Carrion Crown - One Fateful Day (Inactive)

Game Master ubiquitous

The carriage bounces down the road, wheels purring on dust and clattering on stone. Each rock reverberates through the spokes, shivering up through the floor to grind uncomfortably against your backside. The worn leather seat does little to protect against these attacks, and - after a night and day of endless travel - you feel that the seat of your pants - like your patience - has been worn through.

There hasn't been much to observe during the hastily-organised voyage: late-Autumn Ustalav is, for the most part, a dismal country. Empty fields, bare trees, and the occasional dense, gloomy wood have stared at your passing.

You wouldn't have had to be so hasty about you preparations, had the messenger not been delayed. The crinkled, slightly-damp letter had reached your hands a week later than it ought.

"Trouble in the woods," the messenger had said by way of explanation, before disappearing with an off-time clatter of hobbled boots; he had been limping, you noted.

The letter hadn't left your sight since. Rereading the missive proved no help, as - even after each successive attempt - the content was as vague and unhelpful as ever. Important though.

My Esteemed Acquaintance,
I regret to inform you that your name was found in the will of one Professor Petros Lorrimor. Not only does this mean that he is dead - Pharasma have mercy on his soul - but your appearance is desired at his funeral in Ravengro, on Sunday the 7th of Neth. Travel safe, and travel swift: the dead in Ustalav do not like to be kept waiting.
Councilman Vashian Hearthmount

Scribbled further down the paper, in a flowing, yet hasty hand:

You knew my father. He thought you important. Please, help me. His death was sudden, and I am afraid.
Kendra Lorrimor

You slip into a doze, the letter tight-clasped in your hand. A sudden, final bump, and a call of: "Ravengro, sir" wakes you from the slumber.

Stepping out of the carriage's dark interior, you blink at the afternoon's hazy light. A heavy fog shrouds the sky, settling upon rooftops and treetops alike. You are standing to the side of a circular town square. In the middle is a simple wooden gazebo, plainly decorated, and currently occupied by a dozen or so locals clustered around tables. As many more are carrying on their daily business about the square. Seven buildings ring the cobbled square. You are standing on the right side outside a large town hall: a solid wooden structure with a black slate roof. To its left is a squat building with dangling sign that creaks in the wind. The sign reads: The Outward Inn. From inside comes the brief scent of bread, and the wafting sound of pleasant singing.

"Best you get going, sir," the stalk-thin driver calls to you, clambering back on-board the carriage: "It's a good half-hour's amble to The Restlands I hear. North out of town will serve your path. I have to see to my horses, else I'd give you a lift. Don't tarry now: I hear funerals go better by day." He chuckles dryly to himself, offers you a brisk wave, then steers the carriage away, leaving the square up a short road to the North-West. Another road leads away to the North, between what appears to be a small jail-house on the left, and a general store on the right.

On the Journey:

A good amount of sleep is paramount in a long journey, and supposedly easy to get when travelling by the more expensive coach. However, sleep was the one thing that Aerodus wanted the most. Calm, uninterupted sleep. The scenery of the northern road which leads from the north of Lastwall into Ustalav isn't exactly pitturesque, and with nothing to do but planting your rear firmly in the seat, and letting the trip take its course, one would think it would be a simple matter. Less and less time, however was spent with eyes closed.

Usually this would be an excellent opportunity to read many of the written lectures, and historical texts surrounding Vigil, which is one of his passtimes, however there was only a message of less than 100 words going through his troubled mind.

"What did it all mean?" was the phrase repeated endlessly under Aerodus' breath, as he pondered the two-stage message brought to him by the strange limping man. Not only was there an official message, which no doubt was a template to a score of people found on Petros' will, as he was not short of wealth, but there was a scrawled ... almost afterthought of a message from Kendra. Aerodus had not met an of Petros' family however, as their meeting's had been of the business variety.

Once Aerodus gets out:

Taking in the surroundings, Ravengro fufiled everything Aerodus hated about Ustalav - The calm. At a glance, the scene that met his glance was one of a meager town center. Nothing was neglected, and the people appeared content and normal. Normal. The way the Ustalavian nation could live as if their life was the same was that of one who lived in Almas, when this was the resting ground of the Whispering Tyrant. One who rose men from their graves, and kept souls from The Lady just so he could follow out his foul agenda. It would never make sense to him.

At least in Lastwall they understood that their lives were different. Keeping the southern nations safe, in return for profitable trade. Keeping horrors at bay is not normal, and these people sleep over the eternal bed of the most horrible of them all.

Shaking this off however, Aerodus knew that there was a deadline to meet, which required his legs to move. He had wished that his time addressing the scene would have freshened his aching buttocks. Alas, it would be a painful walk, which he knew would last an hour at least. Carriage drivers always lie to make you more optimistic about your journey. Helps them fill their pockets if the passenger is in a good mood when it comes a time for payment.

I would like Aerodus to strike north for the Restlands.

As you stride northwards out of the square, you notice some of the locals casting you wary glances. The words of the carriage-driver float up from the depths of your memory: ”People round here don’t trust too quickly. Who can blame them: you might be some otherworldly freak come to snack on their spleen in the night.” The words are accompanied by the man’s irritating dry laugh.

You follow the road, as it passes by a cluster of houses on the left, while a fenced field lies bare on its right. Past the field, the road curves to the left, swerving away from a small, but well-constructed, wood-and-brick structure. Through the musty glass windows your eyes pick out a group of young children at desks, quills at the ready. Scrolls and tomes line the walls around them. On the door to the building is an elegant scrawl reading: The Unfurled Scroll

Continuing past, the road leads to a large, covered wooden bridge, crossing the wide river that splits the town of Ravengro in twain. Affixed to the inside of the bridge’s roof pillars are all manner of notices: rumours, gossip, trades, bounties, and the like. Some look freshly posted; others are worn almost blank with age.

