"Cathar!" he says loudly enough for Raben to hear. "These two are bound for Hanweir. It might do well if we travel together." Joseph looks up to the driver and lowers his voice slightly. "I'll try to get your unfriendlies on their way to Thraben. You might need to guide your cart to the side of the road a bit."
As if on cue, Raben's title is called out from the fork's merging. He quickens his pace to meet with the ranger, hearing the comment about the suspect carriage heading to the High City. ..can I allow that risk? "Forgive my companion's rashness. My name is Myles Raben. We also make way for Hanweir." Is it worth my or compatriots' lives should we fail? "We will be seeking to camp soon. The moon is high and nigh full. Perhaps we should rest together; safety in numbers." Is it worth what could be done to Thraben should I let them pass?
Joseph looks back to the group. "Stay clear of this next one." He steps a few paces down the road, next to the cart, waves and shouts to the carriage and its contingent, "Hoy there! Feel free to pass and continue on. We have business with these travelers." He clamps his hand onto the side of the cart for emphasis. "Mind the crossing over the Kirch. There's danger beneath the bridge."
The two ponies pull the older, worn cart forward south on the crossway, past the destroyed Avacynian shrine. The larger, draped carriage lulls before Joseph. The stench grows in intensity. The rider's left brow raises as he hears the ranger's caution and speaks in a pompous tone, "Sundfred, show our gratitude towards the man's words." He tightens his robes around his body, seemingly cold, and clears his throat rather ostentatiously. Sundfred, presumably, reaches into a shadowed portion of his body and reaches his closed hand to the wary ranger, letting go a couple of coins. "Right then," he snorts.
Each of the voices have a heavy Stensia accent. As they pass, turning north towards the High City of Thraben, the driver and guards' eyes peer sharply at each of the party members.
Joseph pockets the coins and nods. "Have fire at the ready. We torched one of the things, but the others fled under the bridge." Stepping well off the road, he watches carefully as the procession passes. With his eyes still fixed on the fluttering torches in the distance, he approaches Raben. "If we're lucky," he says in a low, tense voice, "the oozes will get that wagon as well. Let's put some distance between us an' them before we stop--if we choose to stop."
An air of weariness washes over the ranger, his frame slumping slightly. He walks to the side of the road, slightly away from the group, and resumes his silent watch. Whenever his gaze sweeps north, along the road to Thraben, his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
"Glad to be rid of them, aren't we, Nata?" The man's speech is slow and more rural compared to the aristocratic tenor of the previous voices, but still thick with Stensian's sharp use of consonants. "And that smell! By Markov! Who knows what they had."
The guards' arrogant looks and intonations were every bit as pervasive as the foul stench the cart carried. And yet, as the carriage brushed past Syd and its occupants looked down their nose in his direction, the Cleric retained his moderate pace, and despite the assailing of his senses, his was characteristically the very face of stoic serenity. The young Blackmore made no attempts to inspect or peer into it, nor did he bother with the moral implications of his actions. Ever the practical man, it went without saying that not every problem in the world was to be his jurisdiction. Instead, his immediate concern was the loss of party members and the seemingly ever-increasing number of complete strangers that joined their travel.
As such, he lagged behind, giving the old man and girl duo a wide berth and keeping everyone and everything in the parties, new and old in clear field of view. "Ranger!" - he calls, noticing Joe approaching the side of the road, presumably readying himself to go scout ahead - "I would like a word, if you don't mind."
Joseph glances to Syd, then gives one last survey of the faint, moon-splashed wilderness around him. Then he walks over to the cleric. "What is it, Syd?" he says quietly.
Pulling Joe aside, the two engage in a hushed conversation, that is neither short nor long, a ways away from the rest. Whatever happened, some difference in opinion seemed to occur. As to what said difference pertained to, neither seemed particularly keen on divulging. But, when everything appeared to have been said, the duo made their way back into the fold.
"Apologies for my lack of manners" - the priest stated upon returning to the group - "But it would seem that the Ranger and I are currently in disagreement in regards to our assignments and now have to defer to the good Cathar to be the tie breaker. If you'll excuse us." With repeated apologies, Syd would now lead Raben away from the group, effectively replacing him with Joseph. Once again, the Priest would enter into a short-lived hushed discussion.
The hunter stands and watches Syd leave. Then he stares down the north road for a moment; the tiny torches are twinkling just at the edge of sight. Cinching the straps of his pack while giving himself a slight bounce, he turns to head towards the cart. At the driver's side he looks up, squinting against the lantern light. "Gleb, is it? You got a spare shortbow in that cart? I got coin for it. Our party recently split up an' some gear got mixed up before they left."
Wrinkling her nose at the stench one last time, "Nata" ceased her humming briefly to respond to Gleb. "Cabbages and cheeses make guards cranky because they had to hold their noses all time." Impersonating the lofty look of one of the men they had traveled with, Nata laughed. "Nata glad they gone. Strangers new friends now?"
Her words, if not her manner, were honest. She was glad the carriage with whatever fiend was well gone, but she was still unsure about these new men. Sure they seemed if not harmless, disinterested enough that they posed little threat at the moment, but that could change on a whim. Especially since their group was larger enough and heavily armed enough that a merchants cart posed neither threat or challenge. It was best to be Wary until they revealed their true colors as all men did.
"Oh, it is fine," Gleb waves a hand dismissively as the Goldnight cleric and the ranger walk off. He chortles at Nata's remarks. "That is right, young lass. But aw, no worries. They should be friends. They be of the Church! Not many proper church folk around in the valleys of the Reach. And uhh," he looks back to Joseph. "No, no. No weapons here. We've traveled with them lot for their guards. But I do have one of these." He turns his back, reaching into the cart, and promptly turning around with a torch. This torch however, is made in the shape of Avacyn's collar, with thin, silver bands lining the wood.
Joseph shakes his head. "Keep it. The moon's enough light for me this night." He turns his head. "Cathar, what's our course tonight?" he bellows. "Whatever you decide, I say we get to moving now and put travel time between us an' that stench. We can talk about it on the road."
He moves to one of the ponies and pats it firmly a few times on the side, then starts rubbing the underside of its neck. It snorts with approval. "How much more road can you two manage?" he says loudly, then looks up meaningfully at the cart's occupants; the question was meant for the people, not the steeds.
Having rejoined the group, Syd is greeted by the sight of a familiar torch. Instinctively, the cleric traces Avacyn's collar in the air, and the divine power coursing through him almost seems to resonate with the item in Gleb's hand. "It's been a little while since I've seen one of these things... Reminds me of home." - the cleric says amicably, offering up a polite smile and nod of greetings.
"I got it in hopes I wouldn't have to use it. Thankfully, those guards were good guards. Must be high priced." He puts it back into its secure space. "I reckon but one hour more. Even with this torch, we shouldn't test the Moorlands."
Having returned to the group alongside Syd, Raben answers Joseph, "We move on past the shrine. It isn't not safe here, for certain. A half-hour's walk, no more, and we'll settle for camp. Nothing can be helped. The only settlement near is Hanweir itself, which is still a day's away." Raben speaks with a troubled mind. He has now heard much information from his remaining two companions, more than he could've gathered alone. Thank you, Father, for sending a group with me this time around. As much as he despised it, it was not his exact task to deal with whatever threat the Stensian carriage contained. He's learned that his retinue no longer suspect a vampire, but that the carriage contained some mage of necromancy or necro-alchemy. Hopefully, a gate guard would uncover the heathen scholar.
They could not rest here. As Syd had pointed out, grave bramble covered the lands near the broken shrine. They'd have to travel beyond its reach. Both Syd and Joseph have expressed great concern of their passenger, Threg, who grows more and more anxious as the moon grows full. They fear, at worst, he is a lycanthrope. Tomorrow, the moon will show its full face. Not wanting to risk the possibly of testing his silver blade against Threg's skin, only then, when they arrive in Hanweir, will they be able to tell.
The Night Beyond the Fork and the Bramble
Half an hour, dreadful and tiresome, the party walks on. They arrive in a crevice in the land, a small cliff with a gnarled tree at its base. Here is where Raben decides the parties should stop. A fire is made, and Gleb merrily treats the band to a jug of water and dried lamb strips. Once finished, he sets up a sort of station with blankets on the seat of his carriage and lets Nata take it, climbs onto the cart. Snores are heard within seconds. After a brief word with Joseph about his current state, Threg places his pack against his horse, and lays his head down.
As the camp settles down to sleep, Joseph stands. "I'll do the first shift alone, before people get to sleeping too deep." He turns to Raben. "I'll wake you when it's time." He buttons his duster up on the front and takes up a spot just outside the firelight, using his pack for a backrest. His bow and quiver lay neatly at his side.
When it's time to wake Raben, he drags his pack and gear closer to the fire, near the tree. When he wakes the cathar, the soldier wearily drags himself from his bedroll; he seems to have gotten little sleep during his rest. The two take up spots under the tree, a short distance apart, and sit in silence for most of the night. A crow noisily stoops in from the dark, lighting on a bony, finger-like branch of the bare tree above, its eyes reflecting the firelight with a sinister red sheen. It lets loose a startling caw that echoes against the cliff like a distant death knell. Joseph's attention breaks as he looks up. Then he stares for a moment at Raben, who didn't seem to notice the bird. The group's leader looks troubled as he peers through the darkness to the north.
"Probably just a body being sent to the blessed grafs," the ranger says gently, jolting the cathar out of his reverie. "People'll hold onto a dead relative for weeks trying to secure burial in Thraben."
Raben looks at Joseph. "What if it wasn't?"
"It ain't got a chance against all those coneys in Thraben," the ranger says, beaming a genuine smile that seems out of place on his face. The joke and jovial tone was unexpected; Raben cracks a slight smile against his will. "Raben, those walls'll be the last standing, should Innistrad fall. An' as of a week or two ago, even Lambholt was still holding strong. Thraben can take care of itself this week. Us three, on the other hand..." He lets the words trail off into the darkness. The crow rustles its feathers in the tree above.
When the watch shift changes again, Joseph remains at the tree while Raben wakes Syd. The ranger seems unaffected by the lack of sleep; if anything, he seems ever the more at ease, much more comfortable here than he was leaning against the wall outside the chapel in Thraben a few days ago. When Syd takes his place next to Joseph, the bird belches out another toll. Joseph grabs a pebble and tosses it upwards at the thing, which simply flaps its way to another spindly branch, its red eyes glowing in defiance from between the gnarled shadows of wood. When the bird caws again, after nearly an hour's silence, Joseph speaks up, his eyes still piercing the ethereal, moonlit landscape around him. "So how'd a holy man such as you end up with a geistcatcher and her rig at your side? Ain't the church against that sort of thing?"
This had not been the greatest night's sleep the Priest had ever had. His mind had been racing, industrial amounts of adrenaline coursed through his veins, and quite frankly the snoring was a little disconcerting to boot. But, rest was a necessity and so, after a great deal of mentally tossing and turning, his eyes finally shut and the embrace of sleep overtook him. Before long, he was awoken. It had been the intended time and, as agreed, the Ranger had taken the first two watches. It was now his turn, and he'd be damned if he was going to let anything slip by this time. As the cogs in his brain began to run once more at full tilt, Syd took a deep breath and inspected his surroundings, crow, tree and all, only to be halted by Joseph's question. A beat of silence followed the question, undisturbed by even the feral looking bird itself. Once it had passed, Syd let out a couple of soft chuckles, and finally began.
"The Elgaud Grounds..." - he spoke, hints of reminiscence tugging at the corners of his eyes - "seem to be particularly adept at raising two types of people. Zealots, who make it their mission to strike the enemies of the Church and Man down wherever they may roam, and Heroes, who believe from the bottom of their hearts that they were put on this Land to save it..." Another instance of quiet. "Heroics aren't my style, and frankly, Zealotry just feels like too much work. And, without those two lifestyles to take up your every waking hour, suddenly there’s time to realize that a lot of people out there have what some might call… extenuating circumstances. And all you really get from punishing them for it at every step of the way is the very aggression and rebellion you’re trying to avoid. They're called self-fulfilling prophecies, or so I’m told. You can’t help everyone, but every now and again it doesn’t hurt to offer the benefit of the doubt.”
"So what were her circumstances?" Joseph asks. "An' what about them--or her--made you follow her halfway across Innistrad to get tangled up with some secret plot of the High Church?"
"Her family was... met with some unfortunate events. They were acquaintances of my folks, and so when I was tasked by the church to come out here, I asked her to tag along. That piece of machinery reminded her of better times, and I couldn't bring myself to take it away." - he spoke, calm and collected as always, but with hints of nostalgia peeking through. "And yourself? What brought you to the capital all by your lonesome, to take up the mantle of a church that doesn't sign your wages?"
The hunter looks down, kicks at something in the dusty gravel, and looks back out into the darkness. "A favor for The Old Man. A friend." After a long, awkward silence, he clears his throat. "He's part of a group. Not sure what you'd call 'em. Militia, maybe. They're all farmers with land along the Hairpin. 'The Gatekeepers' they call themselves."
Joseph looks at Syd gravely. "We call ourselves. Me an' my two brothers are training. The Old Man's raised us for forever." The ranger's eyes go back to sweeping the hills. "The farmers and their kids take it in turns to patrol the Hairpin and keep travelers safe from the vampires. The Falkenrath, mainly. The other families don't bother no one. 'Bout a month ago, the alarm was raised. A group of Avacynian monks, heading out of Stensia, got hit during a storm. On their way back to Thraben. It was a new moon, so the old man went out alone, with only one other Gatekeeper. Jeff Jacobsen, about a mile down the road. Only it wasn't no rogue Falkenrath they went against. It was a howlpack. ****in' werewolves. On the Hairpin. The Old Man barely made it back with the monks in tow. Jeff didn't. Neither did two of the monks' cathars. "It shook him up. It shook us all up. When the monks wanted escort to Thraben, he asked for a place in the blessed grafs for trade. For when his time came. They said it would cost the escort, plus help with 'a church matter.' My brothers weren't ready to go. I guess I was."
"We live in troubled times." - the holy man said, acknowledging the Ranger's story, but not remarking further. He'd never been a man of too many words, after all. "Get some rest, if you can." he instructed, despite knowing the Ranger would have no time for sleep, as he made himself more comfortable and prepared to see his watch through.
As the first rays of sunshine pierced through the darkened sky, the gnarled crow left its perch and took to the sky. Not too long after the Ranger moved to tend to the newcomers' ponies, leaving the Cleric there to with the last few dying embers of the campfire at his feet, signalling the end of a particularly long and arduous day. Rested, the young Blackmore then took to his feet, stretching his tense muscles and taking in yet another big breath charged with morning dew. Hanweir stood at the end of this new day's journey. And whatever followed seemed to promise not to be dull.
The sun rises over the deltas of Nephalia, illuminating the foggy marsh of the moors in a pastel orange that fades in intensity into pale yellow light. The rest of the two parties begin to stir in their makeshift beds and wake. Happily, Gleb offers feed for each of the horses and procures a glass jar with a greenish liquid and some sort of edible inside. He opens the lid, a sharp vinegar smell assaulting your sinuses. He begins reciting how difficult it is to many foods in the peat-dirt of Stensia, but water-filled vegetables, such as these do just fine. "They have been flavoring since I started this trek. Should be nice and pickled now."
With a small breakfast, the two parties, Raben and his crew along with Threg, and Gleb and his ward, start their journey once again. They should reach Hanweir by the time the sky begins to darken, if all goes well, giving them the opportunity to rest up before they start their investigation proper.
With yet another wagon in tow, not even a full day after the other had departed, Joseph's position in the file is once again at the tail-end and slightly detached from the group. He doesn't seem to mind this vehicle so much as the last, however. Though he had hardly said a word to either Gleb or Nata, he took particular interest in preparing their ponies for the day while letting the two sleep undisturbed, and went so far as to make a cursory inspection of their cart's wheels and axles after it was hitched up for the journey. In the waxing daylight, he's also a bit less on edge; his coat flaps dangle loosely around his waist, obscuring his weapons from view and from grasp. But strangely enough, for someone who hasn't slept all night, his grim, scar-covered face doesn't bear any sign of weariness. The hunter is ever vigilant on watch as he brings up the rear of the group.
Rising with the sun was one of the few habits she had never quite manage to break, so "Nata" rose early, glad enough that so far these new men seemed more or less inclined to leave her and Gleb alone as well as the simple repast Gleb had prepared. Still it would be best to keep a safe distance from them and not attack their attention. Humming a mixture of childish nonsense songs and bawdy tavern ditties under her breath, she did her part to get the cart moving on its way as she determined to stay close to Glen for the day.
