Drogan emerges from the private room, leaving Marcum to organize his thoughts and materials. For the dwarf, music and drink are calling, opportunities to clear the mind. Agidor spots him quickly enough, shouldering his guitar case and leaves the bar to meet the dwarf on the corner platform that serves as the Knuckle’s stage. He doesn’t ask any questions, reading the dwarf’s face and simply laying his case down and pulling the instrument up so he can go through the ritual of tuning and warming up.
”Not long for this city, I don’t think, mate. Agidor says to Drogan as he rolls through a few chords unfamiliar to the other bard. Chesain swings by with more ale and the rest of Drogan’s bottle of whiskey then departs with a grin towards the human bard. Agidor winks her way but his words are for Drogan, and they carry a certain weight. ”Think we’ll bring a few songs from the countryside to ol’ Cassomir, friend of mine. See if we can’t stir the blood of this quiet tavern.”
The music selections are harder edged than the bulk of Agidor’s repertoire. The topics are deeper and more direct than the regular songs in the district. Perhaps it’s the rescue of the Southridge villagers and the connection of his secret life aiding Helios’ group. Over the course of their set of songs, they trade between tales of ribaldry to the plight of the common man to the oppression every soul can feel when their world is on its ear. The mixture of Agidor’s gravely voice and Drogan’s booming drum and vocals put the gathered crowd on their heels and earns shouts of approval and pounding flagons and feet.
”Hangin' to this truth so tight,
on this solo plight, but I can't fight alone
But I'll loose the verbs and toil my words like family working stone
The warm-chinned devils set that stage for the war at home
Locked without a wage you're standing in the warzone,”
”Lumberjacks born staring at an empty plate,
Momma's torn hands cover her sunken face
We're hungry but their belly's full...
The structure is set, you can't change it with a family cull”
”In the ruins there's a trap set with the poison shock,
Village square to temple flock, Dog's Teeth to mud-hut block,
Nobles broke south for new flesh on a miller's floor
The old remains left chained to the Great City's door”
”Can't waste a day when the night brings a hearse
So make a move and beg your liege while your kids get a curse,”
”Ridin' for Oppara with a crossbow,
These people ain't seen a beardless man
Since they poured the gold and bought one,”
”I just want a quiet peaceful death! For the things I'll never have...”
”Just a quiet peaceful death! For the lives we don't have…”
Before their music closes the evening, the crowds packed into the Scarlett Knuckle far exceed its capacity. After several requests for repeat performances and “just one more’s”, Drogan and Agidor depart the stage to raucous shouts of approval, their backs aching and voices and fingers raw. With the amount of glad handing and enthusiasm, Outhouse is forced to send Harole and his bouncers over to clear a path for the two to retreat to the private room. Food is brought, some of the choice cuts of meat and starches and pastries, dropped off for the performers and Marcum to consume.
The hours stretch onward as Drogan and Marcum thumb through the collection of books and scrolls held within the treasure trove of the halfman’s bag of holding. To Drogan’s surprise, there is quite a lot of material at their fingertips. Agidor provides some assistance but they soon find him asleep in his chair, fingers of his right hand strumming at a ghost guitar.
Amid the books and scrolls and scraps of notes, the two manage to put together a broader understanding of the information they’d gathered so far.
----------------------------
Further in the book, the author even goes so far as to hypothesize an entrance to the Darklands beneath Cassomir’s Locker. ”For there are too many markers of ancient architecture most notable among the neverending toilings of the worshippers of Droskar, to think them made by the Taldan architects of the past two centuries.”
It is also in this book that the word “Derro” is used, but only in association with tales of night terrors plaguing Cassomiri citizens nearly 80 years in the past.
There are a few scrolls and journals and letter penned by Andoran and Taldan authors regarding a wide variety of cultic activity in the region. Anything from Norgorber skinsaw cults to worshippers bringing in the following of Chelaxian devils like Asmodeus and Zon-Kuthon. Oddly enough, with the Grand Prince’s war on Sarenrae, even the good god of the sun is among those listed as ‘cultic’ with her followers praying and worshipping in secret.
But one piece of writing draws Drogan’s attention. A book Marcum indicates he bought when he first arrived in Taldor. To him, knowing about a region’s religious practices aided in understanding the people just as much as their art and cuisine. The book looks to have been bound roughly 50 years ago and compiles notes and journals of assorted acolytes and clerics in the north of Taldor. One account is of a Shelyn priest in the town of Demgazi. From what they can determine, the writing dates to 4615.
It reads:
- 12 Gozran - ”I’ve only been raised to the priesthood a fortnight and I’ve been dispatched to this small town. There are many hard workers here, lumber and cotton. But they are an untrusting lot. With Qadira so close to the north I am unsurprised. But there is something else that keeps them at bay.”
- 20 Gozran - ”...a run in with Liev today when I sought to offer blessings at his son’s birth. He shoved me to the ground and called me a nix-pottle...something of an interloper if my local dialect is accurate. Three months since I replaced the last temple priest and I’m no closer to being trusted.”
- 30 Gozran - ”I am plagued by questions regarding my predecessor. Genevieve, a local druidess who visits from time to time indicated he fell ill and died. A wasting sickness that robbed him of his ability to speak, but started with an inability to focus the eyes and moments of mental ramblings. She states he would be suddenly burst with nonsensical yammerings only to revert to a shaky shell of his former self. But soon he could no longer speak. Shelyn guide me, but I think something befell my predecessor.”
- 5 Desnus - ”A simple day of music turned dark. I have begun earning the trust of a few of the locals, even Liev if that can be believed. A few of them joined me in the town square to spread banners and paint and ready the town to celebrate Second Planting. At the end of our toils, at the height of my joy, several women arrived to announce the celebration is to be cancelled. Apparently the Shire-reeve and council saw it as an unneeded affair.”
- 6 Desnus - ”Several members of the town are gone. After daybreak, I departed my small home at the temple and made my regular rounds of greetings and offerings. But nearly three dozen on my usual route are gone. Worse still - and disconcerting to be frank - no one speaks of where the disappeared have gone. They don’t even acknowledge there being a problem or a mystery.”
- 27 Desnus - [i]”They returned. No fanfaire, not even an admission of the roads they’d traveled or the places they’d been. I’m a nix-pottle once more. I do not understand this behavior and feel that Shelyn is warning me away from this place. In the past three weeks, I’ve been unable to focus on my painting, nor complete a single new sermon. Perhaps a message to Oppara and I can depart this place, find a new acolyte to assume the mantle.
The journal ends there, but a note by the archivist who compiled the anthology states that the priest in question stayed on in Demgazi until his passing 30 years later.
The hardest part of their research involves the strange language Marcum was able to copy down in relation to Linkah’s key from Korvosa. Based on what Drogan had witnessed in the Tannery complex and the symbols on the floor of the basement ritual room, they belong to a singular language and purpose. Neither being a linguist by profession, they instead look at the language as a collection of symbols, vile and menacing symbols.
It’s by this vein they are able to find a single symbol that bears some kinship to one Drogan had seen on the ritual floor. It had been one near where the girl’s head had been rested; a circle of oddly incongruous parameter with wavy lines at unpatterned intervals along the outside. It’s closest match is one found on the pediment of a what is notated as a ruined temple of Lamashtu in Osirion. But a notation next to the image they found in a Pathfinder Society notebook indicates it is only a guess, considering there were no other evidences of Lamashtu worship in that region.
----------------------------
Through the hours of research and revelations, both dwarf and misshapen human find themselves requiring rest. The morning finds them served fresh pastries and thick slabs of bacon along with tomato-based drinks to soothe aching heads.
So you are underway with your collection of cultists are you Mr. Dobbs. On your way to the city at the center of the world, of course you are. And how is the noble you assassinated connected to all this?"
"What's the next ship set to sail to Absolom? I have business there and had hoped to make this ship?" Karl asks of the longshore men.
Having the best answer he can garner from them he moves away from the dock as though he is heading to the Kelp keeping and eye out for trailers.
"Well we know that Dobbs and the Cultists have escaped the city and the assassin is connected to a murder. As much as I'd rather get back home to the Knuckle or spend the night in a nicer joint like this place here . . . Duty calls. Let's go to the Admiralty. We need to share what we have learned. But, that voice . . . Let us see whom it belongs too first, shall we?"
The longshoreman, a short human whose muscled arms and back stand in contrast to his prodigious midsection, looks from the halfling to the human and comes to some form of conclusion that brings a swarthy grin to his face. But instead of speaking on this personal revelation, he instead hooks a thumb over his shoulder to point at a magnificently appointed galleon several blocks north along the docks. "Tis the Prince Rhineholdt ya seek, chummer. She's due to set sail in three days time, but I heard tell tickets are hard to come by..." He chuckles a bit and stoops low to pick up the coil of rope at his feet before moving off down the pier.
Karl and Linkah share a look and decide to approach the Kelp, standing near the front doors that are fixed open to allow some of the cooler air from the harbor to move freely. With the humidity in the air now, it's a thin breeze indeed. But they don't need to move too far inside to gain a view of the trio of musicians belting out their tune to the enjoyment of the crowd.