The road leads out of the village, past several more empty fields, before a cracked wooden sign points you eastwards towards The Restlands. In the distance you spot the fenced and gated outline of the cemetery. At the sight of it, a chill seems to creep into your bones, though no wind is blowing: else the ever-present haze of fog might actually clear from the land.

Something in the dried mud of the road catches your eye. You crouch down for a better look. Covered by a thin layer of dirt lies a Harrow card. The Fiend it reads. A faint warmth radiates from it, as though it had only freshly fluttered to the ground from someone’s jacket pocket or the like, but the card is creased and worn like it has been there for a day or two.

Making his way through Ravengro, Aerodus can't help but notice the caution in the eyes of even the smallest child, no older than six or seven.

There is nothing wrong with wariness, especially when in a part of the world plagued with an unrelenting aura of strange, however Aerodus couldn't help but wonder why those who inhabited towns like Ravengro tried to live a normal life. Who would want to raise a family in this fog? I'm sure hide and seek is great, but no one wants to count to 10 and after looking for your friend for hours, discovering his darkened body face down in a ditch. He wasn't sure how many unnatural deaths were logged per capita in this nation, but it was far higher a number than he would consider a quaint retirement village.

When the cemetery is in sight, he takes a deep breath. "I know there shant be anything wrong with this place, but why does everything have to look so grim?" he muttered under his breath. Surely the gate didn't need to be so sharp as to look to be weapon - Primary, gate - Secondary ... or perhaps that was it. A deterrent from children, and a handy tool if anything ever decided it had had enough of Pharasma's games.

The sheen in the mud is a welcome change, and Aerodus quickly picks it up. "Hmmm, warm to the touch, but there's no one around to plant it. Something's definitely peculiar about this. I shall look into this later, assuming this isn't the program for the funeral, in which case it will at least be a thrilling ceremony."

Aerodus pockets the card and continues through the gate, into the cemetary, looking for where the funeral might be held.

You step through the black gate, metalwork on either side of your rising up in vicious spikes that pierce the low-lying fog. Before you the land dips down into the small valley that is The Restlands. Roughly oval in shape, the graveyard is dotted with tombstones, crypts, and shrines, along with the traditional decor for the dead: rotting flowers and mouldering gifts that signify a noted loss.

Further down the path it forks into three: one heading north, to circle around the outside of the graveyard, one into the centre, and one leading away south. At this intersection is gathered a gloomy procession. Three figures stand around a closed coffin, while two more stand close by - one offering comfort to the other. Slightly further away is a much larger group of mourners; a little less than a dozen.

As you draw closer, the two figures break apart, with one moving to greet you. It is a young woman, her normally pretty face drawn with grief, green eyes reddenned and puffy from tears. Tall and slight, she's dressed in a high-necked crimson dress with gold-threaded designs woven into the fabric. A thin black shawl covers her tightly-bound brown hair. "Kendra Lorrimor," she introduces herself, releasing a hand from her hitched-up skirts to present it to you in greeting. "I'm so glad you could make it: my father wanted you here. If you could, um..." she trails off and gestures towards the group standing by the coffin.

Kala addresses the newcomer: "Lend a hand here, friend." She spits out the last word, then turns to the man beside her. "Lazy booknoser, him," she remarks, jerking her head to indicate the newcomer. She strides over to the head of the coffin: "You and I could've had this in the ground by now, twice."

Skandar eyes the woman beside him warily, his right hand resting on the axe tucked into his belt. "Right," is all he replies to her comments.

Internally Aerodus wonders why there are only three visible members of this ceremony non-inclusive of himself. Were there more waiting at the destination of the coffin, or was this man really as lonesome as he was knowledgable?

"Aerodus Wintrish. My pleasure to make your acquaintance." he spurts, in a friendly, yet ill-paced tone due to his unease with the surroundings. This experience was heightened by the apparent fact that at least one of the people in his midst did not share any form of respect for learning, at least from someone they did not know well. "Oh, yes of course! Just let me find a hand-hold" Aerodus says as he adjusts his short tunic so as to maintain dignity while moving the large wooden vessel.

Aerodus would like to wait for the group signal, and then lift and assist in carrying the coffin, while saying "Where to, Kendra?"

Vesseli ushers the newcomer - Aerodus - to a position in front of him at the head of the coffin. "My name is Vesseli. The quiet one is Skandar, the woman is Kala the Blade. Where are you from?"

Nanyana gathers Kendra back to her, and reaches up to the taller woman to put an arm about her shoulders. "Take comfort: a little walk and we'll be done. The gods are by your side in this."

The coffin lifted up - you and Kala at the front, Vesseli and Skandar at the back - the procession moves away up the northern path, which a faded sign names The Dreamwake. It is quiet going, the only sounds are the ocassional cry of a crow wheeling overhead in the fog, and the surly muttering of Kala beside you. The coffin weighs heavy on your arm, the edge digging into your shoulder painfully. At least its black exterior has been painted and varnished, so no chance of splinters.

As you walk, you catch glimpses of the rest of the procession in the corners of your vision. There are nine in total, most finely dressed in black and variations thereof. A father and - what you assume is - his young son only stand out as being of poorer garb than the rest. They all walk on, heads downcast, following the curve of the road.

