"I looked, but though there were tracks in plenty about th' monument, I couldn't follow them more than a few paces away. Th' same was true when we found Taanyth's body. He were another of Petros' many friends, come for th' funeral. Someone sliced his throat open from behind, but their trail was also too easily lost."
The tips of the half-elf's ears redden at Sour Heck's further comments. "You're speaking, you know, of two people I've known for but a handful of days. Attractive as they are, some of us are preferring to take our time in such matters. So should you be interested in pursuing either of them, it's not my toes you'll be treading on."
Sour Heck spreads his hands defensively. “I’m just looking at things realistically, here. Taking your time sounds very well and good, but you might not have that many days left. We’re sticking our noses in some very ugly business, and your nose is going first through every door.”
Sour Heck picks idly at the scab on his neck. “I’ve met enough tongue-tied berzerkers to know there’s different kinds of bravery, that a man with the courage to confront a cannibal corpse might faint faced with a fair female. So I’m just trying to let you know that whichever one of these ladies you’re interested in, I’ve got your back. Since you’re going to need a lot of help. Particularly if you’re interested in Talia, which on reflection seems pretty likely, since she’s got curves slithery enough to make a snake jealous. Ordinarily I’d say that fruit’s growing higher up than you could reach, but when danger’s got a lady’s heart pumping, anything could happen.”
The bard pauses dramatically.
“Anything.”
He pauses again.
“That’s her bird in the tree over there, isn’t it?”
He quickly changes the topic back to the blood on the monument. “It’s rained since you first investigated...this mud should make it easier to track the vandal if we find fresh prints, right? Never learned the knack of it, myself, but I knew trackers enough in Graidemere. Or maybe you’ll find a print clear enough that we can match it to a boot.”
"Yes, Sheriff," says Talia, bowing politely. "They are both in good health. They went to discover if anything untoward has occurred at the monument, while we were at the Prison."
"I've also practiced enough of late that I'm a mite better at following a trail. We'll see, should th' thing occur again."
"So far we've survived the place with little noticeable damange. We're on our way to the Town Hall. We wanted to see how the repairs are going and to ask if there might be an old set of keys for the prison stored somewhere. We've run across a few locked areas we need to access, and, unfortunately, the Warden seems to have had the main set on him and we haven't found his remains. I was hoping there might be a spare set, or that, perhaps, one of the surviving guards had a set with him."
Sour Heck connects two facts. Perhaps the liquor helped.
“Oh, no...that Taanyth friend of yours must have been the elf that got murdered. Unless there’s even more people getting cut open around here than I thought.” Sour Heck gives the guard a searching look. “Throat cut from behind, I hear. Perhaps you should put something at your back while you stand guard, friend. You can watch the monument as easily from a little ways off.”
“Don’t mind us; I’m just going to show Peredur here a little bit of mud farming, the way we do it down in Graidmere.” He takes the rake he borrowed from a nearby shed and starts smoothing out the muddy ground around the monument. “Brings back memories, this does. There’s no happier time in Graidmere than the Autumn Mud Harvest Festival,” he says, mordantly.
When the raking’s done, Sour Heck mops at his brow with his filthy kerchief. “The next step would be to scatter bone meal over the mud. No bone meal, though...hold on a minute!” He finds a piece of chalk in his pack and wraps it in his kerchief. “Here’s a trick for you two: chalk goes in...” He smacks the kerchief vigorously against the monument a few times, then unwraps it with a flourish. “...chalk powder comes out. That one’s harder than it looks; try it yourself if you don’t believe me. Now while I scatter this around the monument’s base, why don’t you have a look at the guard’s boots, Peredur? Those are fine clod-stompers he’s got there, might be you’d want a pair. Make sure to have a good look at the soles.”
Sour Heck claps the last bit of chalk dust off his hands and kerchief and nods a good night to the guard. “Thanks again for the bit of cheer, friend. I’d have another belt, but we’re off to church, and I hope the gnome might be hiding a bottle or two himself.”
