It is a dark and stormy night.
Nights in Ustalav are a gloomy affair. Raging storms, much like this one, are very common. Nights without rain are replaced by a thick, persistent fog. People go missing in the fog, never to be seen or heard from again. The entire country seems covered in a terrible pall, a grim reminder to the citizens that they will never truly be free of their legacy. Most citizens of Ustalav stay inside at night if they can help it, huddling in safety until the morning sun reappears to protect them from the horrors of the night.
It takes something unusual to spur anyone familiar with Ustalav to stay outside during the night.
Eight people stand in the rain quietly, looking down at the fresh grave of Professor Petros Lorrimor. The old man's death was a surprise despite his advanced age, as was its violent nature. When his daughter Kendra sent the tear-stained letters of his murder to his many admirers and students, only six were brave or foolish enough to come this deep into a land many considered cursed. Kendra Lorrimor, a local priest by the name of Father Harking, and the six stand in the muddy ground of the Restlands, the only cemetery in the small town of Ravengro.
Ravengro sits near Lake Lias, less than a day's ride from the western border of Ustalav. Hardly more than a village, its population of just over 300 people do not look kindly upon strangers. The Restlands Cemetery is just north of town, an ancient burial ground that the town has been burying its dead in for hundreds of years. Hundreds of tombstones, crypts, and angelic figures line the graveyard, for the dead outnumber the living in this town. If the citizens of Ravengro were to disappear into the mists, as occurred in the villages of Colofan and Tavilav five years ago, the graves and statues of the cemetery would be the only reminder that anyone ever lived here.
Kendra looks at the six of them and smiles just a little, though her sadness shows through. An attractive young woman, if a little plain in her mourning black, with brown hair in a tight bun, she sadly addresses them. "Thank you for coming so far to pay your respects to my father. He was a great man, a truly great man. While his studies took him all over the world, his heart was in this town. He was born here and grew up in this very town, so it's only fitting... It's fitting that he's buried here." The speech is obviously very difficult on her. Father Harking, a handsome young man, puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Harking is a cleric of Pharasma, if his holy symbol is any clue. He says to the assembled group, "Perhaps you have something to say about the Professor. I know he would have liked that."
Aydan is the first to step forward, without any hesitation he moves to the graves edge. He is a tall man for a Varisian, wiry and strongly built he has shaved cheeks and his olive skin often twists into a rakish grin. He wears fine sturdy travelling clothes, well-made but not ostentatious. He typically carries weaponry though it is now stacked under a rain tarp a bit away. As he moves a small pouch containing half a harrow deck swings around at his belt, he touches it occassionally for luck.
'I knew Petros well. When times were at the darkest he would be there, with words of encouragement and helpful advice. He was a great man, one who would heedlessly lend time and aid to a hapless young man with whom he had no other bond that the kinship in love of adventure. Petros Lorrimor was a great man, a light in the dark. We are all the worse for his passing. He will be missed dealy.' Aydan stays over the grave with his head bowed in silence for a minute before muttering 'Goodbye old friend...'
He turns and returns to his position, nodding a small smile at Kendra as he goes, allowign others to say there peice.
A slightly strange man steps forward. Strong furrows burrow permanent ravines along his facial features that give the man an atypical appearance. Melk Besonders stands with an oddly smiling face, only on the second or even third glance it is apparent that the expression has a rictus quality. But, inspite of his smile, a careful observer will also note the subtle grinding of teeth under a clenched jawline and the wet eyes of the man.
"Professor Lorrimor was a great man. Sehr groß. Greatest of all was his heart. Wir met in Lepidstadt, many years ago - und there are not many who understand and help somebody like me. Ich will miss him; and I hope where he is now, he's up to new adventures."
His face turns to Kendra but its doubtful if he really sees her properly. His eyes are compressed to a tight squint and thick tears well inside them. He nods his head shortly to her, then on second thought bows stiffly - then steps back quickly, struggling to swallow a sniff.
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A scruffy young man tall gangly and unkempt, looking even worse for an attempt to neaten his unruly hair, steps forward. He has the hard barbaric features of a Kellid, but his coloring is pure Varisian which lends him an unsavory aspect. He is clearly young, a fact proclaimed loudly by a patchy poor attempt at a beard.
