The sheriff looks Melk up and down before answering. "The Professor brought a lot of trouble with him when he came back. Good man or not, that's not something thus town needs. We've been through enough." He tips his hat, signalling that they can go. "Hope you enjoy your visit to Ravengro." He heads back to his patrol, casting a final glance at them as he and his deputies round a corner.
Father Harking shakes his head. "Don't mind the sheriff. He's just not quick to trust strangers, not since..." He stops and frowns. "It's not my place to say. Let's just get back to Petros's... I'm sorry, Kendra's house. We could use some warming up."
Melk's posture suggests he's shocked at the notion that anybody could suggest something to diminish the Professor. But then realizes, "Why have so few of Ravengro attended the funeral?"
Father Harking sighes quietly, barely audible over the storm. "He was respected, but most people thought he brought trouble to town too often. Maybe if the funeral had been in the sun's rays, more would have come. Kendra wanted it this way, though. She said it would show who her father's true friends were."
'Figures.' Azuk'ai thinks at the sheriffs response. 'Should'ave know the wolcome would we warm.' Grinning a half smile that doesn't reach his eyes Azuk'ai pulls his hood up again to ward off the rain. "Let's get inside first. Then we can talk about the professor and the good town of Ravengro." he says to Melk.
"Lead on Father Harking. We're wet enough without getting cold as well."
Melk takes a second look at both the Father and the ruins of Harrowstone. He shudders, and there's a mournful tone to his voice as he says, "The Professor, he only did the best for Ravengro, I'm sure."
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Wesh glowers after the Sheriff running his fingers over the hilt of his scimitar, and making a low rumbling growl from the back of his throat. As the Sheriff moves away he gives Melk's tears a disgusted look, real men don't cry Da always said.
"Gah, come on lets get out of this rain, I ain't got time to burn you know." he snaps trudging purposefully onwards.
Father Harking leads the group through the town, quickly arriving at the Lorrimor house. It is a large house, almost a mansion relative to the other houses in town. Its Gothic architecture looms with sharp points and edges pointed to the sky. A lone gargoyle stands guard above the front entrance, looking as if its head is moving side to side when the lightning flashes. The cleric opens the door, revealing an unlit hallway. He holds his holy symbol up, channeling light into it. Dim shadows appear everywhere, but the entrance hall is visible.
It is a large foyer, complete with suits of armor flanking the staircase, made of dark metal in the style of Cheliaxan Hellknights. A large painting of Petfos and Kendra hangs on the east wall, a sure sign of his affection for his daughter. The west doorway looks like it leads to the main sitting area, while a smaller doorway to the south might be a study. The floors are hard wood of fine quality, with rich crimson carpets from some faraway land. Still, the house is filled with history and character. It was likely quite the interesting place with Petros there to explain some piece of long-lost lore attached to each item. His favorite saying, "Everyone and everything has a story, just waiting to be told." echoes silently through the house's character.
Father Harking leads them through the south doorway into the Professor's study. Hundreds of ancient tomes line the room, giving it a misty and learned air. A large desk made of solid darkwood sits in the far side of the room, dozens of books and paper strewn across it. Half a dozen chairs sit in the study in various positions, likely all used to have a place to sit while reading through any number of nearby tomes. The room's dominant feature, though, is a massive window on the south wall. Harrowstone looms through the window, ominous and foreboding. Just as it becomes visible, another flash of thunder cracks behind the prison, illuminating it weekly from behind.
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Wesh, who used to meet the Professor in caves, and once in his father's tiny rustic cabin glances around feeling profoundly foolish. Why does anyone need so much?
Going quiet he attempts - unsuccessfully - to avoid dripping on the finery and touching it with his damp and grubby personage. His main focus though is locating a fire, if I have to listen to a bunch of ancients yammering I at least want to be dry.
Run has been lost in thought the way back, working calculations in her head about how much it might cost to get herself to Harrowstone with a Native Companion to guide her, but keeps coming 'round to the inescapable conclusion that... "...it's not gonna happen." She twists her mouth, then, and simply follows the group, staying quiet when the sheriff waylays them and the rest of the way to the house, occupying her mind with an interrelative analysis of The Knight's Tour she keeps 'tucked away' in her head along with magic squares and other puzzles for when she wants to stay occupied.
