Noon, third day of the month of Neth, middle of the autumn season.
You departed this morning from the Lonely Chimney, a roadside inn between Redleaf and Carrion Hill, just fifteen miles south of your destination. The inn was cold and damp, empty but for the five of you and Luvick, the lame and melancholic innkeeper. After breaking fast with dark bread, eggs and goat milk you decided to travel together the remaining miles to the Hill.
One would be forgiven if he forgot you are in the middle of the morning: thick, lead-colored clouds cover the sky from horizon to horizon, and the grey fog shows no sign of getting thinner the closer you get to midday.
From time to time a cold, light rain pours from the sky, making your feet sink even deeper in the muddy road and the soaked coats all the more heavy upon your shoulders.
Four hours after your departure from the inn the path gets out of a fir thicket and in front of you appears the hump of land that hosts Carrion Hill. The waters of the Kingfisher river splash softly in the muffling fog, and even in the middle of a workday almost no sound comes from the city.
"Proper Ustalav weather!" Milo says with a grin at those who hail from further lands. He stamps his feet and rubs his hands together in the chill fog. "You'll all seeing the best my country has to offer."
This man is of average height, his black hair worn short and stylish and small copper rings glinting at his ears. He spent most of the breakfast practicing shuffles with a deck of cards, but on the road those have disappeared into his worn backpack, and instead one hand rests always on the hilt of his rapier, despite his banter and jokes.
Gray eyes dart to either side of the road as well, drawn by occasional movements in the mist.
Still, his smile is easy and his tone light. "Now, I myself, I've never been too far from the land of my birth. But perhaps each of you might say where you're from, and the places you've seen, so that the road becomes shorter?"
"I was born on the Storming Sea; a little fog feels as mild as a sunny day, as far as I'm concerned. Pity."
The speaker is an attractive young halfling girl, riding astride on a large wolf. The wolf is black furred, or perhaps just a deep very dark grey, with icy blue eyes, and one foreleg that is pure white; shockingly so against the pitch darkness of the rest of the beast.
The tiny woman eyes her traveling companion, eyes taking in the ornate rapier at his side, and finely wrought chain shirt beneath his cloak. "If you wish to hear stories, perhaps you should tell a few first? You carry a fine looking blade, to mine eye at least... are you a swordsman? Or perhaps just a gentleman? Though I suppose a gentleman might not bother with the armour if the sword was just for show; that leads me to believe you know how to use the sword, or at least think the attempt might be necessary. What is your trade, swordsman, and why choose to ply it here upon the road?"
"The Storming Sea?" Milovic echoes, his brows lifting. "Far to the north, isn't that? You've traveled a long way, then." He leaves unsaid for one who seems so young. That enormous beast of a wolf is probably safeguard enough against many of the dangers of the road.
He smiles in a self-deprecating fashion at the fact that she notices his blade and his armor. "Oh, all men should strive to be gentlemen, shouldn't they? I'd lay my cloak out on the road for you, that you might cross puddles-- but the road is nothing but one ongoing puddle, and I only have the one cloak."
He skirts a particularly muddy section of the road as he speaks. "I can use my blade at need, yes. Not everyone on the road is honest, you know! As for my trade, why, whatsoever needs doing. I've worked as a guard for travelers, a time or two, but I don't seek out fights."
"No, I'm not going to tell him that... I don't care, he's right. Ustalav isn't exactly known for it's enjoyable weather."
The hooded fellow with the Pharasman spiral around his neck talked a lot. If there was one conversation happening, it was as though he were having two or three others at the same time. He'd respond to questions that were asked, and then respond to a few that weren't. It was a little disconcerting, but somehow he made it rather endearing.
"True... How should I know? Wolves are all pretty much the same to me."
By now, everyone on the road had gotten used to it.
"Maybe later. I think it would be hard to play cards and walk at the same time. No, I will not 'just float them' for you."
He was built tall and lean with broad shoulders. He could have been a warrior if he hadn't been touched in the head, and he carried himself with straight-backed dignity usually reserved for nobles. In spite of his oddness, he was quite poised. He cleaned his round dark red-tinted glasses on his robe and put them back on.
"Good question. Does anyone know how far we are from town?"
Milo's smile becomes a little bemused, but stays firmly fixed on his face, when the other fellow holds his curious conversations with himself.