Licking his lips nervously he glances about, futilely attempting to smooth down his wild hair before growling, "I ain't much fer speeches, and the Professor knew I say what I think, I don't dress it up none. I don't know many people and I have fewer friends. He was a friend though, and decent for an old man. He helped me know who and what I am and I ain't never gonna forget that. Its s*## that he's dead and I wish he weren't, but wishin' don't do a lick of good, so I'll settle for rememberin' him well." He glances around again under his thick black brows and adds, "That's about it I reckon." Before stepping back and studying his boots.
A tall Elven man wearing a simple woolen robe and a second-hand travelling cloak watches with great curiousity as the three men before him move forward and give their eulogies. When the youth finishes and returns to the group, the Elf clears his throat and steps forward.
Lowering his hood and letting the rain have its way with his long black hair, he begins slowly, "I... I did not know the Professor well. To be honest I was a bit surprised when I received the invitation to attend today. However, I am honored that he considered me friend enough to be with him this one last time. The Professor always struck me as a remarkable man, and hearing the stories of the lives he touched, I feel myself better for having known him. I suppose that is all there is to say."
Giving a final nod of farewell to the Professor's grave and as reassuring a look as he can muster to Kendra, the Elf raises his hood back to his head and returns to his former place among the funeral party.
Stepping forward is a hulking figure dressed in a suit of leather studded with short metal studs and sporting many buckles and straps. High boots and hard leather bracers on his arms he portrais only a powerfull jawline with an angular mouth set permanently in a half smile by scars running up his cheeks. Wearing a hood to keep out the rain he pulls it down as he steps forward, revealing an angular face, pointed ears and a shaved head riddled with old white scars set in his smooth orange-tinted skin. His eyes reflect the lightning with a red hue as he stares hard at the fresh grave, tears streaking down his face.
Standing over the grave his mouth opens and closes a few times before any sound comes out. "I.. er.." he begins in a deep baritone voice, not taking his eyes of the grave. "I, eh.. Of course I came." he finally manages a bit indignant. "How could I not? I came becouse your burying the man who came closest to beeing my father. Now I know I ain't blood. That's plain as day. But the man showed me more kindness and tought me more than any man I know. When I had questions, he had answers. When I had problems, he had solutions. He.." he stops suddenly, swallowing a lump in his throat.
"And now he's gone." he continues in a harsh voice, suddenly looking straight at Kendra. "And I want to know why!" fury is evident in his voice at the last. Turning he raises his hood back and steps to his place.
Lastly, and even then only after a long pause and significant nudge from the cleric, Harking, the tall elf woman begins to speak, but without stepping forward. "I...ah...I'mnotverygoodspeakinginfrontofgroups, but...well, the professor, Professor Lorrimor, he...that is, I-I knew him mostly p-professionally." Her head is covered in a wide-brimmed and frankly ridiculous hat, the only redeeming value of which must be its ability to keep the wearer's head, neck, and in this case shoulders and backpack, completely dry. Leaf-green hair, tied in a sloppy ponytail, is visible at her neck. Her wide eyes, matching her hair, are fixed on the ground and her mouth is a hyphen of tension on her face. "b-but he was very professional and...s-so f-focused. In-in-interested in my work, and in all work of-of great value." Her body is wrapped tight in a battered leather greatcoat of ancient cut that would astonish Fop's Row in any more fashionable city. The thick collar was flipped up, a crude leather dam impeding her hair's progress down to her backpack. The jacket is brown, like the hat, and both are trimmed with a less-than-tasteful gold thread, and there are many pockets and latches and loops and clips on the greatcoat, some of which are currently occupied with holding test tubes and phylacteries, chapbooks and pens, a magnifying glass, and c. "He was going to take a ch-chance. On me. A woman(!) and an elf. In this place he was w-willing to do that. He b-believed in my work, in the work of capturing and studying an incorporeal entity, achieving more easily the communications only thus far relegated to the world of mystics and mages, and even then only in short bursts and under very. specific. circumstances, circumstances he knew when he saw my c-calculations that I could indeed duplicate and isolate the core dweomeric essence of and achieve a rote repeatability one could oh I don't know sell maybe as service or good or both and then expand upon and reach out to other dead and undead and gain a much greater understanding of and ease of capture, dismissal, disposal, or destruction such that the average homeowner could come to depend on such a service or good. The numbers are there I'm telling you!" As she continues to speak, she seems to forget utterly that anyone else is there, and her speech evens out. The stuttering is an overeducated academic affectation, not an actual speech defect, though the fear of speaking in front of groups is very real, and serves to exacerbate what is already a habit considered tolerable at best and even then mostly just in the presence of other academics. At the bottom of her jacket, peeking out under the hem, are big, good, solid leather explorer's boots, extraordinarily worn but still in one piece and holding up very well by the look of them. They, too, are brown, and the combined effect of her billowing brown greatcoat over her engineer's boots leading up to her green hair and eyes serves to give her the appearance of a most unfortunate tree. In a terrible hat.
