"Dear Anton, I never said it was ugly, only that it changes." She pauses and adds, "And if you could never see these things in person, someone would have to be able to share it with words or song. Is this wrong, too, Ashan?"
I jest my lady. anton replies good-naturedly. As the lady says, the Varisian's have a rich history of story-telling and poetry. From what B'yelka tells me, Cheliax has magnificent opera houses where divas sing arias of the greatest events of our time. I'll have to go one day.
It must be sad to always think that way, Ashan. I have already seen those I loved most taken away from me. My parents were lost to me when I was very young. But that doesn't stop me thinking about them every day, or wondering what road they've taken in the Great Beyond. The world has lost none of it's majesty in my estimation it has, as B'yelka said, just changed.
"On the western edge of the Tanglebriar there once was a patch of mangrove trees. Children would wade out into the waist-high waters, playing games of stealth and cunning in the thick roots." Ashan begins as he circles Anton's horse, inspecting it from a distance. He also tests the horse's comfort, edging just a little closer to the animal each time he circles by its head. It's as if Ashan isn't sure how the animal will react to him. "During the day, the call of whippoorwills carried through the air with the children's cries; sun cast down lines like spears through the patchwork canopy."
When Ashan stops, within arm's reach of the horse's head, he raises a gloved hand up for the beast to sniff at. This stationary and exposed, its clear to see that for a lone traveler, Ashan carries no gear. His layered robe is without pockets, without a satchel, without any means to carry food or water. "The only cries that echo through the Tanglebriar now are ones of pain. The cackling of imps rasp through the bare branches of fire-blackened trees. The bones of the children who ones played in the roots adorn stone plinths marking the border of Treerazer's domain." Ashan turns his head to regard Anton, hand still held out for the horse. "Some beauty is lost forever."
"His daughter could vouch for me, though that takes you in... the opposite direction."
Janos whirls around at the mention of Kendra. "Kendra knows you? What does she know? Did she know you were out here?"
"I hadn't seen her since she was born, before a few days ago. Petros and I hadn't even seen one-another since..." Ashan trails off, waving one hand dismissively. "She knew of me. Petros must have told her some of who I am. If only heard that he had passed... Then she delivered more pertinent information on your... situation. You had already departed by the time I'd spoken with her. I... cut ahead to save time. Shorter spaces between two points." Exhaling a tired sigh, Ashan waves to the tower. "Id come here to recover some possessions I'd left behind the last time I was in these woods. As you can see, times have changed."
"You saw here and spoke to her only a couple days ago? Clearly you have some faster means than a horse." Janos thinks. "You understand why we're wary, yes? The Way is dangerous and if we accept your help, we want to know who it is we're counting on. Can you tell me something she told you, something which might put my fears at ease that you're telling the truth?"
"I had a scroll I used to recall to this tower." Ashan's tone is frustrated at that. "A poor choice, it would seem. As for Kendra's words... No. There's nothing she said that would assuage your concerns."
"Perhaps we can arrange a sending with her once we arrive at the Lodge, Janos. In the meantime, we should not be distracted from our surroundings as we ride."
Anton spurs on his mount and they set off at a brisk walk, the undergrowth is so dense even on this hunting trail, that a trot is out of the question.
Let's get to the Lodge. We can question Ashan as much as we like then. I never really knew the professor, truth be told, so I cannot say whether he spoke of you or not. Certainly Kendra has not mentioned you, but I'm sure Petros touched the lives of many.
Seeing that some of Professor LOrrimor's contacts are far flung and undoubtedly odd B'yelka adds, "Maybe the old man was more far seeing than any of us could ever expect. I mean, he made sure to find each of us. Maybe he knew that one, or more, of us would fall so he laid plans to keep the quest true. Even if he didn't know what the quest was when he arranged this." She heels her horse and begins trotting down the trail towards the lodge.
Drosil smirks at B'yelka's comment. "Not to sound droll, but if he was so prescient, perhaps he should have foreseen his death and prevented it? I can think of several ways that our time in these lands would have been significantly eased by his presence." He shakes his head, "No, despite the exaggerated devices and formulas used by many playwrights, B'yelka, I find it more reasonable - comforting, even - to think that he was just an extremely intelligent man that ran afoul of a nefarious group that, despite the success with which they have eluded us thus far, would have been utterly and completely helpless when it came to foiling some extrasensory gift of his, and will surely be brought down by our combined efforts."
