"Heh, a rematch uh? Heh heh heh. Good one Rook. It's the game not the winnin that counts I guess right? Well . . . Some games anyways."
Marsh waves a greeting then crouches down to the wolf's level
"Good to see you's again to Arginost, you smell anythin different bout ole Sebastian here?"
He peers intently into the wolfs eyes looking for answers while the others talk.
- - - -
Some time later...
5 Miles
The sign drips with runoff from the recent rains, its paint faded and cracked, barely legible. This is just another miserable day in Ustalav, with overcast skies, a nearly ever-present rumble of distant thunder, and a chill hanging in the air. It is a far cry from the murky heat of Ravenmoor those distant months ago; the buzzing of cicadas replaced by the occasional cawing of crows flying overhead.
The trek to Ustalav was long, grim, and eerily quiet. These last several weeks since the departure from Magnimar have been hard on the soul. The rigors of travel, the difficulty of arranging transportation over so many miles, dealing with customs at various borders, and more than a few run-ins with local troubles- bandits and other unsavory characters as much as monsters.
Knowing what awaited in Ustalav was bad. Knowing that the sheer amount of time required to make it to Ustalav in hopes of stopping whatever Beliandral and her mysterious "Keepers" had planned.
There is no way of knowing whether you can arrive in time. And yet, there has been no word of any great disaster in Carrion Hill- perhaps the only good news the party has had since making landfall. At least, until now.
Below the faded, drenched sign, is a smaller board, hastily nailed to the post a few inches below the other:
HELP NEEDED! All men of stout heart and brave soul please report to Mayor Heggry at Crown Manor for more information. Dangerous work but more than suitable pay! TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.
The sign looks much less decayed by age and weather than the other. It seems quite new.
In the distance, the horizon bulges upward like a tumor. Carrion Hill beckons at the end of this worn, muddy path. Muck clings to the party's boots as they trudge onward, weary, exhausted, but determined.
- - - -
"Heh heh heh, love this weather!"
Marsh grins at his partner Sebastian Bacarov before taking in a deep breath through his nose then loudly exhaling through his mouth with a satisfied sound.
"Rather be cold than f!@*in hot any day. Ravenmoor constantly had my balls stickin to my legs like 12 day old bubble gum. Walking around was like slip-slop, slip- slop, slip-slop! Meh! You get the idea."
The big man fishes a mealy apple from his sling bag, gives it the sniff test then sinks his teeth into it. Loudly lip smacking he continues.
"I hope this place has some decent inns. This is the last piece a fruit I liberated from those a$$+*#~s that tried to tax us on the road. . . . Screw those guys, oh well, we showed them, uh?!"
Marsh stops to read the small board tacked on a post.
"Aye guys! Look at dis'here, Another mayor in need of help. Heh heh heh, sound familiar? This guys offerin money too. Time is of da essence it says. Should we go see em?"
Vinnies ham fist plucks the board off the post as easily as plucking a grape of a vine.
"Says here, "Report to Mayor Heggry at Crown Manor."
Dramin sighed. Though he wasn't sure if it was relief or due to the awful air constricting his lungs. This last journey had been taxing, and he laughed when Marsh recounted the 'tax men' on the road.
"Well I told you Marsh, if you wanted to have fresh food you shouldn't have argued with the caravaneer. Why did the name of the cart matter so much anyway?" His tone is jovial and he tries to keep the mood light.
Almost there. We're almost there.
He reads the sign.
"Yes well. It always seems to be the case doesn't it? lets hope this time there isn't a cult involved." He rolls his eyes, knowing full well what they are eventually getting themselves into.
Wishful thinking love.
He looks back at the group a few feet off from Marsh and him.
How things have changed.
Some time ago - Magnimar
Anikee Residence
Jeminda Anikee stares down at the letter her late brother-in-law wrote to her, retrieved by the investigators in Ravenmoor. Her hands do not shake, and though her expression is pained, no tears come to her eyes.
"You're sure it was him you saw in that pit?" she asks, peering at Marsh, her voice barely above a whisper.
The answer does not seem to matter. She knows that Elias Kyle is dead, and there is nothing that can be done about that now.
Her home seems different than it was those weeks ago when it was first visited by the investigators; many of her things are packed, and an aura of melancholy hangs over the place. In many ways, the clerk that hired the group for the trek to Ravenmoor seems to have burned away, leaving only a weary husk in her place.
She tells the party briefly that she has enjoyed her visits with Sister Kaye, and her attempts to reconnect with her dearly departed older sister Rumelda. Eventually, however, she realizes that her attempts to deflect the party's concern are useless.
"More debtors," she says with a sigh, sinking in her seat. "Mostly Elias', but some of my own. I lost my job with the tax office over this whole... thing. I'll be leaving Magnimar soon; thinking of heading back to Sandpoint, where I grew up. Thank you for everything you've done for me, and... I'm sorry for everything that happened. I don't know everything that happened to you in Ravenmoor, but from what I've gathered... and the looks on your faces... it must have been a nightmare. I sent you into that hell. I take full responsibility for what you've gone through."
Nonetheless, she brings forth the promised 200 gold for Bacarov, Marsh, Dramin, and Warshawski, as well as for Dalton Thorpe, asking the group to please give it to him should they run into him.
- - - -
In the days that came, as the group parts ways to take care of their individual interests, they find themselves summoned to meet with a senior tax official representing Magnimar's central government. What follows is a lot of stuffy, half-hearted congratulations on uncovering the Cult of Ghlaunder and the party's role in stomping it out, as well as the recovery of the missing back taxes. However, after a thorough review of the various injuries and losses the party suffered during their investigation, the office pays out a total of 800 GP a piece to cover their various expenses and as reward for their services to Magnimar. In addition, news is sent to Irrisen to inform the Order of the White Rose of Calwen Snowpaw's death.