Suddenly seeming to remember herself, Marilwen Galadruinnon, whose last name was only decipherable to the humans who found her over 80 years ago as "Runyon" and who is known to friends and close associates as Run, though she has precious few of each, and one now is in the ground, there, right there, in front of her, she looks around at the faces encircling her, then looks back at the too-new grave, something like sadness in her eyes and finally, really says her peace. "In the end he was there to help when no one else was. And I cannot replace him in my life, or at least not easily. And I, too, would know what happened to him. And why. I have long years ahead of me to learn these things, and I have no problem bending them to this focus for as long as it takes." She looks at Father Harking, and seems more collected now that the erstwhile 'speech' was done. "I'm s-sorry. Going on like that. I'm done. Thank you for letting me speak."
As the orange-skinned Half-Elf steps back and the strangly clad Elven woman begins to speak, Dúron thinks to himself, 'Those first three, though odd, still seemed common enough folk for this uncommon land, but these last two are like nothing I've ever seen. Rare enough as my kin seem to be in Ustalav, to find two of us alongside a half-blood gathered here today... Lorrimor must have had an affection for my people. It is a shame I could not have known him better.'
Father Harking folds his hands and says a prayer for the late Professor. "Great Pharasma, please take Petros Lorrimor into your fold. Measure him upon your scales and find him to have been a good man, full of compassion and accomplishment. May he rest in peace." As the cleric concludes the brief prayer, a bolt of thunder peals out nearby, culminating in a low rumble. The rain continues to steadily flow on them, soaking their clothes to the bone. As the coffin lowers into the wet ground by a pulley system, Kendra begins to sob quietly and says a goodbye to her father that is too soft to hear. The still angelic statues of a nearby crypt look upon the scene impassively, the rain hitting the stone carvings in just the right way to make it appear as if they are weeping. The thunder continues to strike, intermittently lighting the cemetery up.
Kendra turns to the group when the coffin is lowered entirely into the ground. "Please, I have something for each of you, if you could meet me at my house. Father Harking will show you the way. I'd like be able to say my final respects to my father first, if you don't mind leaving me alone. Thank you."
Before Kendra can finish, Run is clomping through the mud of the cemetery towards a specific statue. As she strides forward, mantis-like in her angular movements, she holds her collar up in a mostly futile effort to keep out the rain, but as she gets close to the statue she abandons that effort and pulls a vial filled with a swirling purple liquid out of a bandolier slot just inside her jacket. Popping the cork, she quickly downs it and shakes her head, smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disgust. There is a sickly purple glow around her eyes and head, then, as she peers at the statue through the pouring rain.
Melk suppresses the urge to wail at the skies as the coffin is lowered. "Au weh au weh au weh." He doesn't even realize that one of the other mourners has run off.
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Wesh remains intent upon his boots, sneaking suspicious glances at the weird looking elves. The rain plasters his hair to his face and he scowls unhappy at the prospect of having to socialize with all these old freaks, but feeling obliged to the old man's memory.
He trudges along behind Father Harking shooting a longing glance out over the countryside to where Ramon waits. Oh gods we aren't going to have to talk about our feeling are we? Who knows what those pointy eared freaks will want to do. I wish Ramon were here to suffer with me. Stupid cat git.
When Aydan spots the statue he looks at it for a second through the rain, then taps his harrows deck several times for luck, before turning back to Kendra, the elf woman stomps past just as he does, but he elects to ignore her too.
