"No, he knows that," Moriarti informs Leoric with an amused smile, "though, I am beginning to wish I had done it intentionally."
He had said the name again, but the rod didn't reactivate. Mori takes this as confirmation that it is connected rather directly to this Abrasax and should indeed be handled with care.
"Here," he says handing the device to Leoric. "And remember what I said about keeping it near other important or powerful things assuming the Coldborn even have any such items."
"Oh and I suppose you can kill the trolls whenever you like," Mori adds. "Unless, of course, the good doctor has more use of them. As for this little guy," he says indicating the other riekling, "I believe he volunteered to be your test subject, Darath."
"Leoric, kill all but one of the trolls. Is this amenable for your purposes, Bloodmarked?" he says, turning to Darath.
And then he turns to Moriarti. "Rat-man, do not disrespect the coldborn in my hearing again."
"You attempt to insult me in the same breath in which you claim offense," Mori points out matter-of-factly, apparently unperturbed by the Coldborn's threat. "Seems a bit hypocritical to me, don't you think?" he asks with a shrug.
Leoric sniffs as he takes the wand from the Inspector, then turns and nods to the rest of the representatives. "I'll rally some pikes and lances to dispose of the things safely." he leans close to Harshuk as he walks past him. "Do keep me in the loop about this little adventure, will you, duffer? Not like last time..." he mutters good-naturedly, using his comrade's friendly insult under his breath to the bard.
"He's probably just still touche because of the deal with the porridge." Looking at the riekling still in her grasp. "Hm... wonder what all it would take to housebreak him..." Yes, the little coward had grown on her. He seemed to still have some bite in him. Not much but some.
"You stand within my home, though. Insulting the power of my tribe whilst surrounded by it seems unwise, is all. I was merely warning you." Arren crosses his arms and puffs up his chest.
"I believe you misunderstood me," explains Moriarti casually. "I was mostly acknowledging my lack of familiarity with Coldborn culture. I didn't think your tribe was prone to hoarding..."
"Apparently, I was mistaken," he adds with a shrug and an innocent smile.
Arren just glowers at Moriarti for a few moments before he turns to the trolls, just waiting for their execution.
Darath noted Moriarti's smile during his first statement, and nodded with a smile of his own. It was diplomatic posturing and jesting, nothing more - not unless nightskulk had an entirely different stratum of political intrigue he was unaware of.
As for the leftovers... "I can think of a few experiments I'd like to run, if keeping it won't be too much of an issue. That said, most of my research is directed towards our physiology, so if it would indeed be too much hassle to keep it..." He leaves that statement unfinished. "As for the riekling, I have no use for him. Besides, I believe he's been claimed already."
Leoric whistles, and a short time later several Coldborn irregulars arrive, wearing traditional armors and bearing long halberds and mancatcher poles. Their Captain explains the situation to them, and they nod and grasp their weapons tightly as they regard the captive trolls, whom even now are regenerating slowly from their past battle.
Grimly, the guards move into the pit, mancatcher poles first. The poles are shoved under the trolls' necks, forcing their heads back - it takes two Coldborn men to keep the troll from pushing its head back down. Meanwhile, the pikemen move in to either side and stab through the trolls' necks one by one, moving from troll to troll. In the end, only the troll who destroyed Leoric's axe remains alive - the others slump against their restraints, bleeding out.
Leoric remains outside the pit with the rest of you and crosses his arms as he frowns down at them. "To think a troll attack happens on the very night of the Celebratory Moot Feast," he remarks to Arren. "The timing couldn't be worse. What's your next move, sir? Will the witchwolf be claiming the captive?"
Arren nods at the guards' work, murmuring, "Good work." as they slay all but one of the trolls. "This is satisfactory to your needs, Bloodmarked?" he asks Darath.
"As long as she can keep an eye on it." remarks Arren, sparing Lysira, Kenna, and the riekling a glance. "Do your best to extract any other useful information from it, and do let us know if it escapes, will you?"
Saipres watched in silence as the guards executed the trolls, understanding the reasoning but not necessarily condoning it. It was one thing to kill an enemy in battle, and another entirely to gut it like a wild boar.
