Well, this was not as she had planned it. Marsh seems to be more like the "joker" type. Better not try to order him, but let him do whatever he does... But it seems to work, either way. She cast an excusing look back to Warshawski as she slips on Windmane's back. "I don't know, whatever works. Or see that no one dies on us."
She is certain the proud warhorse feels her pain. As well as the comfort their unity gives her. She rushes forward in a small curve - she might not be able to flank the beast now, but she wants to leave as much space open for Dalton, Marsh and attack through the window.
Whatever blood is flowing through the veins of that beast is not so important right now, but the fact that it can bleed, nor the fact that the beast is merely being loyal to its master and probably not a creature of evil, because she knows no other way to overcome it but to fight it, so she focuses on her attack.
As blows rain down on it from all sides, Dahaka shudders, squeals, and collapses, its head still crammed into the doorway of the Dagwood cabin. Windmane's hooves seem to have broken one of the boar's back legs, and that thick, black blood oozes from its various wounds. Upon closer examination, it is clear that Dahaka should have been dead several hits ago, but its fury drove it to fight on and on until there was literally nothing left to throw at you. Truly, circumstance and poor planning on the beast's front have won the day; a glance at those tusks and its enormous muscles is enough to remind the party that, in an open field, this creature might have torn you all to shreds.
After the chaos of battle fades, it is strangely quiet inside the cabin. Outside, Dio flutters down from the trees, obviously terrified but curious about the giant boar, as it approaches Calwen and Windmane, chattering something in Draconic.
Although the water is shallow, you seem to be hundreds of feet out into the water, as the shore is fairly distant. A familiar structure stands upon it, an ominous building that tugs violently at your memories. It is remarkably still; there is no breeze, and no waves lap at the distant shore, so far as you can see.
You look around. You are not alone; several other figures stand in the lake as well, and you realize then that they are familiar to you- some of them, anyway. Dramin stands a little ways off, and beyond him you see what appears to be Warshawski, though her image is curiously blurred, as if she is not entirely there. Abner Dagwood, Markham Dagwood, and at least thirty other people surround you in the lake, all staring upward at the sky. You follow their gaze upward, noting that your spine seems stiff and in pain, though that pain seems so distant now that you are able to ignore it.
The sky seems to hang lower than usual, as if you could just almost reach up and snatch a star with a good jump. It's the spaces between them that are most interesting, however. There is movement in that blackness, an undulating rhythm, though what shapes could possibly be in motion out there is an impossible notion. It is like watching fish swimming through the glass of a particularly dim and foggy aquarium.
You detect movement nearby, and manage to tear your gaze away from the bizarre sky to find a woman striding toward you, gliding across the surface of the lake on a dancer's footsteps. She is beautiful, elven, with pale skin and long, black hair that hangs down to drag through the water behind her. You cannot force yourself to move as she approaches and embraces you, her warmth welcome in the chilly air. She kisses you, then her lips trace their way down to the nape of your neck, where you feel her breath against your skin for a moment before she begins to kiss there as well- and then bites down passionately.
What happens next is either a brief moment or hours of bliss, you cannot be sure- nor can you be sure of exactly what has happened, but you have no objection.
Suddenly you hear a voice nagging at you- [bigger]"Sorry, Bacarov..."[/smaller] Something moves. Pain jolts up your spine, and inadvertently you push the woman away and gasp.
She frowns, and taps a finger against her chin. And then she vanishes, only a faint ripple on the surface of the lake and the distant sound of mosquitoes buzzing the only evidence that she was ever there at all.
The pain in your spine is much more noticeable now, like a growing heat from sitting too close to the fireplace. Somehow, you find that you are closer to the shore, and that eerie manor seems to loom over you. The stars are closer now, too, eyes staring intently and watching your every move.
A familiar man kneels on the shores of Lake Encarthan, muttering in a language he should not know, his words muddled by the blood in his mouth. He rocks back and forth, watching you as he chants.
A voice in your ear: "Go to him, servant of Abadar. Restore to him his balance. You have been given a gift; heal him, and heal thyself."
There is a glow in your hands. You step onto the shore, and place your hands upon the man's shoulders as he stares at you, aware of the movement but not really seeing you.
The glow passes from you to him, and he is made whole. The pain in your spine increases, the fire growing hotter and hotter...
"You know now the way," the voice whispers in your ear. "Go and balance the scales of this world."