He still has his hood down and his hair is dripping wet, rivulet of rainwater running down his strong features. Quite an amount seems too pool at his bearded chin, but he has a soft expression as he walks over to Kendra and lays a hand on her shoulder.
'Kendra, you have my dearest condolences, and indeed those of the others gathered here. I'm sure. Whenever and whatever you need I'm there for you,' at this he squeezes her shoulder gently. 'Its always darkest before the dawn. Take heart that Petros would have wnated us to live on and lead fulfilling lifes. I will scribe his name on my sword and carry it with me always.' At this he hugs her, then leaves her to herself to deal with her greif.
The storm picks up in intensity as the strange elven girl looks at the statue. With the concoction flowing through her system, she sees the world with a purple hue, hazy on the periphery. Magical auras light up in varying shades, easily distinct from the mundane. This statue, however, is not the least bit magical. She stares at it for an uncomfortably long period, the rain matting down her green hair. Despite Runyon's analysis, it remains as motionless as before.
Father Harking calls out to her over the rain. "Miss, are you coming?"
"Yes, of course. Of course. I'm coming. Be right there." Run gives the statue a last flinty-eyed look, making a mental note to make a physical note about it on actual paper once she gets out of the rain. Backing away from the statue at first (just in case, you never know what you might miss), she eventually turns and begins striding away after the others, though she still casts suspicious glances back the statue's way as she does so.
Dúron gives a final nod to the lowering casket before turning to leave with the others. Keeping a particular eye on the others of Elven blood, he watches the strange woman move up and examine the statue.
As she produces the vial, he còcks his head quizically, not recognizing the spell effect produced by the magical concoction. 'This woman appears to have some magical ability to her...' he thinks to himself as he watches the purple glow shine in her eyes.
As she rejoins the group, he moves alongside her and asks, "Milady, I see that you are a practitioner of the arcane arts in a way. What was that potion I saw you imbibe near the statue there?"
"Hm?" Run, still focused on what she saw back at the cemetery -- the statue as well as the other magical auras -- doesn't notice Duron's approach over the noise of the rain and her own heavy footsteps. "Magic arts? Yes, after my fashion. Though the Alchemical arts are not yet universally accepted by those mages who dwell dustily in old towers, at least not the ones I've encountered, the scientific communities have been most welcoming and enough magic users recognize what I do as magic that I feel it's safe to refer to my practice as a type of magic, indeed, though I would hasten to add that magic is but a part of it." Run pulls another vial out from somewhere in the apparently cavernous depths of her greatcoat and hands it to Duron. This one is a dull green color, like moss, and has a slimy and mold-like lump hanging suspended in its center. It looks like the kind of thing drunken barbarians would dare each other to drink.
"This extract contains the dweomeric essence of a detection spell, you see, and suspended in the solution is a Typing Fragment, allowing me to specify the subtype within the greater category of Detection, the taxonomy existing as defined in Grub's Alchemicae Diabola, of course, among others. I infuse this extract with an infinitesimal and renewable fragment of my own inherent arcane power, thus binding the extract to myself and preventing misuse accidental or purposeful while simultaneously charging the latent magicks dormant in the chymicals of which the given fluid is composed. Components have longer lives due to said dormancy, extracts once activated seek that dormancy, reaching an inert state in approximately 24 hours. It is rumored that certain advanced texts provide instruction in the art of prolonging extract life-cycles, but I'm yet to seek such tomes. Hah, someday, someday. But yes, the consumption by me of these extracts allows the stored dweomer to activate in my person, thus imbuing me with all benefits it would grant any other more traditional spellcaster. Though such things are certainly not the limit of my art." She smiles mischievously. "Hmmmm...nor are they even its most visible. Hah! Hah!"
The green-haired Forlorn takes the vial back and replaces it in the mysterious folds of her coat. She smiles brightly, always glad to hear herself talk. But all good things must come to an end. "And yourself, sir? I confess your mode of dress betrays little to me except I doubt you are a warrior of the sword-y type. What was your connection to Petros, again? I confess I was more focused on steeling myself against the coming horror of public speech than listening as I suppose manners would dictate. Can't stand it." She shoots Duron a look. "Public speaking, that is. What I can't stand. Not listening. That's fine. I'm fine with that. Public speaking, though -- ugh!" She gives a short, nervous laugh.