Takes all sorts, he supposes-- and besides, he has a fair bit of ingrained cultural respect for Pharasma's servants. Who's he to say if they're mad or not?
So even if Milovic shares a few significant glances with the others on the road when the fellow goes into one of his shpiels, he resolves to treat the man pleasantly.
"I think another few miles yet. I've never been to Carrion Hill before-- I'm Ustalav born-and-bred, but I'm from a western county. Er. With no offense meant, my friend.... with whom are you conversing?"
"Is Carrion Hill as ugly as they say?" Varta could no longer control her curiosity. "I heard the top of the hill, where the rich live is almost nice, but the bottom in the muck is unmentionable."
The dwarf speaking is tall, easily 5'2" and singularly unattractive. She looks like she has been 'rode hard and put up wet'. She has a greatsword in a scabbard. The scabbard is an improbable pink and looks like there might be tiny, crudely drawn figures on it. Her gear is worn, but well cared for. She has a tabard over her mail. On the front is the symbol of Shelyn and on the back is a badly drawn smiley face. Her hair is braided intricately.
"A hot bath would be lovely. Is there any chance of that in town, do you think?"
"I am Varta Urkenkinslayersbanedottir. But most people just call me 'V'. And your name is, miss?" She bowed low to the halfling.
"It's no tourist destination," Milo says with a headshake. True, he's never been there, but why let a detail like that stop him from sounding like the local expert? "The colors of the middenstone on all the buildings assault your eyes and turn your stomach, and the less said of the smell, the better! I hope it's true that dwarves have the fabled constitutions I've heard tell of."
He punctuates his words with a wink towards the homely dwarven woman, even if inwardly he's struggling not to laugh over-- the pink scabbard. The smiley face. Gods bless this lot, but they're a motley crew, he thinks.
"As for a bath, well! Anything is obtainable eventually, with enough coin. Or so has been my discovery. And I'm remiss: Milo, Milovic Marecek, but my friends call me Milo and so should you all, as it please you."
He also looks towards the halfling, curious as to her name as well.
----
and while we are at it, detect alignment: evil, on young Milo.
"Ŧempest. I was born during what may have been the worst storm in living memory; perhaps the second. My mother thought it fitting. This is Stormcloud, my guide." She pats the side of the wolf affectionately. "He was sent to me by Gozreh, during that second of storms I mentioned. I travel to see his hand on the world. So far, Ustalav's fabled weather disappoints, though I suppose perhaps I should not expect storms year round as we get on the Sea."
"What brings you here, Varta?"
The hooded man obviously missed the question about who he was talking to, probably on account of talking to them. His eyes were constantly flicking between those who were speaking and seemingly random places in their surroundings.
"Really? Not surprising. Uncle, please. You're making me miss things again."
Looking back up toward the man called Milo, he said "Apologies. I didn't catch your question earlier. I'm speaking to my family. They're dead, but manage to still be quite lively." he says with wry exasperation, glancing over to empty air. "Well then stop interrupting. You know they can't hear you. The only one who has to deal with your outbursts is me."
"Sorry. They get unruly during travel. They don't like feeling slowly dragged along, and they don't particularly like sunlight anymore. My name is Xander Ravencourt. Pleased to meet you. All of you."
To Varta, there's clearly something not altogether truthful to Milo's manner-- the friendliness doesn't seem feigned, exactly, but she would probably catch the tiny, telltale tightening of his hand on his rapier when he introduces himself, and other such details.
He does not detect as evil-- though he does throw an undisguisedly curious glance over Varta's direction when he sees her gesticulating, murmuring, and holding her symbol of Shelyn.
"Praying the Lady of Beauty keeps the ugliness of Middenstone from your eyes? Probably not a bad idea!"
A sidelong dart of his eyes at Xander as well, when the Ravencourt name is dropped. Perhaps his hand tightens again on his rapier.
Damned nobles. No escaping them, is there. A bloody Better-'n-Thou Ravencourt, at that. The rest of Xander's words penetrates, and Milo stares for several seconds at this admission.
....well.... at least if he's got his nose jammed into the realm of the dead, he probably can't see clearly to look down it at the rest of us? he thinks to himself uncertainly after a few seconds.