The Third Day of Travel: Hanweir by Night
Most of this travel is both southward in direction and downward in elevation, as the lands of and near Kessig are naturally below the moors and Gavony in general. The ground surrounding you seems more earthy, greener, and signs of more verdant life such as small groves and copses. You can see elk, boar, and other hardy animals within these small troves of live nature. Looking to the horizon, the canopy of the Ulvenwald dominates most of your vision. Hours pass, peaceful and undisturbed, but around midday Gleb raises the question of stopping to eat. He understands as militant folk, the cathar and his retinue can go on without, but he and Nata are peasantry and don't forgo the pain of hunger when unnecessary.
Up ahead, the lookout of a smaller watchtower comes into view. As the party moves along Angel's way, the path has a small route that veers of in the tower's direction. Gleb makes the suggestion of eating within its cover. Joseph is quick to refute, however, stating he'd much rather drive the cart himself than stop more than ten-minute's time. He is worried about their current timing: as it is, they'll meet Hanweir by night- a night of the full moon- and he was wary of a certain tag-along.
You hear a vulgar caw as a crow flies by; startlingly close, like a knife against your skin. It flaps its ruddy wings ahead. As you near this tower, its base comes into view. A few trees dot immediate perimeter, and a few wagons are parked at its northern wall. Chests, crates, and sacks are organized neatly against this outer wall. It would all seem in its place and inconspicuous, but a startling phenomenon has overtaken this small structure of order: on every edge of its construction, a crow is perched. In its open and broken windows, along its rafters, in the trees' branches, on the wagons' wheels and frames. All in utter silence.
Another caw. This time, from one of the myriad of carrion. It echoes deep within your bones, nestling with the trepidation that grows in the pit of your stomach.
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For those who travel to Thraben..
Having made all of the necessary travel preparations, you embarked on the harrowing journey that it is to travel to the High City of Thraben. Along the way, you pray at crossway shrines or placate to other notions of faith, making steady affirmations of strength and resolve that you will safely, if at least successfully, arrive there. The occasional wayward geist can be seen off in the distance, its sorrowful wails dampened by the vast open expanse of Gavony. On the main thoroughfare, Angel's Way, small contingents of cathars and priests travel solemnly, with only the grimmest of hope for their continued survival.
In the Nearhearth, outlying villages that huddle closer and closer to the Thraben's Outer Wall, villagers and laborers, while polite enough, are seen in their life's work and toil, while extravagant carriages ride to and from the gates of the sacred city. Its resplendent outer wall shines alabaster in the sun's rays, with huge glyphs of Avacyn's collar visible throughout its make. Spiked wrought-iron gates are pulled open, allowing the denizens of Innistrad entrance to the plane's safest city.
Several walls still separate you from your destination, the cathedral's tallest towers visible behind them. The city rests on a perpetual upward slope, a climb that allows one to look over all of Gavony to the borders of the Ulvenwald, to the black ridges of Geier Reach, and the river deltas of Nephalia. Each one seems to signify a more refined living standard than the last. The merchant square is teeming, with several entrepreneurs shouting for your attention over their wares and carriages bustling up and down and to and fro. In the light of this prosperity, you continue your climb, passing the last walls and stepping on the holy grounds of the Cathedral. Its lawns are mowed and shrubbery maintained, all in order and geometrical in design. You are certainly not home.
Having been brought from your individual path in life, you stand outside the entrance to the Common Cloisters of the Cathedral of Avacyn, waiting for a member of the clergy to more formerly address you with more than an 'Avacyn bless you'. If you looked up to tallest of towers, you could see the faint shadows of a few angels flying overhead and into the lofts of the Cathedral, and you wonder, when was the last time I saw an angel?
For those in Thraben..
You awake from another quiet night. Performing your morning rituals, you make yourself ready for mass today. Father Jofridus will speak to and appease the masses within the Common Cloisters. There is talk, as there has been for many a season now, that Avacyn has disappeared, gone without a word. Just as well, some have heard of travesty and tragedy outside the walls. More families lose sons and daughters in the fight against abomination and horror, while geist sightings and wandering ghouls have become more commonplace.
Filled pews face a risen platform, where a group of clerics and a higher priest, the Father Jofridus, stand. The hall is lined with white-cloth banners emblazoned with Avacyn's collar, sifting quietly in the calm wind that breezes through the open windows. Several columns line the perimeter at regular intervals, each with angels chiseled in their form, their faces made to appear peaceful and at ease. The father's voice echoes off the decorated walls of the hall, "Avacyn is not gone! Our patron archangel is on leave of utmost import. It cannot be helped, but hold fast your faith! Her power is here! Thraben's walls stand high, and our priests and holy cathars walk the lands. Falter in your faith, so too shall falter your protection..."
The mass proceeds to a conclusion, with individuals forming a line between the pews, while searching their coin purses for donations. A cleric holds a silver bowl, collecting the contributions, whilst the father, blesses the contributing individual once they've given their offering. You know the Father Jofridus will be meeting you outside the doors along with others. You feel it best to wait there.
The day is bright surrounding the Cathedral, surrounding Thraben, and as you look up to face the sun, you can see the distant shadows of angels in the skies. As you look over the High City's walls from your vantage, you see that light quickly fade to grey and bleakness over the horizon. Stensia's Geier Reach perpetually covered in violet and crimson storms, Kessig shrouded by the mystic woods of the Ulvenwald, and three rivers of Nephalia becoming lost in the ever-present Nebelghast. You wonder, aren't there any angels out there?
The Ranger
His back to a low stone wall overlooking the entrance from a short distance away, Joseph momentarily cranes his neck to peer at the the shadows dancing in and out of the Cathedral lofts, far overhead. Seemingly uninterested, his gaze drops down to the ground, towards his gear. With a slight movement of his foot, he scoots his pack, bow, and quiver a bit closer to the wall, and re-centers his body protectively over them. Then, with a slight sigh, he leans his torso back and begins to watch the people around him going about their business. The heavy bootsteps and metallic rustling of a passing Cathar in full armored regalia catches Joseph’s attention. He watches the holy warrior pass, eyes narrowing into a slight squint, his lips curling downwards at the corners. After the soldier passes, Joseph blinks and returns his attention to the crowds, occasionally glancing towards the Cathedral entrance.
The Paladin
Uther Corwynn sighed a breath of relief as he approached the cathedral. His long journey to the city was finally done. Glancing up at the upper lofts of the cathedral he caught a glimpse of angels entering or leaving. It had been years since he had seen an angel, not since his training in Nephalia. Not seeing any church officials out to greet him just yet, he set down his pack and his shield and leaned against the wall, content to wait for the time being.
The Cleric, the Rogue and the Geistcatcher
It wasn't difficult to hear her coming between the quick, meaningless apologies as she pushed through the crowd in merchant square, and the rattle and clatter that emanated from the shrouded contraption she dragged behind her. With a quick pace, she forced herself through the merchants and consumers, occasionally whipping her head back, as if looking for a companion. "Can you hurry, please?" Cynda shouted back, exasperated. "We're already late! And don't look up, everybody will know you're a tourist!" Pushing on, she ascended the slope, muscles strained as she dragged the hefty construct behind her. Her red hair clung to her face as sweat beaded up on it from the effort. As she reached her destination, the chain "leash" fell from her hand, she removed her coat and casually tossed it across the obscured device. With a sigh, she collapsed back against it, and glanced back again is search of her companion.
Shield tightly strapped to his back, arms dangling to either side, the man calmly and gracefully weaved through the crowds, a rather odd thing to watch from one that looked so incredibly tired. At her bark, Syd’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, before an eyebrow was raised. The left one. His gaze naturally fell upon the hulking mechanical monstrosity. That thing was the reason they walked so slowly and threw any possible notion of inconspicuousness out of the window. Under his breath, muffled by the sounds of countless people around, the man muttered “Attempting to shift blame, check.”, seemingly crossing an item off of an imaginary list as he did so. Hints of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as he watched his companion grumble her way to her destination. Finally stopping next to her, his breath steady unlike hers, patiently waiting for her to take back control of her lungs, while trying to decide if pointing out that this sight of her gasping for air after a simple stroll was as fitting a stage for a ‘crime does not pay’ remark as he seemed to think. Ultimately though, she was right about them being late, so voicing that out would probably lead to yet another argument that’d cost them more time still. So, choosing to address one proverbial elephant at a time, he finally spoke. “I’m a priest.” - he said, his voice the very notion of serenity and patience, with only the slightest hints of amusement peeking through - “Looking up is what we do.”
The End of Mass
As the mass has concluded, a deep bell rings from on high, and the doors to the Common Cloisters swing open with a deep, steady yawn and stay so with dozens of commoners making their way back to the the Nearheath or, if fortunate enough, just within the Outer Wall. Many pause and look up to the skies, closing their eyes and whispering a quiet prayer under the light of the angels, clutching whatever precious beads or amulet they may have. Those that notice the paladin recognize the sigils proudly displayed on his armor and regard him happily, greeting him with proper etiquette. Children often ask to press their hands on either the hilt of his weapons or the face of his shield, believing the touch of those he protects, in fact, protects and guides him.
On the other hand, many of the common folk steer very clear from the large, complicated construction that a woman has brought with her, despite there being the presence of a fellow cleric nearby. Mothers hold to their children against them and pull away. Few standby ogling at the necro-mechanical wonder, as if waiting for something to take place. Priests and clerics, alike, mutter under their breath as they walk by, meeting the woman's eyes or gawking at the machinery.
If one would look inside the Cathedral doors, you could see a line getting shorter and shorter leading up to the podium at the head of the chamber. White figures, entirely covered in a long, white robes move about the pews, their bodies wrapped in chains.These figures are geists- white geists, to be accurate- faceless and bound by the chains of their past lives. Spirits such as these perform acts of kindness, each act removing a single link of their chains, being able to pass on to the Blessed Sleep once no longer bound. Small kinks and twinkles of their clattering chains can be heard as they gather and organize the holy scriptures of Avacyn between the pews.
Surely, it is not long now before someone addresses you and whoever else is to assist on the Church's holy mission.
Breath caught, she straightened herself back up. For a brief moment, she adjusted her garments and stood in silence. Then Cynda stepped toward her companion as she gathered up her hair into a loose ponytail. "Well, Syd," she cocked her head and maneuvered to make eye contact, "maybe you can keep your eyes down here once in awhile and watch my back. Things got a little dicey with those bandits on the way here." Cynda stood in Syd's face, one hand on her hips. She took a deep breath and raised her other hand, pointed index finger at the ready, as well as an epic rant. Then she paused, a beam of light reflecting from the tiny gemstone mounted on the simple band encircling her ring finger. Her hand dropped. With a pout, she exhaled. "Who are we meeting here again..." Her tone calm and even, except for the final word, "dear?" That word was candy coated in sarcasm, syrupy and soft.
As the doors to the Common Cloisters groan open, Joseph shifts slightly against the wall, refocusing his attention to the people ambling through the entrance. His eyes follow two children who, with hushed whispers, break away from their parents and make their way to the paladin leaning a short distance down the same wall. For only a moment Joseph stares, expressionless, at the exchange. Then his eyes return to the Common Cloisters. Crossing his arms, he gently raises the left heel of his dirt-coated boot and leans it against the grubby pack beneath him. He waits, continuing to watch.
With the line gone, the Father Jofridus instructs the remaining members of the cloth to collect and stow the various churchly objects resting atop the table and podium on the platform, and then proceeds towards and through the heavy, wooden chamber doors. He greets and holds hands with a few lingering commoners, assuring that their faith is essential, justified, and will be rewarded, and lets them on their way with parting words. A smile is spread across his wrinkled, worn face.
He looks around the holy grounds, eyeing for certain individuals. Strangers, unfamiliar faces amongst the flock of his commonwealth. Another joins him. A cathar. They shake hands and embrace each other with their free arms in greeting, speaking for just a moment, before walking and greeting each of you individually. Their salutation is short, if only to verify your name on a scroll the cathar has, and they insist to wait on formal introductions and sharing any concerns until the group has gathered.
Seeing the burden one of the members has brought, the Father Jofridus and the accompanying cathar greet the rogue and cleric last. "Good day, my sons and daughter. I trust I hadn't kept you too long. The blessings following the mass held a short longer." The Father's voice is a somber baritone with a steady cadence. He looks over the four of you, particularly eyeing the paladin and cleric, before shifting his gaze over the contraption behind the latter and the woman. "And what burden have you carried. I am obliged to discuss these matters a short distance away, as to not lose your wears." He points to a gate a few meters away, leading to the gardens before the Blessed Grafs. "Else we can discuss your task within my chambers."
At the Father's interest in her equipment, she snapped to attention and addressed him. "That..." Cynda nodded toward her Geistcatching Rig, "isn't a burden. That's a blessing. And I have doubt any of the pious people of your lovely city would attempt to abscond with my pet. Nor would it let them."
"Suredly not, miss.." The cathar quickly advises the name. "Miss Hudson. Thraben is of the safest of places. Never does something go unnoticed by the loyal guards. But take heed madam, there is legislation making way to the council of bishops. If passed, all geistcatching implements will be outlawed in the lands of Gavony, if not the rest of Innistrad. Surely if it comes to pass, you will acquiesce your.. device to just and proper authority."
The Father and cathar lead the group within a fenced garden. You come to a decently sized fountain of a griffon-like creature, called a hypogryff, taking flight among streams of water. The light of the sun reflects and dances on the majestic beast's outstretched wings, appearing as if its feathers were dancing in the wind. Around the fountain are four marble seats, sized for about two people each. Father Jofridus and the cathar take one.
"Your mission is a matter of occult significance. An unholy item has been pilfered from the vaults of the Cathedral and whisked away to parts unknown. This object cannot be left to the hands of sacrilegious cults or demon worshipers. We have received word from the mayor of Hanweir of signs of the item's use. A young man has fell victim. He is buried in the town graf, and where he lies.." The Father plucks a handkerchief from inside his robes and covers his mouth for a moment. "Where he is buried the ground is soaked, bathed in crimson.. for his cursed body has yet to stop bleeding. You must travel to Hanweir, investigate what has transpired, and find the stolen artifact. It has already taken the life of a young man, it cannot be allowed to transgress further."
Uther followed the priest and cathar, but remained standing when they sat. He remained silent and listened to the discussion.
"Father, while I understand that every able body is needed, surely collecting an unholy artifact is a job for a contingent of cathar's is it not? Why would you have chosen us specifically for this task?" He had no doubts in his faith, nor did he doubt the church's desire to protect the people, but his training had taught him to question everything. "And even if a group were to be sent on this task, should they not be comrades who have fought together before, rather than those that have only just met?"
Joseph glances over at Uther. “A contingent, indeed,” he says wryly. “The Church said for months how their holy warriors are spread thin in the provinces. Today I see the butterknife spared Gavony.” Joseph’s eyes move deliberately from Uther to Raben. “Here, cathars are as thick as coneys in the Ulvenwald.”
Joseph turns back to Father Jofridus, resuming his level tone of voice. “Sending your personal cathar is a show of faith. An’ it’s one I ain’t going to turn down. Southern Innistrad knows the church is stingy with two things: silver and soldiers. In that order.” Again, Joseph touches his crudely-fashioned pendant unconsciously. “You ain’t going to send your gilded cathar to get killed. That, I’m sure of.”
“But more about this evil blade of yours. Why’d the church have it, if it was cursed? Who managed to steal it? How’d they know where it was? An’ how’d they get past…” Joseph pauses, looking around the garden, as if searching for something. He gestures back towards the gate, opening into the rest of Thraben. “How’d they get past all this?”
He turns to face the marble seat with the two holy men, and leans forward. “Most important,” the ranger says direly, “what power does this cursed blade have? I’m guessing your corpse in Hanweir ain’t going to just bleed in that grave forever.”
Cynda's mood had tempered as the conversation progressed, although she would still occasionally glare in Syd's direction. She chose not to sit, and stood quietly with her arms folded. It was impossible for her not to fidget and shift her weight nervously, as she felt very much the outsider among all these holy men.
This provided her opportunity to study her newfound companions though. Although she had been traveling with Syd for some time now, his level head and protective nature had increasingly made her resentful, feeling more like he was parent than partner. Cynda had rarely spent any significant time with others since her parents death, and the idea was intriguing, if a bit frightening. The living scared her much more than the dead in some ways.
Her arms had unfolded and she had moved onto fussing with a stray lock of hair in her face. She was listening, but she was obviously somewhat preoccupied with Uther and Joseph.