- - - -
More time passes, and loose ends are tied up and the investigation into Bacarov's final case file begins. In the meantime, transportation across Varisia and Lake Encarthan is arranged, and the swiftest possible route across the murky, dangerous hinterlands of Ustalav is mapped out. Inevitably, the date of departure looms, and the group prepares to leave the relative comfort of Magnimar behind...
- - - -
Ustalav
Walk, if you will,
the claustrophobic alleys of the Tangle,
the Middenstone vats of the Filth,
and the cobbled white roads at the summit of an ancient hill.
Know that this is but the latest of cities to Crown this summit,
a monument to the filth and grime and waste of civilization.
The city was built upon the battlefields of history past,
for many have sought to control this key feature,
this lonely hill in a sea of mud and mire.
Only its name has remained constant throughout the ages-
Carrion Hill.
This charming description comes from the back of the bare-bones gazetteer the party has consulted more than once on their long trek to the isolated community. As they leave the signpost behind and trudge ever closer toward the hill that looms in the distance, its ominous description seems quite apt, even from here; Versex County is a miserable place even by Ustalav's bleak standards, and Carrion Hill has a long and bloody history laced with Kellid barbarians, old cults, and strange disasters. This is, after all, a cursed land.
Somewhat amusingly, the assorted guides and passerby questioned regarding the city refer to it by many colorful nicknames, like "the Boil," or "the Wart." It seems that even those Ustalavan natives jaded by the horrors inherent to the region avoid the area, though it seems to be less out of fear and more out of disgust. No one has quite had the heart to explain what Middenstone is yet, but it is apparently something quite foul, and there is said to be a lot of it in use in Carrion Hill.
The swamplands around here are known as the Wrythe. The city stands on the only reasonably inhabitable land within this twenty-mile expanse of grotesque swampland, and sits upon the Kingfisher river.
In many ways, its similarities to Ravenmoor are eerie, and do not bode well. It is, however, a vastly larger city, with a population of over 9,000. Whether that is a good thing or not depends entirely on the thoughts of each individual member of the party...
- - - -
Marsh looks around at the magnificent wreck of a city.
"Jeez . . . Who the hell builds a shithole like this and in a f#!+ing swamp no less? Next, who the f!$+ comes to live in this crap palace and lastly, there has to be a damn good reason they would. Money, desperation and or power. Dat's the answer every time. Heh, every time."
"Meh, I ain't seein or smellin any money round here. Gotta be a power at work here. Something that gives someone power, enough power that the disparate flock to it. "
"Yeap, we just arrived in Cultopia boys and girls."
Dramin thinks over what he knows of the place. In fact it comes naturally, as if he had lived there before.
When he hears Marsh's joke regarding the cults he winces.
"If we hadn't lived such a tremendous evil, I would be laughing, but as it currently stands this mirrors our journey far too well. Though you bring up a good point friend, if we head on over to this mayor and see the state of affairs we may be able to determine if it was money or power at play." He flashes a smile.
See Bacarov? I can pick up a thing or two from you and The Rook.
Dramin recalls- though he can't for the life of him remember where he first heard it- that Carrion Hill was first settled by Desnan clerics of Varisian descent, who drove out the old cults that had ruled the area in the days after the fall of Thassilon. The hill proved one of the few defensible positions in the region, and seemed to become a bastion of civilization in the untamed Wrythe. Then, of course, it was sacked and conquered over and over, first by Kellid barbarians, then Taldan crusaders, then mercenaries, Belkzen orcs, undead minions of the Whispering Tyrant, and so on...
Back in Magnimar, as the detectives exit the senior tax official's house, a figure is awaiting them. It is the cowled figure, wrapped head to toe in a cloak, that stands in an easy posture on the sidewalk, staring up the steps of the building at them. It was a chilly day in Magnimar, and a breeze sweeps the stranger's clothing about here and there.
"Greetings to you, my friends!" he says, lifting his mask up and putting it aside, revealing a softly smiling face. "I regret having to separate from you all, but the trials we faced at Ghlaunder's hands bore some deep introspection, that I had to face alone. However, I gained unintended insight about a terrible threat while I was away, and hastened back to you."
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The stranger pulls his hood back, revealing a familiar face! Dalton stands before you, no longer Thirsty, but filled with purpose.
"I bear news from the port city of Augustana, to the south. While preparing to board a ship headed for Manaket, I heard a familiar name - Waldur Crove. Upon investigation, I learned of a society of errant knights that have been persecuting cultists the like of the same man as him. The knights told me that Carrion Hill was a known hotspot for the cult, that they had not the strength of will to approach. Knowing you all to be headed back this way, I hastened here as fast as I could."
He pauses. "There's more. The knights warned me that...those who ranted and raved about the cult's practices all - independently - spoke of creatures that cannot be, from beyond the stars...creatures that can wear the face of your best friend without you knowing. That is why I did not reveal myself as soon as I found you - I wanted to watch you and make sure they didn't get to you as well. Word would have reached Magnimar by now about our exploits with the Ghlaunder cultists at the harvest festival. I apologize for my paranoia...but if you had spoken with the Knights themselves, you would understand my respect for their fear."
The monk weapons master crosses his arms. "Now it seems I am to travel with you all once again. I can't have my friends lose their minds to eldritch abominations, now can I? Come. There is no time to waste. Each day brings us closer to the ruin of the cultists' ultimate goal."
Marsh's face breaks into a wolffish grin.
"Heh, welcome back then Dalton."