Hesitantly, he traces Pharasma's spiral in the air with an index finger, half as acknowledgment of the other man's, ah, faithful connection to the dead, and half in hopes that the Lady of Graves will tell her servant not to bother humble Milo, who hasn't done anything that bad. "Ah. Yes. Pleasure to meet you and... your...extended family."
He tries to return to a jest with Tempest. "Well, perhaps we'll get a proper thunderer before you leave our lands, so that you don't feel wholly cheated!"
---
Falling behind the rest of the group is a scruffy, miserable-looking old man, hobbling along the muddy road almost exaggeratedly with the assistance of his wooden staff. His drawn hood does nothing to hide the bags under his gray eyes, nor does it conceal the perpetual scowl that graces his face. Certainly, his mood was just as foul as the weather. if not more so. More than once on this trip he has stumbled, each time very nearly landing face-first in the mud. In spite of that, his beard retains its cleanliness, something he was secretly quite proud of.
As the rest of the group talks amongst itself, Mavro mutters underneath his breath. His ramblings consist mostly of complaints, about the weather, about the Society, about the mud, and about just about everything else. Nonetheless, he keeps his ears open, knowing better than to travel with complete strangers without doing so.
As though to remind the others that he has not fallen over and died of age during the trip, Mavro suddenly stumbles once more, cursing loudly as he does so.
"Gods damn these muddy roads!"
An especially loud curse from behind prompts Milo to look back over his shoulder, brows arched at the man's... trouble.
SM:
Milo keeps a straight face with an effort. "Can I assist, grandfather?" he asks.
"Grandfather? Hmph!" Mavro retorts, aghast as he regains his footing on his own, "Watch your tongue, boy. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're supposed to respect your elders?" Ignoring of course, the fact that the man had just offered to help him. The "feeble" old man suddenly quickens his pace to join the rest of the group, though he insists on leaning on his cane regardless.
"None of that 'grandfather' stuff from the rest of you, either. My name is Mavro Cain."
Milo sweeps the man an exaggerated bow, eyes twinkling. "I meant no disrespect, elder," he says instead. "In Ustalav, achieving your golden years is something to be respected. I would call any ... mature soul... 'grandfather', and treat him with the honour I would give to my own grandfather."
(Well, if he had one who acknowledged his existence.)
Milo continues to grin insufferably all the same. "But I will not call you that if it offends, sir. Master Cain. Please accept my humble apologies."
As the talking and bickering goes on, lifting the spirit at least a tiny bit, you finally set foot in Carrion Hill. You disregard the entrance to the Filth, the unwalled part of town from where an unbearable rotten smell comes, and pass under the walls at the Southern Door, right into the Tangle.
The first thing you notice, breaking the uncomfortable silence, is the shouting of a dark-clad man carrying a blade and a longbow, wearing a helmet with a black feather in hit. He is one of the Crows, the city’s watch “Hear ye, hear ye!” he shouts “Carrion Hill needs heroes! Men of stout heart and bravery are asked to come to Crown Manor with all haste, there to receive a task worthy of their skill and talents and a reward of suitable magnificence. Make haste to Crown Manor! Make haste!”.
Apart from the guardsman, the town looks remarkably silent ad empty. Even in the middle of the workday it would be hard to find an open shop. Walking in the muddy streets, the densely packed two-story buildings looming over you, you find yourselves remarkably alone. A few windows suddenly close shut as you walk by, and not one beggar rests under a shed. Even the crows perched on the roofs, a familiar sight in Ustalavian towns, are remarkably absent – a few fly silently above the town, but none seem willing to land.
Now the silence perceived from farther away seems all the more eerie and creepy, broken only now and then by the shouting of a guardsman, whose loud words dissolve quickly in the foggy silence.
Milo stands there a few seconds in the empty street, scratching at the back of his head and staring around at the nigh-desertion. There's no smoke rising to the sky from the industries that fill the city. There's no wagons, there's no tradesmen, there's no merchants trying to get them to buy goods--
(there's nobody to STEAL from--)
".....not... really... what I'd expected," he says slowly to his fellow travelers.
V goes up to the watchman and asks "When you say 'men' do you mean the sex or the race? I ask only out of curiosity as I am neither. Is this some sort of human sexual thing?"
She cocks her head to the side, looking at him curiously.