A human of remarkable girth sits atop a three-legged stool which looks ready to split apart under his weight. He sings the chorus once more to the claps of the crowd. Alongside him is a gnome pounding away at the keys of a piano and another human thumping his fists against a drum. Listening among the crowd, Karl notes their name as Hurch Linuthain and the Barhoppers, a newly arrived trio from Oppara.
"We stayin' or goin', Marshy?" Linkah asks. Somehow while Karl was observing the band and looking for anyone following them, the halfing had managed to purchase a flagon of ale. He promptly finishes it off and leaves it on a nearby table. "I wanna see if Beckett's doin' okay. Youngster needs a joke or two, me thinks."
Karl looks around and notes that no one is paying undo attention to their activities.
-------
♞♞♞ Beckett, Nosatrub and Phedron ♞♞♞
"I did have one thought uncle. Their tubes
also had a handle wrapped in the same... material. This
illustration, do you think it might be a tattoo?"
Phedron's uncle glances down at the parchment and wonders. His jaw works, the muscle rolling to match his revulsion and he makes the sign of the Hunter along his forearm to ward off evil. "What pit of devilry have we uncovered when they write their hellish symbols upon human skin?"
"Admittedly I am missing pieces to this puzzle. I wonder however,
if there isn't some fashion of control. Are these cultists really alive?
There's obviously some ritual where by these hollow daggers are
used to drain blood or something similar. A procedure that apparently
leaves the victim able to still function afterwards. Could this be some
type of mind control? Either way, I wonder if these and other villagers are
being... converted. Either way, what we witnessed makes me think that
the ships may be willingly boarded by all her passengers. Though we
came looking for traditional slaves, perhaps these are slaves of a different
sort.”“ Whatever they are, they are an evil blight that must be washed from the
land.”
”Such horror is not unheard of among the Norgorber cults in the cities of Taldan...but they don’t use such imagery to my knowledge.” Lord Bromathan responds, holding his distaste in check so he can at least observe the writing on the parchment. His experience as a cleric sends his minds to some of his earlier studies at the Sarenrae temple in Korvosa. ”As far as the rituals of assorted cults, bloodletting can be traced back to some of the horrific pacts entered into by the devil worshippers in nearby Cheliax. It is blood that fuels the bonds between the participants.”
“"If the key is not to be found there, I would suspect that
it is on the person of Master Agidor." Beckett glances over to Lord Ricton
to see if there is any reaction to mentioning the Bard's name. "Master
Agidor relieved Lenz of his seed pouch after we questioned him. We
required a period of sobriety from the harborman. It is possible that
Agidor has had the key this entire time without realizing it."“Beckett's assessment of the man seems true. I agree that is where
you should turn your mind to.” Nosa adds.
”I can return to Admiral’s Fen with Ajin and one or two others to collect Li’mehl and confirm the suspicion.” Aureleum offers, a bit of intensity to her voice that wasn’t there a few moments ago. ”For that matter, I could bring the others too.”
Olfrey shakes his head, hands clasped behind his back as he contemplates. ”A need for the morrow I think, Legate. For the now, I think we have enough to fill our minds for the next few hours till dawn.”
”Perhaps rest is not too tall a request, Lt.” Lord Ricton adds, stretching his back to the audible cracking of several parts of his spine. He grins sheepishly and straightens his coat. ”My apologies, but so many hours confined to a coach may sound pleasant...and I don’t mean to complain...but a chance to lay down on flag stone will do my back wonders.”
”Talk of cultists, blood rights and the use of human skin to make their marks…” Bromathan rubs his chin between forefinger and thumb. ”Perhaps, if permission is available, I’d like to avail myself to the Abadaran temple’s library...perhaps there are answers available there.”
”You’re among friends here, servant of the Dawnflower,” Olfrey states plainly, but there is an undercurrent of friendship to his tone. ”...but be cautious your true faith is not discovered next door. Most of the clerics there hold zealously to the Grand Princes edicts against Sarenrae.”
Phedron steps to the table and picks up the scroll case carefully, turning it over for inspection. While his initial viewing doesn’t yield more than the knowledge it’s making is durable, hardened leather with a firmly fixed endcap, he does have the spark of memory when he sees the piece of thread tied as warning to not press inward on a particular spot.
”The thread was placed there when Juster discovered the poison needle trap.” Olfrey warns.
But it’s the very design of the trap that sparks Phedron’s memory. Couriers used by his family had been for years of the practice, trapping their satchels and scroll cases for the sensitive materials in their charge. This one appears to be of an ingenious function; a mixture of chemicals in combination with the seal would open the case. That and the knowledge that the dead Port Authority officer Lenz had an addiction to purple seed raises an interesting thought. Perhaps Agidor does have the key...the corrupt official’s drug pouch.
Before a decision can be made, the Lt.’s assistant knocks at the door and enters at Olfrey’s acknowldgement. ”My lord, there is a human and a halfling at the gates seeking audience with you and those in this room.” He nods to Beckett, Phedron and Nosatrub. ”He even mentions Legate Aurleum by name.”
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Beckett's head snaps up at the mention of a halfling. Then he blushes slightly and glances toward Lord Bromathan, hoping that his mentor did not detect his moment of concern for the little creature.
Stupid! Weak!
"I suspect that Linkah has drawn Karl away from his beloved tavern table after all."
The Inquisitor attempts a smile, but it feels forced, and he awkwardly excuses himself to show his comrades in.
After a moment, he returns and gestures the two into the room.
"My Lord Bromathan and Lord Ricton."
Beckett bows slightly, making a formal introduction reserved for important and respected guests.
"May I present Karl Marsh and Linkah of Clann Merrywater. They have fought beside me this day, and proven themselves to be true allies."
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Phedron bows politely to the two, not betraying the tension that has come onto him. "Oh, I wonder what knowledge Karl is going to grace us with." he laments to himself. More keen is the sting of inexperience. Creating the tension is the expectations of his uncle. He doubts very much that cheeky comments would find themselves well with Carnon, particularly if it was for ego's sake. Making a silent agreement with himself, Phedron steels himself to indure any jabs. What he is unsure about is if he can keep that agreement with himself.
"Still, there are bigger issues at present. And, all else aside, he probably knows a thing or two."
They had heard reports of ghouls leaving their graveyards and going into nearby towns to feed.
"We will go and remove them from their wretched existence." Veras had said "Ready yourself."
Nosa nodded, a gleam in his eye. Quickly he grabbed his sword, shield and donned his armor. Years of training with the implements allowed him to put them on incredibly quickly, it was as if he was putting on a simple shirt.
Nosa was now fully grown. Even among the Paladins of Iomedae he was uncommonly large. Veras himself had to incline his head to look Nosa in the eye.
"A perfect weapon for the Lady" he thought to himself and smiled.
He went off to the stables where he found Veras already mounted upon his great charger. Nosa mounted his horse and followed Veras out into the night.
Hard they rode before they came upon the small village. 2 ghouls, shambling in the town square, rushed at them. Veras quickly dispatched them both.
"Go son." he said, pointing at the homes on the west side of the village. "See what you can find."
Nosa nodded and did as he was told.
It was then that he heard the screams. Terrified. Helpless. "Help!!!!" they echoed.
He raced his horse in the direction of the cry but was careless. He rounded the side of a small building only to be met by a small horde of the ghouls. They reached up and pulled him from atop his horse, his armor clanging as he fell."Help!" the cry echoing again. It was close now.
Rage overtakes him, freeing himself from grasping ghoul hands he manages to stand. He strikes out with his sword and shield, barely aware of any tactics, just needing to put the fiends down. "Help" the cry comes again.
He continues his assault on the ghouls, trying to break through to go to the voice. Slowly he thins their ranks. He has not heard the cry recently.
Finally, when the last is dispatched he races to the tiny home where he heard the cry coming from.
He races through the door only to be repulsed at what he sees. Kneeling over a woman is a ghoul, to caught up in it's feast to even notice Nosa. Memories of the horrors of his childhood race back to him and an uncontrollable rage bursts out. Not even bothering with his sword, he slams his shield into the ghoul then uses it to cave the ghouls head in. He stands over it, driving his shield down again and again until there is nothing discernable left of the ghouls head.
He then goes back to the body of the woman and falls to his knees. His sword and shield drop. Overcome by grief, he covers his eyes with his hands and begins to weep.
"I was to late. To late. Forgive me Lady. I have failed you."
A strong hand falls on his shoulder.
"My son" he says. "Being a servant of the Lady, a Paladin. Does not mean we will not fail."
He guides Nosa to his feet and turns him around so that they are face to face.
"You are strong my son and the Lady walks with you, but you still have much yet to learn. Failure is part of this life, it cannot be wholly overcome. You will have many, many victories and yet the small failures could haunt you and drive you mad.
Yes. We have failed today. We were to late to help these people. But we cannot let our shame overwhelm us. We must take this and use it as a lesson. When the time comes to face something like this again, we will not fail."
The words ring in his ears as he stands and looks down at the table. Though he is still confused by all of the events of the last few days, he is now at peace.
"I will take my failures and learn from them."
He snaps out of his private thoughts at the introduction of Karl and Linkah.
He turns to see the two enter the room.
