Calwen was completely thunderstruck when she saw all the paintings of the strangely similar woman. Anyone who chose Shelyn as a patron and then saw this would be. She stared at the paintings. Such emotion. Such devotion. Such love. She hardly realized the woman or the scenes themselves, with the passion of the paintings of the ever repeating motive it was like staring into the sun.
At Abner's outburst she realizes her mistake. Had she known how similar she was to that woman, that it was he who had cared about her and not Markham (even though Markham had referred to her as "my Bel") she had been considerably more careful in her approach. Now what? Should she act like she was Bel in order to avoid hurting him? Or be honest about it? Every other ends became secondary to Calwen for the moment.
She kneeled down opposed him. Her armoured gloves ran through her hair and held a streak closer to his eyes. "Mister Dagwood, I am so very sorry. But I am not Bel, my name is Calwen. Do you see my hair? Unlike the woman on the paintings I am a blonde." She took his hands softly into hers to help him stop them from shaking. What had Bel been thinking when she left someone who cared so deeply, anyway? It was not like standing true to a human meant sacrificing a life time. This was not right.
"My duties as a Knight of the White Rose brought me to this village and I heard that Markham was asking for me. This is why my comrades and I came here. I will do what I can to find out about her once my duties have been attended to, so Shelyn help me. You... if it helps you, I would not mind if you called me Bel."
She waited a bit and hoped he would calm down, so she could help him. "Dalton, do you have a sharp knife or do you see scissors? I want to cut a streak of my hair off."
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Bacarov is gesturing with a nod of his head to the others when Abner makes his declarations. "If he let's us keep the door open, someone post up in the doorway. One more eye out for Markham can't hurt."
He makes his way to the door, coming to the conclusion that he'd remain Calwen's silent partner for now. Too many strings plucking away only caused dischordia. But he would at least introduce himself as proper to the elder homeowner.
Bacarov waits for Calwen's interaction, not wanting to inflame an already sensitive moment. Once am opportunity presents itself he makes introductions.
"Apologies, Master Dagwood, for the interruption to your afternoon." He offers a hand if Abner comes within sight/range. "I am Sebastian Bacarov, an inspector from the city. My company and I are here in response to Mayor Kreigler's call for assistance." Bacarov gestures to the others in turn. "This is Inspector Warshawski, Officer Jodare..." He pauses and waves to the remaining two. "And I see you've made the acquaintance of Calwen and Dalton. We meant to have discussion with your son, I hope we're not intruding."
As he speaks and makes introductions, he surreptitiously inspects the house for clues and items that stand out.
(covering my survey of house)
Dalton merely blows his nose, looking extremely uncomfortable. The monk felt just as dumbstruck by Abner's declaration as Calwen, but the elf was handling the situation with her normal aplomb. At her request, he wordlessly produces a knife that was tucked against his wrist in his sleeve, handing it over to her with a nod of respect. I'm glad I don't have to offer up any hair... he thinks to himself with a wry inward smile.
After a quick scan of the area, you don't notice anything particularly unusual. It occurs to you that this is the only home in Ravenmoor this far out into the wilds; that might further your expectation that the Dagwoods may have separated themselves from the rest of the town for a reason. Also, the ever-present buzzing of insects is far more prevalent here than in town, and that's saying something. You half expect a stirge to come flying out from around the corner at any moment.
- - - -
Inside the Dagwood cabin, Abner Dagwood stares, wide-eyed, at Calwen. He takes the offered lock of hair and examines it with nothing less than reverence.
"Not my Beliandral..." he whispers hoarsely. "...Well. I 'pologize. Musta- musta been blinded by yer beauty, 'was all. I get... confused..." He rises uneasily to his feet and smiles, a measure of calm restored to him. "Anyhoo..." He seems a little embarassed. "...Movin' right along..."
He looks up at the rest of the party and shakes each proffered hand.
"I had no idea Markham had so many friends runnin' around," he says. "I worry for my boy sometimes. He seems so... antisocial, don't he? Real shame. Him an' little Andretti used to get along pretty well, but they don't talk no more, I hear. An' then his wife... well, less said 'bout that, the better, eh? So it's real good to see him with a social circle, eh?" He gestures to the sitting area across from the kitchen. "Y'all make yerselves comfortable. Help yerselves if y'want a drink from the kitchen. Can I interest y'all in anythin' else?" He winks. "Wanna buy a fine Ravenmoor paintin'?"
Dalton smiles with relief when Abner composes himself. His order drilled into him from a very young age how important it was to revere and respect your elders, and Abner definitely qualifies - it would have been very unfortunate if he was truly mentally incompetent. Wishing to show appreciation for his host's hospitality, he pulls out a rough wooden chair from the kitchen table and takes a seat, resting his elbows on the table.
"I wish our business were as simple and straightforward as patronage of the arts," the monk begins. "Your paintings are indeed of a rare beauty and quality. Unfortunately, our business here in Ravenmoor is..." he searches briefly for the right words, pausing. "far less pleasant. Is Markham in?"
Dramin awkwardly shakes the man's hand, seeing his reaction to Calwen. "Jodare." He tries to spy any of the paintings that Dalton mentions to see if it matches up with the one he saw earlier, in style or substance.
Talk about a change of scenery from that incessant buzzing outside.
Abner smiles at Dalton and waves a dismissing hand. "Aw, Markham'll be back any time now. It don't take but a half-hour to circle 'round an' check all the traps. Maybe he'll invite y'all back fer dinner! Rabbit stew, likely! Better'n them stirge-sausages they're servin' at the Festival." He sighs sadly. "Then again... in a way, I kinda miss them sausages. Ain't had one in years... Ain't even seen the Festival Grounds for a long, long time now."
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Bacarov receives the offer of seating graciously. He studies the old man as he gestures and speaks. Having not responded to the announcement of their mission piques his interest. Are you happy to hear of our arrival, Master Dagwood? Or do you not bother to care with life so far removed here in the forest?