His face betrayed his sense of disgust at the spectacle, but he remained silent, speaking up only after Leoric does. "The timing may not be a coincidence, though why they would seek to gain the attention of all of us is a mystery." He looked towards the direction of the rocky steppes they'd supposedly come from, muttering. "We're missing something. Possibly several somethings."
Looking at Arren he steeled his gaze. "Perhaps a scouting party is in order?"
Harshuk slaps his belly and laughs when Leoric asks to be kept informed.
"If there's a good story here, you know you'll hear me sing it around a fire some night."
Leoric and Arren would know that song is not among the bard's talents, but it hasn't stopped him from practicing when he knows he's got a captive audience.
As the guards come in to put down the trolls, Harshuk acknowledges Mori's formal address:
"I am just a simple huntsman, Inspector. Is there something you expect to find in the ashes?"
His eyes grow hard as he watches the execution, seeing for himself that the threat is put down for good.
"I don't know what you think the fire was to cover up, but I'm interested in the safety of us and ours. Should the chief give me leave, I would follow the tracks coming from the house. The boot tracks."
"Not necessarily in the ashes," the Inspector replies, "but I don't think they should be overlooked. Not all evidence is so easily destroyed."
As he watches the trolls' execution, a wistful sigh escapes Moriarti's lips. It's too bad about that rod, he thinks. A legion of dominated trolls could have been quite useful...
"Yes, well, if you return to the house to find these tracks, I think I'll go with you," he says. "Wouldn't want you to miss anything."
The men who finished off the trolls leave the pit, looking slightly sick and pale, but with tightly pressed-together lips. Leoric nods in satisfaction as they pass him by. "Grim work, but well executed. Would that we wouldn't have to deal with these trolls on tonight of all nights." he narrows his eyes at the final troll, who has managed to reach the leg of his dead neighbor and has started to drag it closer to him, in an effort to eat it.
"I'd better take care of that," he comments dryly, before turning to you with a bow. "Representatives, I must make my leave to write up my report of the attack. Please contact me at the guardhouse if you should have need of anything."
Afterward, the guard captain squares his shoulders, grabs a pike and descends into the pit, driving the living troll off of the flesh of its dead companion.
The representatives walk at a determined pace back to the site of the arson. By now, only small embers remain of the formerly blazing fire, and tracks all around the building in the snow and ash remain.
Harshuk makes his way to where he initially found the tracks and moves a little towards the east to get away from all of the new tracks to try to pick up the old ones again. He'll inspire competence in himself to try to detect them.
While Harshuk attempts to relocate the tracks, Moriarti pokes through the remains of the house.
Arren, still in bear form, sniffs around the premises for signs of activity, but the strong stench of burned wood stings his nose. Instead, he settles for poking around the outside of the house with Harshuk, looking for tracks.
Harshuk the bard: you have rolled a natural 20 on your roll and will thus have a critically successful result. First, tell me of the story or song or ballad or whatever that you used to inspire yourself with.
Harshuk crouches, eyes scanning the ground. He's been on missing persons searches before, but there's a much greater pressure on him than he feels when simply tracking game.
The bard begins to relate a story to Arren (and any other skinwalkers that are nearby) about a silly huntsman who definitely wasn't Harshuk who spent the better part of a day tracking a clever deer. The deer had backtracked over the same river not once, not twice, but three times, evading the hunter each time. And by the time he finally caught sight of his quarry again, a chorus of nearby howls had alerted him that a wolf pack had followed the tracks he had left behind much more efficiently than he had the deer's. In the end, it was all he could do to flee from the pack.
Though a story of failure, it offers some perspective on the shifting balance of prey and predator. Most importantly it puts Harshuk at ease as he tells it, releasing tension from his shoulders as he packs away his worries and falls into the task at hand.
Arren moves closer to the heavyset Coldborn bard as they search the grounds, smiling at the retelling of a tale he has heard before himself. The two of them settle into a comfortable distance from each other on instinct, as they have in previous excursions beyond the comfort and relative civilization of the longhouse. Their nostrils flare, taking information to their brains as efficiently as eyesight, if not more efficiently.
Harshuk's voice mixes with the sounds of dying embers in the ruined house, putting all of you somewhat more at ease, in some cases despite yourselves. Suddenly, the two trackers slow their pace, lowering their posture to the ground and inhaling deeply. A new scent! Harshuk tells Arren, with a mere glance and a grin. Our quarry, no doubt, Arren's grim expression of triumph wordlessly replies.