Melk rummages in his clothes as he follows the lead group to Kendra's home. It's not entirely clear why he does so, because his hands come up empty and his expression betrays neither relief nor dismay.
Eyes fixed on the grave Azuk'ai doesn't even stir when the green haired elf rushes off, so intent on his own thoughts in fact that he doesn't stir untill Father Harkin lays a hand on his shoulder. Looking up with a start a snarls forms on his lips before he realizes who it is, hanging his head in shame he heads off with the others but not without a hesitant glance back at Kendra.
Dúron does his best to follow along, but finds himself slightly lost when the conversation takes a turn for the technical. As the Alchemist continues talking, he studies the vial and nods along with her explanation. When she is finished, he lets out a controlled breath and replies, "I am afraid that knowledge of such alchemical practices have eluded me until now, Milady. As for my art, I fall into the category of the traditional sort of spellcaster you made mention of. I do hope that you will not hold it against me." Sparing a glance back towards the gravesite, he continues, "I do not believe I knew Professor Lorrimor as well as the rest in attendance today. I first met him three years ago at the marketplace in Caliphas. I was focusing my studies on the history of our people at the time and the late Professor sold me a tome on the subject. Being a learned man himself, we found a great deal of common ground and have corresponded with regularity since. I was greatly saddened when I heard of his passing."
After a moment's pause, Dúron continues, "But where are my manners; here I am going on about myself without even an introduction. My name is Dúron, it is a great pleasure to meet you Milady."
Runyon looks at Duron and her eyes bug out a little bit. Color rapidly comes into her cheeks. "OhI'msorryIdidn'tknowandanywayIdidn'tmeanyouuuuu specifically!" She gives an embarassed laugh and looks honestly chagrined. "Oh goodness. Oh I'm sorry. There are certain academic arcanists who rather look down on what I do, but I certainly don't hold any sort of overall grudge against wizards and sorcerers and the like, oh no. Haha! So sorry. Eep! Duron you say? Lovely to meet you, I'm Marilwenn, you can call me Runyon if you want, or Run. Any will do. I was raised by humans and they had a difficult time making sense of either of my names so apparently to compensate they just gave me a bunch more. Hmmm."
Run keeps glancing back at the cemetery until it's completely out of sight, her giant hat sending rivulets of rain spinning out off its outsized brim each time she turns around to do so. "History, you say? Goodness Professor Lorrimor was quite the polymath, not that I'm surprised, I suppose. Were you interested in general history or any specific era? I confess that while reasonably versed in the general arc of elven history, most specifics are beyond me. Never studied, really." She frowns, as if her lack of expertise in this area were a tremendous shortcoming on her part that she'd just now suddenly been reminded of.
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Wesh glowers at the elves, why do old people talk so much with so little to say? These elves are supposed to be extra old ain't they, that probably means they are the worst stripe of Talkers. Fecking arcanists to, ain't right.
Scars over there looks properly grim, unlike the rest of the chattering crows. What the hell am I supposed to go back with these old freaks for? I should just leg it. Ramon's probably chin deep in a deer by now, and I've got to mope about with menagerie of misfits. Feck.
Melk apparently comes to a realization. He turns about as he looks for somebody. Eventually his gaze appears to settle on Aydan, and he approaches him. "Pardons, many. I am Melk, and somewhat unfamiliar with everything. Around hier. You are more knowledgeable ja? Kann I ask you to show me the way. Bitte." He adds a "Please" in afterthought.
Smiling warmly as Runyon backpeddles, Dúron replies with a soft chuckle, "Do not worry yourself about my feelings Marilwenn, or do you prefer one of the other names? To be honest I quite envy you, as names go I have only the one and I can only trust my instincts as to its veracity. But yes, I find the study of the past to be quite fascinating. I have focused most of my efforts studying the more recent history of our people, but have had the good fortune to peruse texts dating back to the Return. You mentioned that you were adopted by humans, yes? That is quite interesting! Perhaps if we get the chance I might interview you on your experiences?"
"Oh! Yes, yes but of course. I don't know how interesting it will be, but certainly I could tell you what you wished to know. There are...others like me, I've met, who while not necessarily raised by humans were at least not raised by elves. Hmmm. Probably rather an interesting study to be had there, lots of possibilities, good academic work to be had, if that's your aim. 'T would make a fascinating paper."