(ugh)
He tries to get a read on the man, but the incessant buzzing outside is gnawing at his mind. More buzzing...could this be a nest of those buggers from the basement? Bacarov slips a glance Warshawski's way, then to Dramin. A touch to his ear and a look outdoors. As if to say, 'Hear those bugs?'
Then his gaze is drawn to the paintings. The elf woman depicted has a haunting resemblance to Calwen. Bacarov wonders at it as he looks at the paintings in a new light. His eyes, oddly apt at the art, not so much at other sights. Perhaps near-sighted...maybe something else.
His mind drifts for a moment, thinking of an old case two summers passed. It had been hotter than usual in Magnimar with tempers flaring to match. But they're had been a man - well, a Fetchling really - who'd been in the practice of carving the likenesses of his victims out of obsidian. Later, he'd found the carvings had been a way for the Fetchling's master to communicate to his servant. A ritual carving to point towards the intended target.
Bacarov looks at the paintings, the love and care put into them. The way both Dagwoods seemed to be looking for 'Bel'. Not looking...waiting.
If no, then Bacarov will cast it to sense for anything active here.
As his thoughts turn over, Bacarov continues the conversation. "Ahh yes, the festival. Mayor Kreigler has said we should make an effort to attend..." The phrase is said in passing as he studies the paintings and nods appreciatively. "I must say, Master Dagwood, your paintings are striking. I'm not surprised at an offer of commission from Ustalav. These colors and the passion, those folks up there find uplifting power in such images."
He smiles and scratches at his chin, eyes cast upwards in memory for a moment. "There is a man I know in Magnimar who appreciates this masterful style very much. If it's not a bother I'll mention your work to him."
His topics are like a boxer's jabs, testing the enemy's defenses. If the old man knows anything about Ustalav, maybe he'll bite. Or perhaps he might let slip a name in Magnimar. Someone Bacarov has heard of that can add dimension to the old man.
Calwen found these serious mood swings very disorienting. A streak of her hair would probably no longer be needed and she'd rather not give anything which may be used against her by someone who knew the ways of magic.
She took a moment to compare the paintings. The sceneries varied greatly, some of them pleasant, but not all of them. She tried to find out whether the woman - Beliandra - did different things or had a different expression in different scenes. She also looked for close up portraits to get a better impression of the face.
She would gladly buy such a painting. They were not only good, they would help finding out about her. But she'd rather discuss that right now. And to find out about who she is they'd better wait for Markham.
Something was wrong. Or maybe I just didn't want to be in an enclosed space again so soon after the basement. The sound of buzzing set my teeth on edge. The old man wasn't really focused on me anyway. Between Bacarov and Calwen and the others he wouldn't even notice if I was gone.
I stepped back and then slipped outside. Time to walk around the perimeter of the house. See what there was to see.
For the first few minutes of your patrol, you see nothing of interest- aside from spotting where Marsh has hidden himself away in the brush; you also notice Dio's tail dangling idly from the tree branch where he has parked himself up above. Perhaps the local spirits are guiding your eyes, or maybe you just feel like yourself again after getting back into the open, but you seem particularly attuned at this time.
That is probably why you are able to spot a hulking humanoid figure approaching from several hundred yards away, deep into the moor. The figure is still too far away to make out many details, but it seems obvious to you who is approaching.
Oh, and there's a boar the size of a grizzly bear marching alongside him.
Neither man nor beast appears to have noticed you as of yet.
As you hide within the brush, keeping your eyes peeled on your surroundings, you get the impression that something is coming. You sense movement coming from a few hundred yards to the East, deeper into the moor. You can't make out who or what, but you can tell from the movement of the brush in the distance that something is approaching.
As you examine the paintings closely, you begin to pick up a number of small details of note. The woman in the paintings, presumably Beliandral, does indeed bear some resemblance to you; it may just be because it is a painting, but the curve of Beliandral's jawline, the shape of her nose and ears, the alabaster skin, and even her eyebrows are close enough to your own that you again get the impression that she could almost be related to you. Of course, the inky hair is rather opposed to your own... and then there are her eyes. No matter how her expression varies from painting to painting- serene, seductive, wistful- there is a strange vacancy in her eyes, as if she is not really there. The eyes are as black as her hair, and while there is a beauty to them, they are also strangely discomforting. The most provocative of the paintings is the one in which she is depicted embracing some human lover, and even there she seems oddly dispassionate as she "lovingly" bites down on her companion's neck.
You then begin to notice another common theme in the paintings- what might at first seem to be some sort of random splat of paint were it not apparent across every image. You can almost hear a buzzing in your ears as you spot more and more of them hidden in the paintings: tiny, winged shapes. Mosquitoes, perhaps.
- - - -
"The Festival? Li'l Andy tell you that, did he? Well... I can vouch for it bein' a good time. Pig wrasslin's the best part, I tell ya! Good times... daggum good pig wrassler in my day. An' good money to be made on them Raven Fights."
Abner seems particularly pleased with the compliments regarding his art. "I thank'ye for the compliments, kind sir. That Ustalav order s'rpised the heck outta me. I ain't never been there, but somehow or another word got out. I guess they like them dark colors... or maybe they jus' appreciate my muse, eh? My Bel..." He trails off and his eyes linger on the paintings a moment, and a deep sadness lingers on his expression. "Tell y'the truth, I jus' put the brush in m'hands and let my fingers wander where they will. 'Till I found my muse, I warn't no good at paintin', no sirree. But that woman... she awakened somethin' in me. Woke up all my potential. Showed me the way, that's what she did." His voice trails off yet again, and for a moment he is quiet. His fingers seem to twitch a bit.
The silence is broken by a sudden hiss as the concoction brewing in the kitchen spills over. Abner seems to snap out of his trance and makes his way, with some difficulty, to the kitchen to cut the heat. "Daggum, Markham musta put the heat up too high... Then again, guess that means he'll be home shortly, don't it?"