Karl holds himself upright as he walks into the room with confidence and bearing born of experience and upbringing. He meets Phoedron and Nosa's eyes with a smile and a nod before turning his attention to the three older men in the room. He gives a courteous inclination of his head and a curt bow with his sword hand placed palm down and flat against his chest.
"Thank you Master Beckett for the introduction. . . Lt Olfrey is known to me by virtue of his public office, but I chide myself for not being better versed in the nobility and clergy present in the city. I have been remiss." He says short of an apology to Lord Bromathan and Lord Ricton.
Karl continues with clear eyes .
"As introduced, I am known here as Karl Marsh and have maintained myself as such the entire time since my arrival several years ago. However, I feel compelled, in the interest of keeping truth and trust paramount among this group, to confess that I was born under another name in another place and time. I wish to allay any fear or suspicions that my need for my current identity is due to any nefarious purpose. The reasons are my own. My purpose for coming here tonight stems from the fact I once lived my life entrusted with duties I assume you are charged with or choose to burden yourselves with."
Karl lets his words sink in for a moment, but not too long as to invite interruption. Gesturing to the young persons in the room he continues
"My presence here is due in no small part to my recent dealings with these exceptional young men in the past few days or even a few scant, yet fruitful, hours. Originally my involvement was intended to remain simple, but I have found my own interests intertwined with their own."
"I had been content to live out my time here quietly, but my recent conflicts with the Stag Heralds led a man who went by the name Dobbs to my small sphere of influence. A man had tried to kill me the evening prior while in possession of a poisoned dagger. Dobbs came to collect it. Dobbs is undoubtedly a man of great skills and accomplishment in less chivalrous arts."
"I must assume that you three have been made aware of these threes' activities and knowledge. For my part, I ventured under the city in the Chelaxian Tunnels of the teeth. I can confirm for you they are occupied by the Derugear, or dark dwarves, or Derro depending upon the regional nomenclature. They also control the water level of the tunnels. I went there with the intent to free villagers confined by whom I ignorantly believed were mere slavers. As you know we uncovered an unholy alliance of elves, surface dwarves, Derro, The Stag Heralds, Crimelord Tarik and corrupt nobility and officials working together in some sort of Cult or support of one."
"I endeavored to transfer my knowledge and findings to Legate Aurleum, but once I returned to my home, I found that Dobbs had again come calling. I used my own very particular set of skills, skills I have . . . acquired . . . over a very long career, to trace Dobbs."
"Along the way, I heard tell Dobbs slipped poison to a nobleman in New Stetven. I don't know if that is true. Others described he had a dog with him, lanky with black eyes, I did not observe this animal, but I do know Dobbs set sail with Captain Ordna of The Lamprey for Absolom, not longer than five hours ago. The ship was crewed with those selected by the Stag Heralds, a collection of humans and what may have been halflings, or missing children boarded about the same time it would have taken the escaping cultists to reach the ship from the Teeth."
"I felt it necessary to bring this information to you directly, in the event you were not already aware of it."
I am not originally from this region, hopefully what I have said was not too much, too little or too presumptive. We shall see.
Karl waits for a response from anyone in the room.
♞♞♞ Beckett, Nosatrub, Phedron & Karl♞♞♞
The three elder men linger upon Marsh's words, the oldest of them spares a nod a of approval towards Beckett. The other half-elf in the room standing alongside Phedron folds his arms across his chest after a grip to the latter's shoulder.
The oldest in the gathering is the first to speak, hands placed one over the other near the simple draw of his coat buckle. "You speak as one unsurprised, Mister Marsh. As though you've given such...reports in your past."
"Well I for one am glad to see him outside of the Fen." The thin faced noble says, a grin on his face.
Olfrey brow furrows with curiosity. "You know this fellow, Lord Vengraf?"
"By reputation alone, Lt. He is a personage whom Lim'ehl recommended for our cause." The noble's eyes never leave Karl as he takes in the rogue and reconciles the man and his words and what he apparently knows of him. "I am Ricton Vengraf...this is my friend Lord Valdur Bromathan...and you've and ready guessed at Lt. Tacitus Olfrey's identity." Ricton gestures respectfully to the older half-elf in the office. "I've just made the acquaintance of Carnon Rushing, a man of Andor come to investigate the trail of slavers in Cassomir."
Bromathan looks ready to speak when Linkah hops over to give him and then Beckett a warm hug. In fact he does so twice. He steps back and wipes a stray tear from his eye. "One o' thems hugs is for me, the other's from Corvim. Jus' sayin' a proper thanks is all..." He gives Beckett a shot in the forearm and grins broadly. "Ya left out too soon, longshanks. I owe ya an ale."
"From what I sense, little one, you were accorded yourself with just as much bravery." Bromathan chuckles and cases the halfling's shoulder warmly. The sound of the old man's laugh brings a comfort to the room sorely needed given the weighty subject matter. He maintains an affectionate hand on Linkah and addresses all those in attendance his tone serious. "Ill news this day, on all fronts save for the freedom of this halfling's clan. A small victory to be sure in light of what has been discovered, but a victory just the same."
Olfrey nods but his manner is still grim and contemplative. "You two arrived on the Lamprey, did you not? " After Bromathan's acknowledgement the Lt continues. "If what Marsh says is true, then you know full well that a 5 hour lead is significant for a vessel of that type. If memory serves, the next vessel departing for Absalom is the Prince Rhineholdt, a passenger vessel. She's a fast ship, but won't be able to keep pace with the likes of our quarry."
"My Lord, we have two paths to take...and multiple ways to go about it." Legate Aureleum speaks up for the first time in a while, her hands clasped behind her back as she stares at the war table. The wares of Hektor Lenz draw her eye, but the scrap of what Phedron and his uncle identified as made from human skin curls her lip in disgust. She glances to her superior officer or permission to continue. Once given she does. "We have a dwarf...an elf...now a potential assassin from what Mister Marsh says...and a band of cultists or prisoners...or both on a vessel bound to Absalom. Not to mention the dead girl, most likely Lord Ralios' daughter who possessed what looks to be ties to the fleeing villains and the famed city." She points at the scroll case, still locked and poisoned. "Then we have a potential conspiracy maneuvering to support this cabal's efforts. A temple springs up under our noses...a vile ritual room..."
"Pursue the villains to Absalom. Ferret out the conspiracy here." Olfrey summarizes.
"Just so, my Lord."
Olfrey sighs and places his hands on the table in front of him. "Legate, see to it that you bring Lim'ehl back here first thing in the morning. Opening Lenz's scroll case is a priority. If he's got evidence in there implicating others in this city, I want it." He grips tell table with anger.
"There is a dwarf by the name of Drogan who is part of this group. And a young warrior called Lavios from Southridge who had family taken by the Stags." Aureleum adds. "And Marcum from the Dog's Teeth is involved...he might have insights. And Helios..."
Ricton responds to the last name. "He said he and his band were looking into the disappearance of villagers from Southridge." The thin-faced lord waves to Nosatrub. "I can only assume you were the new man they'd recruited in the north?"
"Hmm, then bring the dwarf and Lim'ehl and this Lavios." Fatigue etched lines into the corners of Olfrey's eyes as he looks to the gathering in his office. "I'll double the patrols on the docks tonight and the morrow, see if we can't increase the breadth of Mister Marsh's information gathering. In the meantime, I will see to it that you're all given quarter here. I have rooms in the south tower, and the ambassador chambers are two levels below mine. We need to eat, take our rest, and set our plans tomorrow."
With that, the assemblage makes their way out of Olfrey's office and are lead by the Legate to the south tower. First stop is a dining hall and warm food and drink. It's here that the gathering have time to acquaint themselves further and to regain their strength.
Afterwards they are provided with simple quarters, private rooms that are familiar at least to Beckett in their layout. Lord Ricton Vengraf elects to return to his home in Threegates while Bromathan takes the ambassador chambers.
- Nosatrub
- Beckett
- Phedron
- Karl
- Linkah
- Lord Bromathan
- Lord Ricton Vengraf
- Carnon Rushing
The morning of the 11th brings cooler temperatures and even the possibility that the latest storm has finally abated. Over in the Scarlett Knuckle, Drogan awakens to find Agidor in the common room where he and two other familiar faces are waiting.
At nearly the same time, Lavios Daleborn enters the tavern after saying his goodbyes to family and friends.
At the table with Agidor is Hal'dorel Osseus. The elf presses hand to heart and inclines his head graciously. "Good morning, Lavios and Drogan."
"Gentleman..." the third person at the table is the Legate Vandana Aureleum.
"Good to see the night has seen fit to give you to the morning, chaps. Caffe or tea?" Agidor invites dwarf and human to grab a seat. Two pewter carafes emit steam into the air. "Our esteemed Legate is here to make sure we arrive safely to the Citadel this morning. Apparently the others are awaiting our arrival."
Hal'dorel focuses his attention on Lavios. "I have seen to it that your family and friends will be guarded on their return to Southridge. They will be safely escorted during the light of day, departing tomorrow."
Agidor smiles at the news and sips at a mug of tea. "Anything fruitful, mate?" he asks Drogan.
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
Drogan scratches his head as the colors still sway a bit beyond their outlines. Powerful drink, little sleep, and dark information leave quite a hangover.