When the road curves around a large, ornate crypt on the right, to join with another path called The Eversleep, you notice a group of a dozen surly-looking locals standing across the way. Most have their sleeves rolled up, and a few brandish improvised clubs. The tallest of them steps forward and crosses his meaty arms across his chest. "That's plenty far 'nuff," he bellows. "Apologies to you council-folks-" he nods to a pair of the finely-dressed mourners, "but we's been jawin' away, and we figures we don't want Mister Lorrimor going to ground in our 'ere Restlands. You kin bury him upriver or somethin', I don't care, just not 'ere!"

Wishing to maintain a friendly demeanour, despite the way the woman he now knew as Kala had reacted to his entrance, Aerodus will say "Originally, Vigil. It's been a long ride, I can tell you that much." as he tries to disguise the strain that the coffin has placed on his lean shoulders.

And just as Aerodus is becoming at ease with the situation, his hairs stand on end as he sees the group wielding arms. Even the most basic of weapons definitely stood a different purpose than respecting the deceased.

"Now now, no reason for a scene." were the first words that will come rom Aerodus' lips, trying to internally work out why anyone would wait for this moment to iterject, especially at such an emotional time."I'm sure that Kendra has all of the proper paperwork, legally binding her with the burial site." he will follow up with. Sure, they didn't seem to be blessed with an abundance of schooling, but as Aerodus was so confused by the situation, he almost wants to double check that Kendra had secured proper licensing for the burial. He will turn to look at her as he ends his sentence and hope that she either references or brings forth the proper papers.

Kendra steps forward, shrugging Nanyana's arm off of her shoulders. Her thin form is shaking with suppressed rage, her knuckles white-clenched. "What are you talking about," she cries out at the assembled roughs. "I've arranged all of it with Father Grimburrow. He's waiting for us! The grave's already been-"

The big man steps forward, cutting Kendra's outburst off: "I don't give two bloody hoots what paper you have or who you've been jawin' with, but us here don't want you putting this here Necromancer in the dirt with our fine kin!"

Another of the assembled crowd steps forward - a portly fellow with a pug nose and lanky blond hair - to lend his voice: "Yeah, we's pretty upset right nows, what with young Billy Rostov no longer in his grave and all."

More of the crowd add their own complaints: "What about Cheev and Bunce! I saw dead Mrs. Golloway just yesterday down by the lake! I heard that there was two corpses in one grave last eve!" until it just becomes a mess of sound and fury, with clubs being waved in the air and mean looks given all round.

"Necromancer?" What little colour is left in it drains from Vesseli's face, and he glances around nervously.

Kala eyes the group, the coffin itching at her shoulder. "If it comes to it, I'll gut them all at a silver a head," she whispers to no-one in particular.

Aerodus, who is suddenly put off guard by the resistance of the burial, and especially by the mention of the forbidden word - "necromancer". He will say: "now now, no need to get hasty. Why do you believe that Kendra's father was a trader in the dark arts?"

The hubbub quiets a little, as the big man holds up a hand, his eyes flashing in your direction: "Lots of strange things been going on, you heard 'em. Strange times we lives in, I 'eard im' say once. Strange man he was, and he died real strange-like too. Bloody strange business all around, made only the worse by you bloody strangers interfering where your nose don't belong!" He takes a step forward, and shakes his club at you and those others bearing the coffin.

Kendra breaks free of Nanyana's grasp, and - skirts in hand - strides forward towards the man. "Strange?! Gibs, you ignorant, dirt-eating-" she lets out a scream of furious exasperation and slaps the big man soundly across the face.

All at once, the graveyard falls silent, even the crows cease their cawing. Gibs's eyes bulge, and the muscles in his neck strain and twitch with surprised rage as he stares Kendra down.

A sound finally breaks the silence: the harsh scrape of metal on metal as Kala draws her longsword from its scabbard.

Aerodus was prepared for things to make a turn for the worse, but he was definitely not prepared for the distinct *thwack* of Kendra's palm against the cheek of the opposition's most vocal member. He froze for an instant, and then instinctively took a pace back when he heard the sound of steel being drawn from its sheath, but then realised that as an outsider, if he did not take a side, its quite possible that neither group would assist him if he was injured.

He knew that an altercation was inevitable now, and no matter how many questions came forth from the depths of his mind regarding the man inside the coffin he was carrying just two minutes previous, there would be a time and a place to ask those questions. A place, not here. A time, not now.

With his new plan of taking sides, he will look for something that he can use to defend himself. He doesn't want to be the first person to swing if there's a fight, but he doesn't want to be helpless.

With a roar of anger, the mob barrels forward. Another slap resounds through the graveyard, as Gibs returns Kendra's favour, the force of the blow driving her to her knees on the dirt path.

Beside you, Kala shrugs off the coffin, sending its weight crushing down on your shoulder, and steps forward to meet the mob. Her first swing cleaves through a man's shoulder. You hear the sickening crunch of blade-on-collarbone, before the man goes down, screaming in agony.

Straining under the weight of the coffin, you see one of the mob coming for you, club held high. He's scarecrow-thin, with waxy skin and scraggly ginger fuzz. Each lanky step carries him closer towards you. Shoving the coffin off of your shoulder in a rush of panic, you desperately look around for something - anything - to defend yourself with. Too late: he's upon you. his first blow slams into your side, knocking the wind out of you. Struggling for breath, you swing upwards with the only weapon at hand. The heavy tome of the Sussurat Immortales catches him square in the face. He pauses, his eyes gradually rolling inwards - as if studying some interesting writing upon the inside of his skull - then he slumps to the dirt.