The Crow stands a bit flabbergasted at Varta’s question «Ma'am, we’re good folks here in Carrion Hill, we’re not racist hillbillies like them folks up in Karcau.» he says defensively. Then he regains his wit «If your blades are as sharp as your lexicon, I won’t be th’one questioning your right to call yourself a hero! Woman, dwarf, pixie... if you're willing to help, Mayor Heggry will see you happily.» he replies, before going on with his announce to the next street.
"Calling for the aid of strangers? These must be dark times indeed," Mavro comments sarcastically, watching as the Crow moves on. It was hardly an uncommon practice. "What aid might the opulent folk of Carrion Hill require?" he asks to no one in particular, shaking his head, "Perhaps they need someone to rub their damned feet! Speaking of which, I could certainly go for a foot rub right about now..." The old man devolves into muttering once more, detailing the particulars of his woe with excruciating detail.
Ŧempest's eyes follow after the crier as he leaves. "I prefer literal storms to the metaphorical kind, but perhaps this announcement might bring to light the situation in this town. Tis always better to be informed of such things if there is danger about. I might make my way there, what about the rest of you?"
Things were truly dire if they needed help from pixies. For a moment V had hoped that the call for men was only for the sex. She had had a happy vision of straining well oiled men without shirts moving a great burden or working at many hot forges. That vision passed. It was utterly ridiculous. No sane man would work at a forge with his shirt off. The risk of burns was too great.
V contented herself imagining many men working at forges clad only in pants and aprons. If she were very lucky the men would need rubbing down. If the normal laws of the universe held, the mayor had misplaced the city seal and needed help finding it. That would explain the need for pixies. Everyone knew they were awesome at finding stuff.
Turning to the old man, she politely said "I'm sorry about your feet ancient one. When we get to place were we may rest, I will look at them if you'd like. I may be able to relieve your pain." Bowing low, V waited for the others to set off.
Milo stands there a few moments longer, hand migrating to scratch at his jaw as he mulls this over. He's too lost in thought to do more than smile briefly at Varta's question and the guard's reaction.
No trade meant no opportunities. Nobody out to cozy up to, no contacts to make, no rich widows needing a charming and adoring younger man to come into their lives, no shops needing 'guarding'...
If he'd had a bit more coin in his pockets, Milo thought he might have turned tail and left Carrion Hill behind. There was always another town further down the road where gold might be found, after all.
But he'd left his last job in a hurry, with the clothes on his back and precious little wealth to his name. He needed dosh quick, and if the only option in town was to play the hero...
He leaves off scratching to clap his hands together instead, smiling brightly around. "Why, I'm off to help the residents of the town, I suppose! It's what anybody with a shred of decency would do. They've obviously stumbled into some sort of serious trouble.
"Master Cain, perhaps you should find a quiet place to rest your weary bones until this all blows over," he carries on, eyes crinkling with humor. "Once we've routed whatever plagues the city, I'm sure we can find an apothecary who sells bunion treatments."
"Destiny waits for no man, and I long ago stopped believing in coincidence. I suppose I'll rest my feet later." Xander said with a shrug and a smile, walking into the town and heading confidently toward manor
"This way? Are you sure? It's been an awful long time since you've been here, they may have built a new Crown Manor since then."
"No rest for these bones," Mavro says, shaking his head. He makes sure to toss Varta a dark look for calling him 'ancient', though it is only halfhearted. After all, he had not actually expected someone to offer to pamper him. None of that, you. You have work to do here, he thinks to himself, nodding.
"This entire damned place is quiet. And boring, for that matter. I see no harm in checking this manor out. Perhaps they will give us a hot meal. Gods know I could use one right about now."
As Xander guides you with confident stride to the uphill path leading to the Crown, the light rain that accompanied you during your morning travel starts pouring again. Here the muddy, cramped alleyways of the Tangle give way to cobbled streets, with minuscule rivers of rain flowing downhill between one bleached pavement stone and the next. Those few middestone buildings that you spotted in the Tangle disappear: here the small yet elegant houses are made of polished stone and solid timber.
The air gets fresher and more breathable the farther you get from the Filth and its smell: here lavender bushes grow at the feet of the houses and around the occasional olive tree decorating the street.
The city seems somewhat less sinister and deserted: crows and birds are perched on the roofs and olive branches, the city watch is more present, and even a couple of civilian citizens walk by, still averting to lock gaze with you but turning to observe as soon as you pass by.
