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As Rutilus enters the room and the rat-man speaks of amnesty, Rutilus cannot help but smile at the situation. It is a rare day indeed when he gets to perform in front of an audience such at this. On his shoulder, in broad view of the rat-man, is his large centipede familiar. The creature appears interested and excited at what is to come.
"Ah, my furry friend, we meet again. I begin to recall our first chance encounter - what was it that you called me again? Ah, yes. 'Devilpup'. Just a rather boring name if I do say so myself. I could think of a half-dozen more insulting names to call myself. Regardless, I do believe the tables have turned, haven't they? As it so happens, you are now at the mercy of said 'Devipup'. But I must confess, I would rather we be civil about this interrogation. Not a single drop needs spilling, nor a single prick of pain or agony necessary. Simple cooperation is all that is required, and there would be no need for someone such as I to stoop so low as to use more painful and barbaric methods of interrogation, nor would my.. ah.. friend need to get involved." Rutilus leans in close to the rat-man and allows his centipede to put its head near the were-rat's own exposed face. He leans back after a few moments, however, to give the prisoner some space.
A few moments later, he procures a small vial from one of his sleeves. "But first, a little bit of.. preparation is in order. Do not worry, my furry-friend, this will not hurt. In fact, you will find that they enhance your already-enhanced senses.. among other things." Rutilus moves behind the were-rat and grabs hold of the back of his head - careful not to allow him a chance to bite - and holds the vial over his head, allowing drops to fall into the were-rat's eyes. He gives it a few moments to kick in continuing.
As the were-rat's eyes dialate, Rutilus casts his spell.
Nathmir remains in the background for the moment. Watching how things go, he had his own nethys blessed spells prepared. Using a minor one to observe any magic that could be at work. He didn't want to miss someone watching or attempting to kill the prisoner.
Arzazel identifies all of the new manor locations, in case Darvan wants to connect to all of the them eventually.
Eldred folds his arms across his chest, oddly aware of the Commissariat pin on his uniform. Out in the yard there are two men setting about the dismantling of the fountain. Whadda they take me for anyway? Some dandy needs something pretty ta calm my nerves?
"Sir, I just want to be sure about your request..." His name is Marcum, a diminutive human assigned as Eldred's head of house. He winces as the workmen set about pulverizing the fountain, bald pate shiny in the morning sun as he looks at the ham fisted list the gunslinger had provided him. "Might at kiln cause things to be intemperate back here?"
"How'm I gonna melt down some shot without a work place? Ya want me ta do it in the house?"
"Blessed gods no, sir."
Eldred spits to the side and growls. "Didn't think so...n' stop callin' me sir. Makes me feel old n' noble n' useless." He steps away from Marcum and gives a shout to one of the workmen. Instead of letting them have all the fun, he pulls off his coat and drapes it over a collection of piled lumber, then grabs a sledge and wades into the work.
At the least, having the new digs meant he had an excuse to 'requisition' the odd assortment of greenies from the gun yards. He could get updates on their training and he could get folks to man his house that he could halfway trust. His different rooms in the place were well on their way to being useful. Additions of a few helpful books so he could read up on alchemy, tactics and even the occasional gun tome when he could get it from Rud's.
The backyard is where the most change will occur. A kiln and workshop for fabricating rounds and modifying his guns had been top of the list.
"My lord?" Marcum has to shout a few times to raise his voice above the din. Eventually Eldred comes over to see what he needs. "A message for you..." He bites down on the 'sir' before it escapes his lips.
He reads through the brief letter and nods, wadding get it up and stuffing it in a trouser pocket. "See to the boys, Marcum. Make sure they're fed and get home before midday. They got drills this afternoon." He grabs up his uniform coat and heads into his house, pausing briefly to splash some water on his face and hands before strapping on his gun and short sword and departing.
Can't let that red monkey have all the fun...
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Eldred admires Zeltresh's handiwork. "Wouldn't mind a touch up on my armor, but we'll see what time allows."
Before he can say anything further, they're ushered into the interrogation room where Terandar and Kathlyn are waiting. Eldred gives a simple salute to his new boss and stands to the side as Rutilus begins his work. Besides, no need to cozy up to that creepy crawly on his shoulder.
Wonder why we're workin' the rat this way? Wouldn't a beating do the trick?