He nods to each of his companions in turn. "Agidor. Lavios. Tell me either of you ever hear tell of a place they call Demgazi? I haven' found mention of it in any local books, save a journal of a priest that took up charge there. His words 'ave a bit of naivety about them, but don't seem to be anything but earnest. Seems the town came down with the same sort of gibbering idiots we were dealin' with last night, and the journal even accounts for somethin' like those four bastards that were after the girl's body."
He can still hear the whistling in the distance. Time is taking it away from his memory, but it lingers there at the fringes. Too stubborn to leave, but too weak to harm him.
"I'm thinkin' if the Legate don't have anything pressing to share, maybe we should take a look-see. Could be nothin' - but it could be we happy few might be the only thing standing against a wave a' those uglies coming down on Cassomir."
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At first, Beckett is pleased to simply be cleaned of the gore and visera in which he has been covered for so many hours.
However, as dinner begins, his thoughts again turn toward darkness. He pushes his food around his plate, lost in his thoughts.
I was ready to step off that ledge.... to rid the world of the curse of Foxglove.
The Inquisitor glances over toward Lord Bromathan, wondering how much of his descent into madness was reported to his mentor.
Is it best for me to move on to Absalom? Perhaps the curse is strengthened in this light begotten city. Perhaps I put the others in danger by staying.
Unconsciously, Beckett's eyes briefly move toward Linkah.
On the other hand, I have wanted to burn and cleanse this filthy cursed city since I first laid eyes on it... and burning and cleansing is what I have begun. Would it truly be the Everlight's will to leave this task incomplete? If I leave, will Lord Bromathan stay? I doubt he will abandon his friend at this time, especially so soon after losing his wife. And if I leave, and he stays, will milord have the... temperament... to do what I can do?
Briefly, Beckett conjures a mental image of Lord Bromathan standing amid a pile of bodies, covered in gore, holding the huge hammer across his body... panting madly...
"um... no..." Beckett says under his breath.
That's not right.
Dare I tell milord of what goes on inside my mind during these battles? Would he send me back home?
Beckett drops his fork and pushes his plate away.
Or worse?
-------
"I too know little of Demgazi, I've not traveled that far south." Hal'dorel looks inwardly, referring to some internal gathering of maps and information. "Some 300 miles separate us by land, the Tandak Plains the largest obstacle...a verdant forest once, but now grasslands with villages and varying animals contesting their right to live."
"I met a girl from Wil's Hollow, deep in the heart of the plains..." Agidor puts in with a dramatized nostalgia cleverly directed towards the Legate. He shakes his head with regret. "But those days are gone, bloody shame...but I've heard of this Demgazi. A traveling menagerie passed through Golsifar where I was playing apprentice to a violin player. They mentioned having to give the town a miss due to...shall we say a less than warm reception." Agidor sips at his mug and rubs a pair of fingers along his temple. "Of course, mate, there's the whale-road if the Plains aren't a friendly option. Think I'd rather take a ship to Kozan or Golsifar then head inland to give this Demgazi a peek. Have to say, my fine dwarven friend, I'm a wee bit curious. "
Aureleum leans back in her chair and taps a finger on the table top, an impatient rhythm dedicated to Agidor. "I know little more than Master Lavios regarding the town. It is small, less than 1,000 souls if my memory of the latest census is true. I know more about the garrison we have east of the town. Fort Luxtavian, watching over the border with Qadira." Her brown eyes shift to Agidor then back to Drogan. "But my priority is to get you all to the Citadel soon. Are there objections to turning there before making a decision?"
The twisted symbols float in his mind, doing a merry dance around his thoughts, but quickly leave him. There is the business of the Citadel.
"Yes, yes. 'Course there's time. We should be heading off to see what it is exactly they've been able to dig up there. I'm not EXACTLY looking forward to plunging headlong into madness anyway, save what some folk might say about me."
"We barely got out of that scrape alive with just a few of them. Imagine a whole town of those bastards?"
"Let's not keep them waitin' any longer then, shall we?"
"Thank you M'lord, I have indeed made many such reports to persons of high placement, but it has been some time. Forgive me for being a bit rusty in my delivery and rough in my appearance."
"I know a bit more of Dobbs, but if he is unknown to everyone here I am not sure sharing it would be of any use."
I must learn more about Lim'ehl.
"As far as pursuing The Lamprey my sources also pointed me towards Prince Rhineholdt it's not set to sail for a few days and it was said that tickets may be hard to come by. Does the navy have nothing in port that could give chase sooner?"
Karl watches Linkah with emotions moving hidden under a hardened exterior that reveals little through his eyes.
You said you hated unnecessary things Mr. Dobbs. Do you feel the corruption and blood letting of innocent children necessary? Or were you trying to tell me Lem was out on his own venture? I must learn more about Agidor too.
"The halfling and the boys here all proved their worth, with proper direction and refinement they should prove masters in their own right."
"Linkah braved the tunnels on his own to lead three rescued boys back . . . Into the light of dawn's embrace. He more than anyone led me to . . . come out of retirement. He also convinced me to allow Mr. Beckett to come along, which proved to be most advantageous, his hammer strikes most true."
"Nosa is most stanch in upholding his ways. While Phedron's arrival and skills came at a choice moment."
"Your offer of a proper meal and quarter for the evening are most welcome. If you could also make a suggestion of where I might procure a replacement set of clothing I would be most grateful."
"I would also like to hear what knowledge any of you might have about the Skinsaw Cult activity in the area. I am interested if any of you see similarities or a connection to what we have uncovered."
Hearing Beckett speak under his breath Karl returns his napkin to his lap so that he can give the inquisitor a steadying touch under the table.
"Please eat, your body and mind need the nourishment. A starved mind feeds on other things. Your struggles are showing. We will speak on it later."
"Would you please pass the rolls? I am finding their consistency most delectable. Lt. Olfrey, your galley is well crewed."
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Beckett looks up sharply, drawn out of his brooding. Then, just as quickly, his face smoothes and he smiles.
”It has been a long day, has it not? You may be correct. This might not be the most prudent time for an extended fast. Perhaps the Everlight will forgive a mild indulgence.”
The Inquisitor bows his head briefly, while Karl collects his rolls.
My beloved Sarenrae,
I take this food now for the nourishment of this worldly vessel,
that it might be a weapon for your glory.
Protect me, I beg, from the temptation to sloth and weakness that it may afford.
Beckett pulls his plate back, and begins to eat, his manner casual, and pleased that a chill has taken to his dish, muting the pleasure of the food. Still, he silently resolves to double his time in prayer the following dawn.
Looking back at Karl, Beckett says softly, ”I could tell that Lord Bromathan was impressed by your words.”
He looks around briefly to ensure that their conversation is not being overheard.
“He is a rare gift, Karl. A noble who uses his money and influence for the benefit of others. He sacrificed much to follow the Everlight. He gave up power, and I need not tell you how many men are willing to do that.”
Settling in a course of action, the group departs the Scarlett Knuckle for the Admiralty Citadel. It isn't until they're crossing the threshold that Legate Aureleum inquires after Marcum.
"Sorry, he left earlier this morning," Agidor admits with a tinge of rose in the cheeks. He fishes a folded paper from a vest pocket and hands it to Drogan. "He made a point of giving my ear a pull before departing...said he's off to follow a trail or two you uncovered last night."
Master Anvilsong,
I'm for an early start today but I trust you'll make use of the information we gathered. In your effects there is a new book into which I've committed the pertinent material, I'm sure it will serve you and your companions well.
For my part, I will endeavor to smooth things over with a certain half-orc in Dog's Teeth. Perhaps the news of the Heralds' pursuit of self-employment opportunities will place his ignoble influence in our favor.
For the immediate future, I'll also seek out council on the topic of Demgazi. The southern city seemed to hold a level of attention above the other items. Whatever I should find will make its way to you and your friends, rest assured.
Thank you for your candor, my friend. It is infrequent in this city, much to its detriment.
~M~
Aureleum seems unperturbed by the news, taking it as a nearly anticipated response. Instead she waves to a quartet of horses. "My apologies, master elf, but I had not expected a fifth to the party. If it pleases..." She makes as though to hand the reins of her destrier to Hal'dorel.
But the elf waves off the offer and bows respectfully. "You honor me, Legate, but I respectfully decline. My own feet will suffice. I will not be accompanying you to the Citadel for Kheegan and Helios are waiting for my return." He gestures for the others to proceed with mounting up. "But in shall walk with you a time."
The three other horses are of smaller, more civilian frame when alongside Aureleum's warhorse. For one of them, there is even the facility of a lower stepping stirrup for dwarvish use. The Legate inclines her head towards Drogan, "We have no less than 4 dwarfish members of 1st Equites, do not take offense for it is their implement of practical usage."
Astride their horses, the group sets out for the Citadel, Hal'dorel's long strides keeping pace with them. After passing into the north of Admiral's Fen, the elf speaks up. "I'm sad to say that Jak has passed on." Once he has all their attention he explains. "It is difficult to extricate oneself from a rope binding of mine, but Jak was of a singular mind in the affair. While assisting Kheegan and Helios with their recuperation, he managed to slip his bonds and do himself harm." He makes a small sign over his heart. Though unknown by those present, it conveys a deep regret on Hal'dorel's part. "Whatever wound he suffered at the hammer blow of Danton, his spirit could not recover."