The big man elbows Dramin in the ribs.
"See, what did I tell ya? I knew this place smelled like cultists. Weird bein's hangin out behind the stars, weirdo creatures, doppelgänger shit an'all that jazz---right up our alley, aye boys?!"
"And hey, they can take our faces and all that, but they can't fake this road worn smell. We're all ripe an needin hot baths, well accept for Warshawski cause we all know her shit don't stink ever. Heh heh heh. Smellin like f+%!in roses that one! Har har har"
Vinnie delivers the joke about Warshawski in a way that allows her to be a part of the fun rather than the butt of it. The brute of a watchman had obviously changed about his feelings towards the tax investigator. He had treated her with more respect on the way here, even if it did manifest itself by Marsh treating her as though she was one of the guys.
Bacarov pulls up the collar of his long coat. I wonder if you're here, Sir Shieldarm? Have you survived your long crusade, Nosatrub? His sky blue eyes drift and slip along the sodden parchment of the mayor's call for help, thoughts of a friend long gone skittering about the edges.
He reminds himself that Abadar had restored balance to their gathering by bringing Dalton back. Marsh is even on better terms with Warshawski. But Dalton's presence meant a stronger moral center. Something he himself could no longer provide with any measure of impartiality. Not when his instincts seemed to be more...aggressive when it came to pursuing justice.
Just ask Eldred Pentwert add soon as he wakes from his coma...
"If I were forced to call these lands home, I suppose a hill by which to rise above it would be in order." Bacarov brings up a flask of whiskey and draws a sip of forgetfulness. The deeper they'd walked into Ustalav, the more he'd found the need to drive out his memories. "The mayor's trouble are as good a place to start as any. Although a little inquisition may be in order to learn what the locals are willing to disclose. Then compare what the streets say to the takes off woe spilling from the mayor's gob."
"In a town of roughly 9,000 shadowed souls, facts may be culled from fantasy with a good ear. Especially if this town is already given over to darkness as Dalton's Knights are to be believed." His tone left little in the way of doubt. "I suggest, however, that we keep the name Waldur Crove amongst us for now. We don't know what attentions speaking the name here will call upon us."
He leans upon the spear he'd brought from Ravenmoor, the one that had belonged to Kreigler. Since being back home, he'd enlisted a weapon smith to rework the carvings along the shaft into reliefs of obscure representations of Abadar. In truth, some of the designs had been images from his dreams; odd and assymetrical and evoking a disquiet in the artisan, but which drew forth a keen interest in Bacarov.
"Let's hear what can be heard," He says with cryptic nuance and steps forward. His limp is still present, though he's become practiced at the use of his spear as a walking stick. "And we can take a moment to wash away the road along the way."
listening w/o causing undo discomfort or controversy and making strategic inquiries.
picking up tidbits here and there on cultish activity and the way the mayor runs the city.
Another trip out into the country. Another strange town with undercurrents of the hidden and disturbed rippling just below the frozen ground. I glanced toward the others. Ravenmoor had twisted us, tempted us, broken us, and humbled us. What would this Carrion Hill do to us? Would we come out alive?
Would we even be ourselves at all?
Dalton is glad to be with his companions again, even in such grim environs. The normally garrulous monk is somewhat taciturn as he follows in Sebastian's footsteps. He keeps an eye out for a decent-looking tavern, as Bacarov said, to wash the dirt of the road off. The journey through the twisted fens surrounding this place cannot have been too clean.
Assuming they find one without much trouble, Dalton will let the investigator do his listening thing, and move to the barkeep's region to order a weak ale to wash his throat out with. He no longer went by the moniker "the Thirsty," having had much of his normally legendary thirst for adventure slaked by Ravenmoor. Still, he could put away a beer with the best of them, and had some spare coins to rub together after his last adventure. He pays attention to those he sits near to, without being rude enough to stare at them.
Dramin winces at the shot to his ribs, though turning around and seeing the allies who have traveled so far with him eases the pain.
Bacarov looked worse for wear, he knew the man had a history with this place but he did not expect it to gnaw at the back of his mind so.
Warshawki had been aloof to him, though he knew that he could have easily been the blame for such a thing.
But what surprised him the most was Dalton, the man seemed more at peace than before. Most who encounter darkness get swallowed, but he encountered it and it fostered new hope and resilience.
"Excellent idea Bacarov. Lets leave the names quiet. One should never reveal their entire hand in a game of blighted blades, for fear of a trump."
He taps his spellbook, filled with new mysteries and tools, and begins to walk with the party toward the source of all knowledge on the road... the tavern.
Eager to be out of the muck and filth of the road, the party heads north until Carrion Hill looms over them. The muddy trail they walk leads northward until it comes near to the edge of the Kingfisher River, where it runs alongside and right along toward Carrion Hill.
Even before setting foot within the city proper, even when only a few stray buildings- mostly trading posts and a few ugly old farms- dot the sides of the trail, the stench of Carrion Hill comes rolling down over the water like a cloud of fog. Pressing on regardless, the party crosses an old, rickety-looking but surprisingly hardy wooden bridge and sets foot upon Carrion Hill itself.
This area of the city is known as the Filth. It is little better than the swampy environs to the south, made up of a number of tiny islands that clog the southern banks of the Kingfisher like so much flotsam. Most of the buildings here are built up on wooden pilings that jut into the soft mud below. The whole area has the looks of a place belonging to the poor and desperate, though there are many businesses operating here- including a "halfway-decent tavern" that a few barely-interested locals are able to direct the party toward.