Skandar dives for the front of the coffin, catching it and slowing its descent. At the aft end of it, Vesseli crumples under its weight, collapsing into a sitting position as his legs buckle under him. He drops it the short distance left to the ground with a loud thud, but the coffin stays intact.

Rushing forward, Nanyana stands over the kneeling Kendra. Muttering a fierce prayer, blinding light bursts from the symbol at her neck, causing Gibs and two of his cronies to reel back in shock, clawing at their eyes.

"The Dawnflower's ever-burning wrath upon any of you who dares lay a finger upon this woman," Nanyana screams at the mob, her belly heaving as she pants with barely-contained anger.

"Phew, that was close! Looked like he could benefit from reading books more than being clobbered by them, but his choice." Aerodus thinks to himself, after fending off his invader.

It seems slightly disrespectful to drop even a suspected sorceror in his coffin, and even seen as a bad omen for Pharasma's Judgement in some smaller communities, so he hopes that Kendra didn't notice the thud. Well, he hoped Kendra didn't mind the thud, as it was no small noise.

Aerodus will shield his eyes from Nanyana's light, but then step up brandishing his book, dusting it off to make sure that no stupid was left on it, and say "She's right! There's no point battering each other over this. Kendra has lost her father, and we are here to give our condolences." Turning to Kendra to check her reaction, he continues "Who of you organised this group? I pray you have proof to come down here and make a kerfuffle? I wish to clear Petros' name."

Kala rests the tip of her sword on the downed man's throat: "Come any closer and it'll be more than one burial today!"

With almost half their number incapacitated - two down (one a bloody mess), and three blind - the mob falls back a pace. Nervous glances are exchanged between its members, and the innate cowardice carried in those under the sway of a figurehead begins to show.

One of the funeral procession steps forward, striding with a military gait hampered only by a slight limp from the left leg. An old man - his face worn and hair greyed by time - he nevertheless cuts an imposing figure in an outfit rich in cut and quality. His voice, a little croaky but still commanding, rings out clearly across the graveyard: "Master Gibs Hephenus, this has gone far enough. As councilman of Ravengro, I understand that you have a right to speak your mind - however dull and thoughtless your wits may be - but I will not have murder committed here. The Restlands are for the dead, not the dying. Stand aside now, or I will have Benjan arrest the lot of you."

With a surly grumbling from all quarters, the mob begins to disperse, drifting to either side of the path to let the procession pass. The councilman moves over to Kendra and helps her back on her feet.

"Many thanks, Vashian," Kendra addresses the man, reaching up to rub sorely at her jaw. She hangs her head shamefully, speaking quietly and earnestly to him: "My emotions ruled me too strongly. I caused that mess. I should've been calmer. They're just so...father isn't a necromancer, you know that."

You recognise the name from the letter you received - Councilman Vashian Hearthmount. This must be the man acting as Kendra's solicitor on behalf of the late Professor.

Nanyana bustles over to the injured man, whispering under her breath as she does so. "If only I had a spell to cure ignorance," she murmurs hotly to the prone, whimpering man as she lays a hand to his shoulder. A warm glow flows from it into his body, mending sinew and bone, knitting together muscle, and puckering flesh into an angry red scar.

Aerodus, knowing that there is less immediate danger, will check among his possessions to make sure that nothing has been damaged or bloodied. he will then turn to this man who is acting as a practitioner of the law and say "vashian, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must thank you for providing the deciding statement which halted the altercation. Now, I believe it is against our lady graves' judgement to leave her newest servant here on the path. We must bury him, however afterwards I would like to have a word with you, Kendra, as I have seen men proclaim many strange things in even my short years of study, but that man had fear in his eyes, so I am inclined to believe what he said about the dead. "

Inside, Aerodus knew he should avoid matters that were not his own. He could easily finish the funeral and return to his comfortable (and safe) study, however this was reports of a real creature of the night. Those who saw the face of judgement and fled back into their own decrepid bodies. It was a Chance too good not to give up. from his research, he knew that only ghosts and will'o'wisps were faster than a trained man fleeing, so as long as he didn't get to close it would be fine...

You take a moment to examine yourself. The man's club thwacked you in the side pretty hard - already the area is tender to the touch, and you imagine there'll be a murkey palette of purple and green splotches by the 'morrow - but other than some bruising you appear undamaged by the attack.

Vashian steps towards you: "Well-spoken. Mr. Wintrish, I assume? I am Vashian Hearthmount. Ms. Lorrimor's present legal advisor, and local councilman of Ravengro. We can discuss local - and delicate - matters after the funeral. I believe the late Mr. Lorrimor's will may clear up a few items, Desna smiling." He ushers you back towards the coffin. "Not far to go now," he says, waving down the eastward-leading path.

Vesseli carefully helps Skandar with the coffin, taking the opportunity to examine it more closely. "Necromancer or no, it's a fine coffin. I pray Pharasma can keep him in the ground," he says, failing to supress a small shudder.

Skandar stares openly at Vesseli, weighing up the silght man with his gaze. "Not wise to speak ill of them that's dead. Speaking ill of the living is fine: them's avoidable and predictible. The dead are tricky bastards all."

Aerodus will pick up the coffin with the assistance of the other bearers, and continue carrying Lorrimor to his final resting place. On the outside he will try to remain neutral, but he can't help but feel conflicted. Already he had been in a physical altercation, had his (albeit dead) company accused of being a member of the dark arts, and heard witness of men and women walking past judgement day. He still wasn't sure whether to halt his curiousity, but at current the only ill that has occured is a bruise to his side, so he will continue the ceremony, and look forward to the reading of the will.