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
♞♞♞ Beckett, Nosatrub, Phedron & Karl♞♞♞
"As far as pursuing The Lamprey my sources
also pointed me towards Prince Rhineholdt it's not set to
sail for a few days and it was said that tickets may be hard
to come by. Does the navy have nothing in port that could
give chase sooner?"
"I'm afraid that may not be possible, Mister Marsh." Olfrey responds, tone bordering on the bitter. "It is one thing to investigate the possibility of corruption in our offices...even follow through with the destruction of a cult bent on harming citizenry. But it's quite another attention to commit Imperial forces to the apprehension of a renegade ship."
"Bureaucracy, old boy," Lord Ricton puts in as Olfrey's grip on the table tightens. Even the lieutenant's wolf hound grows low at his master's darkening mood. "Once they shoved off under the guise of proper shipping credentials, to admit they can be falsified is a bit of an embarrassment."
"Perhaps there are other channels available for securing passage on a more timely vessel?" Bromathan asks.
Olfrey nods, easy to let go his irritation as the wasteful emotion it was. "I'll see what's available. Perhaps local ships can get you as far as Golsifar...Kozan...then a ship from there across the Inner Sea."
The Legate steps forward to address the other question. "I'll see to it that you're all given decent replacements for your attire. As time allows tomorrow, we can see to it your personal effects are gathered."
As the evening moves on, the food provided on the dining hall is more than adequate to the task of satisfaction. The gathering ways affably, small talk the rule of the first few minutes. But as comfort rises with each person, deeper discussion flows.
"Father Reaper," Lord Ricton places at the table for topic, dabbing at the corner of his mouth and clearing his throat of a particularly spicy pepper. "Few in the cities know Norgorber by the Skinsaw. Those that do serve at the behest of the former. Father Reaper has an underlying popularity among the nobility and spies, while the cut purses and cut throats revere the Skinsaw. This Dobbs of yours could very well be an instrument of one noble or another...but from what you've said of him, the fellow may be of more independent status if he's been north in New Stetven."
"Is that the thought among your comrades?" Bromathan inquires. "Could this be an off shoot of a Norgorber cult? What sort of evidence have you witnessed for it to be so?"
Beckett spies a look on the old man's eyes, concern for his pupil and the hope of private conversation before events separate them again.
Drogan looks at the stirrup. "I won't lie to you, it's a bit of a blow to the ego to need a leg up," He says, taking a closer look at the device, "But I must applaud your ingenuity. Quite a system ye got here."
The dwarf stumbles a bit as he puts his boot into place, causing Agidor to do a less than admirable job of hiding a chuckle. Eventually, though, he settles into the saddle. The look on his face letting the other riders know that this is an utterly unnatural experience.
As the journey begins, he tries to distract himself with a bit of banter with the inquisitor. "Can't say we've had much time to ourselves, Lavios. A've been meaning to ask you, why the pig sticker?" He asks, gesturing to the trident. "You'd think a dwarf with a penchant for old stories would know a bit about the gods of men, but I'll call it a weakness in my training. Is it somethin' ordained by your order, or did ye just come natural to it?"
Small talk. That's the way. A moment or regularity before we plunge back into the mouth of some new hell. A welcome diversion if ever I'd heard of one.
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"The halfling and the boys here all proved their worth, with proper direction and refinement they should prove masters in their own right."
"Boys? Boys?!" are the mental words that ricochet inside Phedron's head. A blank, far off look settles on his face as retorts and jabs all play out silently in his mind, seeing as his uncle is so near.
Greatly pleased at the chance to make himself presentable and also to rant privately, Phedron washes and changes into the clean clothes provided.
Once at the dinner table, he eats thankfully. Adding to his pleasure is the company of these lords. Once the meal is digesting comfortably, he listens intently. When the Norgorber cult is again mentioned, Phedron's curiosity overwhelms his pride.
"I've heard this Norgorber cult mentioned many times now. Forgive my ignorance, but what is the story behind them? I've not heard tale of such a cult before. Surely their deeds must be dark if their name is brought in connection to these things."
Looking back at Karl, Beckett says softly, ”I could tell that Lord Bromathan was impressed by your words.”
He looks around briefly to ensure that their conversation is not being overheard.
“He is a rare gift, Karl. A noble who uses his money and influence for the benefit of others. He sacrificed much to follow the Everlight. He gave up power, and I need not tell you how many men are willing to do that.”
Karl responds, "He is a man of measure and no doubt dedicated to the service of his god. He has also chosen to mentor you. Never forget that. Men like him do not embark on such things lightly."
Phedron's curiosity overwhelms his pride.
"I've heard this Norgorber cult mentioned many times now. Forgive my ignorance, but what is the story behind them? I've not heard tale of such a cult before. Surely their deeds must be dark if their name is brought in connection to these things."
Karl takes a drink of his wine and steadies himself before speaking.
"Norgorber . . . is known to most as a deity of thievery, assassination, and as a keeper of secrets. He is called the 'Reaper of the Reputation' by some, but he has more . . . insidious . . . titles among his other worshipers. He remains an enigma to even his most rabid servants. His true motives are unknown, at least to civilized minds. Many of his own followers remain ignorant of his designs or otherwise further his ends unwittingly."
"The faith of the ascended god Norgorber, by my estimation, can be divided into four distinct branches, each overseeing one aspect of the deity's portfolio. Three are fairly well-known - the Reaper of Reputation, who covet secrets, blackmail and lost knowledge. The Gray Master who covers thievery, and The Blackfingers, consummate experts in poison. The fourth, however, is not readily admitted to even by those aware of its existence, especially those in charge of protecting or dominating a populace. It is the aspect of the diety which attracts the most extreme and murderously insane, those who commit atrocities as acts of worship to Father Skinsaw. The followers of this sect are known as the Skinsaw Men. The Skinsaw cult is believed to have originated in Vyre, Cheliax. Followers of Father Skinsaw joined and organized to commit even more gruesome, extreme and demonically ill acts against living flesh."
"At least one branch of the cult is believed to be active in Magnimar. I can confirm it has been operating in other cities."
"The society has developed its own production of enchanted masks. One type is the stalker mask. These patchwork scraps of human flesh give the stealth and other boons to their wearers."
Karl strays a look towards Linkah.
The next type I am aware of bears the name of the the cult itself, [i]The Skinsaw Mask. This hideous mask resembles a patchwork, deformed face, with one bulbous eye, a grimacing mouth with long teeth, and a flat nose. When worn, the mask fills the wearer's mind with hideous whispers and images of murder and violence. It heightens the wearer's ability to sense fear. He can smell the cold sweat brought on by terror and hear the thundering beating of a frightened heart. Further, fresh blood glows brightly to him, to the extent that he can see the shimmering traceries of living circulatory systems pumping away in the bodies of those around him."
"The third type . . . well let's just say it is more diabolical than the Skinsaw Mask."
"In short answer to your question, my lord, I have been plagued with the thoughts that the events in the teeth may be related. The cult is forbidden in almost every nation except Absalom, where it is tolerated. We are nearby. The cult will capture innocents to kill. The more innocent the better. The hollowed tubes the cult used here could be for poison delivery. .. . But, I digress. I count the Skinsaw Men as my antithesis, they are of special interest to me, I hope my fears are just that. There are plenty of dark gods to flee to for those willing."
"I am not suprised these events seem to lead us to Absolom."
Karl takes a small sip of his wine and awaits comment.
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"Well, my "pig sticker" is the weapon of my deity, Gozreh. It was given to me by my grandfather to save my fellow villagers and to avenge my father after the Stag Heralds impaled him while his back was turned. It was like his life was cheated out of him... the battle was over... he didnt need to go..." Lavios' voice trails off into sobs. He shakes it off and looks back up to Drogan, "It was unfair. Im here to make sure that people like the Stag Heralds never exist again. Im going to eradicate them. Im gonna purge this world's lawlessness and evil. I'll make sure everything is in balance."
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"So, if these are related to these Norgorber cults, could we not get a studied priest to take a look at the caricature and see if it's related. While it may only be drawing, there were statues as well. Surely something of that significance would come up in studies somewhere." he says, not disappointed by the detail Karl provided.
Drogan puts his hand up in the air, "No disrespect intended. It's a fine weapon, I'm sure, with such a pedigree. It's always a shame when a good man is come to harm - specially when at the hands of some low-life thug."
Rage against it, Inquisitor. There'll be plenty more left when you're gone, but hopefully that gets left out of your story.
"Well, whatever Foeward is planning - its certainly doesn't seem good. Seems you'll have plenty to be avenging 'fore we're done."
♞♞♞ Beckett, Nosatrub, Phedron & Karl♞♞♞
♧♢♤ At Dinner ♧♢♤
Bromathan considers Phedron's suggestion. "Father Syntypera."
"Is he even in the city?" Ricton replies, taking a sip of wine.