"I never would have thought Stirges would have enough meat on them to produce a proper sausage..." the monk wonders aloud, his gaze wandering idly from painting to painting. "Still, it doesn't not sound much stranger than some of the delicacies offered in the street stalls of Manaket. Rabbit stew sounds delicious. I and my companions from a different venture to this one often found that rabbit was our most consistently delicious menu item. The little creatures can survive in many varied and seemingly inhospitable places, we have found, to our great benefit."
He consciously lets go of his restrictions on garrulous monologuing when he sees his inspector friends wanting to slip away and investigate without being studied. Best keep Abner's attention focused on my wandering tales, Dalton thinks to himself.
"I only began traveling with these good lawmen and women from Magnimar very recently, you see. Prior to my association with them, I was a wandering adventurer pursuing interests of a more personal nature. My order - known as the Mahaparat, following the Way of Mankind - place great importance on a person's journey to find their own path. Indeed, there are few men and women of my age at the monastery; most of the inhabitants of the Abbey and the surrounding pah-rens are children, and those whose age prevents them from further exploring the world. In this way, children are given a safe and secure place to grow and hone the skills that they need, and then sent off to test the lessons that their senseis have taught them. I have no siblings there, or family of my own," the monk's voice grows faintly wistful, "as I was an orphan, abandoned at the Abbey steps by a traveling merchant who said that I was the whelp of one of his caravan-followers. So you see, I come from humble beginnings. I am very thankful to the Order for providing a life in which I could grow up into adulthood without fear."
The monk continues on in this gently wandering, meandering, meaningless manner until Abner or events interrupt.
Dramin listens to the monk tell some tales. This is the most he has ever heard come out of his mouth and the wizard relished it and didn't speak. Instead he focused on the paintings on the wall and the smell coming from the kitchen, he didn't think the monk was sheepish but Dramin's intense and analytical gaze usually did change the way people acted. Best just ride this one out then.
Something was coming out of the woods. Well, someone. And that someone big and the boar next to him was even bigger. I could feel the tension but shouting an alarm felt premature. Not everything in this horrible town had to be hostile.
"Hello!" I shouted across the distance. The noise should be enough to alert the others inside. I raised my hand in greeting.
Looking at the paintings felt strange. Beliandral was so strangely familiar, almost as though it was not a different woman, but a dark side of herself. Calwen wondered what the woman was what that woman's eyes truly saw.
She was no investigator and she did not try to analyze the situation but instead catch the emotions in the art, get a feeling for everything. And that feeling was that something was somehow amiss and highly disturbing. What had that woman been about? What drove her, what did she feel? Calwen was almost tempted to talk to the paintings.
"I would feel honoured if you sold me one, once all of this is over." She left open what she meant by 'all of this'. She remarked quietly, trying to not interrupt anyone. "It almost seems like your muse was still with you, alive as these paintings are."
When the pot boiled over she interfered, tried to level the flames a bit opened the lid and stirred the "stew".
When she heard Warshawski's call she prepared herself innerly and stepped out to the human woman. "That must be your son..." Calwen was the explanation for their presence, so it would be better to not leave Warshawski alone with it if Markham came around and she was not sure how Windmane would react to Markham. Maybe they finally would get some answers as to who that woman was. "I'll rather greet him outside, lest we provoke another, all too strong reaction." She waits by the door however, so that Warshawski may give her a sign whether or not the situation is under control.
Marsh hears something approaching. He tries to remain still and wait for whatever is coming to reveal itself.
Then Warshawski calls out to whomever it must be.
Marsh lets his forehead slip forward a few centimeters to rest on the tree branch in front of him.
"Really?!"
"This is like takin a bunch'ah accountants out of the office and into the woods to be game wardens!"
<<<Sigh>>>
"She is a tax inspector, I guess that is kinda like an accountant."
Now that all chance of surprise is out Marsh waits to see how events will unfold.
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Glad you're liking the old case files. I'm seeing him develop into a cross between Constantine, Dresden and a wee bit of Agent Broyles from Fringe.
I'll have more cases, so feel free to use what you want for flavor or what not.
"Till I found my muse, I warn't no good at paintin', no sirree. But that woman... she awakened somethin' in me. Woke up all my potential. Showed me the way, that's what she did."
Sebastian drifts along the old man's words as Dalton weaves a dizzying tale to match his combat prowess. The words of Abner Dagwood arouse a concern in the Inspector's mind, one colored by the memory of a gnome named Nettleby Breckenwald.
"I hear the whispers, I know the way..."
"...Showed me the way, that's what she did."
Bacarov's eyes narrow in concentration. There is something he's missing. While the paintings could act as mediums, allowing the old man to maintain a connection of some sort to this "Bel", what if it were a way for this entity to maintain a connection to this realm? A way to further her influence in Ravenmoor and the Churlwood?
Mosquitos...they drain life... They drain blood... The old man, his life is in these paintings, poured out in oil and color...like a blood offering and the canvas is the altar.... Bacarov let's his pack lay next to the chair he's using, and unbuckles the vihuela case. His instincts are driving him to music. The words of an old song pass through his memory like a breeze.
"Since you're gone
Deep inside it hurts
I'm just another sad guest
On this dark earth"
"I'm born to trouble
I'm born to fate
Inside a promise
I can't escape
It's the same old world
But nothing looks the same..."
"I want to believe
In the mercy of the world again
Make it rain, make it rain!"
Outside Warshawski says a firm 'hello'. A warning that Markham - or someone - is approaching. The way Abner had remarked on the stew, Bacarov knew whom to expect.
An eye to Dramin and Dalton to reassure them that they're doing well, but to prepare themselves. Bacarov watches as Calwen moves to the doorway and nods agreement. Yes, better to meet him out front. Perhaps the softer appearances of the women will help ease the news of guests.
He looks back to the paintings and a twitch runs along his cheek, fingers beginning to drum a beat on his thigh. I need to 'see'...