Caeller returns the handshake and smiles.
Benjen Caeller. I represent the law in our fair town. It's a pleasure to meet you, lady."
To Iesha, he responds:
"I know not that we would have any keys from the prison here. Nor are any of the surviving guards still among the living. The last guard died years ago. In his cups till the end, poor sot.
The guard laughs at Heck's farewell, after watching with serious interest at the muck-raking.
[b]"A smart one, you are." He takes another pull off the flask and stashes it. "Worry not, I have someone watching my back tonight." He indicates the statue of the guard he is guarding, which is in turn apparently guarding the guard who is guarding it. Or something.
"What in the name of all the devils in all the Hells do you lot think you're doing with my rake?"
The wiry old man, Gibs, stomps up the path at the two. His face is twisted in anger, making him even more unpleasant looking. Haggard and tired as he was that day in the cemetary, his bearing is still that of one who knows fighting and how to survive and succeed at it.
"Think yer open to take that which don't belong to ye? Friends o' necromancers have no regard for the likes o' the rest of us it'd seem."
Sour Heck hangs his head below his shoulders in abject shame.
“You are right, grandfather. Borrowing without asking is the shiftless nephew of stealing. All I wanted to do was avoid waking you. I am sorry as I can be for causing you trouble.”
He drops to a knee and presents the rake with both hands to the old man, with all the formality of a page presenting a scepter to a king.
Peredur keeps his mouth shut and schools his face to impassivity as best he can, trying not to let his distaste for Gibs show. Aye, we'll see if that works.
"Liked his drink, did he?" Eloise asks. "Might that be because of the night of the fire?"
Caeller nods to Eloise.
"Seeing that kind of atrocity seems reason enough to me to crawl into a bottle and take up residence there. Sorry I couldn't be much more help, ladies."
Gibs regards the penitent man before him for a very long moment. He twists his face further in apparent thought. Apparently a very taxing thing. He half shrugs, and snatches the rake away.
Gibs turns with a grunt, and strides victoriously back down the path toward the village.
The guard calls to Heck:
"Had we any more visitors here, it'd drive old Gibs to even deeper depths of misery and sourness. Don't mind him. After you shouted 'im down at the cemetery, all the wind's out o' his sails and his lackeys don't pay him no heed."
"Did he have any-aught to say about that night when he was sloshed?" Eloise asks. "Anything he said regularly?"
"Seems like that dear old man hasn't been getting a lot of sleep recently," remarks Sour Heck.
"Perhaps there's been a rash of unasked farm implement borrowing around here, and he's been tramping around every night, tracking down his hoes. Perhaps his sore feet keep him up at night. Perhaps his boots are too tight. Why don't you have a look at his bootprints too, Peredur?"
To Eloise, Caeller shrugs.
"I honestly can't recall that much. Open flame made him nervous. Loud laughter, Hells, any loud noise would put him on edge." He sighs and rubs his tired-looking eyes. "My dreams of late have struck a similar tone to the old drunk's I think. I must be on. Stay safe, friends." The Sheriff turns and walks back across the town square, heading, apparently, toward the Laughing Demon.
"Hold on a space, sheriff," Eloise says, running after Caeller.
"Just to be on the safe side," is her only explanation as she puts one hand on Caeller's shoulder, makes a gesture with the other and speaks a single Word.
The Chelishwoman's eyes seem to drill into the Sheriff's, and for a moment their colour is even darker than usual.
Peredur nods to the guard. "If his friends return to his side, do me th' favor of telling me? For, look you, 'tis then I'll be knowing we're after needing to repair our reputation." He shakes his head in admiration at Sour Heck's subsequent comments. Brilliant, he is.
"Of course I'll be taking a look."
Eloise finds no trace of magic, just a confused sheriff looking back at her.
"Everything alright, lady?"
You have seen similar prints. Around the statue, indeed, near the corpse of the elf Taanyth, so brutally slain days ago.