You soon arrive in the small square hosting the fortified Crown Manor – a tough-looking estate more akin to a small castle than an actual manor. Countless flags hang from the towers’ roofs and balconies, immobile and soaked in the rain, like many ugly rags stuck to the building.
Two black-clad Crows are standing guard under the porch, right hands resting on the sword hilts. Seeing a group of well-armed adventurers approach, they stand all the more upright «Greetings, strangers.» one of them says «Mayor Heggry would be glad to see there’s still brave men on the Hill!» he gives a signal, the doors of Crown Manor open, and four more Crows appear inside, ready to escort you.
Ŧempest dismounts Stormcloud in preparation to be led inside, but makes no move to secure her companion, as she intends for him to come along with her.
Milo's posture shifts slightly when they enter the obviously-better district of the city. He stands a bit straighter, puts his shoulders an inch back, and lengthens his strides, walking more like a man with a place to be than a man simply strolling along the road until he gets to his destination. It's a subtle change, but one he adopts consciously.
(Although he wishes he'd managed to shave, at the inn this morning. A three-day stubble on your jaw does not contribute to looking like you belong among the 'better' sort of people.)
He delivers crisp nods to the Crows when he and the others reach the Crown Manor.
Walk like you own the place, he tells himself as they are led inside. Head high, eyes straight ahead. He remembers how his father had walked, and his jaw clenches briefly, but he incorporates it into the illusion.
At least they've a genuine noble with them, he thinks with mingled amusement and bitterness. He flicks eyes to the Ravencourt chap every so often.
The guards seem relieved to see that there’s still someone willing to risk their lives in matters clearly above the Crow's skill. They nod amicably as you get near the porch.
«Ma’am? Ma'am, please» intervenes the Crow in charge, talking to Tempest «Maybe your… her… pet could wait in the atrium? We really can’t allow wild animals in Mayor Heggry’s quarters…» he shifts his weight from a foot to the other, clearly ill at ease and trying not to be offensive.
Varta walks head held high. At least we mostly all have good posture. I hope the geezer is okay. It's so hard to tell with these humans.
"Why does the mayor want nixies?" V asks the guard, politely.
"He is my guide and the hand of the storm-god Gozreh, I cannot go anywhere he does not lead. Besides, I'm not going to tell him he has to stay out here; are you?"
As if on cue the large beast bears his teeth in a rictus grin, accompanied by a barely heard growl. When the guards back off, he follows Ŧempest into the hall.
«Welc… what? » the guard looks at Varta after she speaks her question «No… niskies? What? Listen, ma’am, we’re in real trouble here. People died. If you’re willing to help, we welcome you» he steps aside, leaving the entrance to the atrium free «but we won’t humor you mocking us! » the guard scolds the dwarven maiden with a stern gaze «And the same goes for you and your beast!» he adds looking at Tempest (and Stormcloud) as she enters the atrium.
The guard looks at Tempest. Tempest looks at Stormcloud. Then the guard looks at the Stormcloud. Stormcloud sniffs the roasted goat smell that comes from inside the manor, and strolls inside behind Tempest.
The guard swallows uncomfortably, then walks in to escort all of you with his men, the right hand dancing around the sword hilt as he looks uneasily at the wolf.
"Easy, people." Xander says, moving inside and speaking conversationally, "Guardsman, I think you misunderstood Varta's question. I don't believe she was mocking you. She is simply not used to human ways. Tempest, to these people, wolves are creatures that sometimes endanger livestock and children. They have no reason to think Stormcloud is different. If you wish her to be allowed inside, a less confrontational approach might be in order. Perhaps if you assure them that Stormcloud is no danger to the household they may stand down."
"The human noble has the right of it. My question was sincere. I was told you wanted nixies."
She follows along with the rest, looking very slightly hurt.
"I believe there's a bit of ambiguity in the original wording," Milo says cheerfully to Varta as they go along. "That first guardsman was saying that the call for heroes is open to all species, including pixies, eh, but not, how d'you say, prioritizing them, necessarily?"
He notes things like, oh, windows and doors and unattended fine vases as they go through the building.
Xander's words, combined with the holy symbol of Pharasma discreetly woven into his high quality clothes, manage to calm down the situation. You get in the atrium and you get escorted by the Crows in the hallways of the Manor - dripping rainwater from your clothes all over the stone floor.
