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“Abel! No, you cannot do this!” shouts Brother Anselm. Raising the simple Star of Arton that hangs around his neck he calls out. “Father Arton, send this man back to the grave where he belongs!” A faint radiance seems to creep out in a sphere from where Anselm stands, encompassing those nearby including Abel, who hisses and flinches as the light touches him.
Smenk stops and allows himself a quiet smirk as Damion stops him and speaks to the others. In response to Andolphas he says, “Son, I never was the wealthiest man in town, though I was working at it – and I certainly am not now. Fact is, I did supply Kullen and his boys with most of my own stock of magical potions for this very purpose – what a waste of my time and resources that was ... though perhaps, you’ll make better use of some of them than they did. As it happens though, I did manage to recoup some of those potions from the members of Kullen’s group who escaped your ambush. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have them sent round to you later tonight ... now, if there is nothing else ...?”
Magnimar oh Magnimar: Spoiler:
Illes and Elisile readily agree with Lady Canayvan. They explain that the item is of extreme proportions and has been the target of thieves before now – as such they have it stashed away in their (presumably large) room at the inn, guarded by a companion. They leave it up to her whether she wants to send someone (or come herself) to view it, or whether she would prefer it transported over here, though Illes stresses that they are trying to avoid ‘flashing it about’ as it were.
Smenk nods thoughtfully for a moment, then pushes his chair away form the table and stands. “It appears that I have misjudged you, in either ability or character, except perhaps the Inquisitor,” he says. “If I can’t find someone else capable of dealing with this problem … well, I always thought that what I have here in Diamond Lake might not last forever, and have made contingencies. Good evening.” He nods curtly, gestures to his guards and walks out of the room.
Damion: Spoiler:
Kyuss worms are small green flesh boring worms that infest the undead creatures known as Spawn of Kyuss in great numbers. They seem to only be able to survive and thrive within the bodies of Spawn of Kyuss, or living bodies (which they rapidly transform into more swarm). Observers report that worms outside of a host body quickly whither and die, although there are some unconfirmed reports of Kyuss worms surviving independently for longer periods in certain environments – some say humid swamps, others suggest cool, dry conditions. There are even camp fire tales of swarms of thousands of Kyuss worms, or individual worms grown to tremendous size, but such stories are unreliable at best.
A Kyuss worm that finds itself on a living victim quickly begins burrowing into flesh. They are small enough to slip past barriers and under armour, and are not kept at bay by spells such as protection from evil. A Kyuss worm can be easily destroyed with a weapon, or by the mere touch of silver, but once it has burrowed out of sight, this becomes problematic. They can be removed surgically (requiring some skill) or by amputating an infested limb, but move quickly through a body. They make unerringly for the brain, and can reach it from an extremity in a matter of half a minute or less. Once they reach the brain they begin consuming brain matter and multiplying rapidly. At this point, reports on how long it takes for the worms to turn their victim into a Spawn of Kyuss vary – some say minutes, some say hours. Kyuss worms inside a victim can be destroyed by remove curse or remove disease spells. Dispel evil or neutralize poison seem to stun the worms, causing them to stop burrowing for several minutes. Although Kyuss worms do not seem to be intelligent, or have any of the special abilities exhibited by a Spawn of Kyuss, they appear to somehow be the source of the Spawns’ own intelligence, rapid healing and other abilities – if all the worms are somehow removed from a Spawn of Kyuss it becomes a normal zombie.
“I mine silver ore, I don’t make or sell weapons bonded with alchemical silver,” Smenk replies smoothly. “I don’t own any such weapons and would need to order them from the city, same as you – a turn-around time of a couple of weeks at best. As for magical weapons, you already own at least one,” Smenk nods to Kullen’s axe. “If we are going to be open about Filge and Kullen, both of them worked for me on occasion, but neither were on my permanent pay roll, and if you killed them and took their possessions, that is your business. You might call it self defence and pragmatism, I imagine it would sound an awful lot like murder and theft to the Sheriff if you want to play that game? I’m sorry about your acquaintance, but you can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that.” Smenk leans forward and steeples his fingers. “The fact is, your friend is right,” he nods to Harrigan. “Dourstone’s foul friends are putting me in a very difficult financial position – I hardly have the liquidity right now to be dropping hundreds of gold pieces on silver weapons, or thousands on magical ones. Oh, I could get the money, but it would take weeks to arrange – selling assets and such, you understand. If you can find some silver arrows or something for sale here in town I’ll be happy to give you the money to pay for them if you think it will improve your chances – beyond that, well I came to you for this because I thought you had the resources to get it done as much as anything else.”