When they arrive at the professor's house she is unable to stop herself from counting the mullions and trying to correlate them to the number of lancet windows on the facade. She takes only a moment to admire the numerology buried in the tracings in the castellated tower on the east side of the house before getting inside, thankful to be out of the rain.
When the thunder cracks Run lets out a sharp gasp at the suits of Hellknight armor, which she'd been too busy looking at the carpet patterns to notice. Her heart rate thus increased a bit, she tries to find someplace to sit so she can hear out Father Harking. She has to admit that the walk across town has dimmed her enthusiasm for this place rather a bit; its morbid airs, she feels, have begun to afflict her mind and she is finding herself glancing sharply at shadows (so many shadows) and faint movements only peripherally available. What she wouldn't give for a roaring fire in a cozy coffeeshop right now, a rare grimoire or book of formulae in front of her and a mug of coffee or klah at her right hand...
Relieved to be inside and out of the storm, Dúron pulls down his hood and follows Harking into the study, admiring the furnishings and, once inside the study, finding himself drawn to the ancient tomes lining the shelves. As the others focus on making themselves more comfortable, Dúron scans the spines for titles with the enthusiasm of an Elf half his age. Lost in his study of the books, Dúron is snapped back to reality by the thunderclap, nearly jumping into the air with a start.
Doing his best to recover his composure, he moves away from the walls with a fleeting glace and joins the others at the table.
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Wesh suppresses a shudder at the sight of Harrowstone, not what he would have chosen for a view. That place is creepy, even setting aside its purpose, why didn't they just knock it down? I'd not live in tha accursed place's shadow.
"I don't know how folks can wear all that metal, it ain't right. Makes me feel itchy all over, like I'm cut off from the world..." He says glancing at the armor. "Whatever we are doing let's hurry it along right? This place stes my teeth on edge and my 'airs on end."
Azuk'ai walks with his head bowed as thay ere lead through the halls of Professor Lorrimor's mansion to his study. Sparing hardly a glance at the memorables lining his halls Azuk'ai remembers walking this path with Petros himself on more than one occation, his reasuring voice talking ceaselessly about one item or another. With a pang of regrett Azuk'ai sighs inwardly at the finality that he will never walk these halls with the professor again.
Entering the study Azuk'ai heads for the window and stares out a Harrowstone, lost in his own thoughts he shudders invoulentarily as the prison lights up in the flashing lightning.
"Au weh au weh au weh." The quiet muttering of Melk as he follows, closely behind the Father, along the hallway is underlined by his fidgeting fingers. He shows moments of curiosity as he almost stops-and-touches a few exotic items; but he quickly rejoins the Father when he notices his figure receding down the hallway.
Aydan follows along, trudgy through the dreary town and its constant dreary downpour. Aydan can feel the atmosphere of the place weighing down on him, its eerie shadows and lights, its contant drumming fear.
He follows the preist into Lorrimors house, taking in the sights of the place, largely morbid to Aydan's increasingly downcast eyes, excepting the great picture. He is glad to find himself led to the study, but that joy is short lived when the thunder strikes and outlines haunted Harrowstone, standing like an ominous giant over the town.
'It's a dark, portentous night for a funeral. Its almost as if there's something heavy in the air.'
Run has taken out a chapbook and is scribbling notes and making a passable sketch of the statue she saw in the cemetery. When Aydan speaks she stops and looks at him, peering through her spiky bangs with her eyes alight. "Heavy! Air!" she intones, and looks at the Varisian like he just spoke words of genius. She then immediately goes back to her writing.
'They do indeed lad. Though I think our green-haired friend would be a bit... eccentric regardless of species.' Aydan smiles amicably towards the young man, hoping to put him at ease and maybe take the edge off the sharp tongued lad.
Father Harking lights a fire in the stone fireplace, quickly stoking it to a blaze. The fire lights the study, throwing a shadowy dim light through it. He leans over and touches an unlit torch on the far side of the room. "Light!" he intones quietly. The torch lights with a heatless flame, giving enough light to read. "Please make yourselves at home. Kendra will be home soon. I'll get something to drink for everyone." The young cleric exits the study, leaving the six strangers to themselves.