"You should mind your tone. As you speak to the honorable priest of the Commons." Raben speaks up. He bites his lip as he wanted to insert a disreputable label regarding the hunter's attitude during the whole exchange.
"Come now, Raben," the Father jovially starts. "Fellows, I am not one to presume to know every logistic of our cathar orders. You would speak with Master Lothar, Guardian of Thraben, and he is a busy man, I'm sure, in these grave times." The Father's eyes peer off for a moment before continuing. "Including Raben, more than half of you were trained by the warriors of Goldnight in Nephalia. That should suffice for familiarity in any hostile situation.
"It shouldn't surprise you that the Church makes it their business to find occult objects and destroy them if at all possible. If it can't be shattered or dispelled, it is contained, never to be used again" The Father exhales and shakes his head as if in regret. "This blade was such an object. Now as to its theft.. perhaps in your recovery of the blade, you'll find the culprit, and ask them how they did it."
With a grunt, the Father steadily lifts himself to his feet and straightens his robes. "Now, I must be going. Lunarch Mikaeus is gathering the bishops and elder priests within the Chapel of Noble Peers. Please regard any further questions to Raben. We have utmost faith in you all. May Avacyn and her archangels guide you." Without any interruptions, the Father vacates the cathedral gardens and disappears around the Cathedral's corners while Raben remains on the marble seat.
His position had hardly changed. Finally he spoke. "We should make for Hanweir soon. I've documents written and notarized by the Goldnight scribes and signed by the Father, stating our just authority in the investigation." He ruffles through the inside of his coat, producing tri-folded papers and holding them forward. "Any last inquiries of import?"
After Jofridus finishes, Joseph opens his mouth, but then closes it. The priest is already gone. A barely perceptible sigh escapes the hunter’s lips.
When Raben holds out the papers, Joseph turns to the cathar. “Does the Church have healer’s kits to spare for this…this ‘matter of occult significance?’ The Avacynian monks I arrived with needed the last of mine after a tussle along Westvale Road. The trip from Lambholt was…well it was long. Especially for them.”
Joseph nods his head towards the rest of the party. “If these folks’ trips was as rough as mine, then I’m betting a few of ‘em might also be on their last roll of bandages.” The hunter returns his attention to Raben. “If healer’s kits, too, are spread thin,” he adds sharply, “then I’ll need half an hour in the merchant square to buy my own.”
While he's waiting for others' inquiries to conclude, Joseph, for the first time, takes a detailed look at each of his companions-to-be, one at a time. When there's a break in conversation, as the requests and questions are coming to an end, he looks back to Raben. “One last thing. Some of us might need a piece of blessed silver, as well.” He fingers the silver medallion around his neck and raises it, his eyes lowering slightly. It looks like a well-rehearsed, personal ritual. “Not just for their good. For all our good. Surely Thraben has a spare blessed trinket or three in its coffers.”
"Aye." Raben nods once. "I'll stop by the Alabaster lunarsmiths and runecrafters. See what I can gather." Raben looks to the rest of the group if they have other suggestions or concerns.
"Not to be rude, but I don't need blessings from strangers excited to take away my legacy." Cynda erupted, as she gestured back toward where she had left the Geistcatcher. A sardonic grin upon her face, "If we're asking for silver, how about some tipped arrows or daggers? I don't need trinkets. I need weapons." She looked to Raben, a rebellious glint in her eye, posture tense. Her hands had found their way into her back pockets, and she leaned in as she looked at him. "And what kind of reward are we looking at?" Unconsciously, she stayed close to Syd while she spouted off, in anticipation of his intervention.
Joseph parts his lips as soon as Raben finishes, then pauses. He clears his throat. "Avacyn bless," he says quietly.
He turns to Uther, his eyes dropping to the amulet in the paladin's hand. Joseph then grasps his own circle of silver, pulls it away from his chest slightly, looks up, and gives a very slight nod. His fattened lip raises slightly. It's not quite a smile, but it's the closest anyone has seen on the ranger's scarred face today. He then turns to Cynda, silver still in hand. "The blessing ain't for you, Ms. Hudson. It's for us." Joseph raises his misshapen silver medallion to eye level, away from his neck, pulling the chain taut. "This one, here, is for you. You an' anyone else wanting a good night's sleep on this journey, the nights I'm on watch." The chain makes a solemn, tinny slinking sound as it's dropped back to its resting place.
Raben frowns, beginning to feel it was certain he wasn't to enjoy his time with this rabble until the ranger spoke. "Blessed weaponry is not so simply dispensed... but I will request such affects." He exhales, as if settling with the situation and stands up.
"Perhaps yours will be to keep your wagon. I will be a few hours. I doubt any of you would wish to deal with the beurocracy." He takes a few steps forward and offers a firm, calloused hand to each of you. "Meet me just before the Outer Wall. May the host of Avacyn watch over our journey."
The Ranger
Joseph watches Raben leave the garden. Then he turns to the others. “I’m pretty sure that weren’t no promise. It might do well if we buy a few must-haves ourselves in the meantime. Just in case.”
With that, the hunter makes a quick scan of the garden. He leans down, pops open a flap on his pack, and pulls out a coin pouch. Pulling back the side of his duster, he strings the pouch through his belt, then straightens the coat back out, concealing it. Still crouching, Joseph produces a thick leather cord from inside the quiver. With a few swift motions, he lashes both the rickety bow and the quiver to the side of the pack. Standing up, he swings the entire assembly onto his shoulders. He turns to the group, pinches the silver circle hanging from his neck between his fingers, and gives a slight nod. Then he starts walking to the garden gate, towards greater Thraben.
It’s still fairly early as Joseph retraces his steps to the merchant square. Crowds of shoppers scuffle about, their symphony of disparate voices filling the morning air. The ranger squints, peers through the throngs, and makes his way to a small, uncrowded stall. With just a few words between him and the merchant, the hunter walks away with his “must-haves”: a healer’s kit, wooden stakes, a few extra days’ worth of rations, two containers of oil, and three empty flasks. Afterwards he hurries back out to the edges of the crowded market, and scans the skyline.
Shifting under the new weight of his pack, he hastily heads in a direction where Thraben doesn’t seem intent on piercing the heavens with its architecture and masonry. Ten minutes later, he emerges into a district just inside the first wall of the holy city. The streets here, while clean, are worn down like the teeth of an aged field mule. The people on the streets look as weathered as their environment. Their clothes are soiled and mismatched, in various states of disrepair. Their faces show strains of weariness and overspent hope.
Joseph makes his way through the district until he spots a plain, gray-stone building with a short steeple. Stepping his pace up, he heads to the entrance. A sunbeaten, splintered wooden sign has newly painted white lettering: “Silv’arc Chapel.”
He glances upwards, looking at the steeple, then steps onto the doorstep. In a brief moment of self-awareness, the ranger stamps his boots on the stones, brushes his duster down with his hands, then presses his short, brown hair flat onto his scalp. He opens the heavy wooden door and steps inside.
When the door closes behind him, Joseph pauses, letting his eyes adjust. The chamber is a faint echo of the toilsome world outside. The twelve pews are scratched and dented, their varnish all but flaked away. The stone floor along the main aisle is shiny and rutted from years of use. A fine patina of dust covers everything. There’s a slight scent of wax from dozens of burning candles resting in horned sconces along the walls. A hint of breeze, blowing from some unseen door in the back of the church, tickles the flames into a silent, mournful dance. Sunshine splashes through three stained-glass windows along one wall, its light broken into vibrant, multicolored shapes, like the pieces of an unwanted jigsaw puzzle flung haphazardly into a long-abandoned wedding hall.
Towards the front of the chamber, a small group of disheveled peasants surround a single balding cleric, who is leading a prayer and offering blessings. His ceremonial garb, like the rest of the church, is shabby yet presentable. A few of the people around him are on their knees in prayer. One figure sits on the floor, swaddled in a blanket, head tucked between the knees.
Fragments of whispers echo around the otherwise silent chamber. The staccato breath of a stifled sob crescendos, then fades. Joseph sniffs quietly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Quietly, almost on tip-toes, he edges to the side of the entrance and stows his pack in a dark corner. Then he makes his way to the circle of souls surrounding the cleric, gingerly picking his way through the reds, blues, and greens of shattered sunlight. As he nears the circle, whispers become words; words become worries; worries become desperate pleas: “Father, please help me.” The ranger joins the circle, closes his eyes, and waits.
“And what blessing do you require, child?” Joseph looks up, his scarred, leathery face supple and helpless. The gentle, rotund visage of the cleric is hovering before him like an apparition.
“I, I need…” Joseph stutters, his voice breaking.“The road ahead of me is one of danger,” he whispers, almost imperceptibly. “Please, father, the Blessed Sleep. Should it come to that.”
The priest places his hand upon Joseph’s shoulder. The Kessig’s entire frame sags in acquiescence. A prayer is given, but the words are lost in the stillness that bubbles over with murmured hopes and shuffling bodies. The cleric moves his hand to Joseph’s cheek; the ranger looks up, startled.
“Go now. The angels watch over you.” Joseph nods once. He walks slowly to his pack, grabs it by a strap, and heads to the door. There he stops, almost as an afterthought, at a bowl atop a pedestal. Reaching his hand under his duster, the ranger grabs a fistful of coins from his pouch, and slides them quietly into the bowl. He casts one more look behind him, towards the circle. Then Joseph presses his shoulder to the door, pushes it open, and emerges into the blinding light.
The Cleric, the Rogue, and the Geistcatcher
With everyone finally gone, Syd is once again left alone with his female companion. ‘This went about as well as could be expected’ - his inner monologue affirms. A mere glance at Cynda suggests that the proverbial powder-keg has by no means been defused and that - for better or worse - that responsibility now falls to him. So, with an expression that’s about as neutral as he can muster - for ‘fear’ that a smile might be perceived as him enjoying himself at her expense - he directs the would-be geistcatcher back to her rig first, then towards the markets to purchase some much needed supplies. Sadly, what followed suit was… shall we say… unexpected.
In his mind, Cynda would’ve bartered for a bit and, considering his Priest status and her skills, gotten a discount, no matter how small, and this win would’ve abated the brewing storm. Instead, her previous state of mind caused her to ‘lash’ out during bartering, which didn’t stick. The merchants would not budge and the flames of her anger were fanned rather than quenched.
By the time they’d finished with their purchases, Syd was out of his element. Arguments were common between the two, but this was the first time the Priest had ever seen Cynda this angry for this long. Something had to be done, and for once he didn’t have an answer at the ready.
“So, Red” - he said, reaching the end of his rope - “I’m famished. Do you know where we might find a decent place to get a meal around these parts?”
"No. Never been here before." Cynda's voice was quiet, much more reserved than usual and absent of anger. She was more evasive than usual. Her gaze focused anywhere other than Syd, and her confident strut had become a slouched shuffle. Her usual abundance of complaints and comments had apparently run dry.
After the disaster with the merchants, she'd taken her hair back down and was hiding behind it. Perhaps her attitude could have been less confrontational in dealing with the locals, maybe she should have been less pushy. But Cynda wasn't known for her calm rationale. The threat of her Geistcatching Rig being stolen from her had filled her with fear and anxiety - feelings she wasn't used to being prolonged experience. They usually only accompanied brushes with danger.
As they walked, she fiddled with the ring nervously. "I'm s-" She began, and then stopped. After a strained sigh, "I'm really hungry. Anywhere?"
Rendezvous at the Outer Wall
The young cathar walks with hardened purpose, once again tasked by his father, both religiously and figuratively, on a holy mission- the retrieval of an unholy artifact. This time he wasn't alone, however. Perhaps this item was more vital to return to the Cathedral's Vaults, so it's retrieval required a higher margin of success, or perhaps the forces behind the occult object's theft are more powerful than the determined cathar has faced. Raben found his gloved fingers wrapped around his Avacynian amulet, but it was not out of fear, he rationalized, but faith.
His boots thudded without pause or hesitation against the cobbles of Thraben's districts, from the cathar barracks in the Cathedral district behind Child's Wall, through the market squares within Merchant's Wall, and all the way onto the pressed earth surrounding Outer Wall. The smell was different here, than up high behind all the rest of Thraben's walls. Earthy, sour, musky even. It was the smell of home. He stopped, and in a small ritual, he bent his knees and grasped some of that dirt, and rubbed his palms together, letting it sift and fall back to the ground. Assured, he pressed on once more.
The rest of his employed companions were already before the gate, waiting for him. Good, he thought to himself. As he approached speaking distance, he rifled through his coat pocket, procuring and presenting four amulets. "This is the best I could acquire from the runesmiths- traveler's amulets. They are blessed with the favor of Alabaster's angels. They may come in handy in times of need." Handing them to you he looks at you in the eyes; hard blue eyes that state he will fight for your life, so you do the same.
People of all kinds walk through the wood-iron double-doors: peasanty in their tattered clothing, artisans and merchants with sacks or carts, carrying the tools of their trade, and lavish carriages housing nobles and aristocrats. "If we're ready?" Raben asks, as he looks on to the gates of Thraben's Outer Wall.
The Ranger
For most of the wait Joseph has been sitting on his pack, watching, seemingly oblivious to any of the other party members who had arrived. Occasionally, the sound of something close by would garner his attention, but most of his time has been spent southwesterly, past the Lake of Herons, where Angel’s Way road meets the River Kirch, and the two thread away, side-by-side, towards the horizon.
When he notices Raben approaching, the ranger stands. Receiving the amulet, he stares at it a moment in his hand, running his fingers over the edges, then looks up to meet Raben’s demanding gaze.
Joseph gives a slight nod. “It’s more than I asked for,” he says plainly. “An’ it’s a hell of a lot more than I expected. At least from the Church.”
He drapes the new amulet into place, in plain sight, upon his chest. Then he grasps the old one by the chain at the back of his neck, pauses, and releases it. Instead, he grabs the round, battered medallion and drops it down the front of his shirt. With a quick adjustment of the chain, all signs of the old amulet disappear under his clothes.
Joseph watches carefully as the rest of the amulets are handed out, then kneels to his pack. He loosens the cord on the side, freeing the bow and quiver.
“How long a journey to Hanweir?” he asks, working at securing the flaps on his pack. “It about took us a week from Hanwier to Thraben the way up. Eight of us. But we had two injured. One of ‘em bad. We were lucky if we made 15 miles a day those last two days.”
Satisfied with his gear, Joseph stands up and mounts the pack onto his back, slinging the quiver into place over the top. He hooks his thumbs into the shoulder straps and bounces himself off his heels a single time, shaking his body slightly from side to side as he adjusts the balance of the load. Then he grabs his bow from the ground and watches Raben, ready to follow.
Raben subconsciously tightens the straps of his belongings after seeing the hunter do so. "Should be four days normal pace, angels willing. I pray to Avacyn we aren't so troubled." He says while tracing a a large collar on his chest. With that, Raben takes the first steps towards Hanweir.
Departure from Thraben
Once exiting Thraben's Outer Wall, you've entered the area known as the Nearheath- a collection of villages that huddle close to the wall to gain any measure of protection from the High City by virtue of their vicinity. As you travel farther in this province, the villages become more scattered. Those who live here are poor folk, not earning enough to live within the grand holy city. Specifically, the group has entered the Videns Parish, communally governed lands surrounding the River Kirch; one of three parishes comprising the lands of the Nearheath. Mostly constituting farmers in population, it is filled with orchards and vineyards irrigated by the sacred river, all segregated in orderly fashion with waist-high stone walls. Looking across and past the organized agriculture, you can see farm homes and small holds gathered for relative safety. Looking over the horizon, you notice a slight, white fog blankets the moors of Gavony. It isn't so discernible at close distance, but it is there, bringing a small, cold wetness to the air.
Joseph waits until the rest of the party begins to follow, then he falls in just a half-step behind the last person, almost walking beside them. His bow remains resting on his shoulder as his eyes move up and down the orchards on either side of the road. Occasionally, he twists his frame and turns his head to look behind him.
"Gavony get a lot of this late-morning fog?" Joseph tosses the question forward, to no one in particular.
Uther hefted his bag onto his back, before following the group. "It's not unusual for this time of year," he said, referring to the fog. "At least in the area that I grew up." He looked down at the amulet that Raben handed him. He placed it around his neck, leaving his mother's amulet underneath his armor.
The ranger grunts. "Reminds me of the Stensia lowlands. Always covered in fog. Can't stay dry for nothin'."
Some time after the party settles into the march, during a silent spell, something catches Joseph's eye while he's watching the peripheries.