Smenk nods in quiet satisfaction as Damion speaks, then raises a questioning eyebrow in Harrigan’s direction. “It seems that ‘do-gooding and religious zeal’ are enough for some here – what say the rest of your friends?” For a moment it looks as if Smenk is not even going to make a show of negotiating with Harrigan, then he sighs (in a somewhat contrived fashion) and raises his hands. “I truly believe this situation I have uncovered could pose a threat to the whole town – maybe the whole region – given time, but you are right – I will be bankrupt or forced to relocate before then, so yes, I have something to gain from the best people for the job – people who might hypothetically be better than both Filge and Kullen,” he raises an eyebrow as if to remind you about that connection, and the vague witness he mentioned, “getting down there and seeing to this right now.” He looks at Harrigan in a calculating fashion. “I’m not going to offer you any payment – I wouldn’t want to insult your integrity as good citizens,” he says with a smirk. “But I am a business man, and understand all too well of late that people don’t like doing something for nothing. I will mention that in the past few weeks I have shipped literally hundreds of gold pieces worth of quality weapons, armour and other supplies down to these people. Anything you find down there is yours ... I’ll even give you the satisfaction of buying back my own stock from you should you choose to sell – or at least I’ll be open to negotiation on that front. Surely that’s worth something, having old Smenk pay you for things he’d given away for free?” The corpulent man smiles unpleasantly.
Damion: Spoiler:
Spawn of Kyuss (sometimes known as Sons of Kyuss) are a thankfully rare variety of corporeal undead. They superficially resemble zombies, but are free willed with a rudimentary intelligence, and are visually distinguished from common zombies in the fact that they are always infested with a unique type of green, flesh eating worm (sometimes called Kyuss worms). The worms are one of the most dangerous things about them, as they can crawl or even jump from the Spawn onto living creatures, burrowing their way through flesh to the brain, eventually transforming their new host into another Son of Kyuss.
The Spawn of Kyuss are known to be somewhat resistant to the bite of normal weapons, damage done to them repairing at an alarming rate. It is said by some that silver or very potent magical weapons can hurt them.
“Filge arrived a couple of days later and set to work. He took a good look at that worm I swiped, and asked me all sorts of questions about things I remembered from that place – symbols I had seen, the shape and look of the various weird folk down there, the sounds of the chanting, even the colour schemes. Well, he hadn’t got very far before his untimely demise, but he was able to tell me a few things. He believed that the group we were dealing with are part of a cult called The Ebon Triad. He didn’t have a chance to tell me what they were all about, beyond them being evil and dangerous fanatics. The worm, he said, had come out of something called a Spawn of Kyuss. I don’t know what that is, but it had Filge worried – which worried me. “Filge was working on finding out as much as he could about this cult, and how best to deal with them. The plan was for he, Kullen and Kullen’s boys to go down and take them out once Filge felt ready … unfortunately he and Kullen were both killed. “That’s where you lot come in. Seems to me that Mister Trell here is about as strong and deadly – or should I say more so? Than Kullen was … especially so with that fine axe you carry there, eh Mister Trell? And the poking around I’ve done these past few days suggests that between you – Mister Karandum and Brother Andolphas, you probably know as much about cults and the undead as my expert Filge did. Mister Dwarf, you’re not a local, and a bit harder to find much gossip on, but from what I do hear you’re quite good at sneaking about … an asset in this situation no doubt. By happy coincidence – or the will of the gods – Inquisitor Valorn came to my attention, and from what I’ve heard of his order, he’d be the perfect addition to your team in taking on this cult. “So there you have it – an evil cult lurks below, no doubt a threat to this town … and it appears that you lot have put yourself in a position to be the best ones to deal with it.” Smenk stops speaking and looks at each of you expectantly.