Janos nods at the others' suggestions that they get moving. "Ok, let's go. You're right, we can rest and discuss things further at the Lodge."
Shrugging, B'yelka says only "Well, Drosil, you might be right. But then again when it comes to our final fate, some might say it would be unwise to avoid it too many times."
The Five, now Six again, leave the Tower of the Weaver behind and continue down the ancient hunting trail. The Shudderwood seems timeless. Its thick canopy blocks out any glimpse of the sun, leaving the Six to journey in perpetual, unchanging gloom. The whole forest exudes a sense of ancientness, danger and mystery. The group has the feeling as if they are insects intruding in the house of ancient spirits and magic. They camp that night amongst the shadowed depths of the Wood, jumping at every animal sound in the dark, but nothing comes to bother them.
The next day, after breaking their fast, the Six continue on. Up ahead on the trail, the pale corpse of a naked man hangs from a large yellow pine, bound to the trunk with rough cords. His mouth is stuffed with large, pale purple flwers, and his wrists and ankles are swollen and dark with bruises marking where his bindings cut into his skin, but the large silver hunting knife embedded deep in his heart seems the most likely cause of death.
B'yelka looks at the hanging corpse with a morbid curiosity. Why was he hung, gagged, and stabbed? Ritual or animosity? She does not move any closer than is strictly necessary.
Janos steps up to the body, careful not to touch it at first. he glances around for any traps rigged to the corpse which would bring a deadfall down on them or some other surprise. The flowers are the most interesting thing to him. "Some ritual or a warning is my guess."
Janos finds a tripwire cunningly rigged around the corpse. Anyone who stepped close to it would have set off a complex trap linked to several crossbows in the surrounding trees. The flowers stuffed into the corpse’s mouth are wolfsbane, a toxic plant also noted for its ability to drive off werewolves or cure the curse of lycanthropy.
This is grim. Anton says, stepping carefully toward the corpse. Everything suggests this man was a lycanthrope, or at least whoever did this thought they were. But what is this, vengeance, a message, marking territory?
Dantrian recognizes the flowers immediately, wolfsbane being a staple ingredient in both the bitter tea he drinks daily as well as the formula Lorrimor provided him. His face blanches at the grisly sight.
"Whatever the intent behind the display, it is a clear sign that we will find little safety within these woods." He gives each of the others, save for Ashan, a knowing look. One that clearly communicates Dantrian's chiefest thought after seeing the macabre effigy, 'I am a danger to you all here.'
Janos wakes up, the dark forest canopy suffocatingly black overhead.
- - -
Ashan does not eat when the others do, seated cross-legged away from the rest of the group. He has been in this position all night, back straight and hands folded in his lap, mask never removed from his face. This position of meditation is occasionally accompanied by a lilting chant in elven in early pre-dawn hours, conjuring haunting wisps of multi-colored light that dance like fireflies around the masked elf. Eventually a cloying shroud of darkness and starlight settles around Ashan's body, resting over his shoulders like a mantle. From within the darkness, slender and delicate hands reach out to caress his shoulders and arms, some touching his mask. From these smoky shadows, ephemeral shapes of elven figures drift and dance, whispering sibilant secrets in a tongue neither elven nor real, mumbling half-dreamed memories of lives once lived that only Ashan can infer meaning from.
In the hour, the mantle of starlight fades and Ashan rises from his seated position, sweeping dirt and dust from the back of his robe with gloved hands. Not once does Ashan intrude on the group's morning rituals, attempt small-talk, or otherwise interject beyond a cursory recognition that these companions are present at all. For now, he has no use for that camraderie; Perhaps it is unwanted, or perhaps Ashan feels he has not earned it.
Slowly dismounting from Anton's horse, Ashan's boots softly touch down on the road. Chin upturned and black eyes focused on the hanging corpse, the masked elf recognizes the display with a sigh as soft as his footfalls. Approaching no closer than Janos, Ashan regards the corpse with steely silence. But finally, he supposes of Anton's assertion, "Was he?" That fear and paranoia lead to mistakes that cost lives is not spoken, but it is implied fully in his tone.