With fluid motion he takes a step to the side of the path, places a hand on the low stone wall, and vaults over. Still moving alongside the party, he stoops down and scoops up a handful of fallen, bruised apples.
In the distance, towards the middle of the orchard, there is a rustling sound. The hunter looks up and catches sight of a scarecrow, its limbs twitching with magic as it senses an intruder. With a sour look Joseph drops the apples and vaults back over the wall, falling back into place behind the file.
"Cathars as heavy as fleas," he grumbles, "and they still got to bring in mindless constructs to protect their rotten apples. Must be a joy to grow up a kid in these parts."
The Moors' Fog
The air seems tense surrounding the unfamiliar members of this party. A grim feeling seems to loom over their heads as they travel Angel's Way. The sky is dense with greyed and darkened clouds, threatening to rain, acting as a filter against any hope the sun's rays could provide.
After a few hours, the distant fog begins to coalesce and thicken and has spread its reach across the River Kirch. It continues to roll in the party's direction, soon to sweep over and rob them of their sight. With it, a sharper cold chills the air, accompanying the dread the fog brings.
They are faced with a dilemma, to travel through this laden fog, or to veer off course into the hinterlands. They may be able to see, but their travel would be slowed; and other dangers may await any who travel off protected crossways.
The Cleric's Concern
Keeping to himself for the most part of the journey, save for a few friendly words here or there - namely to the one he’s known the longest - Syd continues on, listening to the occasional grumbling descriptions of the Ranger and the stoic silence of the cathars. His gaze moved, from time to time, to the world around him, even despite the fog, as one never really knows when things will go bad, in dangerous times like these.
The wheels of the geistcatcher grinding against the axis, their hitting pavement, the party had gotten accustomed to these sounds and may have even tuned them out, but now was the time for them to be considered. Possibly for the first real time since they’d banded together, the Priest opened his mouth to voice serious concerns.
“Cynda’s… equipment. It can’t travel well through unpaved land. So our choice here is to walk through the fog where we can be picked up by sound, or travel through what might as well be the wilderness, with that machine making twice as much noise and slowing down our pace more than you might realise. These are our options. In the interest of fairness, I’ll leave it to you to decide where we go from here.”
The Ranger's Concurrence
Joseph’s head snaps up, as if he’d forgotten he was traveling with anyone but the lead cathar.
“As much as I’d love to see this clackity thing sink into a crick-bed,” he begins, indicating the geistcatcher with a nod, “I got to agree with the holy man. The road’s the safest bet. Especially out in the open hills, this close to the city. It shows us the way to go, an’ gives us a fast way to get there. The thickest fog in Innistrad ain’t going to change that. An’ should we hit trouble, the road also gives the chance of someone coming to help.”
Joseph pauses, glancing towards the incoming fog. “At least that’s how it is down on the Hairpin. Some folk get eaten ‘cos they get nervous and want to hide in the Ulvenwald. Ain’t no one out in the trees to hear their hollering when something finds ‘em.”
The ranger looks up towards Raben. “But I’m working for this here cathar. Wherever he chooses to go, I go.”
The Cathar's Decision
Taking little to no time deliberating his options, Raben agrees with the rest of the party. "You're right. We cannot waste time traversing off the crossway. We'll continue through the fog. Take care to stay close and pray that Avacyn guides our feet."
Keeping to the Crossway
Moments afterwards, the fog blankets the party- sapping away the warmth of their bodies. Breath, hot and humid, is visible when exhaled. Waves of fog undulate, changing the obscurity of sight from scarcely beyond one's reach to just short a few meters, as if a curtain flowing in an ebbing wind. Each time vision is completely shrouded, one might feel a certain measure of anxiety, imagining a form emerging when the fog pulls back, reaching out in one swift moment and-
The clack and clatter of the geistcatcher and sullen, deliberate footfalls of your peers provide a small comfort in the form of community- you're all in this dread together.
With Raben's nervous warning, Joseph quickens his pace, coming up alongside him. He leans in close to the cathar's ear. "See if you can't get that damned wagon to quiet down a little, for I can hear." He shoots a scowl back at the geistcatcher for emphasis; already the rear of the party is fading from view in the fog. Joseph then makes four or five quick bounds forward while pulling the sides sides of his coat away from his swords so the hilts are exposed. He reaches his bow back and hooks it around the quiver, letting it go so that it swings on his back with each step taken. When Joseph's silhouette just starts to dim in the white mist, he slows to match pace with the party, leading by just a few meters. The ranger's head swivels from side to side more frequently. Occasionally he pauses, mid-step, cocking an ear.
Uther keeps an eye on his surroundings as the fog becomes thicker, trying to keep all the members of the group in sight. He loosens his sword in its scabbard, prepared to take action if necessary.
Still keeping close to Cynda and her geistcatcher, Syd would do his best to let the party know, as silently as possible, that he believed he saw motion in the fog, and that as a result, everyone needed to be on their toes. The Hunter might have been a little too far ahead to spot without making a sound, but with a little luck, either of the Cathars would be able to warn him before anything happened. More often than not, these things he noticed would turn out to be nothing. But the times they weren’t made it so this borderline paranoia was very much worth it.
His shield was already out and he had no weapons to draw. Furthermore, as the goal was to not draw unneeded attention, no spell would be cast. But should someone attempt an ambush, they’d very likely be looking at a Sacred Flame spell coming down on them.
The slowest of moments go by as the party travels on despite the fog's dreary gloom. Only a few seconds pass, or was it a few minutes, before you hear an unnerving sound. It was the sound of someone whimpering. A lonely whine amidst this dense mist several paces away, hidden by the murk. It was the mournful sniveling of a distressed man, begging with his cries, but before you could move any quicker, before you can see whatever plagues his soul, the man releases a long, breathy gasp and the crying stops.
Joseph continues ahead of the party, listening for any impending danger. When he glances back, a particularly thick surge of fog makes even Raben hard to see. The ranger falls back in step, this time beside Raben instead of at the rear.
When the whimpering and crying begins, Joseph perks up. When it ends, he turns to the cathar.
"You hear that? The cries. Something's ain't right up there."
Joseph keeps even step with Raben. As the hunter walks, peering intently ahead into the white void, he ever-so-slowly draws the shortsword from his left side and holds it there, right arm across his chest, the sword pointing downwards and to the left, slightly at the ready.
"Yes," Raben whispers quickly. "Blast this fog.. Be vigilant now if you weren't so."
After a few feet forward, a dull, blurry glow becomes evident in the haze of the waving fog, becoming brighter and brighter as you take every step. The lazy white tide ebbs once more, and you see a harrowing scene:
There is a man, perhaps a scholar or trader in attire- his back on the cobbles of the crossway. His eyes, vacant and dim, are open and looking to the sky still pleading for the sight of angels. His skin is pale and clammy, almost blue in complexion, as if the red warmth of his blood has left him. Atop him is a ghastly apparition. Ephemeral, cloud-like, a form hovers over the man. The sound of the long sigh finally comes to an end, only as the figure abruptly cocks its head to the party, its white eyes bright with its awareness of your presence. To your horror, it bears a human face, but in a longing, dreary, dissonant cantor it speaks, "You're so waaarmmm..."
Gheist in the Mist
Not taking his eyes off the apparition, the ranger speaks in a cold, level tone. "Ms. Hudson. You deal with spirits. See if you can't get that thing away from him." While he's speaking, Joseph slows and steps a few paces to the left, putting about ten feet of space between himself and Raben. As he moves, he slowly inches his sword to his front, keeping the point down, a few inches above the ground. His left hand moves to grip the hilt of the sword on his right hip.
Cynda had been lost in thought for sometime and only seemed to return at the sight of the apparition. She studied it's form and made her usual assumptions. "I can get it away from him..." A wry smile crossed her face, "but I don't know how comfortable everybody is with my method." With a backward nod of her head, she indicated the Geistcatcher.
Joseph holds steady, poised to strike, his eyes fixed on the ghastly scene. "Do what you got to. The man needs help. 'An he needs it now."
In a swift motion, Cynda grabbed the shroud that covered the Geistcatcher and pulled it off. She released the fabric and it danced in the fog briefly as it fluttered to the ground. Cynda moved deftly around the device, released the safety catch and took her place behind if. In an instant, she squared up her shot. The Geistcatcher lurched and let out a loud mechanical thump as her finger squeezed the trigger.
The necromechanical device fires a sizable magical bolt. It pierces through the fog at incredible speed and impales the ephemeral body of the geist. The creature's sorrowful face contorts into agony as it shrieks in anguish, holding the rig's bolt with its hands. A resonant magnetic field becomes visibly apparent, encircling the spirit, forbidding its escape. "What is this? What have you done?" It wails pathetically.
Joseph raises his sword and approaches the geist. "Not so warm now, are we?" he says matter-of-factly. Keeping his sword up towards the geist, he reaches down with his left hand, grabs the man's arm, and begins dragging him from beneath the ensnared spirit.
When they are both clear of the geist--which is grasping vainly at the bolt stuck in its body--Joseph quickly sheathes his sword, pops his left arm out of his pack strap, and twists his torso to the right, rolling the pack off his back and onto the road. The bow clatters free onto the stones. He hastily untethers the flap, reaches inside, and pulls out a healer's kit, placing it on the ground beside him. Then the ranger starts feeling and prodding the man's forehead, face, and neck. A look of dismay contorts the scars on his face as he looks up from his work, towards Raben.
Noting the geist being hindered by Cynda's machine, and wanting to forego the complaining that would no doubt ensue should he choose to douse said creature in holy flame, and noting the complete stranger once connected to said spirit had fallen into the hands of the Ranger, who seemed rather cavalier in his ways. Knowing that this kind of behaviour can often lead to serious injury, the Priest would find himself once again having to play the less-than-kind 'voice' of reason. As such, with the raising of an emblem with the colours of Avacyn and the Goldnight in his shield-free hand, a flickering of silver light would grace it, prepared should this unknown seemingly human individual take any aggressive action against any party member.
The geist, caught in this new brand of turmoil, at first does not notice when the ranger pulls away its source of warmth. It attempts to evade and lose these thieves in the mist, but it finds it cannot. Something is wrong- it cannot move, and in its bewilderment, the geist sees its prey. "No-no-no... The warmth! Don't you take it!" And with that shout a gale of freezing wind bursts forth from the geist, threatening to sap the life and vitality from the ranger.
When he hears the geist’s startled shout, Joseph's attention swings back just as its mouth opens wide into a disembodied wail, releasing a blast of dense fog. Still crouching, the ranger instinctively clenches his eyes shut, pivots away from the threat, lowers his head, and hunches up his shoulders. Both he and the unmoving body beside him disappear in a crystalline billow of white, vaporized ice. When the geist’s wailing stops, Joseph’s voice bellows out from within the swirling cloud. He's brimming with uncharacteristic emotion. “God…DAMN it!”
A second later the ranger steps up out of the cloud, rubbing his bluish forearms down briskly, attempting to warm them up. His short hair sparkles with ice crystals, and his face --now rosy with frost-nip-- bears an expression more of annoyance than agony. He turns to face the geist and reaches for his sword. About a quarter inch of frost covers the entire back of his duster. Joseph's voice lowers into a seething growl. “Oh, you’ve had it now, spook!”
Uther approaches Joseph and places a hand on his shoulder. A warm light floods from his hands and heals his wounds.
"By Avacyn.." Raben says under his breath at the sight of the geist pierced by some magical implement. Raben draws his crossbow, places his body in an isometric stance, and fixes the weapon's sights on the phantasmal body of the geist. If it would intend on making another ranged assault once more, Raben would be sure to interrupt it with a helping of steel.
Joseph’s right hand finds the hilt of the blade on his left side. There’s a shimmying sound of steel-on-leather as he draws, his entire body coiled to strike. The blade stops a few inches short of clearing leather; Uther’s hand has fallen upon his shoulder. The frost on the back of the duster instantly melts into dew as healing energy courses into Joseph. The ranger glances back and gives a brief nod of thanks to the paladin. He returns his attention to the geist, which is still clawing at the bolt stuck in its midsection, its eyes full of hatred. Joseph’s brow furrows. With a sharp grunt the ranger steps forward, finishes drawing his blade, and swings it back-handed at the apparition in a single fluid motion…
The ranger's sword, though not magical, slices through the fog and finds purchase within the geist's misty form. The blade pulls wide to the right and the apparition fades away as if disembodied by a gust of wind. The fog seems to dispense soon after, as if the remorseful thing brought the gloom with it.
A Soul Lost to the Mist
You find yourselves standing amidst the crossway. The clouds still overhang and fill the skies. And a man lay amongst your feet, his soul now passed- hopefully- into the Blessed Sleep. By the looks of him, he seems to be a messenger of some sort, likely from some small village in the reaches of Gavony. You would think him a young man, now, barely reaching the age of having a voice in a town's council or being able to bear arms in a local militia. Whatever his potential, it has been snuffed out, taken with his last breath
Once the threat had been neutralized, Syd’s full attention was turned to the unfortunate man before him. As a Priest of Goldnight, and especially one living in Nephalia, death was not an uncommon sight, even if it was a pitiable one.
Giving the ranger a few moments to attempt to find any form of identity pertaining to the fallen - an admirable action, despite its chance at success - Blackmore would turn to the party and state: “Should you wish to give me around 10 minutes, I can perform the holy sacraments and give this individual his final rites.” - he said, hints of consideration poking through his usual practiced, calm tone - “There would be the matter of digging him a grave, as well.”
Feeling the Angels’ power responding to his prayer for an unknown individual that had met his end away from loved ones and civilization was, in his view, miraculous enough on its own. After all, the Elgaud Grounds were in the business of producing zealots and practical men, with Blackmore belonging firmly to the latter category. So, while moving onward now would no doubt prove discomforting, in no way was this Priest willing to endanger the living to provide comfort to the dead.
Joseph discovers several scrolls on the body, placing them in a neat row on the ground next to him. When he’s finished, he grabs three scrolls, all bearing wax seals, and hands them to Raben. “These look official. You can figure out what to do with them.”
He turns to Syd. “I think we can spare ten minutes. It’ll take me at least that long to dig the grave. Who’s got a shovel?”
He kneels back down onto the road next to the remaining scrolls. He flips his traveler’s pack over, frost-side-down, unties the strings on the scrolls one by one and unrolls them onto the dry side of the pack, scanning each one briefly..
Joseph carefully rolls one parchment up and re-ties the string before standing and facing the group. “Just letters. This man was a mail carrier.” The hunter hands the two unfurled letters to Syd, along with the strings that bound them. “You all might want to have a peek. There’s rumors that may or may not be our business. ‘An a few of you are from around here. You might know who these letters are going to. If not, we can get at least one back to its sender in Hanweir.”
He raises the single re-tied scroll. “This one’s from Kessig, going to a silversmith in Thraben. I’ll see if I can’t track him down when we get back to the city.” He looks at Raben. “I’m sure the Church is familiar with anyone working silver within its walls. Perhaps it can help come then. I couldn't find anything to tell who this messenger is, though. No name or nothing. Maybe we can find this Ekka in Hanweir. She might know more about him."
He carefully places the rolled scroll in his backpack, picks it and his bow up from the road, and places the two side-by-side on the shoulder of the cobbles. “Now, where’s a shovel? The sooner we get this fellow to rest, the sooner we can get on our way.”
The Courier's Grave
Raben grasps the waxed letters and carefully looks at their seals with squinted eyes. "I don't believe it is in our purview to read the contents of these letters. We will find another carrier, a well protected one, and have these sent proper." He then shifts his pack from his shoulders and carefully places the envelopes within the outer pockets, and pulls out a collapsed shovel, handing it to the ranger. "You're doing right by him. But we should do it quickly. Geists aren't all that haunt these lands."
"What of this 'Scourge of the Moors?'" The ranger glances down the road towards Hanweir, then back to Raben. "Any truth to it that you know of?"
With practiced motions, Syd performed the holy sacraments on the corpse. This was a straining, grueling process that took the better part of 10 minutes and, despite having gone without a hitch, the priest's expertise surprised even himself. It appeared that, on this moment, for whatever reason, the Angels - be they the flight of Goldnight or any other - had watched over him, bestowing the young Blackmore with the ability to accomplish this task. Whether they had done it for their Priest, or the man, who could tell?
Having finished his ritual, the holy man's ears perked up to the conversation between the Ranger and the Cathar. Having been so taken by his work, he had missed Joseph attempting to hand him the carrier's letters, and at this point they had been taken by Raben, who had - to the best of his knowledge - refrained from opening them.