But Bacarov eases back in the chair and waits for Abner's attention to be drawn to the door, perhaps as Calwen makes her way there. As his hands run along the hardened leather vihuela case he hums three notes from the song twisting in his mind, and opens his eyes to the threads and traces left behind by magic .
As his eyes open, he removes his vihuela, giving the strings a gentle strum and adjusting the tuning. "Perhaps you and your son will enjoy a song or two as we palaver, eh Master Dagwood?" He dips his head close to the strings and runs the meat of his thumb softly to hear their tones. He says the next for Abner's ears, smiling as the right pitches are found within the muffled notes of a g-chord. "Ahhh, yes the strings, I hear the whispers, I know the way..."
》 (hear outside)
》 (hide casting)
》
》
Dalton gently trails off in his speech as Bacarov takes out his vihuela. Aha, he thinks to himself. His vihuela. He's hit on something...and that "hello" from outside...I'd better prepare myself for whatever comes.
Despite the tension in his thoughts his body's muscles remain loose and relaxed. Both of the monk's large hands rest lightly on the table, but he knows from experience that it'd take less than a second for his sword to be in his hand.
He avoids glancing outside and focuses on the paintings all around him, his gaze drawn to them as the notes of Bacarov's music begin to play. His ears remain perked, his only outward clue that he's focusing intently on what's unfolding beyond Abner's front door.
Dramin hears Bacarov pull out his instrument, and the sound of Warshawski outside. When he glances toward Dalton to see if there is anything coming, it is impossible to tell as the man looks just as he did seconds ago.
No need to worry. If something comes, it comes.
He knows that the bow strung by him could be drawn in a flash if required, the training his mother taught him still ingrained in his muscles.
When he hears Bacarov talk about the whispers however... Dramin shudders and focuses on the monk's stature as some sort of fixed point of reference; counting the spells he knows in his head and reciting the arcane math behind it.
There must be more than a dozen paintings here, either propped up on the easels or leaning against a wall. The paintings are of fabulous quality, with a dark color palette that is consistent across all of them. The theme is consistent, as well: a beautiful, pale elven woman with long, black hair. In some images she stands amidst tall reeds, or within a cornfield; in others in a forest, sometimes verdant, sometimes blackened and dead. In one of them she appears to be floating amidst the stars, gossamer wings extending from her back. In one, she is embracing some lover, a human man with wild hair and a beard.
As you examine the paintings closely, you begin to pick up a number of small details of note. The woman in the paintings, presumably Beliandral, does indeed bear some resemblance to Calwen; it may just be because it is a painting, but the curve of Beliandral's jawline, the shape of her nose and ears, the alabaster skin, and even her eyebrows are close enough to Calwen's own that you again get the impression that she could almost be related to her. Of course, the inky hair is rather opposed to her own... and then there are her eyes. No matter how her expression varies from painting to painting- serene, seductive, wistful- there is a strange vacancy in her eyes, as if she is not really there. The eyes are as black as her hair, and while there is a beauty to them, they are also strangely discomforting. The most provocative of the paintings is the one in which she is depicted embracing some human lover, and even there she seems oddly dispassionate as .
You then begin to notice another common theme in the paintings- what might at first seem to be some sort of random splat of paint were it not apparent across every image. You can almost hear a buzzing in your ears as you spot more and more of them hidden in the paintings: tiny, winged shapes. Mosquitoes, perhaps.
- - - -
Inside the Dagwood cabin:
Abner Dagwood seems quite wrapped up in listening to Dalton's tale, nodding occasionally while interjecting with the occasional "Oh, my!" or "Well, whaddaya know!" Unless Abner is a very good actor, this appears to be legitimate interest and not pretend; indeed, he pays far more mind to Dalton's tales of faraway Manaket and exotic martial arts temples than the appraisal of his home and possessions by the rest of the investigators. He affords himself a moment to address Calwen and raise a hand. "My beauty, I'd be more'n happy to sell you one. Might even give you a discount, on account'a bein' so nice to this ol' bugger." He laughs heartily. "I'll even take commissions, if'n y'want. My muse, she's always with me in some form or fashion... in spirit, anyways. There are some people, some experiences, that never leave you." He thanks Calwen profusely for stepping in to help in the kitchen.
He doesn't seem to hear Warshawski's yell, and meanders into the kitchen himself, seemingly in search of a drink. When Bacarov begins his song, however, he immediately stops and comes over to have a seat and listen. At one particular turn of the phrase, his eyes widen. "You... you know the way, do you?" He looks around for a moment, then leans close and whispers: "Boy, you've known her touch too, then, haven't you? Where'd she take you? Out in the Churlwood? The black fields? Seven days an' seven nights, that right? It's different, now, ain't it? You ever look up at the stars at night an' jus' feel like you can almos' see 'em? The ones that dwell beyond the stars, I mean? Some nights I can just about see his wings stretchin' out over the fields an' feel the wind blow off of 'em. Nights like tonight's gonna be. Festival nights. Did the whispers bring you here? Are you goin' to Ustalav with Markham?"
- - - -
Outside the cabin:
As soon as Warshawski cries out in greeting to the approaching figures, the humanoid shape pauses, then puts out an arm to touch the flank of the enormous shape next to it. Then, with a moment's passing, they continue their approach.
Soon, the man that can only be Markham Dagwood comes into view of everyone outside the cabin. He is much as Calwen remembers from her glimpses at the Lupescu Trading Company: a hulking mountain of a man, with long, wild black hair and a thick, woolly beard, a line crossed by thick lines, and intense eyes that seem to smolder. He is clad in tanned leather and hides, with a heavy cloak and an enormous composite longbow in his hands. On his back is a large pack to which a multitude of tools and weapons are attached, including one that appears to be a large, collapseable scythe. His enormous boots thud against the ground with each step.