"Just checking for any weird auras, Sheriff," Eloise says, releasing Caeller. "There's some weird stuff going on, so I figured I'd check. No offence taken, I hope?"
The ranger spends some time going over the area before replying distractedly, "It's thinking I am that his shoes and feet are well-matched, Sour Heck, so that's one less thing to worry ourselves over." He comes out of his study and continues. "Best we were after rejoining th' ladies, and mayhap we'll see th' Sheriff whilst we're out. You should likely meet him when things are calm, 'fore we get another round of ghoulies and freetings." He tips his hat to the guard and heads for the temple.
“Peredur, when you’re excited, your Common gets very uncommon,” Sour Heck complains as he hurries after the ranger.
Caeller shakes his head, and smiles at Eloise.
"None, worry not."
Heck and Peredur arrive at the temple ahead of the ladies. It is silent and dark, but not unwelcome. The Grey Lady in her three aspects seem to watch the pair impassively as they wait for their companions
"Don't tell father Grimburrow I said this," Eloise whispers to the other women as they walk into the temple, "but Pharasmin temples give me the creeps. Would it kill them not to make the goddess of death look like a hanging judge about to pass sentence?"
"There are times when she must be such. And perhaps the aura here adds to that impression. Anyway, let's find good Father Grimburrow."
Grimburrow finds the party milling about in the chapel. His wrinkled face is unreadable, but his words speak genuine:
"you return! Most excellent. Have you succeeded? Are the dead at rest once more?"
"One major spirit is, Father. We were able to defeat the spirit once known as the Piper; and a number of undead have been put to rest. We felt it best, now that we have a better idea of what is up at the prison, to return, regroup, and prepare ourselves for what is next to come."
"It's worried I am about th' town, though. Has aught of interest happened whilst we were in th' prison?"
"Thankfully no. We have not had any more attacks, and no blood-letters on the statue or anywhere else. Maybe this evil is preoccupied when we are rooting around in it's home?"
"If so, then we have accomplished much more than we thought."
"Perhaps you have. But much remains to be done. Is there anything the church can do for you?"
Peredur nods distractedly. "Perhaps, perhaps. I did learn a thing of interest, though. Sour Heck and I met with our onetime challenger, th' man Gibs. Th' bard...well, didn't so much win him over, but at th' least put him at ease so he didn't attack us. Th' monument guard said after th' Restlands none will follow him, a fine thing. But on th' clever Sour Heck's suggestion I looked at his tracks after he'd gone, and it came to me I'd seen their like before. They were all about Taanyth's body, and about th' monument that day Petros' fried were slain. So it's wondering I am, look you, what's to be done about this?"
After a moment's thought, Grimburrow nods to Peredur.
"Perhaps is best you inform the good sheriff. He will know what to do. Uncouth sort that he is, I am slow to believe him capable of such violence..."
"Mayhap he's not even aware that he did anything," Eloise says, frowning. "If he's weak-willed enough, a ghost could nip into him, move him around like a puppet, plunk him back in his bed afterward and then nip out again through his bedroom walls."
“If Gibs is possessed, he knows, and he’s terrified,” Sour Heck says slowly.
“This is Ustalav . We know what possession is like, the way courtiers know the symptoms of crotch-rot. You come to in your bed or at your table, no memory of how you got there, bruised arms, sore legs, clothes spattered with mud and gore.”
“That would explain why Gibs was convinced, before anyone else in the town, that necromancers were on the prowl. Vigilante by day, victim by night...he could be trying to free himself, in his paranoid old way, before someone discovers his secret. Might have thought Grimburrow here would put a stake through his heart if he found out.”
“Either that or he’s plain crazy. Or the necromancer behind it all. Best to lock him up until we’ve found out more at the prison.”
“How about we go with Grimburrow here and the Sheriff both and pick Gibs up? We’ve got our elf-blooded friends and their night-eyes, that bird of yours...we should be able to spot him easy before he spots us.”