Without looking up from whatever it is she's writing, Run says offhandedly "He didn't. She did."
Pulling off his soaked traveling cloak and hanging it near the fire to dry, Dúron returns to his seat at the table. "She is correct. Whatever business we have here is at the behest of the young Kendra. Out of respect for her father, I am inclined to wait. Besides," he smiles, "is this warm house really that much worse than the storm raging beyond the walls?"
Melk, in spite of himself, keeps close to the window. His eyes alight on the scene whenever the lighting crashes. "Au weh au weh. Wo ist sie?"
'It certainly isn't my friend,' Aydan says with a grin to Duron, and shakes his head slightly, expelling some more of the water in his hair.
'Maybe we should make a proper round of introductions, make sure everyone knows each other. I'm Aydan Mishnok, a pathfinder initiate from Caliphas. I'm glad to share my respite from the rain which such a fine assortment of people, freinds of Petros are friends of mine.'
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"I'm Wesh, the old man told me I was a druid, and no offense but I ain't so thrilled to be here. Don't like towns in general and this one ain't changing my mind none - creepy backwaters aren't my idea of a good time." The teenager growls taking a seat on the floor by the fire, and pulling his boots off. He then upends them flicking the water into the fire and causing it to hiss.
"My Da always said take care of your feet and they'll taker care of you." He adds to nobody in particular.
After Wesh speaks, Run gives Aydan the same look she gave him just a few moments ago and says "Friends." as if it's the first time she ever heard the word. A giant drop of water that has been collecting on the brim of her hat is finally shaken loose and lands with a splat on her chapbook. "ACK!" she dabs frantically at the water and bats her hat off her head, causing it to land in a spray of water behind her. She stands up, then, to her full 6'5", and the fire makes her shadow into a bat-winged monster on the far wall. She starts unbuttoning her enormous, double-breasted leather greatcoat.
"That is a very good idea. That he has." She indicates Aydan. "We're all friends of the Professor, and all...here. And I agree that if someone was friends with him, well, that speaks well of them. To me it does, anwyay. I met him in Caliphas, he was so...open-minded even in a part of this land known for being more shall-we-say 'forgiving' and open to people like...well, to elves. And others. So open-minded. His lectures were so invigorating, they just made your mind sparkle."
Run has taken her coat off and it is obvious even through her oversized and baggy clothes that she is painfully thin. She has on a white button-down shirt and a navy blue vest over it, and the vest is festooned with little loops and pockets that have various pouches and phylacteries and test tubes and vials in them. Most have strange materials swirling or glowing or fizzing or popping under corks or screw-on lids. Writing implements and...stranger...tools are also visible poking out. She sits back down and takes off her giant boots and rain pants, the lack of billowing leather emphasizing even more how skinny she is. She sets her boots by the fire, but leaves the rest of her outerwear over by her, padding back and forth from the hearth in sopping-wet socks.
"Anyway I'm Run. You can call me that if you want. Or Mari. Wait I'm doing this wrong again." She has gathered all her hair into a sopping ponytail and is absent-mindedly wringing it out onto the floor, perilously close to her backpack. "My-name-is-Marilwenn-Galadruinnon-but-people-call-me-Run. Which is short for Runyon. Which is short for Galadruinnon. You can call me any of those things but Run, being shortest by both letters and syllables is what most people use. Mari is generally a close second though I haven't broken it down by region or gender or any other significant categorical marker. Though that would also be interesting."
Run trails off then suddenly fixes Wesh with a bright-eyed, intense stare. "Your arms are big. Are you quite strong?"
Standing by the window Azuk'ai remains perfectly still at ease looking at the group out of the corner of his eye. 'Friands?' he didn't have many. But the pathfinder was right, if the professor befriended them then maybee they were alright. Sighing he hooks his thumbs in his belt and turns around. Rising to his full 6'3'' he squares his massive shoulders and clears his throat.
"I'm Azuk'ai. I'm a hunter and my prey is undead." he states, looking at the group for reactions. "The professor was helping me with that.. eh.. stuff." he finishes lamely. Feeling a flush coming to his cheeks he looks quickly at his boots, lips moving soundlessly for a minute he finally nods with a "Yeah." and turns back to the window. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid!'