The beast at his side is every bit as impressive as Markham: a dire boar nearly twice the size of its companion, with four huge, curling tusks, beady eyes, and bony outcroppings along its spine and shoulders. More packs and supplies are strapped to its harness, though there is no saddle; the thought of anyone attempting to mount the dire boar, even a brute like Markham Dagwood, is laughable.
As soon as he is within a hundred yards of the cabin, he slows and keeps one hand on the boar, as if to keep it from charging and goring any intruders. "Hail, there," he says, his voice a savage snarl. "Party from Magnimar, eh?"
His eyes appear to fix on Calwen for a tense moment.
"An' what can I help you with?"
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.
Bacarov is on his knees trying to give comfort to a madman.
He stares out into the mists of Lake Encarthan where the waters lap against the shore like blind dogs seeking a meal. Bacarov can't bear to look away from the mists and the waters beyond. He can't bear to see the breaking of his friend. He cradles him, rocking him like a child, trying to give comfort.
Rain is falling. Lightly. It wafts along the ground but makes rippling tones when it hits Duneheim's armor.
"Inspector."
Bacarov shakes his head. The rhythm of the Lake's waters ebb and flow in time with his friend's heaving sadness.
"Inspector." The voice is more insistent now.
"No."
Her hand is gentle, even if it's clad in a steel gauntlet. "Sebastian."
"We bring him with us." Bacarov says firmly. With so much rain and the ever present mists, he's not sure if there are tears in his face.
The hand leaves his shoulder. "Yes. But we must leave now."
He nods. His eyes still stare into the mists. Through the dark, through the rain and east of the Lake.... Bacarov can still feel the black-boned bulk of the place. He can still feel the breath on his neck.
"Tis only a painting...tis only a writing... tis only only a book..."
Bacarov pulls a hand from his friend's shoulder and wipes at his eyes and his ears. He doesn't want to hear the voice. He doesn't want to see the cathedral on the hill. He doesn't want to see the words over its door. They'd tried - Phedron and Duneheim - to scratch them from the stone. Bacarov had just stood watching, unable to comprehend. Thankful he could not.
"Duh u praznini ce nam troše sve"
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Abadar protect me...
Bacarov's mind goes back to a forest glade not a day's travel from Ravenmoor. A book full of memories he'd hoped to have left in the mud of Thrushmoor. He'd wanted the book burned, outwardly for Dramin's safety. But the truth was, Bacarov feared the words it held.
"Duh u praznini ce nam troše sve"
Abner Dagwood's breath is at his neck. Gods, Bacarov can feel the old man's desperation! A desire so strong to be among the like-minded. A desire to delve the depths of the darkness in his soul.
In the third interior pocket of his satchel, folded into fourths, is a letter from this man's son to the gnome Nettleby. Bacarov feels it burning. Expects his travel worn satchel to burst into flames right there.
"You were right. Ustalav."
The old man is so close. His madness coils around Bacarov and threatens to choke him.
"I'm going back there soon. Beliandral says that our brothers there are well at work..."
The stink of medicines and flayleaf are on every word from Dagwood's mouth. Bacarov wants to scream. He wants to draw his sword and ram it thru Abner's wrinkled, curse-spitting throat.
"...on their "special project." Hope you make it that way soon."
He strums a G then a C-chord then a D.
"Keep listening for the whispers. You will know the way."
Again, he strums a G then a C-chord then a D. He hums a few bars to go with it. A somber pace. A song he'd not played since leaving Ustalav five years gone.
"Keep listening for the whispers.
You will know the way.
- Markham"
The three chords play again as the words of the letter cling to his mind like Abner's words claw at his spine.
♬ "Mama, take this badge from me..." ♬
He let's the meat of his thumb continue to dabble the chords as he looks over to Abner Dagwood. Bacarov simply nods once.
"I've seen the mists over Avalon Bay. Beheld the black obelisk. Touched the pages." They're the words of his friend Phedron who'd swallowed his own tongue two summers hence in order to stop saying them. Bacarov begs silent forgiveness for the use of his friend's memory. He begs for protection as he senses the moment.
Then he says, "Duh u praznini ce nam troše sve..."
His memory of the doorway to the black-stoned cathedral surge like a miasma of fear. Then, Phedron had translated the words from the Aklo, "The Haunter in the Dark sees and consumes all..."
"Ustalav. Yes, soon." Bacarov days in a thickening voice, feigning ecstasy to cover over his nausea. "The brothers are waiting."
》 (+3 secret message)
》 (I'm one of you)
Dalton's eyes widen briefly of their own accord before the monk can restrain himself. Something about the song made him profoundly...uncomfortable. Disquieted, the monk rises smoothly to his feet, lifting the chair to prevent it from scraping on the wood. "I think I'll step outside for some air, for a moment..." he says, moving to the front door and stepping outside. The breath he draws catches in his throat when he sees the dire boar.
"You've heard the rumors." I said to Dagwood, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on his. "People talking about you having elves locked down in your basement. We know they aren't true."
I kept calm and steady despite the man's size and the size of his companion.
"We had cause to raid Bartley's home. He put up resistance. He's dead now." I felt my jaw tighten, just talking about the man. "In his basement we found a torture chamber. At least two of his victims were elves. From what we've determined, he started the rumors about you to move suspicion away from himself."
The paintings. The songs. The buzzing.
I can't stay in here any more.
He glares at Bacarov quickly, eyes drenched with venom, and in that moment sees Abner cozying up to the man. Deep breaths Dramin. Bacarov will explain himself later. You did ask for this after all.
He hears something about stars, but he is unsure if it was himself or just another phantom whisper. It takes him back to that night when the passion went through his body and he was awoken to the new world. When he finally realized how small he might be and how much there was still to learn. The stars? Yes the stars. What did I see that night? Other than her, there was something else to that dream.