On the way to the Soggy Trouser, the aforementioned halfway-decent tavern, the party is able to detect the nervous energy of the Filth, the way workers skitter about through its streets like rodents, the way derelict poor huddle together over fire pits or in ramshackle huts off the side-streets, the way excitable "prospectors" sift nets off the sides of the piers into the filthy muck running beneath them, hoping for stray coins or other treasures worth selling to drift by and into their grasp. Out on the river, a number of small barges drift in and out of view, clearing buildups that obstruct the river's flow, and the stink of rot and urban decay is ever-present. Large roaches with an odd maroon coloration and long, twitching antennae crawl about the docks freely, and the locals seem to pay them no mind.
Another interesting thing is the large number of churches and tiny, one-room shrines, at least one of which can be found around just about every corner in Carrion Hill. Questioning one of the locals upon spotting a small shrine of Abadar (little more than a wooden stall with a painted wooden figure and some incense) reveals that the residents of the city call Carrion Hill "the City of a Thousand Shrines," though the man is quick to point out that there aren't quite THAT many in reality.
- - - -
The Soggy Trouser
The atmosphere in the tavern is glum, and many of the patrons whisper anxiously amongst themselves as they cower together at their scattered tables. The barkeep, a hefty middle-aged man with an unshaven face, greets the party upon their arrival with a vague nod. More of those ugly roaches can be spotted in the building itself; it does not exactly bode well for the quality of any food served here.
A short while making the rounds for small talk and listening in on conversations reveals the following:
"...them rumblin's under the hill, that's what got everybody spooked. It ain't like nothin' strange never happens in this city or nothin', but from what I heard, there's a whole buildin' done collapsed up in the Tangle- Slipper Market, I heard?"
"...Yeah, whole house came down, that's what happened! There been rumblin' for days around there, weird buckin' underneath the streets, but that house sank into the earth just a little while ago. Hell of a time for half the Crows to be out in the swamp lookin' for them weirdos in the hoods, right? That's prob'ly why ol' Commander Garus got them signboards and flyers all over the area all of a sudden. The Crows were out postin' them things like crazy since yesterday. Them folks in the Tangle are all in a fuss now. My cousin, he lives up in the Slipper Market, he was sayin' he was gonna take the wife an' kids and get outta town for a couple days, till all the shakin' under the hill comes to a stop."
"Yeah, and you hear about them weird bugs people been seein' flyin' around? I'll take our Midden Bugs over flyin' things with pokey noses any day. I don't much care for things with pokey noses."
"Not to mention all them riots lately- people are gettin' all kinds'a crazy out there. I'd say this town's goin' to hell, but... it's always been there, ain't it?"
Poking around regarding Mayor Heggry and his reputation turns up little; half the people questioned don't even know the Mayor's name, and the other half reply dismissively along the lines of "he's all right, I guess."
After a while, as the party has had a chance to survey the scene and clean some of the muck off their boots, a pair of figures in chainmail with black-feathered capes stride into the tavern. A few of the patrons immediately straighten up or tuck items into their clothing. These people would appear to be members of the Crows you have heard quite a bit about over the course of the day- Carrion Hill's town guard.
One of the Crows bangs on the bar a few times, attempting to get the attention of the entire tavern. "I'm sure you've all seen the flyers and the postboards," the man says, a weary, tired expression on his face, "but any man here of able body, sound mind, and stout heart should report immediately to Crown Manor for work. With the Crows at diminished capacity, we need every brave man or woman we can get." Moments pass without reply, and the Crow continues, a hint of anger in his voice: "There's fair coin to be made."
"Forget it," his partner says. "Trying to find brave men in the Filth is like trying to dredge a diamond up out of the Kingfisher. Let's get back up the hill before we catch something."
- - - -
At the Crow's words, Dalton glances at Bacarov or Vinnie for cue. He wasn't the type to step out in front of the group and speak for them before, now, having been away, he feels even less qualified. Still, as the Crows voice their exasperated derision, he can stand no more. He rises from his seat, taking his sixth ale with him.
He gestures around the bar with the mug. "Is no one going to speak up? Is heroism so expensive in this part of the world that none of you poor folk can afford any? Well. If that's the case, I'd like to offer my imported version! All the way from the shining city of Manaket in sun-soaked Rahadoum to the south, I have come, and I say to you people - you needn't fear. I am Dalton," the monk draws his sword with his free hand - he has the Quick Draw feat, so it's normally a free action's speed for him to do so, but he's a bit slower and it's move-action speed when he draws it - "and I pledge my sword" he holds the curved blade aloft, "to the defense of this city, for as long as it is threatened by evil or as long as I am bored enough to stay." he swigs his ale once more. His monastic order taught rigorous defenses against drunkenness, and he is putting them to the fullest of tests today.
At the end of his swig, he gestures with the three-quarters-empty mug at the Crows again, making to speak, but is interrupted by...
Dramin eyes the monk. Talks about face stealing men aside, he just watches for a moment. When he hears the monk try to rouse the crowd, it takes him some effort to not draw his bow out then and there and question him.
Though to be fair, people do change. And alcohol is a catalyst.
Or danger. And mortality.
"Now Dalton, lets let them do their own thing, clearly they are living something we've never seen." The sarcasm in his voice would only be apparent to the party, accustomed to his dry speech.
He looks at the Crows.
"Though you say fair coin? More importantly do you have a way out of this trench for the time being? Because if so you can have some of my attention, please take a seat."
His tone is curt and he doesn't bother eying the rest of the party down.
We are so close, no opportunity will slip through my fingers.
Bacarov watches with silent amusement as the once mild-mannered monk becomes the center of attention. Salient points all, but the Inspector knows when bold words fall upon unwilling ears.
No. You're not an Inspector any longer are you? You gave up that mantle to come here.