"Chances are...likely given the nearness of the Solstice. Perhaps we can prevail upon the lieutenant as to his whereabouts." Bromathan places his fork down on his plate and rests his elbows on the table and interlocks his fingers below his chin. "As much as I hated doing so, I spent some time looking at the caricature you acquired, Master Rushing. The writing on it bends my mind, a sweep here and there, oddly angled gatherings of marks that inspire a sense of incongruity."
"Ain't like Nogobooger stuff..." Linkah mutters. As the talk had turned to the cult, the halfling had begun losing his appetite. Even now he simply trails a spoon through the blackberry sauce making spiraling lines like little rivers on his plate. When he feels the other's eyes upon him, he glances up and shrugs with no small sense of shame. "Ain't too big a hush hush knowin' some halfers follow the Gray Boss. There's some who get tired o' lookin' up at the world...get tired o' longshanks lookin' down." Linkah looks back down at his plate. "There for a while, me n' Corvim...me brother...we was havin' scrapes. He caught me talkin' to a halfer what's a thief. I'd been of a mind to do it but then you n' Mister Beckett boarded up in Korvosa. Well, I knew it was the Lady o' the Dawn puttin' me feets back on the path where they...*ahem* ...where they belong.""
When an uncharacteristic tear trickles down the childlike face of Linkah Merrywater, Bromathan rests a hand over the halfling's.
The added confidence from the nobleman emboldens the halfling to continue. "Jus' sayin', gents, I've seen some o' the trinkets n' bobbles some o' the Nogoboogers carry...even pointed some out to Marshy when he first came ta town lookin' for 'em, but them squiggles on that skin paper o' yours...don't thinks it's them baddies you're lookin' for."
"But the warnings of Mister Marsh should not be taken lightly. Even if this cult is not the object of his enmity, then it isn't too unrelated in its own vile nature. Rituals...dedicated followers...the gathering of name-giver races to the diabolism... I shudder to think what it could all portend." Bromathan makes ready to stand, waving get the others to keep their seats as he does so. "I will take my leave of you brave comrades. I have much to contemplate, and much to pray for before I retire for the evening."
After gathering his cloak from his chair back, he passes by Beckett and places a hand on his shoulder. "But I will require your presence old friend. Just a few words."
Lord Bromathan heads for the doors to the eating hall. "Good evening, gentlemen."
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♧♢♤ After Dinner ♧♢♤
☀☀☀ Beckett ☀☀☀
Lord Valdur Bromathan walks with patient steps down the corridor leading from the Dining Hall. His boots draw soft thumps into the empty air around him, hands folded inside the sleeves of his cloak. ”I am unsurprised by the man’s words regarding your skill and bravery, my friend. It seems you’ve gone from protecting a cadre of halflings to the beginnings of an investigation.” He sighs with a smile on his face. ”I am humble enough to admit being wrong about your choice of vocation within the church.”
The comment reminds Beckett to the conversation in the Lord’s study back in Korvosa. It had been clear that his mentor would have preferred the paladinhood of the available military courses in the church. But there is little time to ruminate as Bromathan stop short and faces the Inquisitor.
”I am concerned, however, with the manner in which you appeared in the Citadel. Doubly so when he put descriptions to your battle near the docks earlier today.” The elder man looks more so as he closes his eyes and reaches for Beckett’s shoulder. ”You are formidable, Beckett Foxglove, but you carry your past into battle as surely as you wield the hammer.” He opens his eyes and stares directly into Beckett’s. After a moment, a smile creases his face once more but the worry is still behind his gentle eyes. ”Tell me of the battle, Beckett. I want you to express what it is you experienced...what you’ve had to do in the name of justice…” He waves towards the hall leading to the Ambassador’s quarters.
Nosa, still lost in his own thoughts, accepts the offer of fresh clothing and a meal. Until this moment, he had not even realized how hungry he was.
He follows as he is led to a room where he can cleanse himself and remove his armor. His practiced hand removes the armor quickly and delicately. He cleans each piece of armor as he removes it, making sure to remove all the grime and blood it had accumulated. He checks each buckle and fastening to be sure it is in proper working order. Taking all the time he needs, he restores it to its original luster and gently places each piece into his pack along with his helm.
As he is working, he notes the several bruises that now mark his torso. He remembers the cultists and their ability to bypass his armor and inflict pain with just their hands and feet."There must be a way do keep them from getting through my armor. I will remember that." he thinks to himself.
He dresses in the clothing provided, it is simple in make, but warm and comfortable, although slightly undersized for a man his size.
Frowning when he is finished at how he must look, he prepares to join his comrades for a meal.
Nosa listens intently at dinner as the others talk, trying to absorb as much as he can.
However, most of his attention is turned toward dinner. He eats as if he had not had food in weeks.
He notes the looks that pass between Bromathan and Beckett, sensing his new friends discomfort, yet not knowing how to address it.
Finally, one word snaps him out of his food reverie. Absalom. Hearing the name of the city, he is reminded of his calling. Absalom is the city he had been called to go to. He still does not know why.
"My lady.
My thanks to you for guiding me to this place, with these men.
Your will is done.
May you continue to guide me and bring me to Absalom where you have called me.
May I be your Shieldarm."
When his prayer is done, he resumes eating.
"Chaos cult then probably . . . If could think on it Nosa, your insight into this dark religion might be useful. "
Then to Boromathan.
"Good night good sir. I will be but a short time behind you. I am still carrying wounds from earlier and the weight of my years rests a bit heavy on me."
And back to the Lt.
"Perhaps there is a library Phedron could turn his attentions to? Unless this cult is dedicated to some upstart demon, someone must have penned something similar to what we are facing here. With luck that information might be avalible here in the city . . . or that information will be in Absolom."
Karl runs a thumb across his lower lip.
"What god does this Father Syntypera serve and where may we find him?"
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Beckett follows Lord Bromathan's gesture and enters the Ambassador’s quarters, grateful that his turned back briefly blocks his mentor's view of his face.
As if that would help. That man can read me no matter what direction I am facing. Curse it!
The Inquisitor winces internally as the unguarded thought.
Stupid! Weak!
Beckett makes a concerted effort to calm his mind and engage his wits.
What am I, a cowering novitiate? Milord may send me home, and I will obey. But nothing can take away what I am. I am a trained Inquisitor of the Dawn!
But that is not all you are, line of Foxglove.
With an act of will, Beckett calms his face and turns to Bromathan, his hands clapped behind his back, knowing what will happen when he meets the lord's eyes. That desire to tell him everything. To find peace in the man's gentle strength.
Beckett makes an effort to concentrate on the lord's nose, as if not meeting his eyes directly may guard against the noble's strange insights.
Stupid! Weak!
Milord.
Beckett's words are short and crisp.
A simple report. Nothing more.
In the service of justice, I killed men today. And I lead others to their death. The men who died at my hand were foul servants of the shadow, there is no doubt. Although, some were more deeply ensnared by the darkness than others.
The Inquisitor's mind briefly goes back to the first man that he killed, and the visage of sorrow and regret.
The ones whom I lead to death did not deserve it.
A fleeting image of Lenz comes to mind.
At least... not entirely. I would have saved them, if I could. In the end, I could only avenge them.
With that Beckett begins an account of events since the two parted at the Seven Doves. The Inquisitor relates the story accurately, telling of the death of Alaric and the grisly vengeance he extracted. He relates the story of the visage, and his questions at to what it meant.
However, Beckett does not mention his temptation to suicide after the battle, nor the dreams or strange voices urging him to kill the prisoners, nor his doubts about Bromathan's more gentle approach toward the faith.
Milord did not ask for every detail. No need to trouble him matters that he can not help or change.
No one can help.
♧♢♤ After Dinner ♧♢♤
☀☀☀ Beckett ☀☀☀
Bromathan has never held back his true emotions in front of his pupil. Despite his proclivity towards suspicion, Beckett has always rested his certainty on the fact of Bromathan's honesty. The Inquisitor sees the old man's eyes fall ever so slightly along the edges, sees Bromathan's shoulders slump as though under a heavy burden. All happening as Beckett relates the details of the battles and the bloodletting. He remains silent through the telling, and as the road ends with the firing of the tannery, Bromathan nods weakly and walks over to the open window to the port beyond.
"What you saw, in the faces of those you'd slain, are insights given you by your faith. A man horrified by the line of his life that had been cut short by a hammer...another who sought to do evil only to be bludgeoned in a horrific manner beyond what he may have ever witnessed in life." Bromathan's voice is quiet and he turns from the window to look Beckett in the eye. "I never wanted this for you, my boy. When you came into my care I longed to turn you aside from the passionate violence that had seeded in your heart. But I know Sarenrae is sovereign in her decision to bring you into the Inquisition. And I am an old man who knows better than to challenge the will of a goddess."
He crosses the room and stands before Beckett. "I only ask that you heed the visions you see, let them teach you patience and perspective. No matter the mettle of a warrior, no matter the dedication of the most chaste paladin, violence unleashes the worst in our souls." The nobleman goes to a circular table he'd set up as a desk for reading. On it rests his sheathed scimitar.He lays his hands on the worn scabbard and sighs heavily. "When the red haze of righteous anger clouds the world...there is little time to tell the repentant from the incorrigible." He slowly draws the blade and sits down at the table, turning his chair aside so he still face Beckett. "I never told you about the night I killed a witch in a small village outside of Korvosa. A group of us were sent to investigate rumors of a sickness spreading like wildfire through a community. A witch coven dwelt on the deep forest nearby...we found one of them had been poisoning the villages wells, something to do with a band of ruffians killing one of their familiars for fun."