He goes through the paintings looking at the constellations depicted, when he reaches the one with the human lover and the feast on the neck, his hand unconsciously runs up his side and he shivers and gasps slightly. His legs feel like they've been smashed and marched for weeks and he nearly falls over, if it wasn't for the furniture to hold onto. In his mind he knows that it could just be a waste of time, that the stars were just decorative, but at the very least it will keep his facade up. He needed to get stronger from this, he needed to shake it the way people shake off the negative energy from certain spells.
He licks his lips and focuses, his hand finding a blank scroll in his pocket; drawing some strength from within.
As you examine the patterns of the stars in the paintings, attempting to discern the when and where of it, you begin to realize that it might be a hopeless task without plenty of time to sit down and study them, comparing them against star charts... but you do notice something else. There is a full moon present in every picture in which the sky is visible. As you examine it, you begin to notice something else as well: there is a sort of rhythmic pattern repeating in each image, evident only when looking at one painting after another. It repeats like some subconscious motif, sometimes as a swirl in the starlight, sometimes in the depths of the woman's eyes, sometimes as a twist in the fabric of her sometimes-present black dress... It's not a spiral, per se, but some kind of twisting circular pattern akin to a hedge maze. The design seems strangely familiar to you; perhaps a religious icon of some sort?
You also recognize the wooded area in one of the paintings. It appears to be the very same wood that was in your dream.
- - - -
Outside the cabin:
Windmane, Calwen's graceful steed, shuffles a bit on his heavy hooves as the enormous boar and its no less formidable owner draw closer. The boar stops a hundred yards shy of the cabin, standing like an enormous, tusked sentinel.
Markham nods as Warshawski reports the death of Robb Bartley, and removes his thick leather gloves as he comes closer. "Guess that means y'all have cleared my name," he says flatly. "I should thank you for that." His eyes drift toward Calwen, and he adds: "I'm a lot of things, but I ain't a Robb Bartley. Maybe now the people of Ravenmoor will start seein' me as a human bein' again, instead'a some kinda monster."
"Y'all done me a real solid," Markham continues. He gestures toward the house. "Guessin' y'all already met my Pa. I gotta go in an' get him his medicine, then get tonight's dinner sorted out, but if y'all can give me ten minutes, we can all sit down an' have a nice chat, can't we?" He offers a hand to Dalton, then Warshawski, then finally Calwen. "Markham Dagwood. Pleased to meet you," he says with each greeting. His handshake is firm, but he does not crush any fingers, though it would obviously be easy for him to do so.
When he comes to Calwen, there is obvious distress in his eyes as he examines her carefully, but he shakes this away quickly. "Markham Dagwood, m'lady. I was once wed to one'a your kind. She was an amazing woman." He offers a smile, an expression that does not appear to come naturally to him. "Pleased to meet you."
He then turns to enter the cabin.
- - - -
Inside:
Abner Dagwood still seemed entranced by Bacarov, but says little as he realizes his son has returned.
Markham steps into through the front door, shrugging his heavy pack off his shoulders and heading straight into the kitchen, appearing not to even notice Bacarov and Dramin.
"Welcome home, boy!" Abner says. "You didn't tell me you had friends comin' into town! Y'all ain't runnin' off to Ustalav straight away, are ya?"
From the kitchen, Markham straightens up and peers back into the sitting room. "Ustalav?" he wonders aloud, then peers at Bacarov. "Not immediately, no. Here, Pa. Got some rabbits for dinner tonight, some squirrels, couple'a snakes. I'll fix you a cup for your brew..." He pauses for a moment, gathering a few things from the pantry, "...and then my friends can tell me all about what they're up to." He sends Bacarov a smile that is not exactly welcoming.
"This is wonderful," Abner says, quite cheerfully. "We're just gon' have a li'l Festival of our own today, ain't we?"
Marsh holds tight and remains so unless it is obvious he has been made. The woodsman did not attack and the girls seem to have things well in hand. Marsh keeps an eye outward around the cabin.
"That leafhead is gonna be roundin up her possie. Not gonna be caught sleepin on my watch."
♤
♢
♧
Abner’s response is all the proof Bacarov needs. He forces the gorge back down in his throat as he continues to pluck at the vihuela. It’s all he can do to maintain the facade as Markham’s giant frame enters the house. Then the look he got from the man didn’t exactly give him a warm feeling. As he begins working the brew, Bacarov distracts himself briefly by eyeing any additional ingredients the big man is adding from the pantry.
The Inspector idly continues to strum the same tune, but he increases the volume a touch; E-chord, C, then D. He leans back in the chair, keeping a calm demeanor on the outside as his fears and duty warred within his chest. The waters of Avalon Bay lapped at his brain without cessation and all he wants to do is to run screaming from the house and back to civilization. The blood and murder and horrors of Magnimar paled in comparison to...the Other.
Duh u praznini ce nam troše sve...
He clears his throat and crosses his legs to better support his instrument, still strumming away. Bacarov focuses on the music for a moment, allowing some of his innate magicks to flow through the instrument as the song continues (*). Soothe him a bit, before pressing the gambit.
There is a tremor in his hand. A few of the notes come out wrong. Bacarov shakes his head and slows down the piece. Too late...too late… The spark of disappointment blooms in his chest and one of his gut feelings takes hold. He strums another chord, and looks up to Markham.
”Did you think a letter to Nettleby wise, Markham?” Bacarov says with a hint of disappointment. ”Between his book of experiments and that piece of parchment...well, there are volumes in the Quarterfaux Archives that tell fewer tales.”
Bacarov sighs in subtle exasperation. ”A researcher he was, but foolhardy in his choice of lackeys.” A pause as he eyes the strings then looks back to Markham. ”But fear not, the little stunter saw to his own silence in the end. Thankfully the stars aligned for us and our brothers in the north. I’ve found a much more receptive vessel,” Bacarov nods towards Dramin as he finishes his study of the painting. ”His first night in country and a visitation was in the offing. Nettelby’s lost, but it is a one for one trade.”