The walls are covered in thick tapestries showing the many battles fought on the Hill. Hallway after hallway, you are surrounded by Varisian settlers and prophets defeating Kellid tribes, and in turn being exterminated by the cold hands of the Whispering Tyrant undead army, and on the next, who in return got destroyed by Taldan crusaders. Beautifully woven in dark and gory colors, these art pieces accompany you and the guards through the large stairways and passages.
You get to the Great Hall of the Manor, where you find four more Crows standing guard. Behind an inlaid ebony table, sitting in a tall chair, is a man in his early fifites.
With dark hair, gray temples, and a full goatee, Mayor Heggry shows a bit relief in seeing your well-equipped group. He is clad in a thick red and gold robe with fur hedges «Ah… good. It is good to see a few backbones still straight in this city. Please, sit» he points at the chairs in front of the table. Grabs a thick crystal bottle and pours six glasses of a dark liquor «This will work against the cold and the rain. » he sits back in the tall chair, sips, and clears his throats.
«I thank you for attending in our hour of need—Carrion Hill has a long history of battle» his eyes dart at the more gruesome tapestries «yet always before its enemies have attacked from outside our walls. We are fortified to defend against such attacks, but now we face an entirely different threat. Our enemy is already here, dwelling in the tunnels and catacombs below and surfacing to strike without warning. » even the Crows standing guard shift their weight from foot to foot, uneasy, as the mayor keeps informing you.
«I don’t know how far the news have traveled, but the most terrible attacks occurred early this very morning, when something huge came up from below in a part of the Tangles called Slipper Market. It partially destroyed a building and killed a half dozen locals before retreating into the ruined structure. The Crows were swift to reply, led by our own Commander Garus, but when they arrived, they were slaughtered to the last.» a grave silence falls for a second, and the guards lower their head respectfully.
«Since then, the thing has moved on, surfacing no less than three times in different parts of the city, crushing buildings from below and slaying anyone it finds inside. I’ve got the entire force of the city watch in reserve, and with each new event they respond quickly, but the damage is always done by the time they arrive. Already there is talk of war and invasion, but I still believe that what we face is a single horror. If we can only figure out what it is, we might be able to defeat it!» determination flashes behind the tired eyes of the Mayor.
«This…this is where your group comes in—the horror has moved on from its initial point of entrance, but if you can explore the ruins in Slipper Market, perhaps you can find some sort of clue to tell us what it is we face. I cannot spare any of my Crows to aid you, for they are needed in keeping order in the streets, but if indeed you can find something… anything… about this monster from below, I will pay you handsomely, and you will have the gratitude of the entire community.»
"I can only speak for myself, but I would be honoured to help. Evil must be faced, then defeated."
She pauses then asks "Are there any surviving witnesses to these atrocities?"
Xander's eyes wandered intently over the tapestries. He'd seen their images before, in dreams. He nodded as the mayor spoke.
"I am definitely in the right place." he said, mostly to himself.
Mavro is quick to treat himself to the poured liquor, only nodding his head as the Mayor relates to them his tale. After a long sip, the mage sets down the glass and lets out a grunt. "'Something huge?' Certainly there is something a little more useful that you can tell us about this thing."
Milovic's humor fades as he listens to the Mayor's description of what plagues Carrion Hill. He takes small sips of the Mayor's prize cognac, or whatsoever it is, leaning forward slightly in his chair with elbows on his knees.
Monster-hunting, eh? Well, a gig's a gig. He prefers those foes who walk on two legs, though; you can usually talk them into mucking things up for themselves. He rotates the glass in his fingers with a small frown.
"I second Master Cain's question. Are there no survivors with eyewitness accounts? Do we know whether this thing is.... some enormous beetle, or.... spider... or... tentacled, or scaled...?
"--and, ah, not to be inelegant, but I myself have arrived in town with little in the way of preparation to hunt enormous, guard-slaughtering monsters, my good Lord Mayor. I pledge my blade willingly enough, but might the town perhaps vouchsafe a bit of an advance, that we might be better equipped to rid you of this horror?"
Charming smile, go. It doesn't hurt to ask, now does it...? And if one can get an advance, why then, even if the job goes south as the Mwangi Expanse, one's made a bit of dosh on the deal. ...Provided you get out with your skin.