Crossing his arms he bites his lip and chokes back tears as he stares into the night.
Melk's features remain pleasant, unbidden as ever. Those who paid attention to him for a bit will have by now realized that his facial features are literally frozen in an eternal smile. But, as if in compensation, demeanor, voice and motions are close to his heart; it is hard to imagine much in the form of subterfuge from this man.
His gesture to the window is worried, as he turns to the assembled. "She's not there. Wo ist sie?" Almost visibly the cog's in his head turn as the backlog of conversation he just heard is processed; sufficiently to momentarily replace his worries. A distracted tone explains, "I'm Melk. Besonders. I look after a place in Lepidstadt. It's a bit like that one," he adds nodding to the outline of Harrowstone. "I... Ich have no training really. But the Professor said I'm perfekt the way I am." He smiles, obviously, but for a moment it seems to carry into the whole body of the man - before being replaced by a guilty worry. "She's still not here. Wo ist sie? Au weh au weh au weh."
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Wesh glances at his arms and looks as if he might cover them idf eh ahd anything handy, "I'm stronger than some, weaker than others," he says modestly, "though I ain't met any of the later."
"What's up with the grin, Besonders? Don't tell me my Da was right and if the wind changes you really can end up stuck that way." He adds tactfully, frowning at Melk.
Somewhat distracted Melk's expression doesn't waver as he puts a hand to his cheeks and pulls demonstratively. "I think I am lucky, not every expression is easy to deal with. Ich... I don't deal with people very often."
Something in the tone that people is said, suggests that Melk is more used to non-people.
"Nein." Melk is getting more agitated as he watches the outside. "Wo ist sie?" He paces along the window, his hand on the sill, tapping a finger on the same spot.
Run flinches as another hammerblast of thunder and lightning ricochets around the sky, looking with trepidation at the looming shadows in the grand old house. "I'm beginning to think our friend Melk has a point." she says, a note of concern entering her voice, "...what could Kendra have been doing at the cemetery that would waylay her for so long? I mean, I know what I would do in a cemetery with fresh bodies and moving statues and strong magical auras swirling about, but I can't speak for her. Hope the sheriff didn't arrest her or something, he seemed a bit overzealous."
Run has begun digging around in her backpack, and after taking out and setting aside numerous odd-looking items including a flask filled with a rather unsettlingly viscous bright-blue fluid, a hirsute utensil, and two box-turtle shells, she produces a flat length of twine, coiled about itself. "Wesh, your arms, might I measure them? Length and curcumference." considering for a moment, she looks at the orc staring out the window. "You too, actually. Azuk'ai? Yes? You seem possessed of similar girth in the biceps yet less length. I wonder what the benefits of that can be. Hmm. Can I measure yours as well?"
Run stands, picking up her twine, pen, and chapbook, and advances on the teens, her eyebrows knit in concentration and focus.
With the crack of thunder, the group is startled. A loud creak echoes through the house as the front door opens. The sounds of the thunderstorm lashing against the house resonate through the open door.
"...but it's just your arm. It's not going to hurt or anything, this is just a piece of twine." Marilwenn looks perplexed, but doesn't advance, unsure just how serious Wesh is about wielding that poker.
She looks again at Azuk'ai. "You?" She asks hopefully. "I hope to brew a mutagenic potion that boosts strength, and if I could get some anatomical reference points from exceptionally strong and powerful humanoids, it would assist greatly. I hope it's not too much to as-EEP!" Run starts at the sound of thunder and the opening door. Her hair flops down over her eyes as she jumps back in fright, and she loses a few moments spluttering and fussing with it to get it out of her eyes.
Azuk'ai's eyes narrow at he sight of Harrowstone Prison. 'So it's true. The place is haunted.'
Turning around with a smirk on his face the smirk turns into a toothy grin at Wesh's antics. Eyeing the half-elf advancing on him with the string he glances at his arms and shrugs. "Sure. Why not. Do I need to take my shirt off for ya?" he says with a twinkle in his eye as he eyes the spindly girl from head to toe with an appraising look in his eye.
