Ravengro,dark and foreboding, a bleak landscape governed under the dark pall that hangs over the land of Ustalav. A simple town of simple folk...but what awaits in the darkness of night of a town with so dark a history?
The letter reached you with no fanfare, no special delivery or courier – it just arrived, sealed with a wax impression that you knew quite well. The “L” of your friend, Professor Lorrimor showed as a deep impression in the gob of wax that was the same deep red as dried blood. You smiled in spite of the letter’s unexpected nature and broke the seal.
It was a long time before you accepted the news…the letter from Kendra Lorrimor, daughter of your friend, delivered ill news that you’d hoped you’d never hear. Your great friend, Professor Petros Lorrimor, is dead. The details are lacking, but Kendra has invited you to attend her father’s funeral in their home town of Ravengro. She also states that you’re included in your late friend’s last will and testament, and that his last wishes were for you to be present at its reading.
As you enter the small town of Ravengro, you reflect upon what you know of the Lorrimors’ chosen home. A small town of hardy folk, mostly farmers, Ravengro’s only claim to fame was the now closed and dilapidated prison of Harrowstone, which was once notorious for holding some of the most vile criminals in Ustalav. From your understanding, Ravengro was founded to house workers and provide support for the prison, and became a self-sufficient farming community after its closure.
You’ve gathered with a select few of the late Professor’s friends at the entrance to The Restlands – the only graveyard in Ravengro, when the young Kendra Lorrimor appears. Her eyes red and puffy, and dressed in dark, conservative clothes; Kendra is still trim and attractive. She greets you with a mixture of curiosity, sadness, and relief – no one else from outside of the town has come to pay their respects to her father, and only a few from Ravengro itself have come out for the funeral. These few, seemingly villagers and common folk, are somber and hold their heads down in their pain.
Thank you for coming. I…my father, he…he wanted you all to be here; you were so dear to him. It means a great to deal to me, and to him… She put a hand to her heart. …that you came. Kendra seems to want to say more, but is overruled by her desire to put her father, and thus this dark day, to rest and peace. If I may, could I ask any of you to bear your friend to his final place of rest?
Yes, of course I will.
Once more unto the breach my dear friend, once more. Funny, I always thought that was nonsense. Perhaps you taught me more than I realize.
It would be a great honour.
I saved you, once, and my life was never the same. You sent me - all by accident - down an unforeseen path. Where might your death take me, I wonder? Pharasma, speed his soul, and I entreat you, be not too harsh in your judgement of him.
Standing beside her friend, Asenath casts a predatory look over the mourners. She moves towards the coffin, and stands opposite Zazaria.
I will.
What secrets you will uncover now, in death? I envy you.
|
Gerion is strangely uneffected by the precedings, It has been almost half a decade since he last saw the old man. However he is moved by Kendra's plea for aid conscious of how much she has grown since their last meeting.
"For you and your father my dear, there is nothing I wouldn't do."
He follows this with a drawn out all too theatrical bow. Kendra is a welcome distraction, but he can't quite forget the brazen threats of the Quietman or the throbbing pain of his recently mended fingers.
The sooner this is over the sooner I can put the Quietman and the debt behind me
Alongside the coffin, Asenath reaches down to touch the huckle on the casket. She starts to sing softly to herself lines from an old nursery rhyme, "A man of words and not of deeds/Is like a garden full of weeds." Pause. "And when the door begins to crack/It's like a stick across your back/And when your back begins to smart/It's like a penknife in your heart/And when your heart begins to bleed/You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed." A solitary tear rolls down her pale cheek.
A strange soul, this girl. But she clearly felt deeply for old Petros. As did that handsome young fellow, even if he appears to be all flourish and show. And what of the other, so self-contained? Strange, that we are all drawn together thus.
With a gentle smile, Zazaria takes her station beside the coffin and looks inquiringly at Kendra.
Crag grabs the casket. No further words needed.
Kendra acknowledges your comments with an inclination of her pretty face and a slight curtsy. She forces a sad smile, but her eyes show her pain. Thank you; my father could always count on you, and its good to see that I can do the same. Father Grimburrow will meet us at the gravesite, as tradition dictates. I will lead you.
With that, she turns in her fashionable but conservative shoes, and begins to walk along the gravel path that is the road through the Restlands. The gathered villagers allow you to follow directly after, and then they keep pace behind you, their expressions somber.