Syd would not have acted in this way. The dead were to be respected, but ultimately they were spared the horrors of the living. The man's remains should be protected, but the information he carried could prove of use to the living now, and carry information regarding the area this man came from, that could prove invaluable to the party. Alas, he was also very clear on the pecking order in this assignment and, for better and worse, the Cathar was top dog.
Taking the shovel for his turn, Raben grunts as he plows the dirt."You know of the stitched horrors? Skaabs? Well, they say there's such an undead abomination -more than twice the size of any man- roams the Moorlands. Stronger than a werewolf, and more bloodthirsty than a vampire. A grotesque thing. It's crooked smile is only matched by the curve of its hooked scythe. I've never seen it."
The grave is dug deeply and finished. Raben climbs out and stabs the metal end of the shovel into the dirt pile. "A skaab is monstrous enough, though not as common as ghouls. Should we face one, I wouldn't fault anyone for running. Very few I know of have faced one and lived."
Lifting and placing the messenger's body into the grave was a deliberate and careful thing. His life, body and soul, is to be respected even at its end. You pray his corpse would never be reanimated or used in some madman's experiments.
Joseph grunts in thought at the cathar's description. When the burial is finished, he covers the fresh dirt with loose leaves and grass, then places two round stones, side-by-side, on top. When he walks back to the road, he surveys the grave site from afar; unless one were to look for two random, round stones, the grave is all but invisible from the road. He collects his pack and bow, and follows Raben onward, to Hanweir.
The mission continues. Angel's Way, now visible as the fog has cleared, stretches onward through the Gavony moors, and after several hours of travel, hunger gnaws at the party's bodies, and thirst scratches at the back of their throats.
A Short Rest
When the party stops to eat, Joseph takes up a spot next to Uther. Digging into his ration kit, the hunter breaks off a piece of dried meat and offers it to the paladin. "Ever have Kessig jerky?" He pops the other half in his mouth and begins chewing. "It's got a bit more flavor than most of Innistrad's cured meats," he mumbles out as he chews, "A lot of natural herbs grow in the woods down there. 'An the deer eat it up. Naturally spices the meat. Gives it a bit of gaminess."
With no response from Uther, Joseph turns back to focus on his meal, eyes on the road ahead as he chews thoughtfully.
Continuing on Angel's Way
A few hours later, after a long spell of traveling in silence at the rear ranks, the ranger glances west, then moves to the front of the line, at Raben's side. "It'll be dark soon, Cathar. Did you have places for us to put up along the way? Or do we need to keep an eye out for a place to camp?" He reaches his hand back and thumps the empty waterskin dangling off the side of his pack. "Unless you've got a place for us tonight, we probably oughtta find a place to fill our water, too."
"I'm running low on water myself." - Syd said, somewhat dejectedly - "And once we do make camp it would serve us best to figure out who takes which shifts as, needless to say, we're at our most vulnerable when we're sleeping."
Raben makes a grunt of deliberation, swooshing what little is left in his waterskin. "We travel in a group, as long as we keep diligent watch, we should be fine for a night's camp near the road. We can seek amenities in light of day tomorrow. But I won't begrudge the group for wanting to seek more accommodable shelter now. If a village is nearby, we may be able to replenish and sleep more soundly, though regrettably I known of none in the area," he starts, slowing down his pace and turning his left ear to the party.
Joseph nods his head once in silence. "Keep an eye out for someplace sheltered within hollering distance to the road. If we don't stop soon, we'll be looking in the dark."
Before Night Falls
The last few hours of the evening crawl by dreadfully as not a nearby manor or hovel is seen. If some manner of shelter isn't found soon, the party must travel by torch or lamplight, which may repel common beasts, but can lure other more rapacious or determined predators of the night.
As if spurned by fate, however, the party comes to a crossway shrine. This isn't the first they've passed on Angel's Way, but it had been some time before they saw the last. The sun is smothered under the horizon, and the moon illuminates the flat, rocky marsh of the moors through the wispy furls of the clouds that blanket it. The moon is nearly full, bringing not only the anxiety of the approaching full-faced moon but a cold that reminds the party of the fog -and of the geist.
In consensus, the party decides to rest near the Avacynian shrine, and perhaps take shelter within its holy presence.
Raben claims a small spot within a pace's proximity to the shrine, unfurling two blankets from his pack. One is thick, but heavily matted, which he lays on the ground. Sitting down, he searches through his effects but retrieves nothing, as if it was only to reassure himself of something then faces the party, forearms on his knees. "I can take a middle watch. They are oft the most inconvenient, interrupting one's sleep mid-rest."
Joseph wearily flings his pack to the ground opposite the altar to Raben. “I’ll do last watch. I’m an early riser, anyways.” He rubs his arms briskly with his hands. “An’ I can’t get that spirit’s cold out of me for nothing. If I’m not in a warm bedroll soon, you’ll end up burying me in the ditch next.”
The ranger begins unfastening his pack, bringing out the needed equipment for sleep. As he's laying his bedding out, he touches the amulet around his neck as if remembering something. He stands up and steps to the altar.
The silhouette of Joseph's slender frame is lost in the darkness of the sky, save for the faint gloss of moonlight in his hair and shimmer of dew on his duster. With both hands he grasps the amulet at his neck, which glitters sharp and eerie silver, then he kneels down and begins moving his lips in silence. A gentle breeze begins blowing in from the river, making the unseen grasses alongside the road swish and sigh.
For some time Joseph prays, head bowed, amulet held in front of him. Seemingly finished, he looks up to the altar, then cranes his head back to look at the sky. He rises to his feet, absentmindedly lowers the amulet, and stares, then moves his attention back down to the altar. Slowly he reaches a single hand out, fingers outstretched tentatively, as if trying to gently touch some fragile thing of curiosity. With a start, he draws his hand back to the amulet and takes a half step back.
The hiss of the grass ceases as the breeze disappears, and a collapsing stillness settles all around. The faint burble and slap of the distant Kirch can be heard in the distance.
Without a word, Joseph steps away from the altar, eyes fixed forward, attention turned inward. He fusses with his bedding, unbuckles his scabbards and lays his swords side-by-side within reach. Using his duster as a makeshift pillow, he craws under his covers and lies down on his side, his back to the Avacynian shrine.
"I'll take first watch," Uther said. He drew his sword halfway from its sheathe as if to reassure himself of its edge. He settled near the shrine, in a place where he could easily see their surroundings.
Eyes nearly closed from an exhausting day, Syd would make himself known: "That leaves me to do the one before last. Wake me when it's time." - he spoke, half-heartedly preparing his sleeping arrangements and falling into a deep slumber before long.
Their First Night
The first few watches idle by. The river's buzzing and chirping creatures can be heard in the distance, as well as its coursing waters. The moon, a day or two perhaps before reaching its apex figure, illuminates the land, casting a cold, detached silver sheen to the thistle, rock, and brush. The crackling flames of the party's camp provides a measure of warmth against the night's frost and extra needed light to aid a watch's vigilance, as well as bringing some measure of safety against many night predators in the marsh -indeed, some say steady fires keep away even vampires.
The cleric is eventually woken by Raben for the party's third rotation, but the exhausted soul can nary keep his lids peered, and soon leans too strongly on his shield and slumbers. The campfire soon starves. Quietly, it's light dies.
A Predator Lurks, Quiet and White
In the pale light of the moon, a nocturnal creature becomes active. It is predatory by nature, and carnivorous. Knowing its prey lies close to the river's edge, it vacates its den with hardly a sound and makes its way, its body close to the ground. It smells the embers of burned wood. A familiar scent -one that signified another form of prey. Following this scent, it finds the slumped, sleeping bodies of the party, its eyes reflecting a sick green amidst the darkness.
One by one, it visits the unconscious bodies. A quick snap and its business is done, and it moves on. It flawlessly visits two of these unaware creatures, and trains its eyes on the third. The predator reaches this victim deftly and without sound, and opens its mouth once it can reach the neck-
And, by what can only be attributed to miraculous chance, the creature of the night loses its footing on the sleeping prey's body, slamming its head against a hard, angled object and yelps.
At the sound of the yelp, Joseph's eyes snap open, and his right arm shoots to the handle of one of his shortswords. He sits up, shaking the scabbard loose from the blade, and prepares to rise, pausing when he catches sight of the tail of a white fox as the creature is scampering off into the night. With his left hand, he grabs a handful of gravel from the road and flings it at the fleeing animal. "Fssssssssst, get out of here," he hisses in a whisper.
When he looks up and sees Syd watching the fox as well, Joseph whispers, slightly annoyed, "Don't let 'em wander around the camp. Those critters will eat our rations if we don't watch 'em." Then the ranger grabs a few more fists of gravel and tosses them underhand towards the packs of the sleeping party members, attempting to scare off any unseen stragglers that might have found their way inside.
Standing perfectly motionless, Syd's still hazy eyes would lock on with this white critter, attempting to sneak its way through the camp. Noticing itself be caught, it scampered off into the brush, just in time to be 'berated' by the ranger, and a handful of gravel was thrown in its general direction. Syd, noting Joseph's awakened state, would silently stare at the ranger while he explained his actions. At this moment, the priest knew his falling asleep on the clock had gone unnoticed. As such, the young Blackmore raised his left hand, palm facing the ranger in a gesture of silent apology, before whispering back "Sorry. We don't have very many of these little guys back home, so I didn't pay it much mind. Tomorrow we'll check to see if everyone has everything, and if need be I'll cover for what was taken."
Having finished his piece, Syd's eyes would dart around the forest, hoping to find anything else he might've missed, while awaiting the possibility of a retort from the ranger.
"Hmmmph," Joseph whispers, picking up his scabbard to put away the shortsword. "No need to cover anything. We're all in this together." He rubs his eyes wearily. "What's your name, Holy Man?" The ranger fluffs his duster-pillow.
"Fair enough" - the cleric replied, in the usual, serene tone. "I'm really not sure Holy's the word you're looking for there, but I'll take it. The name's Syd." - he paused, briefly, before continuing - "Blackmore. You?"
"Joseph Clarke," the ranger responds. He pauses, as if in thought, then lies down, back to everyone, and is still.
"A pleasure." - Syd mentions, seeing the man go back to sleep, and readying himself in his seated position and looking around, hoping not to fall asleep again until the end of his shift.
Sunrise
After Syd wakes Joseph for the watch and goes to bed, the ranger picks a spot with his back to the shrine, and faces south. As he's scanning the darkness, he absentmindedly raises his hand and places it to his chest. A puzzled, startled look crosses his face, and he pats his chest a few more times. Standing up in a panic, he lifts the collar of his scale mail and shirt and reaches down with his other hand and feels around for something. With a silent, frenzied step he's on his knees, next to his bedroll, and rifling through the fabrics, patting and sweeping with his open hands.
"Son-of-a-*****!" The phrase started as a whisper, but crescendoed into a hoarse growl with the final word; the ranger leaned forward with it, directing the low noise towards his bed to keep from waking the camp. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, he peers through the darkness towards the river, sighs, and returns to his spot by the shrine to continue his watch, hand firmly grasping the Traveler's Amulet hanging from his neck.
When the sky is just breaking dawn, and there is barely enough light to see, Joseph exclaims loudly, "The new day's here. Best we get an early start." He bangs his bow on the road a few times. His bedroll is already put away, his swords back on his belt. "We had company last night. Greedy little fox decided to pop in an' nab a few shiny things. He got one of my pieces of blessed silver out of my pack." He shoots a sharp look at Syd. "I was on watch an' had my back to it. By the time I heard it, it was too late. So everyone check your things. See if anything's missing. I'm gonna look around to see if he dropped it nearby. If not, we'll take a half hour to see if we can't find his den. It'll be close by, near the river. Anything else I'd happily leave. You don't get silver every day, though."
After slowly combing the ground towards the river, the hunter returns. "He got away with it, but his tracks are pretty clear. Someone wanna head down to the river with me to help root him out and see what he's got in his den?" Joseph turns to the cleric. "Syd, you look like you could learn a thing or two about foxes. Want to come with me an' learn how to track one?"
After the ranger described the theft that happened in the night, Uther reached up for his own amulet. "Damn it," he muttered. It was gone. Somehow the fox had managed to slip it off his neck while he slept. He checked under his armor but was relieved to find his mothers amulet where he had left it. "It seems the fox paid me a visit last night as well. I'll do what I can to help find it." He nodded at the ranger and the priest. "My name is Uther by the way. Uther Corwynn."
The ranger nods to Uther. "Joseph Clarke." He looks around at the others. "Anything else missing? We shouldn't be away more than twenty minutes. The tracks are clear as day. Let's go then." Joseph leads, bow slung around his shoulder, heading towards the river. He leaves his pack at the shrine. After a few moments he pauses and crouches, picking up a twig from the ground to point at the dirt. "See this? Four teardrops and an upside-down heart? Fox. Size of a house cat's prints, but you can see the claw, there at the tip of each teardrop. The back prints are deep. He was running. We want to watch for when he's not. He'll be near home, then." The hunter stands again, and leads on. As they crest a rise, a small pond is visible in the distance.
The Fox's Den
A few minutes later, as the group nears the pond, and the brush begins to thicken, Joseph pauses again. "There. Look. The back prints are shallow now. The air's wet, though, so the dust is damp. Still holds a solid print. Look around for the den. It'll be sheltered, with lots of prints around it, maybe some matted grass." The ranger enters the brush, eyes to the ground, and creeps towards an uprooted tree. His eyes dart forward. "Over here." He points towards the tree. Then he removes his bow from his shoulder and takes off his duster. He hands the bow to Uther and wraps the duster around his hands. "Use this to poke around in the den and scare him out a bit. I'll grab him an' throw him clear so we can feel around in there an' not get bit. Hopefully we find our stuff. Who knows what's in there? These critters can be hoarders." Joseph kneels down in the dirt and rotten leaves, then holds his two hands, sheathed in the overcoat, out towards the depression beneath the fallen tree.
When the fox is rustled to the mouth of its den with the bow, Joseph lunges with his coat and grabs it. A high-pitched growling and snarling ensues, and the hunter drags the creature out as it snaps and bites vainly at the duster. With a grunt, Joseph flings the ball of white fury away from him. The fox lands on its side, springs to its feet, and darts off towards the pond, disappearing into the grass. "Well, that's that. Let's see what's in here." He lies on his side and reaches his arm deep into the den, and begins scooping out handfuls of leaves, twigs, and other bedding.
An amulet comes out with the third scoop, and Joseph grabs it and shakes the debris from it. He holds it up towards Uther. "I believe this is yours." With the next scoop he pulls out two more necklaces. "And this is mine. And an extra." He drapes his own blessed silver over his neck, tucking it into his shirt. He pockets the other necklace. After sifting through the disgorged bedding, he finds a handful of coins, and laughs quietly to himself as he places them in his coin purse. "Looks like this little guy is buying us all a hot meal when we hit Hanweir." When nothing else of interest is to be found, the hunter carefully stuffs the bedding back into the den and pats it down. "He'll stay away for a few days, until he's sure we're gone. An' then he'll move right back in as if nothin' ever happened." Joseph stands, shakes the fur out of his duster, and puts it back on. There are a few fresh scratches on its weather-worn fabric. Then he grabs his bow from Uther and hooks his shoulder into it. "C'mon, let's go."
On Angel's Way Once More
Filling their waterskins with the waters of the Kirch, the party returns southbound on Angel's Way. This day, to their fortune, has remained largely unperturbed during the morning hours. After some time, a fork, leading northwest can be seen. Looking down that way, one can see the dense, dark obscurity of a small forest huddled under the oppression of the northmost ridges of Geier Reach.
Coming closer to the actual fork, keeping true to the customs and normality of the Moorlands, a crossway shrine comes into view. A man and his horse are currently within its presence, the man on his knees, hands held before his bent face. The horse whines and neighs as it hears the rumbling and clatter of the geistcatcher but remains near its master. Small muttering can be heard from the man's slumped form. Surely, he prays to the angels to oversee his travels. Unlike the other shrines the party has come across, this one is wooden, carved out of the flesh of the wood with wreathes and flowers adorning its shape.
Joseph, who is last in file, regards the praying man with little more than a glance and briefly lowered eyebrows. After his animated, almost jovial, nature during the tracking of the fox (and retrieval of his silver), he has settled back into his silent, watchful self, a grim look upon his scarred face as he diligently scans the horizons while the hills creep past. Without a word, he watches Raben for sign of which fork the group will be taking.
Overall unperturbed by the commoner, Raben notes the sign but continues his pace southward. "That way leads to Estwald. Mostly a woodworker's village. Much of Thraben's wooden goods come from their forests. Our path to Hanweir continues south."