His voice is somber as he recalls the painful memory. "I followed the members of the church into their home, watched as they killed them one by one...I found the last one hiding in the basement. When she tried to ensorcel me I opened her throat. I had been so angry at the time...seething with fury." He sheaths the blade and pushes it aside. "I only realized later that the home had actually belonged to her, and she was a hermit of sorts being held prisoner by the coven. She had only lashed out after being held for so long."
"I tell you this not to call your actions into question. I am proud of your bravery and willingness to see this through." Bromathan locks eyes with Beckett once more, nothing but the love of the one man he could call a father dwelt there. "You carry a tremendous burden, Beckett Foxglove. One that despite my best efforts to the contrary you have chosen to bear alone. Don't let them cloud your judgement or your faith. Learn to allow others to help. I see in that dining room a group bent towards a singular purpose, don't walk this path alone, I beg of you. Or your burdens will consume you in the end."
♧♢♤ To Sleep, Perchance to Dream ♧♢♤
...his prayer drifts and buffets and flies away upon the storm, winds carrying his words beyond the reach of his goddess’ ears. All that he hears in response to his prayers are the steps behind him, sloshing and slurping through the mud. he chances a glance back up the way he came as the lighting illuminates the sky again. a thin, hunched silhouette is at the top of the cellar stairs, arms elongated to unnatural dimensions, fingers stretched and ending in scythe-like claws.
The creature takes a step to the first stair, one of its grotesque arms reaching up and scraping and screeching along the stone wall. ”No prayers, little morsel. No prayers for you, line of Foxglove. It is only you…” Its elongated arm lifts to allow a scythe to point down to Beckett. Then he retracts the arm so he can lay its hand upon its thin chest. ”...and me.” Its voice is like a hissing snake, throat full of horrid liquids to lend its tones an ichorous discordance.
Beckett backs away from the cellar stairs, deeper into the darkness of the basement. He tries to call out for help, but unrelenting terror has robbed his lungs of breath. His hands cast into the unknown behind him, searching for purchase or weapon or hiding place, his eyes wide and staring as the thin man descends the cellar stairs.
*thump-scrape thump-scrape*
”Oh my little morsel, I have such sights for you, vistas of exquisite heresies…” It rasps in a breath of air, a twisted whimsy in its tone, clawed hands clasped before it like an elder doting on a child. ”...I do believe your soul will call out and your delicate heart will burst.” It laughs, nearing the bottom of the stairs. The macabre sound of mirth sets Beckett’s teeth to grinding until his jaw aches from the effort.
*thump-scrape thump-scrape*
A hand emerges from the darkness behind Beckett, he sees it for a second on his periphery before it closes like a vise over his mouth and drags him back. His feet stumble along trying to keep himself upright. Eyes wide he is spun bodily around to face three figures. One holds him by the shoulders in a grip, towering over Beckett...the other two stand behind the first. All male, their attire soiled with mud, their faces a myriad of twisting pain and anger…
...except for the third one furthest away. His face is a ruin of flesh and bone, and he grasps at the air with wild frustration and growing anger as he attempts to join the other two.
”I lost everythin’, mate...everythin’...” the first one stammers out, sounding drunk or exhausted, though his firm grip on Beckett lent no credence to the last. ”...was gonna leave, Hem was a baddie, sure sure...I was a soldier...gonna leave…who were you?...but I was so scared…... The sudden visceral shout pours acid into Beckett’s middle, black-burning fear swirling and twisting.
*thump-scrape thump-scrape*
”No prayers for you...no prayers for you...no light to shine down on what we’ll do…” Beckett feels thin appendages slide over his shoulders and along his neck, crawling. The thin creature’s voice is warm on his nape, singing the corrupted of Beckett’s favorite childhood hymn. ”...no light, no light to shine down on the things we’ll do…”
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Beckett stands completely still, taken aback my Lord Bromathan's graphic depiction of the coven and the death of the hermit. Uncertain how to proceed, Beckett takes a moment to collect his thoughts. It was not his place to offer comfort, implying that his liege lord required approval for his actions. Still, it also somehow seemed wrong to say nothing at all.
"Milord is wise, as always..." Beckett stammers. "I... I have learned, from milord, that sometimes the best course of action... or even the only course of action... can still have outcomes we do not desire or intend."
Beckett allows a period of silence to stretch out, then his thoughts return to himself.
So, it would seem that milord does not intend to send me home. Quite the opposite, actually.
The Inquisitor stares that the table before his seated mentor for a while.
Perhaps I could tell him after all.. about the dreams.. about...
Beckett shakes his head.
No.
But I could ask him what I truly want to know. Maybe he has a good reason after all... a reason other than weakness and a lack of will to do what must be done. Could it be that this hermit saved my life all those years ago? By weakening Bromathan's will and resolve?
Beckett clears his throat, then speaks.
"Milord... May I ask you a question?"
Hearing no objection, Beckett continues.
"I give you my thanks, milord, for allowing me to pursue the Inquisition. As you say, it is a hard life, but the Paladery would have been a poor fit for me."
Beckett's mind briefly touches on Nosa, and the large man's ability to care for others, even when they did not deserve it.
Not for me. That life cannot be for a Foxglove.
"But... Milord certainly had other options as well. You..."
Beckett pauses to collect his courage, and steady his voice.
"You... know of my family, milord. What they have done... the evil they have unleashed. You know how that kind of evil can be carried in the blood. You..."
Beckett stops and turns to face the window, unconsciously taking refuge in the same view Lord Bromathan used to steady his thoughts. Without looking back, Beckett finally forms his question.
"Was it wise for milord to allow me to live?"
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"Yes, are there any libraries that I could be granted access to? Perhaps a letter of reference to one of the fellows? Of course, this Father Syntypera my be the best first stop and save us much time."
Not overly pleased being in agreement with Karl, he cannot deny that access to a library and perhaps even opporunities to speak with fellows there could be fruitful.
---------------------------------------
After dinner Phedron retires to his room, weary as he rarely has been before. He smiles, looking at himself in the mirror Yes, not too bad of a showing today at all." He takes a few moments looking stoically back at himself. What a story he'll have upon his return home. He smiles even more broadly at the imagined faces of his brothers and sisters during his recount of the cultist attacks. Washing his face and neck, non-distinct faces of the four missing villagers float into his mind, pushing out those of his family.
Sitting down, he takes his blade out, cleans and inspects it. I wonder where they are." he says, meaning the villagers. Looking down at the sword, he recalls back to his first experiences with weapons. They are tools for protecting and defending the weak. "It's just hard when you can find the people you are supposed to be defending. If we only could have kept a single one of this cultists alive, I could have worked it out of them."
As he lays his head down he thinks back to his dealings with the faeries and even stories his grandmother had shared. There are magics that can make adversaries listen and heed. Ways to get the information that is needed from even the tightest of lips. Though he has only been dabbling, more research into those secrets seem important in his mind.
♧♢♤ After Dinner ♧♢♤
☀☀☀ Beckett ☀☀☀
His eyes widen, shock and no small measure of pain. "My boy, how could you ask such a thing of me?" He stands from the table, his scimitar forgotten behind him. In a few short steps he is standing next to Beckett at the window, a firm grip on his shoulder. He sighs heavily. "We all have a choice, Beckett Foxglove. We can reconcile the demons in us and choose to join them...or choose to fight them. I live daily with the violence that is in me, the man who was able to kill so easily... It's the reason I turned from the traditions of my family and joined the priesthood."
"You have the choice in you. Follow in the line of your forebearers, or turn aside from it. That you stand before me and ask these questions is testimony to the path you've chosen." They both each the flickering lanterns and buoy lights in the bay, the window affording them a decent view. "But it will take more than anger or hammers or the overbearing weight of a darkened past to keep you on the right path." Bromathan points out towards the bay. "When the ship captains make there way at night, they must know their charts, know their ship... Do you see how the lanterns are distanced along the docks? Then the buoys, they too have lanterns."
"Perspective. The captains can depend on those lights for perspective to safely navigate the nighttime." He turns from the window and points to Beckett. "What is your light, my boy? What gives you perspective? Know that, and you can navigate any darkness."
He clasps his hands behind his back and smiles. "Hold to your faith, son. There is no darkness that Sarenrae cannot overcome."
As they part company, Bromathan invites Beckett to join him for dawn prayer.
♧♢♤ Citadel Dining Hall ♧♢♤
he morning of the 11th finds Cassomir bathed in alien rays of sunlight. After a week of clouds and heavy rains, it is a welcome respite for the city. Rumors swirl outward from Dog's Teeth, the dawn revealing spiraled columns of smoke from the direction of Farn's Tannery. Whispers range from a marauding band of mercenaries torching the place to a secret Phalanx operation to clean out a new gang from Absalom. Some even provide account of a shadowed clutch of halflings leaving the area prior to the outbreak of fire. No matter the rumors, none are quite right.