"Please, gentlemen," He says to the two armsmen, gesturing to the free chairs. "Tell us of the rumblings of Slippery Market. What manner of devilry do the Crows face with half their number afield?"
Inwardly thankful that his friends have stepped in, Dalton falls silent and turns his attention to finishing the mug in his free hand. His sword hand misses his scabbard for an instant before the monk corrects himself and slides it back into place safely. Tossing the emptied mug to the barkeep, the monk pulls up a stool of his own, and sits down with Bacarov.
The pair of crows seem surprised at the sudden response from Dalton, but not unpleasantly so. "Look, someone with some guts," the second Crow says. "Figures it'd be a foreigner. That's Ustalav, eh?"
The other, more serious officer merely shakes his head and together they approach the party as rain begins to fall outside the Soggy Trouser.
"We must be on our way quickly, so pardon us if we decline the offer to sit," the first officer says apologetically. "But yes, there is coin offered for worthy souls willing to help the city in this troublesome time. These rumblings you've heard of in the Slipper Market began just a few days ago, deep in the heart of the hill. They were faint at first, but have grown stronger and more rapid. Commander Garus suspected something was wrong- there has been a lot of unusual activity as of late, with those strange insects buzzing about, and all- but it all came to a head late last night. There was a terrible noise in the Slipper Market, and witnesses say a house there collapsed- like the earth just fell right out from under it."
The other man raises an eyebrow. "That's not how I heard it. I heard it was more like the place exploded from the inside."
"In any case, someone is said to have been killed. Commander Garus and his men have been down there since before dawn, and we're all under orders to find anyone who can help. If you think you can, we'll be glad to have you- we can lead you up to Crown Manor if you'd like. In the Commander's absence, Mayor Heggry's handling the processing and assignment of all outside entities..."
Before they can say any more, a third Crow- this one a hefty man with rain-slicked hair and a week's unshaven scruff- hustles into the door. "Oy!" he shouts, and waves the two Crows over toward him. They excuse themselves from the table and rush over to meet the new arrival, who seems quite upset.
"It's the Commander. He's dead. Gods, somethin' tore 'im and his boys to pieces! He was all... all twisted up, like somethin' just grabbed 'im an'..." The hefty Crow makes a wringing gesture with his hands, and then nearly breaks into a sob. The other two officers, suddenly pale in the face, exchange horrified looks.
The two men return to the party. "I'm sorry, we have to go. Please forgive us. Make haste to Crown Manor if you still think you can help. Something tells me we're going to need it."
They then turn and jog back to the entrance, and along with the third man, leave the Soggy Trouser in a hurry.
Bacarov studies the soldiers as they commiserate. But his focus is on the news of these strange bugs recent to the city. He leans forward on the table and looks at those in attendance and says, "It would seem that the rumors of Desna's nemesis are true. The blood-sucking spawn of the whore are already here."
"There's been blood spilled tonight," the monk comments to his friends, after studying the newest Crow arrival. "I've paid up our tabs already () so shall we depart for Crown Manor? Something tells me that time is not on our side."
A different city. A different land. Different people. Yet, the smell was still the same. Desperation and alcohol and sweat, mixed together in a potent cocktail of scents.
"Something tore apart their leader." I told the others, pitching my voice low. "Not killed. Tore apart. Whatever's wrong here, that's going to be our first real clue."
"Sonnofab+!#%!"
Marsh slams a ham fist into the beer soaked and scarred tabletop.
"So much for a low key entry and a couple of cold ones."
He tosses back the remainder of his mug then wipes his face.
"I kinda liked Dalton the Thirsty bettah than this Dalton the "Look over here! We're right here, oh oh! Pick me, pick me guy! Jeez."
Marsh pantomimes waving his hand in the air like a school boy.
"Well, we might as well go straight to the Manor House now and deal with the mayor, one way or the other, first."
"Relax Marsh. If there is a real threat here like the last time, they already know we're coming."
He ponders a moment.
"In fact this might be even better than skulking in the dark waiting for something to happen to us. We can take charge of our own destiny now, at a pace we like."
Tore apart though? The choice of words isn't one that I would use without reason...
Dramin waits a moment, thinking on it. He knows its never good to commit yourself to tunnel vision, but if it was simple wildlife it would be much more reassuring.
Oh and now you're being reassuring?
"To the mayor's abode, then." Bacarov finishes his drink and reaches over his chair to grasp his satchel and vihuela case. Both go across his shoulder and then he stands, grabbing his spear. "I suppose a bath and fresh linens will have to wait."
Looking towards the door thru which the armsmen had departed he quirks an eyebrow. "Or do we investigate the scene of this dismemberment before too much of the evidence is taken away?"
In response to Vinnie's criticism, Dalton can only shrug. "We came to do a job, didn't we? Nobody else was speaking up." Still, he looks a little embarrassed, and lifts his hood up over his head when they leave the bar, concealing his face.
"Yes I agree. We should check the scene first and see what is going on. All we need is a colder trail or a convenient disappearance or two. Evidence only sometimes walks away."
He waves his hand idly.
"The linens can easily be substituted. Want to look the part?"
Dalton merely nods, his lips pressed together.
While grumbling and shooting longing looks at the bar, Marsh gathers up his things to leave.
"Yeah, dead bodies I guess. Might as well see what's killin people before we take the job."
The greatest enemy of any investigation is time. Time brings sticky hands and the elements to destroy or change evidence. Bacarov knew that. So did I.
"Let's check out the body." I said, "Before someone tries to haul the body away or clean up the blood splatters."