As the party passes the man by, he gets to his feet. Grabbing the horses reins, he trots next to the party, getting ahead of the ranger and asks the nearest man of visible faith, the paladin, "Sir cathar, are you headed to Kessig?"
As the peasant rises and begins to head towards the party, Joseph's attention locks onto him. The ranger casually grabs the flaps of his open coat and yanks them down taut, then flips the left flap back over the hilt of his shortsword. With slightly quickened pace he sweeps out to the flank of the group, towards the side of the road from which the man approaches, walking just off the shoulder of the road. The vantage point gives him sight around the massive geistcatcher and keeps the hunter slightly on the periphery of the stranger's attention. With a keen eye held on the newcomer, the hunter slows to match pace with the wagon. When the man passes him and talks to Uther, Joseph's attention loosens slightly, shifting occasionally to check the surrounding hills, as well as both direction of the road. But it always falls back to the stranger and the paladin.
Noting the momentary stop and Raben and Joseph approaching the newcomer, Syd's eyes canvas their surroundings, stopping momentarily on the shrine before moving on to the rest of the landscape, to see if any red flags popped out at him. They did not. The temple was not carefully tended to, but it existed nonetheless, a small beacon of light, in a particularly quaint and peaceful fork in the road.
Uther looks up at the man and shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. Our path takes us to Hanweir. Although Raben here surely wouldn't mind you accompanying us that far if you wished to join us. It is our duty to protect the people and the roads are dangerous these days."
A light flickers in Joseph's eyes, as if he's remembering something. He steps forward and asks, "What's your business in Kessig?" When the stranger looks his way, he grasps the end of his silver amulet, raises it slightly while lowering his eyes to the peasant's chest, then lets the silver fall loose upon his chain.
"Ah." The man nods a few times slightly. "If it not be too much trouble, let a lone man travel with you." His speech is idled by momentary pauses between his words. He then looks to the hunter, a slight smile of recognition appears, from one Kessiger to another. "I travel further, passed Hanweir. To Erikstead." His gaze leaves you. "I have family, matters to attend to. You lot on a church's errand, or be you Parish-blades?"
The hunter's scarred lip lifts slightly as a the slightest trace of a smile crosses his face. He points to Raben. "This cathar leads us. We are seeing to church matters in Hanweir. There's room enough on the road for you alongside us, if he'll allow it." As he speaks, Joseph nonchalantly re-covers his shortsword with his coat flap. When he's finished, he looks to the peasant, touches his amulet again, and returns to the rear of the group.
Turning his head slightly, Raben silently nods with closed eyes. "You're welcome to travel with us, sir. But as my fellow said, we stop in Hanweir."
"It be no issue, brave cathars. No issue." His demeaner becomes solemn for a moment, but the man then directly speaks to the cleric. "Pardon me, sir cleric, but may you impart a blessin' on me? I fear a darkness; it looms o'er me."
Syd would grasp his amulets and pray, chanting for the blessing the man had required. A rush of divine power flowed through him and everything seemed to be going well enough, until the moment of transition between caster and recipient where it seemed to abruptly cut out. The cleric stopped in his tracks, staring at his left hand, that had just performed these complex motions for a few instants of quiet contemplation before turning to the individual and stating: "Apologies, it would seem I am all tapped out for the moment. The Angels' blessings can be fickle things, it would seem."
Displaying a mildly self-derisive smile, the man would reach out with that very same hand and use the divine power within him to give the man bestow the man with Protection from Evil and Good, a blessing similar to the one he had otherwise failed to accomplish. Finally, after a few kind words to the individual he’d helped, and unless stopped by the party, the young Blackmore would move to the shrine to pray and restore usage in his Traveler’s amulet, as well as ask for forgiveness for any past transgressions that might have caused for their favor to not be fully present in his previous interaction.
Anguished terror was overtaking the man's face but then he saw the cleric raise his hands once more, and this time, the poor soul felt the divine protection of the resplendent spell. He sighs with a gratitude that could shudder mountains. "Thank you, cleric, thank you."
Perhaps only an hour later, the traveling party and their guest view a bridge come into view. It has no walls, only posts holding its wooded ceiling which has aged to grey. Its cement-brick foundations are covered in moss and drop below sight, submerged in the river's waters.
Joseph speeds up to match step with the front of the party. "It was beyond this river, to the south, that me an' the monks got hit with a final attack on our way north, to Thraben. The lands get more dangerous the further we go." He glances to the east horizon, and he scowls. "An' judging from last night's moon, tonight's will be full, or close enough that you can't tell. He looks to Raben. "I'm guessing we won't make Hanweir by dark today? We might wanna take all that into account well before today's sun hits the western hills." Without waiting for a response, the ranger speeds up and breaks slightly away from the group, reaching back to untie his waterskin from his pack, as he heads for the shoreline next to the bridge.
The party's footfalls thud and clod against the wooden floorboards of the bridge. The scenery is almost pleasant here: a clear river surrounded by a few conifers. Its bedding on either side and reaching beneath the bridge is dense with various algae, moss, and green fungi, molding together to form a "grass". The air is pungent with a musty verdant scent. With the head of the troop now in the center of the bridge, the steel wheels of the geistcatcher revolve onto the structure, causing it to groan under the mechanism's weight. The fit is narrow on either side of the machine, but with some care, it is guided down without rasping the pillars and fence-work. The rogue grunts with effort, as additional drag has weighed down on her geistcatcher's rig. A bridge shouldn't cause this.. she thinks as she turns to see and investigate any cause for strain, and what she finds pulls at her sanity. She screams in wretched horror.
Grime On the Bridge, Under the Floorboards
An amorphous mass has seeped through the wooden boards and taken hold of her dear machine. You could see into the thing's shape, the metal of her contraption wilting and eroding.
At the sound of Cynda's scream, Joseph's eyes, which had been on some horizon or distant point on the road, sweep to the geistcatcher about 25 feet ahead of him. He stops dead in his tracks, his hand going to his shortsword. "Let go of it!" he shouts. His hand grips the hilt, but the sword stays in its scabbard. "Everyone back from the wagon!"
The ranger releases his sword and instead reaches back to his quiver and pulls an arrow from it. He quickly strides up to the corner of the wagon, turns sideways to face it, and begins shimmying along the edge of the bridge beside it, holding the arrow out gingerly by the fletching, keeping the shaft pointing mostly towards the ooze-covered geistcatcher; though it's clear he doesn't intend the arrow to be a weapon. As he sidesteps along the ooze-addled contraption, Joseph holds the arrow ahead of his path of travel, in his right hand. A tiny tendril begins to form on the side of the geistcatcher. The ranger moves the arrowhead to touch the tendril, giving the arrow a quick jiggle or two, then pulls it away, stretching the tendril with it.
The entire amorphous mass shimmies and pulsates in reaction, then the tendril begins to expand, like an overfilled waterskin. Joseph quickly moves his body past the arrow, swapping it to his left hand, and continues the jiggling and shaking, dragging the engorged tendril to touch a pillar on the bridge. Then he violently thrashes the arrow up and down the pillar, smearing blob onto it, which quickly inflates and covers the pillar as the abomination gushes its mass through the tendril, from the geistcatcher to the bridge support.
When there is just a bare inch or two left on the arrow between his hand and the blob, Joseph releases it and joins the party. Most of the creature is now wreathed around the pillar and adjacent fencing, with a fat, drooping tentacle still connected to the mostly-free geistcatcher.
Noting the brouhaha behind him, Syd would immediately stride towards his hind and stand between the girl - the one wearing the least amount of armor - and the beast, to offer protection. A bolt of sacred flame would fire off from behind his shield, exiting the clutches of his other hand, that clutched the Cleric's divine relic and focus, and struck true.
The green, ebbing mass contorts itself to hide the singed portion of its body within itself, making a grotesque squelch, and slathers its form onto the geistcatcher once more. Once its placed itself on its seat, or meal rather, the horrid thing launches a dolloped 'appendage' at the nearest living creature. Concentrating most of its form on the geistcatcher, the ooze doesn't use enough of its mass to reach the Avacynian cleric and misses just shy of his shield and legs.
At the sound of the woman's mind-shattering scream, the peasant's horse reels up on its hind legs and brays wildly, The man pulls the animal's reigns taught, placating to it, managing to keep the horse from galloping away. Raben pulls at a buttoned leash on his pack, grabbing his crossbow. Training it down the bridge, he shouts, "Make a hole!" and as soon as a path is clear, he fires a bolt at the writhing mass. Overcompensating for his comrades, however, he misses, with the bolt flying up and to the right of its target. "Dammit," he grits and begins loading another bolt.
With tears streaking down her cheeks, Cynda manages to regain some of her composure. She wished, oh so much, to just hack away at this jello-thing into tiny morsels and just squash them beneath her boots- but she was smarter than that. Taking a few steps back to get proper distance at her hated target after it failed to attack the Goldnight cleric, she slid her pack from her back. She began rifling through its contents, still crying, but she was purposed now. She retrieved and opened her tinder box and a candle, lighting the wick. Placing the lit candle in a presumably safe location, she then grabbed a flask of oil and began coating arrow tips in the amber fluid. She turns back at the thing devouring her beloved geistcatcher. "You will burn.. I swear it, you will burn!"
Uther takes this moment to stride by the other side of the geistcatcher, placing himself, his sword, and his shield between their traveling guest and the gelatinous creature, readying himself in the event it decides to move towards or stretch a grimy arm at the previously undefended man and his mount.
Joseph looks down the road towards Hanweir briefly, then to Raben, Uther, and Cynda, who are preparing to attack. Then he looks at the ooze-covered geistcatcher with a scowl. There's a slight grunt of resignation as he reaches back for his bow, then pauses with indecision. Instead, he flings his backpack to the ground and kneels next to it. He undoes the leather twine and digs out a flask of oil and carefully uncorks it. Then he stands, takes a step towards the enemy, and hurls the flask at the slime-covered wagon. The container lobs through the air, end-over-end, and shatters in an explosion of oil upon the frame. The shimmering golden liquid mixes among the green slime's mass; droplets of oil bead up and drip onto the bridge from the undercarriage.
Confused by the sight of a geistcatcher attacking her own rig, the Cleric would hesitate for a beat, watching as both ranger and rogue alike prepared to set the thing ablaze. Despite fire being his bread and butter, the Cleric willingly chooses to not strike the proverbial match in hopes of preserving whatever remained of the otherwise sensitive equipment, and blasted the ooze with a second Radiant cantrip.
Preoccupied by the one green ooze currently making a meal out of the rogue's geistcatching rig, not a single solid-bodied soul suspected another such creature lurking in the waters beneath the bridge. It slurps its way through the ragged wooden boards beneath the rogue, its sickly green mass threatening to swallow her boots. She's able to step back from immediate danger, but this second ooze creature lobs its tendrils at her. Too quick for the slow, molasses-like thing, Cynda dodges its attempts to lap her with its acidic slime.
The first ooze wretches at the Syd's holy fire, reeling its limbs back collectively and surging forward at the cleric, but the Syd carefully steps aside, dodging the corrosive assault. It lands with a sickening wet thump on the floorboards before the cleric of Goldnight. Looking back to the geistcatching rig, considerable damage can be see to much of its components, twisted and melted grossly out of specifications and design.
The horse has been calmed now by its owner, who looks at the scene on the bridge with worry. "Should I ride and find help?" He asks Uther.
"Not yet! Don't go out on your own." There hadn't been another village or manorial estate in many, many miles. Any aid that could be found would arrive much too late. Hating feeling useless, Uther was now not in a a good position, however: the rig immediately before him blocking his movement, and the now two green oozes just in front of that assaulting his allies on the far side of the bridge. More over, he saw what those things can do to metal- he didn't want to lose his sword and armor. He sheathes his sword and pulls his mace from its snap at his side, ready to bludgeon the things should they come his way in the even they feel his allies are too difficult a meal.
Cynda reaches an arrow-tip dipped in oil at the lit candle, immediately catching the flame. With not a second to lose, and not at proper distance to fire the bolt accurately, lunges at the oil-soaked slobber with a furious, impassioned, "Rraaaaghh!"
Sensing the immediate danger, or perhaps the encroaching heat, the sentient sludge attempts to evade and lurch back onto the geistcatching rig, but it was too slow. Cynda's improvised attack lands, the flames catching the oiled mass in intense flames. A gut-wrenching, ear-piercing squeal fills the air as the muck spasms and contorts in searing pain.
As the glob burns, much of its mass is consumed by the flames, leaving little of its original form left. It's recoiled between the cracks of the floorboards, ready to slink back into the river. The ranger purses his lips as he watches Cynda lunge at the creature with her flaming arrow. When the entire scene ignites with a whoosh, a look of satisfaction crosses his face. Seeing the remainder of the ooze wedge itself into the cracks like a giant amber-and-green flaming booger, he stoops to grab his bow from the ground, slides an arrow from the quiver lying close by, and prepares to attack. "Back, Miss Hudson!" he shouts grimly as he nocks the arrow, brings the bow to his face, quickly draws, and looses a shot that lands squarely into what's left of the retreating clotted slop. There's a shriek and a gurgle as the swelled green form collapses in on itself with a nauseatingly sloppy splash, sending rivulets of runny green liquid spreading across the bridge slats and down the cracks, dripping into the water below. A thin sheet of flame springs up from the oil that settles onto the wood after the ooze drains away.
Not waiting to watch the puddle's demise, Joseph has taken a knee to grab another arrow. "Away from the flask!" he reiterates to the rogue as he steadies his bow arm against his other knee. Leaning his head to the side, he nocks and draws, taking careful aim on the bottle of oil next to the candle.
As the first gooey creature squirms from the flames, Syd attracts the other's attention, still bent on keeping the rogue away from harm's way. Drawing the crossbow attached to his belt, the Cleric accurately lets loose a single bolt, that accurately hits the amorphous glop.
The other conglomerate slime begins retreating from the heat, dripping itself through the cracks in the bridge and attempts to bash Syd with corrosive arms but is unable to. It slinks through the wooden boards and splashes back into the river, disappearing from sight.
After a tense moment, Raben runs to the edge of the bridge, looking down into the water. The river flows normally, unperturbed by the happenings above it. With no further signs of the ooze, he sheathes his blade. A thudding sound is heard. Cynda is knelt on the floor, arms straddling her dear rig, shoulders quaking in slight sobs. "It's ruined.. I- I can't.." She begins fiddling the various parts and components in the rig, peering through tear-filled eyes at the acidic havoc done to her beloved machine. "I'm so sorry.."
Uther runs under the side of the bridge downriver, looking for the gelatin creature, mace and shield held firm, but the search is ultimately futile. He begins making his way back onto the wooden bridge.
"It seems the threat is over," Raben says.
Despite no injury dealt to any of the party members, the rogue's geistcatching rig is out of commission. She remains huddled by it, comforting it, comforting herself, assuring that it would be fixed; it would be alive once more.
Joseph watches with indifference as Cynda mourns her geistcatcher's rig. "For now," he replies to Raben, eyes still on the smoke- and tear-filled scene. "We need to warn travelers of the danger here. I'll find something. Let me know when she's...ready...to move that wagon off the bridge, 'an I'll lend a hand.
He fetches some rope from his pack, walks across the bridge, past the ruined rig, and begins to head off the trail. He pauses and turns to Uther and the newcomer. "Stranger, is your horse hardy? Care to come with me and move a few rocks? We need to warn others of the dangers below this bridge."
With few words, the men manage to find two midsize boulders by the river, hitch them to the horse with the rope, and drag them to either end of the bridge. They position them half on, half-off the right side of the road, with the flattest portion facing away from the crossing.
Satisfied with the placement, Joseph nuzzles the horse behind the ears and whispers to it; the animal champs and grunts in satisfaction. Then the ranger heads out, away from the trail, combing the hilly ground until he finds a large, fist-sized chunk of grayish-white chert. He returns to the far end of the bridge and raises the rock to the waist-high boulder, but pauses. He turns to Syd and Raben. "Someone want to do the honors?" he mutters, "My, uh, script isn't the best." He holds the stone out towards them.
Taking the blanche rock from the countryman, Raben writes in large bold lettering across both stones 'OOZES UNDER BRIDGE. BE QUICK TO PASS... ...OR NOT AT ALL'. "That should do it."
Early Departure..