The track is partially covered. It's a small miracle it survived at all, given where you found it - precisely where the fog spell that ensnared the rieklings was dropped. Indeed, riekling footprints are all around it, but the track itself, though partially smudged away, is distinct.
A Medium humanoid's bootprint. Unmistakable, and possessing none of the exact qualities of anyone else here, including Leoric or his guardsman ally. Their feet wore iron greaves, and these tracks were made by someone wearing soft, perhaps leather-soled shoes. You are able to piece together a slow, confident gait from a few more tracks leading away from the house - it's clear this person, whomever it was, was not being pursued or threatened in any way. You think you could follow these tracks to whomever made them, if you move quickly.
Meanwhile, in the burned-out shell's interior, Moriarti picks among the ashes dispassionately, glancing around him. A casual observer might think his demeanor bored, detached from the situation at hand, but the truth was quite the opposite. Moriarti's eyes were utterly focused on the ruins that surrounded him, and every detail, no matter how minute, was catalogued.
There. he glances to the left. A window was once in that position, on the wall facing south. The first torch was thrown there.
There... he looks up. The rafters are mostly gone now, revealing the night sky above - what isn't covered by smoke. However, there are unusual smoke-stains on the undersides of some of the rafters. Your eyes narrow. Evidence of magical components, left here to burn.
And there... his eyes rove to the right. A fireplace, relatively untouched by the flames. What's...this? you gasp and move a step closer as you notice something you almost missed. There, in the middle of the fireplace, are two hand-prints and a swept smudge in the soot, calling to mind a woman, a girl perhaps, wearing a dress and crawling into the fireplace. But why?
Before Lysira followed, she looked at her captive. 'It would not be practical to drag it on a hunt. Nor, is it really worthy of such yet. It does not have the wind. It would slow us down. No, as much as I despise leaving it in someone else's hands...' Lysira dragged her riekling with her towards the coldborn. "I need a place to keep this for now. He needs to stay both alive and contained."
"This one will be easier to look after," Harthresh growls, before dumping the corpse of the second riekling at the feet of the Coldborn.
He then follows in the wake of the others.
Kneeling close to the ground, his nose nearly in the loam, Arren looks up with surprise when he catches the new scent and a track. He looks to Harshuk, who's also picked up on the same trail. "What do you think, Harshuk?" He wiggles his nose and articulates his fingers. "Seems an awful lot like one of our own burned this place down and walked away from it."
Darath remains by the troll stockade, inspecting the one remaining troll as before, albeit from a greater distance this time. That's not to say he wasn't interested in what the others found, but his talents lay in inspecting wounds and compounds, not dirt and snow.
Leoric nods and accepts the prisoner, handling him roughly but fairly and frogmarching him off to a prison house.
The troll is quiescent for now, and as you watch it you notice that its wounds are healing before your eyes. Soon a fully-realized troll is captive in the pit.
The inspector moves to take a closer look at the fireplace and its contents.
Harshuk considers anyone that might have motivation or criminal history in the area when Arren voices his suspicion.
"One of our own? I don't know about that. But whoever it was, they'll have to answer for tonight's attack." The Bard pauses, then creates magical lights over 100ft in the air, hopefully visible back at the lodge. Three green lights to signal a hunt, one red light to signal a single a single quarry.
"I'll take the fore on this one, friend. " Harshuk's voice rings with authority as he calls out, then he starts following the tracks before they can be lost to fresh snow.
Arren follows after Harshuk, crouched low and thick boots digging into the snow as he runs. He keeps his nose articulating and his eyes on the trail, to help Harshuk not lose it.
Saipres has trouble noticing the tracks or making much sense of them, but believing that the Coldborn no doubt have a better understanding of the area and what is or isn't out of the ordinary, he follows behind Arren and Harshuk, keeping his eyes open for anything.
Wihtout words Kenna shifts and follows Harshuk keeping an eye out for anything trying to hide from them.
After having left the riekling to be taken care of, she moved to follow after this hunt. She kept her eyes searching for where the tracks where leading and for things besides the tracks that could be of important note.
Guys, give me a little while longer. I have no good excuse. Just writer's block. I'm very sorry...