“Several months ago I was approached by one Ragnolian Dourstone with a business opportunity. Dourstone claimed that some of his miners had discovered a series of old tunnels or catacombs – perhaps some remnant of an ancient cairn – below the deepest level of his mine. A group of scholars he said, had learned of this find, and were paying him to be allowed to live in these chambers while they studied them. However, the group needed supplies – food for the most part – and Dourstone turned to me, knowing that I have better contacts for such supplies in the city than he does. “I agreed to this arrangement; not only were this group willing to accept a price that would make me a modest profit, I thought that this might allow me to form an alliance with Dourstone – he’s one of the few mine managers in town that I am not in direct competition against … my reputation is hardly secret, and I know full well that some of the other managers are conspiring to form a consortium against me, and I might find a useful ally in Dourstone if I had him on side. And, I admit, I was curious about what valuables this group might discover in their ancient cairn, and supposed that this deal might put me in an advantageous situation if there was any profit to be made from such. “So, arrangements and payments were made, through Dourstone, and supplies began to arrive. “As the weeks passed, I occasionally pressed Dourstone for news of what progress his group of scholars might be making in their exploration or excavation, but he grew increasingly annoyed and then angry at my questions. He accused me of prying, and began to become quite paranoid about why I wanted to know, although I made no secret of my intentions. “One day though, he seemed quite his normal self again, and invited me to visit the hidden chambers for myself, and meet the head of the scholarly expedition.” “Dourstone took me, and a couple of my staff, down into his mine. We came to a tunnel that was marked as being unsafe and disused, and took an elevator down to a lower level. The elevator emerged into a curious chamber, a large, vaulted space supported by worked columns, with a strange looking pool of dark water. No sooner had we emerged from the elevator cage, when a group of heavily armed men – I say men, but they wore masks of chain links, and there seemed something somehow … wrong … about them … anyway, these men jumped us, killed my two assistants and quickly overpowered me. They bound my hands, placed a bag over my head so that I could not see, and turned me around several times so that I lost my bearings. I heard Dourstone say something about ‘the Faceless One’ and then my captors led me away. “I felt that I was being led along a series of tunnels or passageways full of twists and turns. I believe my captors handed me over to a second group. At one point I heard ominous chanting in a strange tongue, and at another point, screams. “Eventually the bag and restraints were removed, and a found myself in a chamber supported by glowing green columns, surrounded by several short people wearing strange masks and black cloaks, robes and hoods. The glimpse of limbs that I saw poking out from the robes did not appear human … they led me to another room, a large room that was fit out like an alchemist’s laboratory – you know, glassware and coloured liquids, benches, shelves of books. Several taller figures in purple robes were working here, and strapped to tables were several corpses in various stages of rot … only some of the corpses seemed to move and quiver. One of the purple robed people was using long metal pliers to hold a green worm, putting it in the mouth of one of the bodies. I noticed several more such worms in jars of liquid, and managed to swipe one and hide it in my cloak while my captors weren’t watching. They seemed important. “Next thing, another robed person comes out from somewhere, this one in a green robe and wearing a leather and iron mask that covered his face. Spoke in a very odd voice, chilling. This person tells me that the deal has been altered – I will continue providing supplies, but at no cost! Worse, he wants me to include things like weapons, suits of armour, alchemical items in the future. Scared as I was by this point – and I don’t mind telling you I was scared, any sane man would be – I said I wouldn’t do it. Well, this masked creature began telling me things, things that few know and that he should not – things from my past, secret ways into my home, the location of some of my hidden bolt holes, the address of family members back in Greyhawk. He wanted to let me know that he could get at me anywhere I suppose. Threatened to do worse than kill me if I did not comply … there was nothing I could do but agree to his demands. He had me blindfolded again and returned to the surface. “First two things I did when I got back were to send a message to Filge – the man I know who knew the most about cults and the undead and magic and such – and to get me right hand man, Vetchen Tor, to start looking into this business. Tor tells me he’ll sort it all out … and three days later I wake up with his bloody head – yes, dead and sans body – staring at me from my night stand. So I’ve continued to supply those crazies down there, for free – what else could I do? I’m bleeding money, and who knows what they are planning?”
“I own some property around town including an old observatory on the outskirts. Lately, a tenant has been staying in the observatory, a fellow named Filge. Now, young Filge may have had some less than exemplary personal habits, but he was helping me with a problem I had encountered - when he was brutally murdered. “Now as it happens, some other folk who work for me on occasion, including a Mister Kullen, happened to be in the area that evening and observed some people exiting the observatory where Filge’s corpse was later found. Now, it was dark, and who’s to say that Kullen and company can be one hundred percent certain of who they saw? But certain enough I would say, to make life rather uncomfortable for certain individuals were their names delivered to Sheriff Cubbin … “Alas, Mister Kullen was himself killed several days later, along with one of the other witnesses, and I understand that several more have fled town, fearing for their lives. Fortunately, the one who survived and remained got a good look at the assailants, and believes they are the same people who murdered Filge. Unfortunately, he has been quite traumatized by the whole affair, and I’m not certain that he would be persuaded to testify … “Now my point is that Filge, who was helping me with a problem, is dead, and Mister Kullen and his crew, who I had also rather hoped might be able to help me, are also dead, or gone, or flustered. “That brings me to the second part of the situation, which is my problem … or rather, not just my problem, but I believe something that may become a big problem for every soul in Diamond Lake if not dealt with sooner rather than later. I’ll tell you about it, for I believe that you four, and Inquisitor Valorn, may be uniquely suited to fill the gap left by Filge, Kullen and company.”