Eldred pulls a fresh pinch of tobacco and begins rolling a cigarette. As he does so he throws a bit of warning the rat's way. "Better offer up all ya know, omae. This here devil-man ain't part o' the chain o' command if ya catch my meaning. N' bein' a diplomat n' all, he's pretty much got run of the place. So you talk, we might avoid havin' ta commit your rat-soul to the pleasure of a demon."
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The imprisoned wererat begins to chitter nervously, beady eyes shooting back and forth from Eldred, to Rutilus, then to Eodric. As if reading the vermin's intent, Lord-Knight Teldas nods to the others and begins to make his way for the door leading into the wererat's prison. "I'll leave you to your task. It seems a task ill-suited for bearing witness to."
As the thick, metal door clangs shut across the room, the prisoner squeaks weakly, ears shooting backwards and head dipping as low as its constraints will allow. "Please, amnesty! I speak all truth, whatever they ask! Ch-ch-ch-tk. . . will die if your clerics do not aid. Cannot speak truth while cursed."
Eldred's mind slides back two years and sees the stumbling form of Glados Fip emerge from the underbrush and trees. They'd sent him ahead of the reconnaissance party to scout the interior. Fip's eyes were bulging, hands clutching his middle, his words coming in strangled gasps. It wasn't until he was nearly upon the group that Eldred and the others had noted the ritual carvings all along his arms and neck.
"Fip...don't speak! Hold your tongue..." Their cleric, a half-elf for Shelyn who'd lost nearly all his mirth, stepped forward.
But it'd been too late. Fip attempted to speak, to warn the party of who'd harmed him. His heart burst in his chest and he'd been dead before he hit the ground.
Eldred snaps back to the present and he looks to the Commissar Kathlyn. "Unless out ambassador here has the ability, or Nathmir decides ta grace us with his presence, we're going to need a priest...someone to see if he's on the level n' one who can pull it offa him." He glances back to the wererat. "Before his guts get turned into Varisian gazpacho."
Eldred snaps back to the present and he looks to the Commissar Kathlyn then to the cleric of Nethys. . "Can you see if he's on the level? Then can ya pull it offa him?" He glances back to the wererat. "Before his guts get turned into Varisian gazpacho."
Nathmir steps forward slightly.
"He believes he is telling the truth but I do not detect any magic at work. Ether he was tricked or the curse was woven with a concealing spell as well. Which while possible is unlikely in my opinion, it would be simpler to word the curse to prevent him from speaking of it. Ensuring it's ill effects take hold without any chance of removal. Otherwise what is the point of the curse. Regardless I do not have the ability to remove the curse at this time, you will have to request an Abadarian priest of greater power then myself."
He thinks for a moment, those without knowledge or ability in magic could often be mislead with ease concerning it's use. Something his faith did not like as such actions caused a distrust of magic and by extension repression of it.
"Who placed this supposed curse on you and how?"
Continuing to chitter nervously, the rat's bulging eyes swivel around to take in Nathmir. He responds weakly, "Need priest. Will speak. Need priest!"
Nathmir simply shrugs.
"I see no harm in having a priest remove whatever he claims to have. Agreed?"
Dozens of minutes pass as Kathlyn nods consent to Nathmir's request to step outside of the room. She returns with an elaborate scroll embossed with gold-leaf. Without ceremony, she unrolls it and begins to intone the divine script contained thereon. The wererat begins to wince and squeal in agony as she concludes the casting.
Something small and metal clangs to the ground behind the prisoner: a small, silver nail covered in the lycanthrope's blood. Judging from the hole in the back of his neck, the object forcefully burrowed its way out. Though obviously pained from the injury, the wererat actually wears an expression of relief, though his strained pants continue rapidly. "Freed..."
Eldred pulls a drag from his cigarette and rests a hand on the butt of his pistol. "Be a shame ya, gettin' loosed o' that evil only ta get pistol whipped into oblivion." The weight of his hand causes the leather of the holster to creak. "Spill it, whiskers. What's your party in this mess, n' whadya know."
Nathmir takes a cloth and picks up the nail. Using his magic detecting eyes to scan it carefully.
Shortly after he turns to the wererat. Speaking simply.
"Speak, or you will find this curse to be of little relief."
Retiring...