”Now I’ve managed to steer attention to that half-wit Bartley. Those blinded fools will be at each other’s throats over Flayleaf and rumors of torture rooms.” He grins ruthlessly and clears his throat again, if anything the latter aided him in fighting the third desire to vomit inside 5 minutes. ”But the distraction won’t last forever.” One more pause as he locks eyes with the behemoth. ”So, the question is, how soon can you be ready to depart?”
Warshawski may see through my ruse. Possibly Dramin if he’s not too distracted. Dalton might remain silent. But Calwen, just as soon as I attempt to forge a bond I pray she won’t see me as a traitor! Then there’s Vinnie….
》 (what’s in a brew?)
》 (Fascinate DC 13))
》
》 (+11 secret message)
Calwen was even more impressed than she would have thought when she stood face to face with Markham. Human. With such power, such intensity, such a presence. I shiver ran down her spine, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. It was not like that being in his power was something she exclusively feared. It was not like she could not understand how an elf could be attracted to a human like this.
"Mister Dagwood. It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard that your fate seems entwined with my kind and I would not like to break with the story fate tells without hearing of it. My name is Calwen Snowpaw." She curtseyed as he took her hand and returned his look directly and openly. She would very much like to know which side he was on. Hunt me if you dare, ranger. I can be a little girl and willing prey, a disguised beast of prey and a knight guarding things larger than herself at the same time, like no human woman could.
She raised an eyebrow as Bacarov mentioned a letter. She vaguely remembered a letter they found on Nettelby, something that originally indicated the "Whispering Way" and it did say something about Ustalav, but she was confused how Bacarov connected Markham to the letter... how had it been signed again?
She did not quite understand what Bacarov was playing at and felt highly comfortable with the dishonesty, but remained silent for now.
- - - -
Oh. Oh no.
Your attempt to fascinate Markham Dagwood almost seems as if it will be successful, but he just manages to avoid slipping into the semi-trance that would have completed your maneuver. Worse, he seems to be aware that this was what you were attempting to do... Luckily, this is all before you begin your speech regarding Nettleby.
- - - -
After handing a cup full of brew to his father, Markham Dagwood sinks into the seat opposite Bacarov and folds his hands across his chest. He smiles quietly as he listens to Bacarov's story, nodding occasionally but otherwise waiting until he has finished to respond.
"Shame about Nettleby," he says finally. "Amusin' little man. Sick in the head, but amusin'. You say your boy there has already danced with Beliandral? An' he has potential? That's good, that's good. You know how bad some of the Keepers' health is gettin'. Poor Crove- ol' bastard's older'n my Pa. Tougher'n ol' jerky, though." He chuckles, amused at his own words. "You plannin' on comin' with me to Ustalav? That's all well'n good. I got a few loose ends to tie up before I can leave, o'course- got my Pa to think of, since this is a little sooner than I was expectin'- but I could be ready to leave tomorrow mornin', first thing, if y'want. O'course, I'd have a couple questions for you first."
He smiles and leans forward. "Where exactly in Ustalav are we going, anyway? Just wantin' to make sure we've received the same directions. I know I've got a particular attunement to the whispers. How 'bout your boy there?" He gestures with his head toward Dramin. "How're his ears?"
He stares expectantly at Dramin, a sly smirk on his face, as though he expects the young man to fail whatever test this proves itself to be.
Dramin stalls when he feels the eyes on his back. He wasn't happy with the paintings but at the very least he knew now that these dream places were the same for each and every person who got brought there. An extradimensional space maybe? He frowned, as it seemed far too complex. His mind floats back to the night hags that he once thought it was and he noted it down for later. If we make it through this day, I can inform Dalton. When he chooses to watch, I feel he would be able to sense what can't be sensed. His attunement to that world is far greater than my own.
When he realizes the silence in the room is sucked toward him, he realizes this may be a tipping point.
He turns around menacingly and in an instant sees a glimpse.
He doesn't see the result but he sees some words that may help a little more than the others. He was never much at lying, but he could put on a facade, so they fell into place.
"She's mine. All mine. You hear me? Whatever whispers I have heard are mine! You can never have them! You all mean nothing to me. You're lucky I haven't ripped your ears off for even questioning her choice of me right now. Deprive you of the whispers for the rest of eternity, not just in the flesh but from time itself. I have seen the future, and you may not be in it if you continue asking questions as such."
His words fly out faster than he can realize what he is saying. Sometimes you can't hide your nature.
.
.
.
Bacarov nods with a satisfied smile then turns to Markham. "At least someone in this house adheres to the Way. No one may know all. Our path has been to arrive at your doorstep. Yours is to lead us. Or would you question the methods lay out for a thousand years since his fall?" Bacarov's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Or do you seek to covet the knowledge for yourself?"
He picks at some notes and ceases the music, resting his vihuela back in its case then dusting off some imaginary dirt from his pants. "No, Markham your little attempt to a test willnot gain you advantage. Moving onward. How may we assist in your preparations?"
(aid Dramin)
Dalton can hardly breathe from the tension. His gaze remains fixed on Markham, but he keeps his hands well clear of his weapon. It would not be him that triggered any fights, that was for certain.
Markham Dagwood's eyes pop at Dramin's dramatic outburst, and for a moment he seems ready to leap to his feet and fight (or, perhaps, flee)... but after that moment passes, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. "I was just like that after my first time!" he bellows. "Driven almost to the point of madness, overflowin' with emotion- wantin' Bel all to yourself, all her beauty, all her knowledge, all her power... It'll pass, boy. It'll pass. An' then you'll settle into a nice, comfortable middle ground like I got- motivated, eager to do work, but tempered by time and distance. You just see if it don't happen like that with you. If not, guess you'll end up losin' yer grip on reality, like poor Nettleby did. This kinda knowledge ain't fer the faint of heart... or of mind."