Ashan raises one gloved hand in the direction of the hung corpse and intones soft, regretful words. "Ar lasa mala revas." Lowering his hand, Janos turns to Anton. "We must see to his remains, this forest needs no more restless spirits." No one deserves this.
______________
Using Ashan's dream SLA on Janos during the night to send creepy vision/messages.
Auto-casting dream feast while sleeping in order to have a full-day's sustenance.
Not changing Ashan's bound spirit.
You are now at peace.
Dantrian recognizes the flowers immediately, wolfsbane being a staple ingredient in both the bitter tea he drinks daily as well as the formula Lorrimor provided him. His face blanches at the grisly sight.
"Whatever the intent behind the display, it is a clear sign that we will find little safety within these woods." He gives each of the others, save for Ashan, a knowing look. One that clearly communicates Dantrian's chiefest thought after seeing the macabre effigy, 'I am a danger to you all here.'
Janos wakes with a start and immediately reaches for his the Lopper's Axe. He has it out before his head registers what was happening. Just a dream. The Ranger rises to check on the others and just to reassure himself he wasn't floating on some black void.
Just a dream, Janos. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the images. Why after all these years would he see some elven village? And who was that child? Just a dream. After seeing to the others, Janos quietly settles back into his bedroll, though he lays there for a long while, not able to sleep again.
Janos looks to Dantrian. "Wolfsbane. And silver. Would you like to do the honors to disarm the trap and cut him down?" He steps back to give the Alchemist room to work. As the man passes him, he whispers to him. "Easy. We're with you. We'll face whatever this is together."
He catches a glimpse of Ashan's masked face. Gods, that's creepy. I just wish he would take that off.
Anton moves to take the body down as Dantrian secures the trap. He cuts through the bindings with a dagger and braces himself for the dead weight that falls on him.
With a grunt of effort he lowers the body once again.
A knife to the heart. Almost seems... personal. Anton muses
Dantrian notices a paste smeared on the crossbow bolts that were part of the trap. He identifies it as silversheen, though the substance’s
potency has long since expired. This evidence, coupled with the silver knife buried in the man’s heart, confirms Anton's identification of the man as a werewolf (or at least suggests that his killers thought he was one).
Dantrian is careful and deliberate as he examines the body once the traps are dismantled and Anton's laid the cadaver on the ground. He moves over the corpse with practiced familiarity, testing lividity and examining the ligature marks around the wrists and other areas it was bound by.
In the end, he adds the wolfsbane to his own small supply and slips the dagger into his belt as well. "Regardless of whether this man was afflicted with lycanthropy or not, the trap was meant for those who are, though it is now too old to have been effective." He demonstrates as the dull silver coating on the bolts' tips flakes away. "As for this individual's remains, I do not think we should linger here and spend our time interring him in the shallow earth. We should strive to reach the Lodge as quickly as we might." He rises then, brushing his hands together before turning to Ashan, "You did not express the same desire to tend to the bodies of those victims of the weaverworm. Why should this one be different? I doubt this is the last body we will find within this darkened wood."
"Is there any way to know if the man was actually a werewolf?"
-Posted with Wayfinder
"I could perhaps test his blood, but I am unsure if it would reveal anything of worth. It has been unclear throughout my time working with Petros whether the curse remains active within the deceased. To that end, I have not encountered any writings or research that deal with undead lycanthropes, so if I had to hazard a guess I would think the terrible affliction purged from the body at death. But undead do not typically come about without a focused outpouring of necromantic magics, often very powerful magics, and it may be that which so scours the curse. Perhaps, there may even be magics so potent as to preserve it within the undead. It is all, unfortunately, speculation at this point, as far as I have found at least." The alchemist taps his finger against pursed lips as he goes quiet for a few moments, thinking through all he's learned of lycanthropy over the years before adding, "It is a shame Tibideau is no longer in our company. His knowledge of such things often greatly dwarfed my own and it is possible he might have come across some obscure writing that would give credence to one of these theories over the others."
"Well, then let's move on. hopefully we can get to the lodge before nightfall. Something tells me that would be best." He glances at Dantrian with a tinge of worry in his eyes, but only nods in his direction.
Anton doesn't like the idea of leaving the body for the animals but as he scans the treeline nervously he decides brevity is probably the best course of action.