Smenk’s crony looks rather uncomfortable at Damion’s positioning, but his boss does not appear fazed by the Inquisitor’s gruff demeanor and blunt approach. “Sure you don’t want to sit? I’ve got a long story to tell, and it’ll pass quicker with a chair beneath your ass and an ale in your hand … no? Suit yourself …” One of the thugs passes Smenk a mug from the tray. He takes a sip, sets the mug down on the table, leans back in his chair (which creaks alarmingly under his bulk) and begins speaking. “Well … Do we all know each other? Mister Karandum isn’t it? And Mister Trell, Brother Andolphas … and Sir Dwarf, I am afraid I do not know your name, but you keep good company. This here is Inquisitor Valorn. And I’m sure you all know me. “My story has several parts to it. The first is as follows.”
Smenk heads down the stairs behind two of his burly cohorts, seemingly unconcerned about whether or not you are all following, though his other four henchmen (positioned between him and yourselves), keep glancing back at you warily. As Smenk descends the steep and rather rickety set of stairs, you are once again struck by how nimbly he moves for such a large man. The stairs lead down to a dimly lit, stone walled corridor, perfumed by the fragrant aromas of old blood, wet dog, stale beer and dried vomit. A one eyed man holding a large, scarred and muzzled dog on a short leash stands to the side to let you pass as the dog growls low in its throat. The corridor opens up into a low ceilinged room with the pit in the centre where the dog fights are held. Several punters sit around waiting for the next fight to begin, but Smenk doesn’t linger here, leading you down another dim corridor, lit only by a single hanging lantern, with several doors down its length. Smenk produces a key that unlocks one of the doors, and two of his guards shoulder into the room beyond, looking about and lighting lanterns before giving the all clear. Beyond the door is a large room with a round table at its centre, a dozen chairs and a couple of sideboards. Smenk takes a seat at the far side of the table and gestures for you to do the same. Four of his men take up positions around the room, whilst two wait outside. The bar maid follows in with a tray laden with mugs of ale, which she sets down on a sideboard, waits for a few coins from Smenk, then departs.
A bar maid – neither quite young nor quite pretty, but close enough to both to pass at a distance – approaches the table. “Your usual room Mister Smenk?” she asks with a courtesy. Smenk nods, and gestures towards a set of stairs by the bar that lead down to the lower level of the tavern (where the dog fights are held). Smenk and his goons begin heading in that direction, no doubt expecting you to follow, whilst the bar maid goes back to the bar to pick up the tray of drinks that the bar tender has been pouring.
Laithe steps carefully away from the undead monk and circles around to stand near Bernadino. Keildrithe, for his part, begins dragging Bernadino away into the antechamber.
: Spoiler:
The sun and moon holy symbol that the newcomer wears marks him as a follower of Pholtus. Pholtus is a god of the sun, the moon, light, law, order and rigidity. His portfolio overlaps with those of St Cuthbert, Heironeous and Pelor. Worshippers of Pholtus generally get on well with followers of those latter two deities (though Heironeoans and Pelorites often see Pholtans as being somewhat over-zealous, which is saying something), but Cuthbertians and Pholtans often clash.
Smenk’s thugs give the grim-faced stranger with the big crossbow a wide berth, most of them seemingly too shocked by his sudden appearance and apparent familiarity with their boss to even reach for weapons. Smenk purses his fishy lips as the stranger addresses him, but doesn’t seem at all surprised by the man’s appearance. “Thankyou for coming,” he says. “Yes, these are the ones.” He turns back to the table. “I have found good help so very hard to find – or at least keep – of late. As such I have a proposition to discuss with you. If we could move somewhere a little quieter, where we can talk like the civilised gentlemen we all are ...” Smenk glances across to the bar (somehow managing not to take his eye off you for too long while he does so) and catches the eye of the bartender, who doesn’t appear at all taken aback by Smenk’s presence in the place. The bartender nods, and begins pouring mugs of ale.