Though the coffin is heavy, it’s well balanced with four of you around it, and the ground isn’t so uneven as to give you trouble. Soon, the path comes to a Tee, and Kendra turns to the right and begins down a perpendicular path. Upon making the turn, Kendra pauses. The way ahead is blocked by a dozen surly looking locals. One, a tall and wiry older man, steps forward with a sour face and addresses Kendra.
That’s far enough. We been talking, and we don’t want Lorrimor
buried in the Restlands. You can take him upriver and bury him
there if you want, but he ain’t goin’ in the ground here!”
Asenath laughs, not an entirely displeasing sound though there is something unnerving in its pitch, contrapuntal to the sombre occasion and the quiet of the graveyard. The amulet around her neck glows with a soft, malignant light. "I see this will be a traditional Chelaxian funeral. Who is responsible for the entertainment?"
Zazaria looks the interlopers up and down, her plain, matronly features hardening. She raises an eyebrow at Asenath's sally, although whether or not she approves is difficult to tell.
Is this how the faithful of Pharasma honour the dead and show compassion for the bereaved? are you not shamed?
Crags fist tightens. Disapproval.
Does he not have the same right as you to be buried here?
I am calm. I am in control. Violence does not solve all problems.
Staring at the man who accosted the coterie of mourners, Asenath plays absently with the glowing amulet about her neck.
"Why do you fear to have this man buried in the Restlands? Is it for you to judge? Look here, a servant of the Lady of Graves does not doubt that this man be buried here."
Asenath moves to stand beside Kendra.
|
|
Gerion lets go of the coffin, leaving Crag to take its weight and places himself between Kendra and the townspeople.
"Gentlemen, Gentlemen. Come now I'm sure there's a way to settle this diplomatically. How about you let us bury old Lorrimor and I buy you fellows something to drink later, you'd like that? First rounds on me."
His eyes dart between:Kendra,the townsfolk and the casket bearers.
Somewhat desperately, Zazaria flexes her knees and attempts to ease the coffin to the ground, hoping - somewhat more desperately - that Crag follows suit before its cadaverous contents are unceremoniously dumped on the pathway.
Crag lowers the coffin to the ground.
Stay here professor. If need be, I'll clear the path to your final destination.
Zazaria nods her thanks to Crag - this one, at least, knows that waiting is sometimes the wisest course - and fixes a look of generalised disgust at the assembled oldsters. If there is to be violence...No, there must be no violence in this place! I must see to it if things become too fraught.
Sensing a change in the focus of the mourners, Asenath continues to stare at the lead elder, drawing on her will and beginning to transfer it into arcane power. You always now how to make an exit Lorrimor!
After only a slight wobble, you’re able to even out your burden, and together you lower it to the ground.
The old man sneers at the strangers to his town, though more than one of his gathered toughs nod at Gerion’s offer, at least seeming to believe that a pint could help with the impasse.
Kendra looks to each of you, obviously grateful for your defense. Seeming bolstered by your presence, she turns a proud chin to the gathered mob. What are you on about? I’ve had this arranged; why, Father Grimburrow is waiting for us at the site while we…
You don’t get it, woman. We won’t have a necromancer buried in the same place as our kin. I suggest you move out while you still
can. Folks are pretty upset about this right now
Laughing her unnerving mirth once more, Asenath replies to the elder's comment with a tone of authority, "This one is not a necromancer. You hurt his feelings. I will excuse your ignorance, for you cannot tell a good soul from a dark one. Now, scurry on back to the pub."
... Now, scurry on back to the pub.
Let us bury this man and I can guarantee I shall not right the wrong you have presented thus far.
Violence is for the barbaric. Violence is not a solution. Through peace I gain victory.
Why do the simple and superstitious confuse scholarship with sorcery? Zazaria holds forth her symbol of Pharasma.
Do you see this? Know you not that Pharasma's priesthood is sworn to oppose the evil of necromancy? Do any of you seriously imagine that one such as I would willingly accompany an evil-doer to his grave? Abandon this folly now, I implore you. Return to your homes, your families. Leave this place as it should be, a place of peace and repose.
As Zazaria speaks to the townsfolk, Asenath looks at her with an enigmatic expression on her face; much like a cat who stares into the void of air before it, yet sees something that those less sensitive cannot. Her hand drifts absently to her neck, where her strange amulet pulses once with its soft, malignant light.