Aydan glances around at the others as they walk, but decides that even despite the elves conversation, it would be better to save introductions until they returned to the house and had a moment to spare. He eyes the young scruffy man with a sideward glance however, seeing how disgruntled he seems to be. Teenagers! I remember being like that. Well maybe not entirely like that!
Aydan continues plodding along in the rain and mud, the grey of the place doesn't bring him down, he is used to Ustalavic weather. He taps his harrow deck once for luck however as they near the edge of the cemetary.
When Melk addresses him he turns to face the crag-faced man.
'I'm afraid I'm not a local. I've only been here a few times, Ravengro is not the most welcoming of villages for long term stays. But I'll see if I can help my friend. My name is Aydan, Aydan Mishnok, at your service,' Aydan offers his hand and a smile.
The storm continues as the six mourners, led by Father Harking, return to Professor Lorrimor's house. The thunder rolls lowly in the distance as the storm begins to move away. Flashes of lightning occasionally light the landscape up, punctuated by the crack of thunderbolts. As they walk slightly downhill from the cemetery, a long lightning bolt lights up the structure on a hill to the south.
The building looms above Ravengro, a brooding dark ruin that juts out of the landscape. It is clearly damaged, even from this distance. Its half-destroyed walls and towers are crumbled with time, decrepit and in ill repair. Gargoyles stand guard on what remains of the walls, though it more appears that they are guarding whatever is inside rather than outside. Father Harking sees some of them glancing at it and says, "That would be Harrowstone... Cursed, haunted place... Best to stay clear of it. That's what we do."
"Danke. Not many call me by a name, but those who do use Melk," Melk reaffirms his connection with Aydan; but as Father Harking speaks Melk takes a second look at the ruined structure. "Steinwächter? They are turned inwards. Like in Lepidstadt, is that a prison?"
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Wesh grunts, "Prisons ain't right, if a man's done wrong kill him or beat him." He shudders, "All that fecking stone around ye... Not being able to run free, t'ain't right. Though seems like this one didn't do the job to s!##ting well. Who named the place anyway Captain Ominous? Call a place Harrowstone and its bound to end up s!+~ting cursed. Was Fort Doom taken?"
His eyes stray again to the horizon and he pauses for a moment, but the rain offers enough of a reason to put up with the old man's wishes for a while longer. Ramon's probably laughing his ass off.
'A pleasure to meet you Melk.'
As the preist describes Harrowstone, and the scruffy youth decries it Aydan turns to Father Harking.
'What happened to it? It looks like it were burnt down? How long ago was it ruined?'
Azuk'ai follows close behind the group, making no attempt to connect with them he keeps his eyes downcast. They nevertheless dart up every few paces to examine the group in front of him. 'Strange bunch. But then Professor Lorrimor atracted all sorts.' he thinks wryly as he was one of those friends. Pausing frequently Azuk'ai keeps looking back into the darkness as if expecting somthing to reveal itself.
When the lightning illuminates the ruined prison Azuk'ai gives an invoulantary shudder at the sight. "Haunted you say? Do you know why?" he asks the priest, qurious as to weather any truth lies in local rumor.
"Haunted! Really! MagNIFicent!" Run's eyes light up. "For how long, father, has it been so? Do you have confirmed sightings? How many? Is it easy to get to, this Harrowstone? Any locals I could enlist to guide me? You say folks stay clear of it, do they actually, literally fear it? Would there be value in their minds in, ah, 'controlling' the haunting? Or do the spectres not vex the villagers?"
His reply to Runyon catching in his throat as the lightning illuminates the ruined landmark, Dúron looks to the scruffy youth as he pipes in and the Elf nods his agreement, "I agree with you sir. I for one would not care to be locked away in such a place. I could not fathom a fate more chilling."
Turning to listen as the Elven woman excitedly speaks, Dúron smile softly, "You seem eager to disturb the spirits of the dead Marilwenn. The villagers are most likely simply the victims of old superstitions; I doubt that true spectres lurk behind those walls."
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Wesh frowns at the weirdo elf, "Ain't no Sir, and d'ain't look like one, plus I can tell when I'm being patronized. I'm just Wesh. But ye ain't wrong either, there b'ain't no reason to go disturbin' things if they are doing no more than being spooky. If the dead want to linger here and they ain't in the way I say let'em free and clear, its a nice enough world we got and I ain't so keen to leave it myself - though I might be if I were as old as you sticks.