You continue down the path, coffin a-shouldered. As it curves southwards, you see a group waiting by an open grave on the left side of the path. There's five of them in all, clad in black robes that feature a silver whorl upon the chest. They all carry spades that bear the marks of recent digging. Their leader is an old man, his face prune-like with age, with two fluffy eyebrows thick as sheeps' wool, and large ears that jut out of his head like gargoyles from a church. He steps forward to greet Kendra: "Miss, we're all ready for you 'ere." He gestures towards the open grave. A wood-and-rope harness straddles the recently-opened ground, ready to bear the coffin on the final six feet of its journey.

"Thank-you, Father Grimburrow," Kendra replies, her voice taught but polite. She ushers the coffin forwards. You lay it down across the planks and ropes that bar the entrance to the grave. At his signal, Father Grimburrow's robed companions step forward and take up the ropes, holding them slackly and looking to him for further instruction. He turns to all assembled, and lays a hand to the whorl on his chest.

"I remember when a young man arrived in Ravengro," Father Grimburrow begins. His voice is soft and clear, carrying easily through the still air of the cemetary. "His eyes were bright, his arms full of books, and his head full of wonder. Petros Lorrimor, newly graduated from the university in Lepidstadt, off to figure out the world. I disliked at first: asked too many strange questions. Things that you wouldn't normally question, and then he'd dig, dig, dig like a man uncovering a tomb," he pauses for a moment, looking over towards the coffin, one hand absently tracing a spiral over his heart. "Then he was Professor Lorrimor, and gone more often than not. Now he's really gone." He voice takes on somber, official tone. "He has passed from this plane to the next, to be judged by the Lady of Graves. May she be as fair as always, and may he find the eternity he deserves in her direction."

Around you, the majority of those assembled mirror the old man's tracing of the spiral across their hearts, a common Ustalavian gesture you recall.

The speeches continue for quite some time. Other than the rabble you encountered earlier, all assembled had a fair and favourable view of the late Professor. There's a mixture of locals, and those from out-of-town, men rich enough to wear a year's worth of labour on one finger, and those poor enough that every week is a struggle.

Zokar Elkarid, a local tavernkeep the shape of a barrel and with a wulrus-like mustache gracing his top lip, slaps his son on the back and with belly laughs describes the late nights he and Petros stayed up thinking up creative and humourous names for the dishes on his menu.

Adivion Adrissiant, a lanky doctor from Liepstadt dressed in a fine black coat with deep purple lining, gives a prim speech as to Professor Lorrimor's keen intellect and razor wit, culminating in a description of a deciphering challenge the two of them set each-other to on ancient tomes and old artefacts.

Dario of Bernhardt, a traveling Varisian magician - all blue-bearded, red-clothed, and white-eyed - gives a rambling and rumbunctious ode to the time when he and ol' Lorrimor raced a rickety carriage through dense pinewoods in pursuit of a fleeing shapeshifter. He admits the tale has minor embellishments, but professes that the majority of it is true.

The introductions and fond thoughts roll onwards like mist creeping down a sodden valley. Mirta Straelock, councilwoman; Quess Yearburn, moneylender; Jominda Fallenbridge, alchemist; Quentin Faust, scholar; Vesela Engman, farmer; Ylaka Russmansun, trapper; Andela and Tsali Thorsen, farmers; Pinchas Haralmpiev, landowner; and more.

Eventually, the gaze turns towards the coffin-bearers, and a lull hangs in the air, offering you the opportunity to step up and speak your piece.

Kala steps forward, matching every pair of eyes with a cool glare. "I killed a lot of things for Professor Lorrimor. I swore an oath to protect him, and he walked right into dank, musty, old, ruined danger trusting me. Most people can't do that, but he could. Wanted to walk all over Lastwall like it was a peaceful forest glade. For you that don't know, it isn't. I killed slimy things, dead things, screaming things, shadowy things, and things with more mouths than Lamashtu has ugly children, but he never let me kill a person," she pauses, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword. "Now that he's dead, and he died strangely, maybe I will."

She steps back, gesturing someone else from the group forward.

Skandar steps forward. "He was a good man," he says abruptly, before stepping back again.

Nanyana steps forward. Clasping her hands together across her large belly, she bows her head. Her voice is warm and firm, like the dawning Thuvian sun: "Petros came to Merab twenty-six years ago. I thought him like every other foreigner: interested only in the elixir." She pauses for a moment, a sly smile stealing across her face. "He was, of course, but not like most. To him, the interest was pure fascination. He didn't want to possess it: he wanted to understand it, to study it, to decipher its secrets. And not to steal it or copy it, just to know. He said to me once that he'd hate to be immortal. 'Mortality gives us all a little urgency. Like a young scholar before his final exam, we cram as much as we can in our final hours.'"

She brushes her eyes with the back of her hand, then moves to the coffin, robes trailing across the damp earth of the cemetary. Upon reaching it, she stretches down with all the grace of pregnancy, and pours a small vial upon the coffin lid. The sands settle in a small heap. "A little warmth of Thuvia in grim Ustalav," she says, withdrawing once more.

Aerodus will step up, somehow unprepared for the current situation, but prepared to improvise as best as he can.

"When I first met Petros, it was but a business meeting. He was well connected, and promised that he could be the key to furthering my research. He seemed pleasant, and well educated. He also was prompt in finding the correct expertise that I required. This proved him as a successful business man, but when I had left his company, absent mindedly with his dues in a coin purse on my belt, and did not say a word until I prompted him by letter proved that he was a man of kindness. 'What is a purse of silver coins to one who values knowledge to a weight heavier than lead?' This is what he wrote in his letter, when I embarrassingly discovered my wrong doing. This was the start of our friendship.