The group has been at the Feral Dog for a couple of hours – partly planning for their next move and, at least in Brashen’s case, partly celebrating their recent victories – when the atmosphere in the bar suddenly changes. Even without a dog fight taking place in the pit in the centre of the main bar, things are usually pretty loud and rowdy in the Dog, but all of a sudden a hush spreads through the room. Eyes begin looking in the direction of the tavern’s main doors. Standing in the doorway is a large man – prominent gut, florid face, crooked nose and wild hair around a balding head, wearing an expensive looking but rather tasteless green and brown waistcoat and jacket. He surveys the room down the length of his nose, while the group of five or six assorted thugs, heavies and cowled mystery men behind him glare aggressively at the nearest patrons. Most in the room recognise Balabar Smenk, and back up to give him space, to avoid being the target of his squinty gaze. That gaze soon settles on the occupants of Kullen’s former table, and Smenk begins moving across the room – rather nimbly for a man of his weight and height, although the thugs to either side of him ensure that no one gets in the way. As he approaches your table, your nostrils are assaulted by Smenk’s over-strong and odious cologne. “Good evening,” he says in a voice like porridge, his expression indicating that the evening is not good at all at this stage, his somewhat haughty accent not quite hiding the traces of Greyhahvian street-talk in his tone. “I am Balabar Smenk ... I’ve been meaning to talk to you lot these past several days.” The cronies crowd close, none with weapons drawn, but some with hands close to belts or shoved into cloaks.
“Abel, I am sorry, I believed you, I never meant …” Bernadino grovels at his former brother’s frost bitten, unshod feet. Upon the older monk’s words, the spell that has held Abel in place appears to break. The dead man’s eye’s widen and his mouth snaps shut. He looks down at Bernadino, then across again at Nicolai.
Brashen, you noticed one of Smenk’s mine overseers, a fellow named Fyron Hemp, drinking near the bar when you first came in. He’d be certain to have Smenk’s ear. He was right over ... oh, he appears to be gone now, you’d swear he was there when you came in. The group of miners he was drinking with remain for the most part, you catch them looking in your direction when you glance over, though they quickly go back to their drinks as you search the area for the overseer.
Brother Abel turns his head (a rather chilling sight, with his broken neck lolling listlessly) to look at Nicolai, apparently noticing the man for the first time (now that he has stood from his former cowering position). The dead man’s gaze fixes on Nicolai, even as his hand continues to reach for Bernadino ... and then suddenly, amazingly, the wild eyed look of hate on the creature’s face fades. Its mouth falls open, revealing worm-eaten gums, and the reaching hand stops and trembles ... Could Nicolai’s words be getting through to him?
As Abel bears down on him, one claw-fingered hand outstretched and hate blazing in his eyes, Bernadino breaks down, sobbing in fear. “Forgive me!” he shrieks, looking first at Abel, then at Keildrithe, then at the abbot. “I did not mean for this to happen. Abel came to me, saying that he had been granted visions directly from Father Arton. I could not believe it – why should this boy, barely more than a novice, be granted visions and not I, I who have served the church so faithfully for so many years? I thought that he was lying, but he spoke with such fervour … I admit I was jealous. I told him that if he did not confess to his lies I would punish him, but he would not change his story. I ordered Brother Gugliemo and Brother Edmund to help me. We took Abel to the slaughterhouse at night and I whipped him. I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear it! But something took over me, and I kept lashing him and then – he was dead. We threw his body off the roof to make it appear as a suicide …”
“Listen to the man Bernadino, confess your sins!” calls the abbot. “It may be your only chance to save yourself, body and soul.” The abbot then turns to Abel. “Brother Abel, I beg of you, change this course,” he pleads. Undead Abel ignores Laithe’s attack, Keildrithe’s address and Anselm’s plea, keeping his dead eyes firmly fixed on Bernadino as he drags himself slowly forward despite Laithe’s weight holding him back – the wolf’s claws slip and skid on the stone floor.
As Keildrithe’s voice rings out, the spell of the dead man’s scream is broken. Most of those monks who have not yet fled now do so, either running out the side door into the cloister or hiding around the perimeter of the church. Only the abbot, the stout Brother Horation, Novice Plutarch, and of course the prone Brother Bernadino remain where they are. Bernadino licks his lips nervously, his fearful eyes darting between Keildrithe, the point of his sword, and the approaching would-be murderer.
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