Raising an eyebrow at the youth's hostility, Dúron replies as politely as he can manage, "I meant no offense friend, in some ways I am younger to this world than yourself. I certainly did not intend to patronize, on the contrary I find your frankness refreshing - it is a rare breed of man who can leave convention to the wind and say what he truly thinks. My name is Dúron, it is a pleasure to meet you Wesh."
Gazing mildly at Wesh but answering Duron, Run says "Professor Lorrimor was helping me get a business going, providing advice and guidance, checking business plans and feasibility reports, that kind of thing. I have a fascination with the incorporeal and the undead, you see, and if that place is really haunted then there are many energies there I could study and use."
"My idea, you see, is... well, I hope to provide a number of services to haunted locales -- the location and removal of ghosts, poltergeists, wights, spooks, mummies, whisperers, crypt things, zombies, skeletons etc. and etc. My goal was to get a proof-of-concept main branch up and running and then grant franchise opportunities to those who showed sufficient skill and intellect to continue the work. My services would entail not just simple removal or mitigation, but also possible communication, capture, and eventually hopefully the sales of home-use spook removers. I've given a few papers on the topic, none of which were warmly received though all of which gained at least the approval of those of a more entrepreneurial bent."
Marilwenn makes a bit of a face, then turns back to Duron. "But prior to the professor's passing, I had come here to this general area because was reportedly so full of haunts, so to find one right here, well, it's most auspicious. I can begin fresh and start testing my theories with full access to ectoplasmic residues, necrotic field matrices, and full astral collision graphs as they happen!" She smiles. "Oh this is just so great!"
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Wesh glowers at Duron suspiciously suspecting he is being made fun of, but not quite being able to see how, so he settles for an ambiguous grunt and lets the elf take it as he likes.
As the other one - the woman - gabbles on like a turkey he mimes hanging himself, not taking any particular care to go unseen and continues walking with his head lolled to one side, tongue stuck out, and one hand upraised as if holding the imaginary noose.
'Teenagers,' Aydan mutters. 'They are ever so cheerful.'
He turns to face the elven man and profers his hand. 'Hi there, Aydan Mishnok, Pathfinder and dilletante at life. Its a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Where are you from? You don't strike me as a local? Don't worry, I'm far more welcoming than the villagers,' Aydan grins widely at the elf, but it leaves his face quickly. The rain and grim setting dampening his natural good cheer.
Nonplussed by Runyon's enthusiasm, Dúron simply nods along with her excited ramblings and is quite grateful as his requirement for a response is abated by Aydan's introduction. Taking the Pathfinder's hand, Dúron replies, "Ah, It is good to meet you Aydan. As to my original homeland, I am afraid I do not quite know how to answer that question simply. It is as you might say, "a long story."" Smiling to soften the cryptic nature of his response, he motions towards their destination, "But come, let us get out of this weather and perhaps we can find more time talk in drier environs."
Melk shuffles along, behind Aydan; his face bopping up from behind Aydan's shoulders has its eternal smile on as Melk greets Duron, "Guten Tag, I'm Melk. Lepidstadt. You don't speak like the others."
"The same could be said for yourself friend. That is a local Ustlavic dialect, yes? Are you a native to this region?" asks Dúron as he turns to face Melk.
Run smiles and giggles at Wesh's antics, not understanding at all that he is directly mocking her, and then goes back to looking longingly in the direction of Harrowstone as the group continues on to Harking's house.
Melk appears for a moment taken aback by the notion that he doesn't speak like the others - until he places them in the context of the current group. "Oh! Ja! In Lepidstadt wir speak Hochcommon, every county speaks its own dialect."
After perhaps a mile of walking in the rain, the somber group comes to the edge of Ravengro. Still in the shadow of the hill upon which Harrowstone is situated, the town seems a place gripped by fear of the night. The shops are all closed, tightly shuttered with hardly a light on inside. The houses are equally well-secured, though lights shine brightly from within all of them, as if to ward off the night itself. A few small fields dot the area between the houses, though even the animals are inside. Someone unfamiliar with Ustalav might believe this to be the effect of the rain, but those who know the dangers of the Immortal Principality know the truth of why the villagers huddle for safety in their homes.