To this, I would like to urge that we remember Professor Lorrimor for the kindness he showed to each and every soul he met. May he be judged swiftly, and with fairness." Aerodus will gesture in Pharasma's spiral as he says this.

Also, after the funeral, Aerodus would like to do the following:

1) Speak to Zokar Elkarid, about getting a place to stay for the night

2) Find Kendra, and the Barrister, to see if I can organise a dinner to try find out more about the Necromancer comment

After a long silence descends over all present - the spring of fine words for Professor Lorrimor's company finally run dry - Father Grimburrow gestures to the coffin. The robed figures lift the coffin up by means of the ropes strung beneath it, letting him duck down and scoop out the boards covering the grave. The gaping hole now open, the coffin is lowered in, coming to a silent rest at the bottom. The ropes retrieved, the silence is broken by the scrape of spade on dirt, and the clatter of dirt on coffin, as the hole begins to be filled.

Seeking Zokar out amongst the now-milling crowd - many paying their respects to Kendra before trudging back towards town - you find him engaged in a hasty whispered conversation with Jominda Fallenbridge. A short woman with close-cropped brown hair, a pale oval of a face, and bright green eyes, Jominda is in the midst of hastily scribbling something down as you approach. The pair stop as they realise you are within hearing range.

"New to town, aren't you?" Zokar addresses you with a large smile, the pudgy red cheeks half-hidden behind his bushy mustache pushing up and half-shutting his small eyes. "The name's Zokar. Owner, cook, and pleasant host of The Laughing Demon - home of the finest Liquid Ghost in the county." He grabs your hand and shakes it vigorously, sausage-like fingers half crushing yours in their enthusiasm.

"Nice speech that. Poor old Lorrimor," he lets out a deep sigh. "Still, there's some good to be had. Give him a week, and the worms'll have him tender enough to go in my famous Corpse Chowder." He laughs, a deep belly laugh, causing several people to turn and stare. "Zokar!" Jominda hisses reproachfully.

"Oh, don't mind them: can't take a joke. I don't blame 'em though, after an afternoon in this place, and with the ruckus Gibs pulled back there. Could use a slug of the ol' Body-bagged Bourbon: I need a stiff drink," he sets off laughing again, and - taking you by the shoulder - heads back down the path.

You explain that you're looking for a room for the night, and he nods his agreement. "Certainly, it's the least I can do for a friend of Lorrimor's. Oh, speaking of which, here comes the lady now," he indicates the approaching presence of Kendra Lorrimor, followed in tow by the military-upright figure of Councilman Hearthmount.

"Mr. Wintrish, please. A moment of your time," she calls. Her voice is clear, though her eyes are still puffy and red, joined by a growing splotch determined to conquer the entirity of her right cheek: a trophy from the altercation earlier.

"Don't steal him yet, Zokar. He may be snared by your promises of horrific yet delicious food, but there is some grim business yet to do," Vashian says, his voice light but clipped. "Mr. Wintrish, if you could accompany us, there is still the matter of the late Professor Lorrimor's will."

Zokar nods, and slows down his pace, falling behind to walk beside Jominda once more. Vashian takes his place at your arm. "I have explained this once already, but since you were late - mail in Ustalav has its fair share of unusual delays - you missed the first embroachment."

"Professor Lorrimor left specific instructions in the case of his death, detailing that his will was not to be opened until you, and the other three named persons-" he gestures to Kala, Skandar, Nanyana, and Vesseli at this, "-were all in attendence. I don't quite understand why, but he was always a particular, mysterious man."

By this point, your walk has lead you all the way back to the gates of the graveyard. Beside which stands an open-topped cart, drawn by a single ploughhorse. Vashian steers you towards it: "Save your legs the weary march."

The journey back to town is made in quiet. Most of the cart's occupants spend it gazing out at the fog-smothered fields, or staring down at the scuffed wooden floor. The jolting speed of the carriage, which has haunted you and your backside since arriving, is lulled to a dim memory by the smooth meander of this cart.

You note two items of interest on the journey. Firstly, casting your eyes across the other occupants, you notice a small square of white-and-red peeking out of Kala's belt. The thick paper is scrunched against her side, but you can make out enough of the identifying markings to indicate that it's some kind of Harrow card.

Secondly, as the cart passes over the town's northern bridge - wheels clacking on the old boards - the fog clears just enough to reveal the faint lines and dark forms of an immense structure capping a large hill just south of the town. It's quickly swallowed up by the ubiquitous haze once more, but you definitely made out some kind of castle or fortification that had escaped your notice until now - most likely due to your painful sleep on the journey in.

The cart rumbles to a halt, and you find yourself once more in the town square, although much less busy than before. The wooden gazebo stands empty now, with smoke rising from chimneys and the flickering of light within windows indicating that its previous inhabitants have moved inside.

Kendra and Vashian lead the way southwards, after a dozen or so houses, and the cobbles under your feet turning back into the dusty muck that is the common Ustalav road, they turn off of the road towards a modest home. No different in architectural style to the majority of Ravengro's buildings, it's a solid two-story structure of wood, plaster, and stone. Although your mind searches for some kind of detail that would identify it as Lorrimor's, it remains blank.

Inside, however, is another story altogether. After hanging up your coats - Kala, sullenly, her sword - Vashian leads you upstairs to the late Lorrimor's study. All through the house, bookshelves line the walls, and the smell of musty tomes permeates the house so fully, you'd think it another resident.