Keeping his full 6'6" comfortably seated in a chair, Dúron listens as the others introduce themselves before speaking up, "I am Dúron. My specialty lies in the arcane arts and the conjuring of creatures from beyond our realm. I am also something of a scholar along the same lines as the late professor." As he finishes speaking and Runyon begins advancing on the young Wesh wielding her measuring twine, a wave of confusion washes over Dúron's face.
As Wesh draws out his poker, Dúron begins to move to intervene lest the brash youth turn things violent, he is startled back into his seat as another crack of thunder shatters the sky and the sound of the opening door is heard creaking throughout the house, "Ah, finally it would seem our host has arrived. Let us regain our countenance to greet her." Keeping an eye on the poker-wielding Wesh, he thinks to himself, 'That boy is strange indeed. In the flash of the lightning, this young ruffian looked to be a holy man of the Lawgiver... Of course it must simply be the storm playing tricks on us...'
Run piles her hair on top of her head as Azuk'ai speaks. She jabs a pencil through the resulting bun and retrieves her pen, paper, and twine from her chair. With a shrug she looks at the orc and says "Sure, that'd help." She eyes Azuk'ai like a farmer eyes a draft horse, one eyebrow up and mouth twisted, her focus purely on power-to-weight ratios and lift capacity. "I could do pectoral measurements while I'm at it, save myself working from an extrapolation to generate proportions. Off with it, then!" She makes a flapping motion with her hand, like shooing a fly. "How much can you lift, by the way, any idea?"
Keeping his full 6'6" comfortably seated in a chair,
This young ruffian looked to be a holy man of the Lawgiver... Of course it must simply be the storm playing tricks on us...'[/i]
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Wesh spring to his feet dropping the poker and points at Harrowstone through the window his features set in an expression of near comical astonishment.
"S!%+ on it! There's a bloody ghost peeking on us! Crap weasels! I knew I should'a stayed with Ramon. Da was right towns ain't nothing but trouble and bad luck!"
At Wesh's exclamation Run glances out the window but sees nothing. How disappointing... she thinks as she goes about measuring Azuk'ai's bulky form. Though if she were to come face-to-face with an actual Haunting she has to confess she is not certain if she could maintain such bravado, or even just remain calm.
Melk's agitation doesn't leave him docile anymore. He makes for the door to the study, shouting into the hallway. "Guter Father!? Where are you?"
The silence in the house is amplified by the creaks from inside the house and the storm blowing in the front door. Melk's question echoes through the Professor's house, but elicits no response. The door makes a creaking noise as it blows back and forth in the wind as a chill comes into the study. With the six strangers silently waiting for a response from Father Harking or for Kendra to close the door, the eerie quiet from inside the house develops into an anxious chasm of dread.
Standing up and whirling towards the window, Duron looks for anything out of the ordinary, but finding nothing aside from the old ruins on the horizon, turns back to the terrified Wesh. "Are you certain you saw something out there? If some evildoers lurk beyond the glass, we should investigate. However, I find it more likely that this disturbance has been caused by a more mundane villain than a true poltergeist... Though I admit this place does evoke a sense of unease, I have seen no hard evidence pointing to an infestation of the undead." Glancing uneasily towards the sound of the open front door beating against its hinges in the storm, he continues, "Perhaps the door was merely blown open by the storm, yes? Perhaps we should go close it... together."
Duron is more frightened than he is letting on, but is doing his best to keep a brave face.
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"Weren't no normal man, not unless he'd filed his fingers to the bone for the role. But aye we had best shut the door, Harrowstone ain't here after all, and its hardly our problem if its haunted for true. I don't know about the rest of you, but once I've heard what the old man's daughter has to say I'm on me way." Wesh says, still eyeing the window warily.
Wouldn't have to worry none about this if I was a lion. Ramon you lucky git. Lions are sensible once they die they stay dead.
Too distracted to notice the faint quiver in Duron's voice, Melk nods. "Ja. And let us look for the Father too."
Melk steps into the hallway first, his eyes peeled on the hellknight armors and other exhibits, which seem far more daunting now. "Does someone have more Licht?"