Determined to check out the scene for themselves before heading onward to Crown Manor, the party departs the Soggy Trouser and begins making their way eastward, off the shabby piers of the Filth and up the hill into the neighborhood called the Tangle. Rain begins to fall during the half-hour hike through the cobbled streets up Carrion Hill's western slope; water runs noisily through the filthy gutters. There are few people out and about. A few wary faces stare at the party as they pass, but none makes any effort to greet them or make them feel welcome; though, to be fair, this is simply the way things are in Ustalav.
Finding the Slipper Market takes a short while; it seems that it is little more than a city block, a tiny little neighborhood on the Stormway Steps. The main indication that the group has reached its destination is not the word of any local, but rather the soggy ropes sectioning off a large area of the street ahead, as more than a dozen Crows mill about the scene; just past them, the ruins of a small house lie, large sections of its structure collapsed.
One of the Crows near the rope barrier sees the group coming and holds up a hand for them to stop. "This area's off-limits," he says, rain-soaked bangs hanging in his eyes. "By the order of Commander Garus, none other than Crows are to enter without a writ from the Mayor. Please return to your homes." As he says this, his gaze darts to and fro amongst the group, and he seems to realize that you are probably not locals. Nonetheless, he holds his ground.
Behind him, the party sees a pair of Crows emerge from the rubble of the house carrying a body on a stretcher. The corpse is horribly mutilated; arms hang bonelessly off the sides of the stretcher, and its lower body has been twisted around at least once; both of the Crows carrying the stretcher wear masks over their mouths and noses, but appear on the verge of retching regardless.
Looking back over his shoulder at the body being carried up, the nearest Crow groans. "Gods, is that Pratt? Poor bastard..."
Two more bodies lie half-covered by tarps in the street just outside the crushed building. Nearby, the group finally spots the only non-Crow within the roped-off area- it looks like a local citizen, a withered old man clutching hit hat in his hands and staring with wide eyes down at the bodies. A female Crow with a particularly gloomy expression on her face appears to be interrogating him.
.
.
Force...physicality...presence...mauling of an unbridled ferocity.. The mental notes begin pouring through his mind as he catalogues the scene. Bacarov’s hand goes to his jacket, fingertips inching towards his neck along a well-trodden path to find the accustomed chain is no longer there. He closes his sky-blue eyes and an image of his Inspector’s medallion in the desk drawer of his flat back home comes to mind.
”No, Commander, I’ll not be in an official capacity…”
He grinds his teeth, knowing he doesn’t have a badge to get him thru. But he also knows a badge doesn’t make a man nor constrain the experiences flowing in his veins. His hand goes back to the haft of the spear on which he leans and he says, ”We’ve come answering the call of the Mayor who even now presides over the Crows on behalf of your Commander. I appreciate the necessity to bear the mayor’s writ, such matters are important in ferreting out those seeking their own glory, however we are also quite aware of the need to preview the incident quickly before weather and peril obliterate evidence.”
The woman questioning the old man draws his momentary attention. Yes, my dear. You should be grim, but you also contain your rage at the loss of comrades in order to gain information. Good, I’ll want to talk to you first…
The flapping canvas covering the other two bodies rises on a noxious wind that carries with it the vision of the departed. Bacarov swallows, eyes narrowing and a fear knifing his stomach. Nosatrub, are you among these Crows? Have you gone to join Phedron?
”I...I and my comrades..,” Bacarov addresses the Crow at the rope line, his eyes resettle on the man long after his words. ”...we’re late from Magnimar, fastened to an investigation that has led us to your city. My own skills and those of these two...” He nods towards Warshawski and Vincent, his brief distraction giving way to his confidence with every passing word. ”...marked us as Inspectors and Officers bound to the City Watch. And these gentlemen here bring worthy investigative skills to bear having assisted me in bringing several cases to their righteous conclusion.”
Bacarov pitches his voice low, for the Crow alone. ”Time is of the essence. Let us help you uncover who or what committed this atrocity. Let us help you bring justice to your fallen. We will see to our official writs directly thereafter, you can set your witness to it.”
As Bacarov does the talking, Dalton sidles slightly closer to where the local old man is being interrogated by the lady Crow. His ears perk beneath the sodden hood of his traveling cloak, listening for their words to glean some information about what happened here.
Dramin listens to the words slide out of Bacarov's mouth. Despite his departure from the watch, he still seemed as stoic as ever. He knew full well that there was something ticking away in his head, some checklist that needed to be filled to have the life he once had.
We all suffer the same in the end, its just expressed differently.
He stays quiet for a moment and lets the man speak while his eye darts over to Dalton... and more importantly the body that hangs from the cart.
Dramin holds himself in check. He has seen much worse at this point, and the pursuit of knowledge makes one have to tear apart some animals at times.
Animals? Thats no animal. Thats a man. Get yourself together and stop being so distant. He wonders if the fatigue from the journey is doing him in, but before he can fully think on it, a honeyed voice stumbles into his thoughts.
Passion. Animalistic passion. Its wonderful and soon you will know it.
He focuses hard on the Crows that Bacarov is speaking to, hoping to ground himself in the murky plane he existed in; and waits for them to ultimately let him in to the site and allow his head to begin working anew.
The Crow that greeted the party seems fairly impressed by Bacarov's words. He studies the group for a moment longer, then says: "Aye, well, I'll have a word with my superior officer. We'll see what she says. Wait here, if you don't mind." He turns and hustles over toward the woman the group saw interrogating the old man a ways off, shouting "Captain!" as he goes, boots splashing in the rain.
The gloomy-looking woman converses with the officer briefly, glancing over at the party a few times before finally turning to the old man, saying a few last words to him, then leaving him in the hands of another officer. Finally, she approaches the rope barrier and raises one hand in greeting to the party, the other resting on the pommel of the sheathed longsword that hangs at her hip.