The following event was a forlorn conversation. Cynda, the party's rogue and geist expert, was much too distraught over her ruined device. She insisted on returning to Nephalia and repairing her rig and could not be persuaded otherwise. She cared little for betraying or abandoning the Church in comparison to her overabundant regard for her machine. Fearing her travel alone, Raben insisted that someone should at least escort her part of the way. Uther volunteered for the task, stating he would also do well to warn village elders, as well as the clergy in Thraben, of this new danger beneath the bridge. He does not know if he would be seen as a dissenter for abandoning the mission, but he felt he would save more people by doing this, so he felt in the right.
With only three members, as well as the accompanying commoner, whom the party found to be named Threg after some conversation, and his horse, traveled across the moors. Not stopping for proper meals, the party maintained themselves with rations and their previously filled 'skins. Before naught, evening befalls the flat-marsh and envelopes the party's sight. The mist thickens and cools the air, creating the desires of comfort, to stop for the moment and pitch camp. Raben, however, insists the party trek on to make up time that has been lost due to previous events.
When the group parted ways, Joseph maintained a solemn, almost cold countenance. He mostly stood aside, keeping vigilant watch on the road and hills, as people said their goodbyes. His only contribution was a clap on the departing cathar's shoulder, and the words "Safe journey."
Once back on the road, the hunter seemed to walk a bit more lightly without the constant clatter of the geistcatching rig. While he still remained at the tail-end of the group, his march was much closer to the rest, almost beside the person in front of him. When night falls, however, a shadow seems to settle over the ranger's face. The moon, nearly opposite the setting sun, was an object of interest to him for nearly ten minutes after it crested the eastern hills; he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off it. At one point he grunts to himself, his appraisal complete, then pulls the coat flaps back from his shortswords, and pins them in place behind the scabbards. Without pausing, he reaches back and removes a leather-bound bundle from his quiver and unwraps it to reveal a handful of arrows, their tips glinting the color of the moon in the failing twilight. He gently slides each arrow into one side of his quiver, and stuffs the leather cloth into the space separating them from the other arrows. With renewed fervor he watches the surrounding lowlands, his eyes squinted in the dark so that the three scar-lines above his brow bulge monstrously, casting dark shadows across his forehead in the moonlight.
The Second Night
As the cloak of night blankets the Gavony sky, Threg, the accompanying traveler, seems to grow more and more anxious. His brow is slick with sweat and lips quivering. He scratches his wrists absentmindedly but at regular intervals, perhaps a nervous tick. A diligent person would notice he worriedly looks at the bright, shining silver moon every so often, ever so close to being full.
Joseph's intentioned gaze, normally focused far off into the distance, settles within the party. From behind Threg he carefully observes the newcomer's erratic behavior. "Hold a moment, cathar," he grumbles loudly. The hunter maintains purposed eye contact with Raben for a stern moment after it's made, then does the same with Syd, before continuing. He turns to Threg. "You look sick. Is the pace too much? You mentioned your soul felt heavy earlier today when you asked for the blessing."
Joseph fishes in his pocket for the moon pearl necklace found in the fox's den. He pulls it out and holds it towards the commoner. "Put this on," he says. The statement is forceful, with a hint of threat weaved into it. "It was my brother's. An' it has the blessing of Avacyn. Might make you feel at ease." Unblinking, he stares at Threg. "The chain is pure silver. Blessed by Father Halstead, himself, in Lambholt."
Raben nods in affirmation with the hunter, slowing to a halt. Threg at first still gazing absentmindedly, stares at the younger scarred boy once he notices the ranger's approach. Unastonished by the ranger's words, he pulls out his own chain from beneath his cloth. A bright, metal, mirror-like pendant hangs from a thin chain. "Have already got one, lad." A small smile irks on the left of his lips. "I do fear for myself, but it isn't what you think. E'eryone should be worried these nights."
"Suit yourself," Joseph replies, and pockets the necklace. He locks eyes with Raben, and when Threg turns away, the ranger places his hand upon the hilt of his sword, shoots a conspicuous glance at the peasant's back, then returns his gaze to the cathar. Then he shrugs.
Meanwhile..
Brief glimmers of touch light toss irregular patches of light against the path doing little to illuminate the way as a group of weary travelers trudge in the evening twilight. The caravan was small but imposing, it's humble group of a few merchants with a single chart blessed as it were by the presence of several armored guards who accompanied a heavily curtailed carriage. The group for the most part traveled in silence, their passage the creaking of wheels and the soft clump of hooves the only thing breaking the silence.
Walking between the two vehicles, a figure of cloaked peasant woman paused for a moment, looking up at the twilight sky as she took a deep breath. A breeze tugged at her cloak causing the hood to momentarily fall revealing a dirty face with uncanny blueish violet eyes and frazzled hair. Grasping the hood quickly, the young woman hurriedly pulled her hold forcefully back into place as the wind once against shifted and died.
The brief stench of something foul was her only warning to move quickly as she heard from behind her a muttered curse and The sounds of an armored rider, "The moon blight ye, woman! Move along or get out of the way!" Scrambling, the woman quickly darted to the side, glaring balefully at the guard before ducking her head, and walking quickly to catch up with the foremost cart keeping well away from the clearly nervous guards. A brief jog found her however in the more cordial company of Gleb the carts driver.
Keeping pace with the cart momentarily, she called up to Gleb, her voice soft and sweet like a child's, "Night time now? Sleep soon?"
"Aw, child, not yet. Soon, though. Boris be wanting to make the fork to take shelter around the shrine there. Keep your chin up, Nata, and it won't be much longer."
Falling behind the cart, the girl once more took her place in the procession. A momentary pant of regret filled her, but was quickly shaken off. The deception was a minor one but a necessary. Growing up in the slums under the care of the guardianship of the Abbey, she had learned one very important lesson. It didn't matter if they were man, were, or vampire, all men were thirsty for something. What they thirsted for varied, but the thirst remained the same and according to the Aunt's the only choice in a woman's life was to whether or not she got paid for providing for that thirst.
Of course there were ways that you could avoid being a victim of that thirst. The simplest and easiest she had found was to pretend to be sick, misshappened, insane, or stupid. Since no caravan in their right mind would take an invalid or a nut and faking a limp for the entire journey held no appeal as well as being a dubious deterrent at best, she had discussed the matter with Fillip before settling on her current deception. Besides, as of a late more and more people had begun to notice her, men in particular and it became apparent that all to soon the suggestions she take her place in the bower wouldn't be a suggestion at all.
The decision to leave had been easy and the decision to pretend to be "Nata" easier still. Gleb and the other men were nice enough to dimwitted, clumsy, curious Nata who was bound to Hanweir to sell her "Uncle's" wares and to find a job there especially since Boris owed Fillip a favor of some sort. Indeed Nata with her dirt, grime, and childlike innocence held very little interest to any of them, almost as if they were afraid her stupidity might be catching. Yet, the same could not be said for the beautiful, illegitimate, poor nobody Yesfir whose virtue was by birth dubious at best and whom nobody would certainly miss.
Pretending stupidity might be deception, but it was devotion she for one could very well live with especially since it would only have to last to Hanweir. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, "Nata" kept walking as she peered ahead to see if they were any closer to their destination for the night. In the dim light of twilight and glitches she could just barely catch the glimmer of distant torches as she silently picked up the pace, eager to rest for the night.
Melding of Paths
As fate would have it, these two traveling groups would approach one another at the next fork in the crossway. There is remnants of a would-be Avacynian shrine heading this area from Hanweir's direction. The ground has grown various weeds- bindweed, Shepherd's purse, Close-creepin' Clause- all intermingled like thatch-work weaving this once holy ground. The shrine, or where a shrine was- has been destroyed it seems, stones that once held the sacred shape of Avacyn's Collar now littered in a singular direction, as if a swift motion demolished the masonry. Broken rosaries, small cracked cups and bowls, and the glint of coin can be seen in the detritus.
The caravan that meets the troop is of two parts: one being an older peasant conducting a few ponies with a cart of various wares. A cloaked female figure walks beside this one. The other section consists of a furnished carriage, large and visibly obscured with sheets. An obtuse looking man holds the reigns of a draft horse with a scowl on his face as he notices the party's contingent. To armed men walk astride this cart with wielding torches, swords at their sides. On their backs one has a shield, the other a heavy crossbow. Unmarked armor glints in their firelight.
As Raben and his retinue near the carriage, the guardsmen assures with their position that no one unfamiliar get too near their charge. Just as well, as the party breathes the night air, a foul odor can be detected. It wafts lazily in the mist of the moors, almost mephitic.
Until now the ranger's eyes have stayed mostly on Threg, with diligent surveying of moonlit terrain to either side of the trail every few moments. With the arrival of the caravan, he seems torn. His focus has now shifted towards the oncoming group, and he's struggling to juggle his gaze between his prior to subjects of interest. Finally, he makes up his mind. Speeding up, he matches step with the cleric briefly. "Syd, watch for trouble on our flanks," he whispers. He nods towards Threg, not bothering to be subtle about it. "And him. I just got a bad feeling." He pauses, then reaches back to his quiver and pulls one of the newly revealed arrows, and hands it to the cleric. "In case you need it. Now, an' in the next few nights. The tip's blessed silver. Use it like a dagger if you have to."
Yanking the flaps of his duster down taut behind his shortswords, Joseph strides with confidence beside Raben. In this rare instance, he's not even a quarter-step behind the party's leader; he walks dead abreast of him, eying the caravan. "Careful with this one," he says in a low voice. "I've seen similar likes as these come down out of Getander Pass. An' there's a good chance we don't want no truck with who's in that wagon. Usually they just pass through, no trouble, when they're on the road, in plain sight."
As the two groups draw close, Joseph sniffs the air. His stony face doesn't budge from its stern poise. Joseph leans his head close to Raben and whispers, still watching the party on the other side of the road, "Whoever's in there ain't alive. I know the smell. An' there might be some alchemy at work behind them sheets as well. Be ready."
"Are you certain of this?" Raben asks, his eyes like daggers. At the mention of a smell, Raben too sniffs the air, resulting with a quizzical look. He then looks to the cart. The guards mean serious business, he gathers. And the carriage is on the higher side of make and fashion. Even the sheets drawn down are dangled with shiny metals across their seams. The wood, a stark, oily black, reflects the fires of the torches hellishly in the dark of night. "Should we stop them? I don't venture into Stensia often; I'll secede to your judgement, and have you told Syd of your suspicions?"
As the two groups pass the dismantled shrine, the peasant whistles. "That there.. can't be good. Tis much too past dark for omens like that. What you make of it, Nata? Bet you a gold sovereign Hanweir really is cursed."
The guardsmen astride the regaled carriage speak to each other in low, grunt voices. "Watch for the church-hat an' that hunter." "Aye. They got pryin' eyes." The carriage rider furls his overcoat closer to his body and clears his throat in a stately manner.
The hunter grunts in assent. "Certain as the hooves on that horse. There's scent of death in that carriage. Whether its rider still moves or not, I'd rather not find out. We've lost half our number today."
Joseph finally breaks his gaze and looks to Raben. "I only just realized, myself. If you want to let Syd know, I'll see what I can find out from them." He moves to break away, towards the other group, then pauses, looking back at the cathar. "Raben. Keep an eye on our new friend. He's got a queer way about him under this moon. An' it makes me nervous."
The ranger steps rapidly to lead the party, about three paces ahead. Well before reaching the lead cart, he waves a wide, sweeping greeting with his left hand. "Ho, driver!" his voice booms out. "Where are you headed this gloomy eve?"
As Joseph speeds up towards the fork's merging, Raben slows down to walk astride their cleric of Goldnight. "Syd, Joseph suspects foul play from the carriage in the rear. He smells death in the air. He wasn't clear as to what exactly he suspects, but I believe he supposes a vampire or ghouls. Keep your Collar close."
The ranger's voice echoes in the darkness past the balmy glow of the myriad of torches. A voice calls out barely above a shout. It is older in sound and jovial in connotation. "Best be quiet out in these lands, friend, lest ya' wake the dead." The carriage creaks and whines closer and its details become clearer. A balding man with bony wrists holds reigns. A small oil lamp is held up on a rod in front of the driver's seat. The man is smiling, lifting jowls that have just begun to wrinkle and droop with age. His cart is worn but functional. In the burning light you can see various crates and boxes filled with all manner of market goods. A feminine figure walks besides it to the driver's left, thoroughly cloaked with only shadow under the hood. "We are headed down south the crossway, sir."
As the two groups reach the junction, Joseph slows to a halt, and grasps his blessed silver from his neck and holds it up in greeting. "As are we." He nods forward, indicating the Stensian carriage and guards behind the two figures before him. "Do you all share the same destination?"
Underneath her cloak, "Nata" grimaced thinking that all they needed, or at least she needed was a bunch of noisy travelers. Boris wouldn't like this not one bit, he barely tolerated "Nata's" seemingly innocent questions before she learned to leave well enough alone. Deciding to keep close to Gleb, the cart driver until the tension eased, she let a plaintive whine build up in her throat. "Nata tired. Up, up. Ride now please.". Holding up a hand at the stilled cart, she attempted to clamber aboard next to Gleb, her momentarily falling from her mud caked from as she did so. Pulling her hold back up, she then began to hum a child's ditty about broken altars, her wary eyes observing the three strangers from beneath the hood gauging their intent and what threat they posed from their posture and weapons.
The cart, now within abreast of the ranger, has a dusty, aged mahogany scent to it. The driver looks down over the side to Joseph and says a bit more discreetly. "Don't care too much for them. Not too friendly. Me thinks they go to Thraben." He looks on down the northern path and sees the rest of Joseph's party. "Little late to be on foot. We'll be resting soon. Nata's already complainin'." He says nodding to the woman. "You are welcome to camp with us."
Letting Suspicions Grow, Letting the Suspicious Go
An instant passed, followed by another, and another after that. A torrent of information washed over him, and all of a sudden everything was right in the world. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. The realization creeping through that despite all his claims of wanting to live in a world of peace, this was an individual that thrived off of chaos.
“I must apologize for the Ranger’s manners.” - he told the man he’d blessed not too long ago. “He can be overeager and seems to lack much of a filter. I can assure you those of us with the church bear no ill will towards men who have not slighted us.” - he said, hoping to defuse a situation before one began. After giving Threg a polite nod, Syd looked to Joe, rushing ahead to grill those ahead and massaged his forehead in mild irritation, letting loose a mild sigh of frustration and a hint of resignation. Finally, he approached Raben and, keeping his voice down, made a few remarks about the situation ahead.
Raben listens to Syd's comments intently, a scowl slightly growing above his chin. He hated the undead. Well, he hated anything that preyed on humans. But this exact situation has been clouded with the suspicions of his two companions, which to Raben, was no mere coincidence- that ornate carriage held some sort of dread beast.
Joseph considers a moment, leaning to get a good look at the other group behind the cart. He looks up to the two in the seat above him. "I don't lead this group. But I'll fetch the cathar who does." Seeing Joseph engage with others so freely and willingly is odd. In this context, with strangers under a full moon, it seems to come naturally to the hunter, as if he's an actor following a well-memorized script.
"Cathar!" he says loudly enough for Raben to hear. "These two are bound for Hanweir. It might do well if we travel together." Joseph looks up to the driver and lowers his voice slightly. "I'll try to get your unfriendlies on their way to Thraben. You might need to guide your cart to the side of the road a bit."
As if on cue, Raben's title is called out from the fork's merging. He quickens his pace to meet with the ranger, hearing the comment about the suspect carriage heading to the High City. ..can I allow that risk? "Forgive my companion's rashness. My name is Myles Raben. We also make way for Hanweir." Is it worth my or compatriots' lives should we fail? "We will be seeking to camp soon. The moon is high and nigh full. Perhaps we should rest together; safety in numbers." Is it worth what could be done to Thraben should I let them pass?
Joseph looks back to the group. "Stay clear of this next one." He steps a few paces down the road, next to the cart, waves and shouts to the carriage and its contingent, "Hoy there! Feel free to pass and continue on. We have business with these travelers." He clamps his hand onto the side of the cart for emphasis. "Mind the crossing over the Kirch. There's danger beneath the bridge."
The two ponies pull the older, worn cart forward south on the crossway, past the destroyed Avacynian shrine. The larger, draped carriage lulls before Joseph. The stench grows in intensity. The rider's left brow raises as he hears the ranger's caution and speaks in a pompous tone, "Sundfred, show our gratitude towards the man's words." He tightens his robes around his body, seemingly cold, and clears his throat rather ostentatiously. Sundfred, presumably, reaches into a shadowed portion of his body and reaches his closed hand to the wary ranger, letting go a couple of coins. "Right then," he snorts.
Each of the voices have a heavy Stensia accent. As they pass, turning north towards the High City of Thraben, the driver and guards' eyes peer sharply at each of the party members.