Several of the men seem moved by your words, as they show no small amount of confusion and uncertainty. The wiry old man, however, would have none of it. He glanced to the men at his side and scowled.
You’d condemn your families to a life of corruption and despair! No...an afterlife of despair! Not in my town, not ever! We work our fingers to the bone to keep our people safe and fed, and no dark magics will ever change that!
With that, the crowd is incited once again. Beyond reasoning and with improvised weapons high, they advance!
Zazaria raises her hands high. O Lady of Graves, put forth your protective might! A pearly-pale light, barely visible, gathers in her hands and spirals around her body in dim coils. She reaches over her shoulder and takes up her quarterstaff, waiting beside the coffin to protect it from the oncoming men.
Many of the villagers regard the casket in open fear, and they pause in confusion, until one of the speaks up. It's the trickster; don't let him fool you!. He advances with the others, though two men seem to be taking extraordinary caution as the approach the ornamental, mahogany vessel and its bearers.
Focussing on the lead man, Asenath draws a hex in the air before her. Her will invades his mind, a lethargic lullaby that threatens to drag him down into a deep, smothering, restless sleep.
Fled is that music - Do I wake or sleep?
The enraged man shakes off the effects of the hex, blinking his eyes rapidly as he stays on his feet. He charges at Asenath, his teeth gritted in determination. Raising a heavy shovel, he brings in down in a blow that, while driven by force, seems too tentative to be meant for a kill.
Another villager, bearing a scythe, moves in alongside his companion, attacking Asenath from the side.
Brandishing a sturdy hoe, a third man rushes forward to swing at Crag, showing quite a bit of bravery in spite of the menacing appearance of the man. He attacks with the long weapon, though he glances aside at the coffin of the late professor as if he feared the coffin more than any man's weapon.
Another villager moves past the battle at the front of the coffin and takes a path towards Gerion and Zazaria
The last villager to take positive action is bold enough to step past Kendra, his eyes never leaving her as he moves beyond her to swing at Gerion with a horseman's whip. Kendra, for her part, glares at the man, but having no weapon, she does not engage.
Crag attacks the man in front of him.
Asenath hisses as the shovel strikes her.
Sssssss...
Crag's first blow, a lightning fast backfist, gains power from a quick spin of the monk's hips. It hits solidly, and the man struck is unconcious before he hits the gravel of the path. His second swing flies wide, as the man is already falling away.
Grimly, Zazaria strides forward, quarterstaff swinging for the nearest of the old bullies. The pale luminescence of her divine defenses fades away as she advances.
Asenath, stares coldly at one of the men, drawing on her will as she transforms it into the arcane power required to fuel her hex. She draws the symbol in the air, the haunting lullaby taunts him with the promise of nightmarish oblivion as he is dragged under the dark waves of sleep.
Zazaria's staff cracks into the skull of the villager with a sickening sound. The man's knees buckle and he slumps to the ground in an unseemly pile of limbs.
The man facing Gerion proves to be quick for his appearance. He shifts to put the handle of his whip in the path of Gerion's darting sword, and deflects it harmlessly aside.
The man facing Asenath shakes off the hex again, though just barely. He appears unnerved as the witch slips to his side. He's obviously shaken at having his mind influenced twice in the matter of a few seconds.
The man near Crag slips in to stand over his fallen comrade and swings at Crag.
Gerion's foe slaps out with the handle of his whip.
The two men surrounding Asenath swing at the witch as she slips in between them.
Crag attempts to replicate his previous success.
Crag's lightning fast combination lays the villager low, and the man's eyes roll back in his head as he hits the ground hard.
Still dour and intent, Zazaria steps forward and levels another vexed blow at one of those attacking Asenath.
Both Gerion's and Zazaria's opponents prove too quick for the pair's attacks to hit home.
The oblivion of unconsciousness blurs Asenath's vision, darkening her sight at the edges. She steps to the side and focuses her will on the elder before her. The seething hatred, the pain, the smell of blood builds into a tempest within her and is unleashed in a silent, sonic torrent that can only be heard by her victim.
Asenath’s spell dies on her lips as she takes too much caution to avoid leaving herself open to attack.
The whip-weilder boldy attacks Gerion again with his weapon’s sturdy handle.
The man who was engaged with Asenath follows her, and once again takes a swing.
The man fighting Zazaria strikes back.
Crag steps up to and makes an unarmed strike at the foe