"From Magnimar, eh?" she says. She is a tough-looking woman in her late twenties or early thirties, with short hair plastered to her forehead by the rain. "You're a long way from home, friends. Captain Roslyn of the Crows. My man says you've not been to see the Mayor as of yet, but you're wanting a look around regardless?" She looks the group over and then nods to herself. "It's hardly proper procedure, but... you'll have to understand, with Commander Garus... gone, I'm the senior officer on site, and I'd like nothing better than a few fresh pairs of eyes to examine this mess." She pauses for a moment, exhaling loudly. "Very well, then. But just a quick look around, and..." She holds up a finger. "I'm coming with you. I can't have you poking about the scene unsupervised. You understand, I'm sure, some of you coming from City Watch ranks yourselves."
With that, she gestures for the group to step past the barrier and onto the site.
"Marshan..." Dalton murmurs to himself, resolving to remember the name. When Captain Roslyn gestures for them to come in, he holds the barrier open for his comrades, closing the barrier again behind him when he follows last. Unless Rosyln immediately starts to lead the group away, the monk will kneel next to one of the bodies covered in tarps, lifting up the cover to expose the deceased's injuries - but only gets the obvious information before lowering the tarp again...
Dalton lifts one of the tarps, finding the body to be horribly crushed- its chest is caved in as if an elephant had stomped upon it. A look of pure horror is frozen on the twisted face of the cadaver.
"Killed in the collapse of the establishment, I assume?" the monk asks Roslyn while looking down at the caved-in chest cavity.
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Marsh looks over Dalton's shoulder.
"Damn, somethin stomped him good."
The big man then responds to tha captain.
"Sounds good Captain, lets check out the scene first before this rain washes away the tracks an such iffin it isn't too late already with all the steppin around, uh, mam."
Years of hunting people, first as a bounty hunter and later as a member of the Watch, turns the ground into a mosaic of information melting towards the gutters. Marshes hard eyes trying to make sense of it before nature cleansed the canvas.
There are times like these when I wished I could speak with the dead.
He looks at Warshawski, knowing only a bit of her history.
But only times like these.
He wanders over to the collapsed building and takes a look.
When he sees Dalton lift the tarp, he walks on over.
"What do we have here?" He looks at the caved body, and the force needed to crush it. "I don't think its the cave in that did him in."
His tone is unflinching and he stares into the man's eyes for a moment.
That is not the face I would expect out of a collapse. Especially of one who is captain of a guard.
Dramin rubs his neck and pulls up his scarf. He feels something with this site.
Roslyn peeks over at Dalton and nods. "Aye, so far as I'm aware. I never got the whole story from Commander Garus, I'm afraid. Those two men there," she says, pointing to the two bodies beneath the tarp- including the one whose chest was caved in- "-were just local scamps. Lived in the alley next to this house. Maybe they ran in to see what the ruckus was all about when it all went down. The collapse happened two hours before dawn. The only witness we've had come forward- that being Mr. Tarrig back there- says the Slipper Market vendors were up starting to get their carts and stalls set up for the day's business when the whole thing went down. Screaming, he says, and an awful howling, sounds he said he couldn't describe. He says it was like a great big hand took hold of the house and was trying to push it into the ground. He ran to grab the Crows, and ran into Commander Garus' group, bringing them back here. By the time they arrived, it had all gone quiet." She sighs and wipes her wet bangs out of her face. "Here's where things take a turn for the worse. Tarrig says Garus and his men wasted no time in trying to clear the rubble and look for survivors. Tarrig lost sight of them as they went into the remains of the house, but then the screaming started again. He says it sounded like a war going on, saw a Crow come running back out, and something- something he couldn't see, he says- lifted him into the air and started squeezing and twisting, and pulled him back inside..." She gestures toward the mutilated Crow being hauled out on the stretcher. "I'm assuming that's poor Officer Garret here. Poor bastard... My team arrived within an hour of that- right around dawn. Mayor's orders have been stifling us a bit, since he doesn't want us all getting ourselves killed given our reduced numbers at present... a right pain in the arse, if you ask me. Whatever thing caused this has the blood of good men on its hands. I'll not be satisfied until it's been repaid in kind."
She then points to the alleyway next to the ruined house. "Strangest thing we've found so far is in the alley over here. There's some kind of symbol painted on the wall that wasn't there before all this. A spiral-looking shape. You should take a look at it for yourselves before you go. Painted in blood and everything- I already confirmed that much. We see a lot of nasty business in Carrion Hill- comes with the territory, being out here in Ustalav and all. But this... this reeks of something worse than the norm." She sighs again and adds, "And speaking of stinks, there's an awful smell about the whole place. If you aren't smelling it yet, you'll find it soon. Got something to do with that slime all over the place in there."
The only other sight of interest is another pair of tracks in the shallow mud near the high side of the street. From studying these tracks for several minutes, you discern the following:
1. The tracks have no clear starting point. It is as if the subject simply appeared out of the ether and started walking.
2. The tracks move forward a few dozen paces then stop, turn slightly, ending direcetly across the street from the ruin of the crushed house. It appears the subject was facing in the direction of the destruction.
3. The tracks stop there. There is no sign of the person leaving or doubling back.
4. From the size, shape, and depth of the tracks, you can tell it was a medium-sized female humanoid, likely either human or elven.
5. The subject was barefoot.
6. The last set of footprints, the ones facing the ruined house, are slightly deeper and better-defined than those previous, indicating that they may have stood in that place for several minutes.
7. It's conceivable that these tracks could have been here since before dawn. Conceivable, but not a given.
It seems as if the worst damage to the house's exterior is the wall that collapsed out into the alleyway next to the house.