“Of course, we still don’t have any rope.”
"I'm not sure I can support that. You may be right, Peredur, I trust your skills. But we can't attack him just because we think he might be possessed. Is there any way to tell he's possessed if the spirit isn't occupying him now?"
"He's an old man," Eloise says, shaking her head. "So long as the ghost is cagey enough to clean him up, chances are he'd think any pain he suffers is due to his body giving out. No; arresting him is premature unless we can catch him possessed. A loudmouth like you all describe would probably milk an illegitimate arrest for everything it's worth."
“Wrongful arrest is another fine Ustalavian tradition,” Sour Heck argues.
“But I guess if we locked him up, the spirit would just look for a new body. At least this way we know who not to turn our backs on, and he doesn’t know we know. Talia, maybe your feathered friend would be willing to keep an eye on him? I don’t know how much a bird sleeps, or if it’s keen to follow us into the pit under the prison tomorrow.”
“Father, we managed to trap one spirit in a vial. Can you lay it to rest so we can use the vial’s magic against other spirits we encounter?”
"Too, if we capture th' remaining four and find th' Warden's badge, th' Harrowstone dead will have no choice but to rest in peace, and Gibs can go on hating strangers, none th' wiser."
"As long as I spend some time with him in the morning, and perhaps get him a fish as a prize, I suspect Kieli would be willing to follow his movements. Discretely. He can give a report when we return. Though I fear I'll hear no end of it if he's bored the whole day..." Talia smiles, thinking about the verbal lashing and mild pecking which may shortly be in order...
Grimburrow takes the vial and examines it for a long moment.
"I cannot do anything with this. These are clearly designed to trap spiritual energy, and this has successfully done so. However, spirits tend to be tethered to one place, the source of their inability or unwillingness to pass over. Their ability to interact with us is solely powered by negative energy. With this marvelous contraption, you have drained this Piper of his ability to interact. But his spirit still resides within the walls of Harrowstone, weak and powerless. At least for now."
the gnome's eyes glint with excitement as he rambles about the nature of the supernatural, an expression the party has not witnessed on the usually expressionless face of the priest.
"So over time, unless he were banished in some other way, his spirit could grow strong again? Well, then. Best we get our rest and return to th' hunt, for I would see th' threat ended and not postponed."
"Most definitely. I am sorry I could be of no further help. Go again with the blessings of the Lady of Graves. You do her work, and walk with her favor."
"Back to Mistress Kendra's, then? We have much to do on th' morrow."
"Good priest," Eloise says, "a moment. Could you make more of these siphons?"
Grimburrow shakes his small head.
"Such arcane endeavors are well beyond my knowledge and abilities. Honestly, I know not where they came from or who made them. They are a miracle, to have been found, and a useful tool. Use the remaining few wisely, my friends, and you will surely succeed."
"Looks like we need to look at these siphons a bit more closely," Eloise says, her brow furrowed in thought. "I couldn't make an everburning torch myself - yet - but if we can figure out how these handy little gizmos are made, maybe we can puzzle out the method of their creation, as well. I... I've had some classes on the subject."
"Petros knew of them--mayhap Mistress Kendra would take th' time to look through his library for more knowledge regarding th' things."
"Confession time," Eloise says, smiling in an embarrassed way. "I've been itching to have a look at professor Lorrimor's library. When we weren't exploring the prison or otherwise facing death, that is."
"I do hope he has notes on those things. More would be useful, but we should make sure we have sufficient other weapons at our disposal. Ways of enchanting our current weapons, for example. More Holy Water. I think I'll try to make some when we get back."
"I can't permanently enchant our weapons," Eloise says, "but I do have a spell that can temporarily enhance them. About two minutes' worth, I think. I can cast it thrice a day, if I absolutely have to."
"Good. Thank you. We will need such power, but it might be best to save it fir the Big Five. I too, can cast such at about the same power."