He slaps his knee and smiles. There's still a hint of suspicion in his eyes, but the worst seems to have passed. "We're part of a new generation, y'all an' me. An' our Grand Lady, o'course- y'all met her yet? I'm sure y'will. If not here, then certainly when you get to Carrion Hill." His grin widens at the mention of the town's name. "Ravenmoor's weak. Dyin' out. Even their God is becomin' old hat. Too small-time, too mundane. It helps to think of this place as a prototype o'sorts; a test run for Carrion Hill. The Keepers've got designs that would make these yokels' heads spin just tryin' to comprehend the scope of it. Y'all had much contact with the local branch yet? If not, don't bother. They ain't got no time left anyhow. Give 'em another couple months, at most, an' they'll fizzle out on their own an' leave the poor people of this town to scamper 'round like chickens with their heads cut off. Unless them crazy fertility rituals end up workin' somehow, that is- not like I put much faith in that."
He rises from his seat. "I got work to do. Dinner to prepare. Y'all wanna talk more, come back later on. Maybe after dark, if yer brave, unless I bump into y'all at the Festival; I was thinkin' of stoppin' by for a change, since y'all managed to clear my name." There is a twinkle in his eye as he glances at Calwen. "Anyways, better let me get to it, unless you got any other questions. Keep yer eyes open... and yer ears." He looks at Dramin and taps his own ear with one beefy finger. "For the whispers, right?"
Dalton can hardly breathe from the tension. His gaze remains fixed on Markham, but he keeps his hands well clear of his weapon. It would not be him that triggered any fights, that was for certain.
I stood just outside the door and listened. Bacarov was going undercover. Not easy to do when the marks already knew you were an authority. He knew the right words, though, and Dramin's insanity helped sell the story.
We knew more than we did. But did we know enough? This was big. Bigger than a cult in a small town. Bigger than bandits. Big enough to threaten the whole region. Maybe, if left unchecked, the whole world.
F%+~.
♤
♢
♧
Bacarov's middle is cold ice, the chill working it's way up his spine to grab hold of the base of his neck. Deep in the heart of it, deep in those black hills of Ustalav. Abadar protect me, how can this be?
As Markham stands, the Inspector takes a moment to eye his comrades. He wants to know their mindsets at least a little. Did he dare try and put the irons on this man? Would the group back his play? Could they do it even if they did?
(the team)
(Budd - see pm)
Although you can tell that Dalton is trying to be stone-faced, giving away nothing, your eyes are too experienced to be fooled by the callow monk. There's a drop of sweat running down the young man's temple, and you catch his fingers flexing ever so slightly. You note how the monk is deliberately keeping his hands where they can be easily seen, on the table before him. You can see how he doesn't make direct eye contact with Markham. You can see his shoulders bunched up slightly, tense as coiled springs. One of his hands curls around the drinking cup that Abner had set before him, gripping it...
The monk is ready to jump to your side the moment you make a move. Knowing Dalton like you do, you can probably guess that he's not confident enough in his own judgement to make the call to arrest Markham himself, but he would follow your lead.
"Damn . . . look at the size of that hog. That's a s+*+ ton of bacon sittin right there. Dude's gotta be pretty bad ass to have a animal like that."
Dramin realizes that his veiled madness may have paid off when the man backs off. ... Really? He laughs inwardly and looks at Bacarov, the man who chimed in and seems to have a plan.
Dramin didn't know what he had planned out, but he knew that if something were to happen, like a flash he would know and would act accordingly. He may seem aloof and detached but he did have comrades and with everything that has happened so far, he knew that he would need them in future.
He breathes in and out, making sure that it was noticeable and then turns back to the paintings, when in reality he looks out the window in search of Marsh.
As he turns in that one instant he sees the monk and notices that he is somewhat more perturbed, something is going to happen and Dramin didn't know what yet. Knowing Marsh he would come in at the first sight or sound of steel, but it was good to know where the berserker would come in from, lest he be flattened by a wall.
"Damn . . . look at the size of that hog. That's a s~$* ton of bacon sittin right there. Dude's gotta be pretty bad ass to have a animal like that."
"I am looking forward for you to lead me to dance." she returned. However, the entire conversation got her severely confused and she was indeed disappointed that Markham was apparently in on all this. She remained quiet for now to not the spoil the other's game, however dishonest it may seem to her. She lowered her face to hide her expression until she gathered her composure.
...look at the size of that hog. That's a s~$* ton of bacon sittin right there.
♤
♢
♧
(uh-oh)
♤
♢
♧
Sebastian stands slowly, pulling his satchel and resting the strap across his body as though readying to go. "The festival and the evening beckons."
He crosses the room and stands alongside Dramin in a posture of calming comfort. "Quiet your malevolent yearnings, my friend." He leans in and whispers, "Speak to the Marsh, 'it's Ahlman's Alley'." Bacarov pats him on the shoulder and leans back from his ear and gives a look, He'll know what it means...
"Ms Warshawski," he turns around and looks towards the porch. "A moment please," He gestures casually for her to return inside. Bacarov makes as though an announcement is on his lips.
Then he shares a glance with Calwen and Dalton, a look that could be seen as two things; gratitude for their presence, and begged forgiveness... What I do next, is my sworn oath. For all my fear that this man and his secrets represent...I must protect my land...my city...my people.
Bacarov looks down at his feet, his guts churning like it's his first bust back in Cheapside. Then, as now, he says roughly the same thing to Markham as he did to Alhman Zeltr...
"There's one more thing I'd like to see happen this afternoon," Bacarov says evenly, left hand slowly going to his belt near the small of his back. He drops his Masterwork Manacles on the floor between Markham and himself. He looks up to Markham, cobalt blue eyes unflinching. "I wonder if you'd be so kind as to put those on. You and your father are under arrest."
"My detachment is outside among the marshes. There is no escape for either of you. Surrender and both of you will survive." He leaves the alternative unsaid. But he casts a peripheral glance to Abner then back to Markham as if to say, Think of the old man.
(you're surrounded)