He mounts his horse and says;
Come on, Ashan, let's get to that Lodge. If anyone has an idea of what is going on in these woods, it'll be them.
After several days of travel, the newly formed Six finally reach their destination—Ascanor Lodge, a large and decadently appointed manor deep in the heart of the Shudderwood. The lodge itself sits in a sizable clearing, its grounds surrounded by a wooden pallisade wall.
The entrance to the lodge is through twin, wrought iron portcullises set within large arches inside a small half-timber watch house, flanked on each side by a low stone tower. The gates are closed. As the six approach, helmeted men peer out at them from the towers on either side of the gate.
Anton takes in the remarkable view of this large, wooden building, rife with decoration and decadence set in the harsh wilderness of the Shudderwood.
He slows his horse to a walk as they approach the gates and dismounts. He stretches his back with a series of audible cracks.
Urrrghhh. That was a long ride! he says to the helmeted men as he walks toward one of the towers. Hello, gentlemen, beautiful day, and some place you have here! he says in greeting. My friends and I have reservations at the Lodge, my colleague has the paperwork.
Janos awakens with hasty, ragged breaths. The night is cold and dark, it had been days since his last dream, and this one will stick with him longer than the last.
Ashan has been quiet the entire ride, offering the minimum necessary speech to forward his journey with the others. The treatment of the corpse on the roadside has stuck with him, though the masked elf never explained why that corpse was different than the ones feasted upon by the weaverworm. The nights had been spend largely the same, meditating away from the others, though close enough to listen to fireside conversation. After several days of travel it is eminently clear to the others that Ashan does not, apparently, eat. Nor, does it seem, that he bathed; though the latter is likely out of necessity given the environment, as it is abundantly clear that he is in need of a good, warm bath.
The approach to Ascanor has Ashan on edge, and he dismounts from Anton's horse as soon as it comes to a stop. Unlike the paladin, however, Ashan sees fit to back away from the entrance of the lodge, standing by the horse's rear flank, just within arm's reach of the steed. Ashan looks back at Dantrian and B'yelka for confirmation that everything is fine, that armed guards is normal for Ascanor. Even as he hopes for that reaction, Janos can feel the dread cold of his ancestors creeping down his arms, ready to join him in battle.
___________________
Seeing Ashan's discomfort, Dantrian states softly, "Vir Halamethan, Ashan."
He then dismounts and steps forward at Anton's cue, producing the folded vellum sheet from within his vest. "Indeed, we have a letter of introduction from the Count of Vieland, Alpon Caromarc."
Mosswick slips off of his master's shoulder at this and flits over to B'yelka, offering her a cute smile and pat on the shoulder before plopping down in front of her, his tail wagging slowly as he watches Dantrian.
"This place is safe, Ashan."
lit. 'the road's safe end'
One of the men calls out, "We weren't expecting anybody. I'm sorry, we cannot open the gates with prior permission. I will send for the porter." The guards make no further comment, observing the Six from their posts.
A couple of minutes later a man comes up to the inner portcullis and it is raised. The man steps into the space between the two portculli and speaks to the group through the iron bars. He is a fastidious looking middle aged noble, whose full head of grey hair is pushed back from his head. A pair of spectacles perches on the end of his nose. "I am Belik of Courtaud, porter to the Lodge. We are not expecting any guests at this time, what is your business here?"
"Our immediate concern? We seek safe lodging and to be off the road, Mister Courtaud. We have a letter of introduction that should prove sufficient, prior notice or no." He indicates Caromarc's letter with a gesture.
Courtard takes the papers and spends several minutes perusing them in minute detail, lips pursed pensively. He finally looks up, and hands the papers back to Dantrian.
“I apologize for any misunderstanding, but as the porter of Ascanor Lodge, I cannot permit your entrance at this time. You do not have reservations in our books, and despite your claims, I have no evidence to justify allowing strangers into the lodge. From the looks of you, unlike the rest of my guests, you haven’t come here to take a peaceful retreat. I want no trouble, so of with you all, and take whatever troubles you bring somewhere else!"
Meanwhile, the incident draws the attention of the lodge’s guests, and a small crowd gathers inside near the gatehouse. Some of the onlookers seem curious, while others wear haughty sneers, but all whisper to one another, as if anxious to see the outcome of the disagreement.