Joseph pockets the coins and nods. "Have fire at the ready. We torched one of the things, but the others fled under the bridge." Stepping well off the road, he watches carefully as the procession passes. With his eyes still fixed on the fluttering torches in the distance, he approaches Raben. "If we're lucky," he says in a low, tense voice, "the oozes will get that wagon as well. Let's put some distance between us an' them before we stop--if we choose to stop."
An air of weariness washes over the ranger, his frame slumping slightly. He walks to the side of the road, slightly away from the group, and resumes his silent watch. Whenever his gaze sweeps north, along the road to Thraben, his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
"Glad to be rid of them, aren't we, Nata?" The man's speech is slow and more rural compared to the aristocratic tenor of the previous voices, but still thick with Stensian's sharp use of consonants. "And that smell! By Markov! Who knows what they had."
The guards' arrogant looks and intonations were every bit as pervasive as the foul stench the cart carried. And yet, as the carriage brushed past Syd and its occupants looked down their nose in his direction, the Cleric retained his moderate pace, and despite the assailing of his senses, his was characteristically the very face of stoic serenity. The young Blackmore made no attempts to inspect or peer into it, nor did he bother with the moral implications of his actions. Ever the practical man, it went without saying that not every problem in the world was to be his jurisdiction. Instead, his immediate concern was the loss of party members and the seemingly ever-increasing number of complete strangers that joined their travel.
As such, he lagged behind, giving the old man and girl duo a wide berth and keeping everyone and everything in the parties, new and old in clear field of view. "Ranger!" - he calls, noticing Joe approaching the side of the road, presumably readying himself to go scout ahead - "I would like a word, if you don't mind."
Joseph glances to Syd, then gives one last survey of the faint, moon-splashed wilderness around him. Then he walks over to the cleric. "What is it, Syd?" he says quietly.
Pulling Joe aside, the two engage in a hushed conversation, that is neither short nor long, a ways away from the rest. Whatever happened, some difference in opinion seemed to occur. As to what said difference pertained to, neither seemed particularly keen on divulging. But, when everything appeared to have been said, the duo made their way back into the fold.
"Apologies for my lack of manners" - the priest stated upon returning to the group - "But it would seem that the Ranger and I are currently in disagreement in regards to our assignments and now have to defer to the good Cathar to be the tie breaker. If you'll excuse us." With repeated apologies, Syd would now lead Raben away from the group, effectively replacing him with Joseph. Once again, the Priest would enter into a short-lived hushed discussion.
The hunter stands and watches Syd leave. Then he stares down the north road for a moment; the tiny torches are twinkling just at the edge of sight. Cinching the straps of his pack while giving himself a slight bounce, he turns to head towards the cart. At the driver's side he looks up, squinting against the lantern light. "Gleb, is it? You got a spare shortbow in that cart? I got coin for it. Our party recently split up an' some gear got mixed up before they left."
Wrinkling her nose at the stench one last time, "Nata" ceased her humming briefly to respond to Gleb. "Cabbages and cheeses make guards cranky because they had to hold their noses all time." Impersonating the lofty look of one of the men they had traveled with, Nata laughed. "Nata glad they gone. Strangers new friends now?"
Her words, if not her manner, were honest. She was glad the carriage with whatever fiend was well gone, but she was still unsure about these new men. Sure they seemed if not harmless, disinterested enough that they posed little threat at the moment, but that could change on a whim. Especially since their group was larger enough and heavily armed enough that a merchants cart posed neither threat or challenge. It was best to be Wary until they revealed their true colors as all men did.
"Oh, it is fine," Gleb waves a hand dismissively as the Goldnight cleric and the ranger walk off. He chortles at Nata's remarks. "That is right, young lass. But aw, no worries. They should be friends. They be of the Church! Not many proper church folk around in the valleys of the Reach. And uhh," he looks back to Joseph. "No, no. No weapons here. We've traveled with them lot for their guards. But I do have one of these." He turns his back, reaching into the cart, and promptly turning around with a torch. This torch however, is made in the shape of Avacyn's collar, with thin, silver bands lining the wood.
Joseph shakes his head. "Keep it. The moon's enough light for me this night." He turns his head. "Cathar, what's our course tonight?" he bellows. "Whatever you decide, I say we get to moving now and put travel time between us an' that stench. We can talk about it on the road."
He moves to one of the ponies and pats it firmly a few times on the side, then starts rubbing the underside of its neck. It snorts with approval. "How much more road can you two manage?" he says loudly, then looks up meaningfully at the cart's occupants; the question was meant for the people, not the steeds.
Having rejoined the group, Syd is greeted by the sight of a familiar torch. Instinctively, the cleric traces Avacyn's collar in the air, and the divine power coursing through him almost seems to resonate with the item in Gleb's hand. "It's been a little while since I've seen one of these things... Reminds me of home." - the cleric says amicably, offering up a polite smile and nod of greetings.
"I got it in hopes I wouldn't have to use it. Thankfully, those guards were good guards. Must be high priced." He puts it back into its secure space. "I reckon but one hour more. Even with this torch, we shouldn't test the Moorlands."
Having returned to the group alongside Syd, Raben answers Joseph, "We move on past the shrine. It isn't not safe here, for certain. A half-hour's walk, no more, and we'll settle for camp. Nothing can be helped. The only settlement near is Hanweir itself, which is still a day's away." Raben speaks with a troubled mind. He has now heard much information from his remaining two companions, more than he could've gathered alone. Thank you, Father, for sending a group with me this time around. As much as he despised it, it was not his exact task to deal with whatever threat the Stensian carriage contained. He's learned that his retinue no longer suspect a vampire, but that the carriage contained some mage of necromancy or necro-alchemy. Hopefully, a gate guard would uncover the heathen scholar.
They could not rest here. As Syd had pointed out, grave bramble covered the lands near the broken shrine. They'd have to travel beyond its reach. Both Syd and Joseph have expressed great concern of their passenger, Threg, who grows more and more anxious as the moon grows full. They fear, at worst, he is a lycanthrope. Tomorrow, the moon will show its full face. Not wanting to risk the possibly of testing his silver blade against Threg's skin, only then, when they arrive in Hanweir, will they be able to tell.
The Night Beyond the Fork and the Bramble
Half an hour, dreadful and tiresome, the party walks on. They arrive in a crevice in the land, a small cliff with a gnarled tree at its base. Here is where Raben decides the parties should stop. A fire is made, and Gleb merrily treats the band to a jug of water and dried lamb strips. Once finished, he sets up a sort of station with blankets on the seat of his carriage and lets Nata take it, climbs onto the cart. Snores are heard within seconds. After a brief word with Joseph about his current state, Threg places his pack against his horse, and lays his head down.
As the camp settles down to sleep, Joseph stands. "I'll do the first shift alone, before people get to sleeping too deep." He turns to Raben. "I'll wake you when it's time." He buttons his duster up on the front and takes up a spot just outside the firelight, using his pack for a backrest. His bow and quiver lay neatly at his side.
When it's time to wake Raben, he drags his pack and gear closer to the fire, near the tree. When he wakes the cathar, the soldier wearily drags himself from his bedroll; he seems to have gotten little sleep during his rest. The two take up spots under the tree, a short distance apart, and sit in silence for most of the night. A crow noisily stoops in from the dark, lighting on a bony, finger-like branch of the bare tree above, its eyes reflecting the firelight with a sinister red sheen. It lets loose a startling caw that echoes against the cliff like a distant death knell. Joseph's attention breaks as he looks up. Then he stares for a moment at Raben, who didn't seem to notice the bird. The group's leader looks troubled as he peers through the darkness to the north.
"Probably just a body being sent to the blessed grafs," the ranger says gently, jolting the cathar out of his reverie. "People'll hold onto a dead relative for weeks trying to secure burial in Thraben."
Raben looks at Joseph. "What if it wasn't?"
"It ain't got a chance against all those coneys in Thraben," the ranger says, beaming a genuine smile that seems out of place on his face. The joke and jovial tone was unexpected; Raben cracks a slight smile against his will. "Raben, those walls'll be the last standing, should Innistrad fall. An' as of a week or two ago, even Lambholt was still holding strong. Thraben can take care of itself this week. Us three, on the other hand..." He lets the words trail off into the darkness. The crow rustles its feathers in the tree above.
When the watch shift changes again, Joseph remains at the tree while Raben wakes Syd. The ranger seems unaffected by the lack of sleep; if anything, he seems ever the more at ease, much more comfortable here than he was leaning against the wall outside the chapel in Thraben a few days ago. When Syd takes his place next to Joseph, the bird belches out another toll. Joseph grabs a pebble and tosses it upwards at the thing, which simply flaps its way to another spindly branch, its red eyes glowing in defiance from between the gnarled shadows of wood. When the bird caws again, after nearly an hour's silence, Joseph speaks up, his eyes still piercing the ethereal, moonlit landscape around him. "So how'd a holy man such as you end up with a geistcatcher and her rig at your side? Ain't the church against that sort of thing?"
This had not been the greatest night's sleep the Priest had ever had. His mind had been racing, industrial amounts of adrenaline coursed through his veins, and quite frankly the snoring was a little disconcerting to boot. But, rest was a necessity and so, after a great deal of mentally tossing and turning, his eyes finally shut and the embrace of sleep overtook him. Before long, he was awoken. It had been the intended time and, as agreed, the Ranger had taken the first two watches. It was now his turn, and he'd be damned if he was going to let anything slip by this time. As the cogs in his brain began to run once more at full tilt, Syd took a deep breath and inspected his surroundings, crow, tree and all, only to be halted by Joseph's question. A beat of silence followed the question, undisturbed by even the feral looking bird itself. Once it had passed, Syd let out a couple of soft chuckles, and finally began.
"The Elgaud Grounds..." - he spoke, hints of reminiscence tugging at the corners of his eyes - "seem to be particularly adept at raising two types of people. Zealots, who make it their mission to strike the enemies of the Church and Man down wherever they may roam, and Heroes, who believe from the bottom of their hearts that they were put on this Land to save it..." Another instance of quiet. "Heroics aren't my style, and frankly, Zealotry just feels like too much work. And, without those two lifestyles to take up your every waking hour, suddenly there’s time to realize that a lot of people out there have what some might call… extenuating circumstances. And all you really get from punishing them for it at every step of the way is the very aggression and rebellion you’re trying to avoid. They're called self-fulfilling prophecies, or so I’m told. You can’t help everyone, but every now and again it doesn’t hurt to offer the benefit of the doubt.”
"So what were her circumstances?" Joseph asks. "An' what about them--or her--made you follow her halfway across Innistrad to get tangled up with some secret plot of the High Church?"
"Her family was... met with some unfortunate events. They were acquaintances of my folks, and so when I was tasked by the church to come out here, I asked her to tag along. That piece of machinery reminded her of better times, and I couldn't bring myself to take it away." - he spoke, calm and collected as always, but with hints of nostalgia peeking through. "And yourself? What brought you to the capital all by your lonesome, to take up the mantle of a church that doesn't sign your wages?"
The hunter looks down, kicks at something in the dusty gravel, and looks back out into the darkness. "A favor for The Old Man. A friend." After a long, awkward silence, he clears his throat. "He's part of a group. Not sure what you'd call 'em. Militia, maybe. They're all farmers with land along the Hairpin. 'The Gatekeepers' they call themselves."
Joseph looks at Syd gravely. "We call ourselves. Me an' my two brothers are training. The Old Man's raised us for forever." The ranger's eyes go back to sweeping the hills. "The farmers and their kids take it in turns to patrol the Hairpin and keep travelers safe from the vampires. The Falkenrath, mainly. The other families don't bother no one. 'Bout a month ago, the alarm was raised. A group of Avacynian monks, heading out of Stensia, got hit during a storm. On their way back to Thraben. It was a new moon, so the old man went out alone, with only one other Gatekeeper. Jeff Jacobsen, about a mile down the road. Only it wasn't no rogue Falkenrath they went against. It was a howlpack. ****in' werewolves. On the Hairpin. The Old Man barely made it back with the monks in tow. Jeff didn't. Neither did two of the monks' cathars. "It shook him up. It shook us all up. When the monks wanted escort to Thraben, he asked for a place in the blessed grafs for trade. For when his time came. They said it would cost the escort, plus help with 'a church matter.' My brothers weren't ready to go. I guess I was."
"We live in troubled times." - the holy man said, acknowledging the Ranger's story, but not remarking further. He'd never been a man of too many words, after all. "Get some rest, if you can." he instructed, despite knowing the Ranger would have no time for sleep, as he made himself more comfortable and prepared to see his watch through.
As the first rays of sunshine pierced through the darkened sky, the gnarled crow left its perch and took to the sky. Not too long after the Ranger moved to tend to the newcomers' ponies, leaving the Cleric there to with the last few dying embers of the campfire at his feet, signalling the end of a particularly long and arduous day. Rested, the young Blackmore then took to his feet, stretching his tense muscles and taking in yet another big breath charged with morning dew. Hanweir stood at the end of this new day's journey. And whatever followed seemed to promise not to be dull.
The sun rises over the deltas of Nephalia, illuminating the foggy marsh of the moors in a pastel orange that fades in intensity into pale yellow light. The rest of the two parties begin to stir in their makeshift beds and wake. Happily, Gleb offers feed for each of the horses and procures a glass jar with a greenish liquid and some sort of edible inside. He opens the lid, a sharp vinegar smell assaulting your sinuses. He begins reciting how difficult it is to many foods in the peat-dirt of Stensia, but water-filled vegetables, such as these do just fine. "They have been flavoring since I started this trek. Should be nice and pickled now."
With a small breakfast, the two parties, Raben and his crew along with Threg, and Gleb and his ward, start their journey once again. They should reach Hanweir by the time the sky begins to darken, if all goes well, giving them the opportunity to rest up before they start their investigation proper.
With yet another wagon in tow, not even a full day after the other had departed, Joseph's position in the file is once again at the tail-end and slightly detached from the group. He doesn't seem to mind this vehicle so much as the last, however. Though he had hardly said a word to either Gleb or Nata, he took particular interest in preparing their ponies for the day while letting the two sleep undisturbed, and went so far as to make a cursory inspection of their cart's wheels and axles after it was hitched up for the journey. In the waxing daylight, he's also a bit less on edge; his coat flaps dangle loosely around his waist, obscuring his weapons from view and from grasp. But strangely enough, for someone who hasn't slept all night, his grim, scar-covered face doesn't bear any sign of weariness. The hunter is ever vigilant on watch as he brings up the rear of the group.
Rising with the sun was one of the few habits she had never quite manage to break, so "Nata" rose early, glad enough that so far these new men seemed more or less inclined to leave her and Gleb alone as well as the simple repast Gleb had prepared. Still it would be best to keep a safe distance from them and not attack their attention. Humming a mixture of childish nonsense songs and bawdy tavern ditties under her breath, she did her part to get the cart moving on its way as she determined to stay close to Glen for the day.
The Third Day of Travel: Hanweir by Night
Most of this travel is both southward in direction and downward in elevation, as the lands of and near Kessig are naturally below the moors and Gavony in general. The ground surrounding you seems more earthy, greener, and signs of more verdant life such as small groves and copses. You can see elk, boar, and other hardy animals within these small troves of live nature. Looking to the horizon, the canopy of the Ulvenwald dominates most of your vision. Hours pass, peaceful and undisturbed, but around midday Gleb raises the question of stopping to eat. He understands as militant folk, the cathar and his retinue can go on without, but he and Nata are peasantry and don't forgo the pain of hunger when unnecessary.
Up ahead, the lookout of a smaller watchtower comes into view. As the party moves along Angel's way, the path has a small route that veers of in the tower's direction. Gleb makes the suggestion of eating within its cover. Joseph is quick to refute, however, stating he'd much rather drive the cart himself than stop more than ten-minute's time. He is worried about their current timing: as it is, they'll meet Hanweir by night- a night of the full moon- and he was wary of a certain tag-along.
You hear a vulgar caw as a crow flies by; startlingly close, like a knife against your skin. It flaps its ruddy wings ahead. As you near this tower, its base comes into view. A few trees dot immediate perimeter, and a few wagons are parked at its northern wall. Chests, crates, and sacks are organized neatly against this outer wall. It would all seem in its place and inconspicuous, but a startling phenomenon has overtaken this small structure of order: on every edge of its construction, a crow is perched. In its open and broken windows, along its rafters, in the trees' branches, on the wagons' wheels and frames. All in utter silence.
Another caw. This time, from one of the myriad of carrion. It echoes deep within your bones, nestling with the trepidation that grows in the pit of your stomach.