The group, led by Father Harking, crosses the bridge over a small river, entering the town proper. The shuttered shops, few in number, still have signs out, swaying in the storm: "The Laughing Demon," "Ravengro General Store," "Jominda's Apothecary," "The Silk Purse," "The Outward Inn," and "The Unfurling Scroll." Not being a large town, this is likely the entirety of the town's commercial offerings. The Inn appears occupied, though not open. The murmur of light conversation, though hushed, filters out of the door.
As the group passes through the town square, someone shouts over the sound of the storm. "Halt!" The conversation coming from the Inn stops immediately, while several beams of light come from the inside as the patrons look surreptitiously from the cracks in the windows. A man, flanked by two others with their swords out, comes up to them in a manner that is almost aggressive. The man, a handsome human male with a chiseled jawline and a leather hat that shields him from the rain, sees their companion and lets his body language return to a position of casual wariness. "Oh, Father Harking. I didn't see you with these..." He gestures towards the group. "I take it that they came to see the Professor off?" His voice is gravelly, giving him an aura of authority and experience beyond his years.
The cleric nods and turns to them. "This is Sheriff Benjan Caeller, the man who keeps us safe in our beds at night, and his deputies, Lermoar and Vrodish. Sheriff, these friends of Professor Lorrimor came upon hearing of his untimely death."
The sheriff nods in return, then fixes his steely gaze upon the group. "Well, it's good to meet you all. Care to introduce yourselves? We don't really like strangers in my town, so you might as well make yourselves into someone I can identify by sight."
Aydan grows increasingly uncomfortable with Harrowstone at his back, he can feel it as it were watching him and he begins to lend credence to rumors of its haunting. He taps his harrow deck often as he walks for luck and safety.
The town is a glum place, unwelcoming and rain swaddled, so Aydan keeps his head down and tongue still as they plod through the mud, his growing anxiety sitting heavily in his stomach. He almost reaches for his sword when they are accosted, sure that some monster from the night had come to claim them. No wonder the villagers lock their doors.
'Aydan Mishnok, Sherriff, its a pleasure to meet you,' Aydan offers the man his hand, but his expression is still grim and serious.
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Wesh glowers at the tit in the hat and growls, "I b'ain't seein' any reason I should give you my name... But then again ain't got one why I shouldn't neither. I'm Wesh Theron, I'm just here because the old man asked me to be, I'll be out of this miser... place as soon as I can - trust me."
The rain which has long since seeped through to his skin is doing little to improve Wesh's move and it is only out of respect for the Professor that he does not attempt to put the sheriff on his ass.
Plodding through the rain was making Azuk'ai very uncomfortable, the looming precance of the Harrowstone Prison wasn't helping his mood. 'Perfect weather for hunting.' he thinks as he stops frequently to look around.
Entering the village proper does little to improve his mood, actually serving to increase his aprehension. His mothers telling of passing through this village as she ran from his father painted these people as unwelcoming at best. On his visits to Professor Lorrimor he remembered the suspicious look he had recieved every time he came, but as Sheriff Caellar had all but said and his mother had experienced first hand; Strangers weren't welcome.
"It's Azuk'ai Sheriff. Don't know if you recall but we've met as I visited with the professor. He was helping me with my studies, if you'll recall." he says steppin foward and pulling up his hood just enough to reveal his face.
Taking note of the names of the shops the group passes for future reference, Dúron keeps quiet as they enter the village proper. 'These villagers seem to be prisoners of fear in their own homes... I wonder what cause they have to lock themselves away like this...'
As the Sheriff greets the party, Dúron smiles and steps forward, giving a curt bow of greeting, "My name is Dúron. I assure you Constable, you have nothing to fear from my person." Glancing up at the sky, he adds, "Perhaps we could carry on this conversation somewhere slightly drier?"
"Entschuldigung," Melk gives a small bow to the sheriff, the fixture of a smile on his face supported in this instance by the eyes. "I am Melk Besonders, of Lepidstadt. Wir are in your care, good Sheriff. The sudden death of the Professor..." Melk suddenly sobs, tears verging on his face. He manages to stammer, "Ravengro must be so proud. What a great man."