[ooc]To be clear, the man Dalton was examining was not a Crow, but a homeless tramp.
Roslyn looks around at the group. "Well, you going to introduce yourselves, strangers? You don't look awfully surprised at this. You didn't just happen upon this... crime, or whatever we're calling it, did you?" She rubs her hands anxiously. "All I've managed to do so far is extract these bodies from the rubble. A few of my boys were able to poke around down there briefly, only long enough to confirm that there are more bodies. Most of 'em are too spooked to go much further, bless their hearts. Well? What's your plan?"
I had to wonder. Did murder follow us around like a lost puppy? Or were we cursed and perpetually bound to violent death? I let handle the physical evidence. That was their realm. I knew Dramin could decipher the symbol on the wall if anyone could.
My place was, increasingly, the realm of spirits. I could feel the soul wrapped around me, even now. These days, I felt as much ghost as human.
I stepped into the alley and unfolded a small mat from my bag. Being a spirittalker didn't mean I had to place my ass on filthy city cobblestone.
Slowly, I breathed in. Breathed out. I reached out, eyes open, searching for the spirits of this place. Eye witnesses of the incorporeal kind.
"Howling? A big hand, you say? Interesting," Dalton comments, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Squeezing and twisting him in midair? My word..." the monk murmurs, crossing his arms as he listens.
"My name is Dalton Thorpe, ma'am," he replies, in answer to her question. "This is Warshawski, Vincent Marsh, Sebastian Bacarov, and Dramin Jodare. We're late from Magnimar, but prior to that, Ravenmoor, where we handled a problem stemming from some...cultists of Ghlaunder," he comments to her, lowering his voice at the mention of the accursed name.
After mentioning that, he suddenly realizes that he might be spilling too much about their intentions. His initial read of this Roslyn Crow was that she was trustworthy, and here he was telling their whole life story. He shuts up, and gestures to the alleyway. "I'll let Bacarov or Dramin or...any of the others explain further. I'd like to get a look at this symbol..." he moves over to the area Roslyn mentioned before to examine it critically.
I really should just let you do the talking, he thinks to himself wryly as he walks over to the alleyway, glancing down at the hilt of his sword on his hip.
"Ghlaunder? Never heard of it," Roslyn says passively, but nods in appreciation of Dalton's greeting. "Well met, the lot of you. I'm hoping whatever this unusual experience you're bringing to this investigation is, it'll help us put a stop to all this before it gets too far out of hand."
She glances over at Warshawski as she begins her communion with the dead. "...What is she doing?" Roslyn asks, an eyebrow raised.
The spirits are wild, frenzied, howling in madness; whatever slew them drove them insane by the time it was done with them. One spirit seems to be playing out its own death over and over... as some invisible limb grips it about the body and paints a spiraling pattern onto the alley wall with the pulped ruin of its crushed skull.
Listening in for as long as you can stand, you are able to pick out a few words amongst the screams: "From below! It came from below!" "It's not there... it's killing everyone, but there's nothing there!"
"Dramin." His voice gets an edge to it as Dalton mentions the Cult of Ghalunder. He's not upset, but he's sure the monk will understand the implication.
He thinks on the destruction that he sees with the buildings and keeps it to himself for the time being. A hand he could not see? A twisting force? What could such a thing be?
He thinks on some spells that could do it, hopefully trying to come up with a solution that didn't lead to cults but he knows it is a fool's errand. It is something larger and far more dangerous at play.
When he hears Rosyln mention the lives of those lost and how hard it hits her, he speaks up, completely setting aside the paranoia that the buzzing brings upon.
"He was right about a force in these buildings. I won't lie to you because it would serve no purpose, telling you it was a trick or some delusion." He walks over to some of the slime and the toothmarks on the wood, lifting it up. "I can't say with certainty what this is, but it is definitely not of the natural world."
"The last thing I want is to worry you without just cause, but this may be just." He puts it down and wipes the slime into a small vial. "Though I do say 'may', and sometimes that's better than nothing."
His tone gets more sombre for a moment.
"Our experiences... Lets say we are some of the best for this job. I would continue on but I do think that there is a symbol you mentioned. I have a bad habit of jumping into these kinds of things and enjoying them, so if you'll excuse me." He walks off with a small nod. "Oh and I wouldn't worry about her." He shakes his head toward Warshawski and her mat. There are more pressing things to worry about Rosyln.
His head starts rolling and the gears begin to move. Sometimes as a child he believed little gnome toys worked as he did. Its funny what you remember when pressed so close to this type of dread. He walks on over.
What clues do you hold? What does Dalton see that draws him so far off from the others?
He eyes the monk down for a moment and fixes his gaze on the symbol.
He has seen it before. In the sky in his dreams... In the corn field... In paintings... And in that accursed book. He feels the scythe at his side and rubs his hand over the engravings. He doesn't know if he imagined such a symbol etched into it, or if it was real. Taking it out now wasn't safe. Dramin decides to fumble blindly at it to feel if it matches.
"Dalton."
He doesn't wait for a response.
"We're here. This is the place we need to be."
I could hear myself gasping for air. I opened my eyes and clapped my hands over my ears. It was too much! Like drowning in a sea of voices as they all tried to climb over my body to reach the safety of air. I could feel the tears trickling down my cheeks.
"The spirits here are insane." I struggled to my feet. For a moment, I meant to lean against the wall to help but, at the last minute I remembered the gore splattered across it. "The killer doesn't just rip apart bodies. It rips apart minds. It... came from below. It might be invisible. They couldn't see. Maybe couldn't touch it. But it touched them."