Tempest leans on Stormcloud, scratching his head and ears as he sits on his haunches. Relaxed while under her ministrations, he looks more like a big dog than a wolf for the moment.
"I feel for your people, mayor. It is tragic to lose men and common people to an event such as this. As you have no one of your own fit to see to this challenge, I will assist you as well."
"As my new found associate Mr. Milo has stated, I doubt any of us came prepared with such an undertaking in mind; I certainly did not. What resources might be made available to us, so that we might have the best possible chance of succeeding, and ending this threat to your people?"
Heggry swallows a good drink of liquor before answering your questions «We… we have no witness of the monsters. Some of my Crows are still unraveling the rubble of the destroyed houses, so I suppose we can’t rule out a survivor – but I am not hopeful. The huge size seems implied in the destruction but the few reports we have are woefully lacking in details – a huge, looming sensation that kept to the shadows, no more visible than strong wind but even more destructive.» he dries his forehead with a silk handkerchief. «The only detail we can provide is that the locations of the attack are now drenched in thick, foul-smelling slime – something nobody has ever seen before.»
He then rises, his hands disappears under his robe and reappears holding a brass key. He makes for a cabinet, where – you can barely see as he opens it – contains a heavy, sturdy metal safe. He grabs a cloth bag, closes the safe, and gets back to you «Here – this is an advance fee. You will receive twice as much, four times as much! if you can put an end to this disaster.» he gets more nervous and uneasy the longer he talks «As for special resources, I have been mobilizing my agents as of this morning, to gather resources, be it magical or mundane, to better fight the monster. They shall soon be ready, I hope.» he gets up again, pacing in front of you «Please, I understand you do not possess much information but… it has been so sudden, and unknown of… I really can’t be of more help. I be… I ask you, please – could you begin your investigation as soon as possible – constable Jurgen here will escort you to the Slipper market.» one of the Crows steps forward «And please – not a word to the citizens… if word got out that staying in your own house is not safe – there would be panic and mayhem!»
"Let's be off then, for shopping and resupply if anyone has specific, otherwise for the Slipper Market."
V pauses.
"Why is it called the Slipper Market? Is there less friction or is inside footwear commonly sold there?"
She waits patiently for an answer, her face stern, but composed.
Milo bows and accepts the pouch the the Lord Mayor offers. You're damn right he'll be looking-- discreetly, of course, but looking all the same. He gives the Mayor another bow, hand over his heart.
"Most gracious, sir. I can see this catastrophe is weighing heavily on your mind: have no fear, we're experienced at dealing with such threats and once properly equipped I am sure my colleagues and I will be able to return Carrion Hill to a place of peace and prosperity."
Yes, the 'colleagues' he has known for no longer than a morning's walk on the road. He boasts quite easily of their collected abilities when having no idea what those are.
"For myself, I am ready to let the good constable lead on," he says, then glances around at his brand-new 'colleagues' to see if they have any other questions or suggestions.
"750 gold pieces... perhaps a wand? A wand of healing is always useful in such circumstances. That should be just enough to buy one that is fully charged."
"Smart. A healing wand would be extremely useful."
"What? Devil's healing? I don't know. That spell's effects can make people feel very uncomfortable. I can't deny it's effectiveness though."
"I suppose I can't deny the benefits of such a purchase," Milo says to the talk of such a wand, nodding sagely.
Inwardly he's slightly less pleased. Dammit, if they spend it all at one go, that completely nixes his idea to, if necessary, scamper out of town with a few extra gold pieces. It ties him down to really fighting this giant monster thing if he wishes to see any profit at all. Desna weeps.
Still, nothing for it but to paste a bright smile on his face. Not like he can explain why he's reluctant-- oh, he might be able to come up with some excuse, that the money might be better spent on numerous small purchases rather than one large one... but if he's really going to be in combat with this strange lot, then yes, better they have the healing.
"Devil's healing, hm? What's the saying in those coastal lands-- 'any port in a storm', or what not? Myself, I'd like to get a sample of this supposed slime-- perhaps an apothecary might know what the deuce we're dealing with."
"So much for the down payment," Mavro says with a frown, mostly for the sake of being contrary. Securing a consistent means of healing was a wise prospect, but that did not necessarily mean he had to be agreeable. Upon hearing the suggestion of spell, the old man snorts loudly.
"You really think you can get your hands on fifty drops of devil blood in a place like this?"