North of the docks looms the Admiralty Citadel, home of the Imperial Navy and the administrative apparatus that oversees one of the busiest ports in the Inner Sea. But the prior day's events have revealed the rot of corruption in the form of a drug addicted Port Authority official. Worse still, the actions of Hektor Lenz may have inadvertently aided the very enemies of those gathered in the dining hall.
Agidor strums idly at a guitar, an ambling tune meant to keep his fingers loose. The morning of the 11th sees the reunion of the party and an opportunity to share information.
------------------
The night before, Lord Richton Vengraf reveals that Father Syntypera is a cleric of Abadar. A wide ranging man of studious and cantankerous demeanor, the Lord is going to see to it that the cleric is made available for questions. Syntypera currently maintains a library in the temple near the Citadel.
------------------
Made aware of his desire to conduct research into the strange cult activity witnessed, Lt. Olfrey arranges for special privileges to be extended to Phedron in granting access to the best library in Cassomir. It just so happens that to be in the temple of Abadar, curated by none other than Father Syntypera.
☀♬♆☦♞♜
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"My boy, how could you ask such a thing of me?"
Beckett smiles and nods at Bromathan.
But after the noble takes his leave, Beckett's face falls.
So, not weakness... but denial.
Beckett resumes looking at the distant port.
Or, lack of information. Perhaps if you had told him everything...
The Inquisitor continues brooding for a long while, before reaching a conclusion.
Bromathan cannot do what must be done. As always my fate rests in the Dawnflower. I will assist in this endeavour with these new companions. May my Lady find a fitting death for me before the darkness gains final purchase.
Finally, Beckett retires to his quarters, knowing what is awaiting him.
"Abadar, of course, I know my way about his church."
"Well it seems this evening has wound down. It's a pity the night draws to a close for I would have enjoyed engaging you in less dark conversation lord Vengraf, but we have other matters to attend. Not to mention I will need to keep pace and run with theses young bucks at first light. This old stag intends to let them chase my heels a bit."
"Is that the plucking of alley cat gut strings I hear? Ah, Good morning Agidor, I am glad to see someone else hasn't made good on a contract against your life last night. You have been a popular man of late."
"Too bad I left my violin at home or I would serenade with you. Heh heh heh"
Karl sits down.
"Ah yes, three forks, two spoons, two knives and a butter, with separate set for afters. So nice to sit a a properly set table, not that I was not well fed at the knuckle."
"I will assume Marcum will not be joining us this morning. Pity, I had a rather extensive list of questions for him."
Agidor affects offense, hand ceasing it's plucking long enough to press a hand to his chest. "Me? Who in the world would want to do in the entertainment, mate? Did I strum one too many gnomish waltzes?" He begins plucking at an up tempo tune that would inspire the most dull-minded to tap a foot. But then he transitions to a more tawdry refrain as he grins. "Did Agidor Lim'ehl snuggle one too many barmaids? Did he finally find the one bird in all the trade who was married?"
Hearing Marsh mention his name, Nosa snaps back to the moment.
Hrmm...I will think on the cult and try to recall anything that I may have learned of them.
With that, Nosa excuses himself from the group and departs for his lodgings for the night.
He wracks his brain to try and recall any knowledge of the cult that he can before he meets the others for breakfast.
He kneels for his prayers and when they are done, falls fast asleep.
☦☦☦ Nosatrub ☦☦☦
Squire Shieldarm completes his prayers and finds peace in the courage of his goddess. The day's events and revelations are troubling and require a rested mind to reconcile. Nosatrub's mind wanders in the dream, visions of Alaric mixing with times passed, even finding his feet treading the places he'd only heard of during his time in seminary...
Nosatrub finds himself standing on the shores of a vast lake, his bare feet upon black and grey sands, ripples of water crawling ashore. A stormy sky hangs low over the bay and casts a reddish hue to the surroundings. To his left a single stone and wood quay extends out into the lake like a gnarled finger where wind-tossed currents cause the wood to moan. There are only two boats, oars lashed alongside and tied to so they won't drift.
A single figure stands at the end of the quay. He's tall, hulking and bears the countenance of a man accustomed to fighting. He's staring out across the lake, but he speaks over his shoulder. "It's just over there," he says, lifting a muscled arm and pointing over the water.
Nosa leaves behind the shore and steps out onto the small dock, bare feet padding along until he stands next to the big man. He looks out onto the lake where he's pointing and realizes two things; this man is Alaric and that they are standing upon the shores of Lake Encarthan in Ustalav. Neither thought gives the paladin disquiet.
"There's a church there, gov." Alaric states flatly. He folds his massive arms across his chest. Nosa isn't surprised to see the look of peace and comfort on his face. Knowing the way he'd died.
Instead Nosatrub finds himself answering calmly. "The Church of the Recondite Order of the Indomitable Sea." At Alaric's acknowledgement Nosa blinks and is immediately standing in the center of a small town. The walkways and byways are mud caked, similar to Dog's Teeth, but he somehow knows he's still in Ustalav. Around him, drab dressed denizens go about their affairs, heads down as though the simple act of walking is a toil.
"There is a weight on this place..." a passerby says to Nosa and Alaric, looking up long enough to speak before dropping his eyes to the ground again.
"Ayup, can't ya feel it, mate? That weight...the stink..." Alaric observes and then points to a stone bulk at the center of town. A spire crowned black stone temple with thirty steps leading to the front doors. The pediment above is decorated in bas-relief, two fish leaping from the water and curling towards one another. A symbol is etched beneath the fish, one that would be alien to Nosatrub if not for his experience in the waking world.
"Ebumna'ai...n'gft cha n'gha..." Chanting from the temple's interior. The grimy facade rises up, the center most tower having thin and tall windows that stand open and allow the strange language to be heard. Out among the denizens, some stop their toiling progress and lift their eyes towards the temple. Others continue on their way.
"Can't say I know the place, gov." Alaric says calmly, then looks to Nosa. "You never read about it, just know there's a block o' bricks like it somewhere in the south o' Ustalav." Alaric smiles and rests a hand on Nosa's shoulder. "Thanks for helpin' me ta die on my feet...to die like a man 'stead of a boffer..."
Nosa awakens from his slumber, mind a swirl of images as his eyes are dazzled by a ray of sun coming through his window.
"Don't worry about it kid, a few more years of living like this and sleep will be just what you do between periods of being awake. The rest of it all will fade to the background, part of the routine. Heh heh, just be glad you are young and human . . . Your joints don't hurt and you don't have to live like this for centuries. Heh heh, just a few decades. Besides, you are clean and we have a fine breakfast before us. Don't seem so dreary as though we are facing a cult aimed at annihilating the world as we know it. Heh heh."
Nosa internal clock wakens him, as it does every morning, just before the dawn.
He rises, puts on his light traveling clothes, and leaves his room.
He makes his way to the exit of the citadel, goes outside, and begins to run. He starts out slowly at first, letting the muscles in his legs build. Winding this way and that through the city, trusting his instincts and Iomedae guidance to avoid less savory parts.
"Your body is a temple my son. Treat it with reverence and it will not fail you when it is needed most."
Nosa had always taken those words to heart and trained hard at keeping his body strong. The running and exercising was also a time where his mind would be most clear.
As he runs, he prays, and thinks. Mostly he thinks of the dream that he had that night, trying to understand it's meaning.
Finally, after a time and many winding ways, he finds himself back at the citadel. When he returns, he finds the courtyard. There, he does all of the exercises that Veras had taught him from a young age. Exercises done to keep his body quick and strong. When done, he stretches out his muscles, allows his heart to slow, and greets the morning before heading back to his room.
He cleanses the sweat from his body and puts on the clothing provided for him and makes his way to breakfast.
He enters the room and sees that Marsh and Beckett are already there. Marsh looks rested and refreshed while Beckett looks as if he had not slept at all. Nosa's brow furrows as he looks at his friend, unable to hide his concern.
He walks to the table, and claps both men hard on the shoulder in his customary greeting.
"The Lady of Valor has granted us another day my friends. What shall we do to seize it?"
He sits and pulls a plate to him, smiles, and begins to eat...
Karl spears a link of sausage and inspects it on the end of his fork.
"Well, personally. . . I was thinking of boarding a ship with our collected treasure and heading south. To someplace warm and peaceful with clean beaches, blue water, and a fresh breeze. A place where I would live out the rest of my days in luxury alongside some of the girls from the Knuckle. There they would be given a chance at a new life. A place they could benefit from their own labors, choose their own . . . paths. Maybe open my own little place and call it The Marsh. . . . You know, a place with a nice quiet table that I could sit at. . . "
Karl places the food in his mouth and chews thoughtfully for a moment before continuing.
"But. . . Apparently . . . your goddess and a few others . . . have different plans for me. So I find myself still in this s$&*hole. At least we have a nice table set before us."
Karl says with a hint of regretful bitterness.
You may yet find that place.
Nosa looks thougtfully down at his plate.
One day, your labors will be rewarded and you will find yourself in such a place.
As for myself. I feel my journy is just beginning. It seems for a time at least, that your path is intertwined with my own.
Nosa then looks up at Marsh
I will help you get to this place if I can.