Anton has met this kind of officious wretch more than once in his life. As a traveller he often was mistaken for a vagabond and asked to move along or barred entrance from respectable areas. He supposed this were no different.
Now sir. he says, politely. The looks of us are surely just of weary travellers well prepared for the dangers of yonder Wood. Now, though I admit we do not look our best, we simply wish to enter as is our right by invitation and to get dressed more appropriately. We have absolutely no desire to besmirch the reputation of your fine establishment, nor have anything other than a relaxing time in fine surroundings and finer company. We count among our number the famous Chelaxian diva Ms B'yelka Morfaine and I'm sure it would do the Lodge's reputation no good at all if it were to be known that entrance were denied her through some unfortunate misunderstanding.
He offers a dazzling smile than shines through his grimy and ssweat-streaked face.
Janos stands quietly, allowing Anton and the others to sort out the mess. The Ranger's bloodshot eyes dart around, to look at the various people gathered to gawk. They always love a spectacle.
He glances at the masked Ashan. Luckily the Count's invitation did not list them by name. He shivers as he remembers the elven language from his dream. He hadn't slept the rest of the night. Janos' fingers idly go to the frog pendant Kendra had given him. It helped calm his mind last night to think about her, but fear of what he might see in his dreams had ultimately kept sleep at bay.
Dantrian's face remains flat and stoic as he holds a level stare fixed up the porter.
Meanwhile, Mosswick snickers softly back beside B'yelka, the little homunculus the only one privy to Dantrian's unvoiced yet scathing retort.
Belik, if I may call you Belik, I am Anton. My friends and I will cause you no trouble, we just want to enjoy Ascanor's famous hospitality.
He waves cheerfully to some of the onlookers.
B'yelka spurs her horse forward. Once in front of the group, she stand up in her stirrups, making sure to take the moment so everyone watching can see her clearly. Once she has everyone's attention she says in a clarion voice, "My name is B'yelka Morfaine, late of Dekarum in Cheliax. If our letter of introduction is insufficient to allow our entry, maybe I can convince you that you want us to come in. You see, it's a known fact that your lodge is losing it's popularity and any resort and hunting lodge as old as yours cannot allow that to stand. When we return to Caliphas, or Lepidstadt we can share with the local nobility the story of your hospitality, the skill of your rangers and the magnificence of your home in the woods."
"I suppose you do have a recommendation from a count...." Belik says, hedging a bit. "You will be allowed in, but we will countenance no trouble from you all." With that Belik calls up to the guards, and the outer portcullis is raised, granting the group entry.
A rough-and-tumble-looking woodsman heads for the gate, followed by a young noble dressed in finely tailored, studded hunting leathers. Despite the commotion, the two men push through the crowd, oblivious to anyone else’s concerns. Several scruffy-looking hirelings follow behind them leading a pair of horses and carrying wooden crates marked with heraldic symbols. As they shuffle past, the woodsman calls to the noble, “For the last time Duristan! I’ll take you there, but I ain’t bringing my dogs!”
As the group begins heading through the portcullis, Drosil manages a half-bow to Belik, then smirks as he walks away. His voice low, he says, "Those crates apparently belong to the house of Ariesir, of Ardeal. Unless I miss my guess, that would make the young noble Duristan, of that house. I wonder where it is he wants to go?"
Anton gives a satisfied nod and tips a wink to B'yelka as he turns back to his horse.
He leads the animal in through the gates and, upon noticing the argument, interrupts briefly;
I'm sorry gentlemen, I can see you are in a hurry. Can you just point me in the direction of somewhere I can stable my horse?
Janos moves quickly inside the gate, lest the Porter change his mind. He tries to keep his eyes down and not draw the attention of anyone in the crowd. Despite all they had been through, it was times like this that he was missing that old familiar hooded cloak. He nods his head in acknowledgement to the men as they pass. "Good day, sir."
The nobleman turns to the huntsman saying, "Were there any howls? Footprints? Did you measure the claw or bite marks on the body? Dogs or not I wil...." Duristan cuts off in mid-sentence, interrupted by Anton. The nobleman turns to the Desnan paladin. "Ah! Excellent," he says. "You there! Fall in with me, I need more able sword-arms for the hunt!"