Kendra, having disappeared off as soon as you'd entered the building, reappears with a handful of silver glasses, and a bottle of local wine. As she pours you all a drink - Nanyana politely refusing - Vashian produces a small scroll case of heavy black wood, enscribed with initials P.L. in thick silver. A wax seal binds the case, dribbled all the way around to avoid trickery. It appears unbroken.

"You all bear witness to its security?" Vashian asks. "Good. Let us begin."

He cracks the wax, small red flecks dropping to the desk below him, and opens the case. A small iron key falls out, clattering noisely onto the table. He fixes it with a stern glare, then continues, drawing a rolled-up piece of parchment from the case.

Unfurling it, he reads:

“I, Petros Lorrimor, being of sound mind, do hereby commit to this parchment my last will and testament. Let it be known that, with the exception of the specific details below, I leave my home and personal belongings entire to my daughter Kendra. Use them or sell them as you see fit, my child.

“Yet beyond the bequeathing of my personal effects, this document must serve ther needs. I have arranged for the reading of this document to be delayed until all principals can be in attendance, for I have more than mere inheritance to apportion. I have two final favors to ask.

“To my old friends, I hate to impose upon you all, but there are few others who are capable of appreciating the true significance of what it is I have to ask. As some of you know, I have devoted many of my studies to all manner of evil, that I might know the enemy and inform those better positioned to stand against it. For knowledge of one’s enemy is the surest path to victory over its plans.

“And so, over the course of my lifetime, I have seen fit to acquire a significant collection of valuable but dangerous tomes, any one of which in the wrong circumstances could have led to an awkward legal situation. While the majority of these tomes remain safe under lock and key at the Lepidstadt University, I fear that a few I have borrowed remain in a trunk in my Ravengro home. While invaluable for my work in life, in death, I would prefer not to burden my daughter with the darker side of my profession, or worse still, the danger of possessing these tomes herself. As such, I am entrusting my chest of tomes to you, posthumously. I ask that you please deliver the collection to my colleagues at the University of Lepidstadt, who will put them to good use for the betterment of the cause.

“Yet before you leave for Lepidstadt, there is the matter of another favor—please delay your journey one month and spend that period of time here in Ravengro to ensure that my daughter is safe and sound. She has no one to count on now that I am gone, and if you would aid her in setting things in order for whatever she desires over the course of this month, you would have my eternal gratitude. From my savings, I have also willed to each of you a sum of one hundred platinum coins. For safekeeping, I have left these funds with Embreth Daramid, one of my most trusted friends in Lepidstadt—she has been instructed to issue this payment upon the safe delivery of the borrowed tomes no sooner than one month after the date of the reading of this will.

“I, Petros Lorrimor, hereby sign this will in Ravengro on this first day of Lamashan, in the year 4712.”

Vashian rolls up the scroll and places it on the desk. Reaching once more into its case, he draws out six small envelopes. These he distributes, one for each of those in attendence. "These are private messages from the late Professor Lorrimor, read them at your own leisure." Draining his cup, he throws a brief salute, then looks to Kendra. She nods, and he heads for the door.

Aerodus will try to maintain a steady face during this ordeal, however it is hard to keep a straight face upon receiving such a sum as 100 platinum. Making ends meet shall not be an issue for a while hence.

He will turn to the others bearing witness to the will, and say "As Petros has been so generous to us all, I will take up on his request, and swear that I shall look after Kendra as best as I am able." He wants to gauge how the other members of the group are feeling at this, and if possible wishes to gain their trust.

OOC: The Ravengro estate, is that where Kendra lives, or is it out of bounds?

Upon saying this, Aerodus will look into the letters to see if there is anything interesting to be found within.

Kala grins broadly as the reading of the will winds up. "One hundred platinum?" she turns to Kendra: "Lady, you're going to be so safe for the next month, you'll make the bankers of the first vault of Abadar jealous." This said, she moves over to lean against one of the study's walls, cracking the wax seal on her letter.

Skandar accepts his letter with a grunt of acknowledgement, and tucks it into his leather vest.

Looking around the room, seeing if anyone responds to your statement, you observe them all bent over their opened letters. All except Skandar. The weathered man has moved to stand by the room's door, one hand idly resting on the axe in his belt. He meets your gaze, and gives you a silent nod. His eyes then flick towards the figure standing by the fireplace. You turn to look, in time to see Vesseli standing up from a crouch. He begins coughing, turns, quietly says: "Excuse me, I need some air," and brushes past you towards the door. Skandar coolly watches him pass.

No-one else seems to have registered the drama, all engrossed in their letters. You look at each in turn. Kendra has withdrawn to a faded chair in the corner, her face tight as she reads. Nanyana has tears streaking her bronze cheeks, one hand pressed to her belly. Kala reads hers with a grim smile. As she finishes, she lets out a hoarse laugh, scrunches up the paper, and tosses it into the fireplace.

Returning your interest to your own letter, you slide your thumb beneath the seal. It pops free, and you withdraw the slip of paper inside. It is a simple piece of notepaper, with hastily drawn writing covering one side of it.

Aerodus, it is my deep regret that this scrawl is the last communication we will have. Perhaps, with a little bit of Desna's famed luck, this will not be the case, however that circumstance requires me to be incorrect in my deductions, and I am never wrong.

Something is WRONG in Ravengro. There are powers and minds at work that are greater than my own, and that is no mean feat. I pray you will be able to discover what haunts this poor town. Speak with Zokar Elkarid about The Whispering Way. He will put your nose to the trail. He is a dear friend, and you can trust him. But, be warned, I do not know who else you can trust. I have given instructions that letters be sent to those closest to me and most capable. However, some of them it has been years since I saw them last, I do not know how much they have changed. Be on your guard, and keep an eye out for Kendra. She is a Lorrimor, and well capable of taking care of herself, but I worry that - with my death - she may become reckless.

P.S. I am very sorry that I will not be able to assist you in the translation of that tome of yours. As a last boon, I offer up the name of an acquaintance of mine: Adivion Adrissiant. Although sometimes hard to work with, you will not find a keener mind in all of Ustalav, and he has a natural gift for languages both current and forgotten.

As you read the letter, something in the back of your mind begins to wear at you. A nagging feeling that something around you isn't as it should be. Your eyes are drawn once more to the fireplace, where Kala's letter crackles in a merry blaze.

That's it: the fire was not lit when you entered the room, nor - you scratch at your memory, trawling up details - while the will was being read out. Did Vesseli light it? You step over to peer into the flickering yellow flames, and something catches your eye. Slowly curling into ash at the bottom of the hearth lies the distinct form of a harrow card. Over half of it has been burned away, so all that you can make out is the shoulder and torso of a black-clad figure wearing a purple robe.

Aerodus will have to assume that the others, at least Kala based on her reaction, were given notes of the same or similar contents. This is not enough to trust them on face value however, and so he will not mention too much of his letter thus far.

The fire unnerves him however, as curiousity and keen senses are two traits he oft thought of as being his strongest, so not knowing drove a chill into every part of his being.

Trying to make it not obvious that he is getting the card, and hopefully not lik ehe is trying to read Kala's private words, he will attempt to look for a poker, or similar object to pull the harrow card from the flames.

After he is successful or fails at this, he will excuse himself to go find Zokar's tavern.

OOC: What time is it?

Seizing a pair of iron tongs that stand propped next to the fireplace, you carefully wedge them into the fire, trying to draw out the scrap of card from where it lies between to larger logs. "Hey, piss off book-nose," Kala says, starting towards you. Her rough hand grabs your shoulder, but you've caught the card in a tight grip, and draw it deftly out of the fire.

"Huh," she says. "That aint' mine," and returns to the desk where she was pouring herself a drink.

The burned card smoulders in the tong's iron grip, its edges crisping and flecking off into ash as you watch.

Having seen the card, do you want to return it to the fire, or take it with you?

You inform Kendra of your intention to visit Zokar. She nods absently, staring off into middle-distance, her letter half-crumpled in her hand. As you turn to leave, she looks up: "Oh, you're welcome to sleep here for the duration of your stay. I can make up some beds; there's rooms to spare. I'm afraid I can't offer you much in the way of food tonight though. I wasn't expecting..." she trails off. Nanyana bustles over, and hauls the young woman up out of her chair. "Come, come, I'll help you scrounge. Busy hands prevent a busy head. You too Kala, I need your muscle," she beckons the woman to follow. Kala lets out a sigh and stalks after them, leaving you alone in the room with Skandar.

"Drink at Zokar's?" Skandar offers, thumbing towards the door leading downwards towards the house's foyer.

Answer to key question: I absolutely would like to keep the card. You never know when you might want to look closer at this. Besides, someone might know what it is.

Upon hearing Skandar mention Zokar's tavern, Aerodus will turn his head and say "Count me in, just let me grab my things!" and will proceed to pick up his satchel which contains most of his belongings. Once out the door, and on the way, Aerodus will ask: "So how long have you known Petros? I must admit that him and I made most of our correspondance by post, so you who stayed here in Ravengro must have had many a pleasant time with Professor Lorrimor"

"A while," Skandar says, mulling it over as he walks. "He needed someone who knew the area. I needed work."

He pauses in his speech for a moment, considering what next to say - if anything: "I've been all over: from the darkness of the Shudderwood, to the wastes of Virlych. You need to know anything about the wilds, you come to me. Towns I ain't so good with."

He pats the axe on his belt, finger tracing the notches in the blade. "Nor people," he says, and lets out a humourless laugh.

"And you? Where are you strong?"

Moving as you talk, you exit the Lorrimor house and head back up the lane. Outside the foggy haze that covers the town like a wet blanket is tinted a dull pink colour, as the sun dips below the land, and the first chill of night is beginning to set in. The street is empty, although signs of habitation are visible everywhere: windows lit and smoke rising. Zokar walks beside you with the long, easy strides of a man well-accustomed to travel. Upon reaching the village hub, he steers you leftwards, up a lane leading to the river. Perched on its banks is a two-story stone and timber building, with a garish mural depicting a humourously-proportioned demon spread across one wall. The Laughing Demon is lettered across the doorway in faded gold.

Upon entering, a wave of heat, noise, and smell washes over you. The doorway enters into a small foyer, with racks for coats, staves, boots, and the like. Further inside is a large common room, with a dozen people sat around at tables, filling about half the room. Zokar stands behind a small bar on the far side of the room, drawing crimson-coloured beers from a tap. He nods his recognition as you approach, red face gleaming behind his bushy brown mustache. "Skandar, and...Aerodus, wasn't it? Couldn't resist the Corpse Cowder. Or, if that don't strike your fancy, we got plenty else: Vampire Steaks, Wolf Balls, The Living Bread, Ghoulash, and even a fresh batch of Putrid Pies right from the ovens of Hell Itself." He stabs a fat thumb in the direction of the door behind him, from which the mingling aroma of food flows strongly. Flames are painted up each side of the doorframe, with the words Hell Itself above it.

"Zokar loves a show," Skandar mutters to you by way of explanation.

"Aye, I do, but not so much as the visitors, and them's that pay my keep," he grins broadly. "So, what'll you be having?"