The diseased pig goes down, Marsh drops his cold iron demon headed flail and rushes to his friends side. He scoops Bacarov up in one of his arms while fishing for a healing potion with the other.
"Don't die on me you a@!*!~&! Stupid lawful f%!$. What the f+@* were you thinking tryin to pull off an arrest without me? Probably just expected him to just handcuff himself with piss runnin down his leg Too! Why?! Cause you got a badge and walk with Abadar like he's your damn beat partner or somthin."
Marsh peels back Bacarov's eyelids, checks his pulse and feels for broken bones.
"Still breathin, but bleedin out. What did this a freakin scythe?"
"Come on stay with me brother---you can't leave me alone man. I told your dad I'd bring-ya back in one piece. Don't make a lair outta me man!"
Despite his harsh words Marsh moves with exaggerated care and compassion.
"S%*#. That f#&!er opened you up and turned you into a damn hot-dog stand. Your f#+*in guts dumped out everywhere. You look like s&!~."
Marsh lays Bacarov on his back and pushes the inspectors heels towards his rear to help his intestines to fall back into place.
"Here choke this down you butthead!"
"I'm not lettin you die before I kick your ass!"
Marsh growls with fear inspired anger.
"Warshawski. Better get that scarf ready, cause if my pal dies. You gotta stop me from takin that guy apart piece by piece so help me."
Dalton lowers his sword slowly, with a long exhalation of breath. By the time his lungs are empty, he is as composed as he was a moment ago, before the battle began. Like Marsh, his first thought is for Bacarov; seeing that he is already being tended to, Dalton turns his thoughts to his foes. Markham was securely bound on the floor thanks to Warshawski...the old man was unconscious as well...that left the boar.
Sheathing his sword, Dalton reaches out and touches the beast's flank with one hand, feeling the coarseness of the fur. Would that I could have admired your majesty under more peaceful circumstances, mighty beast. I regret what was done to you...both by Markham himself, and by me. Before your corruption you must have walked these lands fearless of any and all, the monk thinks to himself in wonder. He closes his eyes in regret for what he was forced to do. He took no joy in that kill.
But only for a moment. The monk was conscious of the need for professionalism on this case. Opening his eyes again, he looks outside. "Calwen, are you alright out there?" he turns his gaze from the window to his other inspectors. "Dramin, you're unharmed, right?"
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♤
♢
♧
Flesh and blood and bone respond to the elixir, knitting together the wounds left behind by Markham's scythe. His body convulses, boot heels kicking outward and then dragging back and forth along the wood floor. Bacarov's blood smears beneath his stirrings, red swirls and streaks painting macabre, impressionist images.
Cold waters and the portraits of friends long gone burst from his mind and his eyes open in a rush. He scrambles backwards until he hits a wall. A cloudy white, murky veil shrouds his vision and he rubs at them with the bloody heels of his hands as he gasps repeatedly for air.
"Ffffeddrrr..." the word is on his lips, chattering outward as though his voice came from a frozen wasteland, croaking and cracked.
Pain arcs up and down his spine, his head is splitting with agony, and his vision continues to waver no matter how much he rubs at his eyes. As starfields and flashes of light dance before them, all he sees are greys and blacks and the swimming shapes of others in the room.
Bacarov coughs. "Ffffeddrrr..." He forgoes wiping at his eyes and tries to focus on the shape in front of him. A large shape moving to him with arms out. The face comes into view, black-grey blood oozing from his mouth.
He wards away the shape, hand going to his belt to draw a dagger...but his belt is gone. "Nnnnoooo.... I-I-I h-h-h-ealed... Ffffeddrrr...!!"
His left hand grasps a strip of cloth, his handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers. He furiously wipes at his eyes, smearing blood away to clear his vision. There, in front of him is Vinnie, concern on his face, blood not dripping from his mouth.
He takes a moment to assess, to pull in the scene around him. The dead boar earns his longest stare. Perhaps it's the low light in the room, or the hammering pain in his head, but all the room is devoid of color. He glances to the other side of the house, the kitchen is outlined in hazy blurs of black. Then his eyes rest upon the unconscious form of Markham, his manacles around his wrists and his belt around his ankles. Bacarov's hand goes to his waist and he understands. He also sees that the villain is dying.
Not before I get answers.
"Fffffeetters... i-i-in my pack." He coughs once, lips wetted by blood, neck and back on fire. "S-s-someone get me my b-b-belt before everyone sees my knickers..."
He leans against the wall and pulls the wand secured in its wrist sheath. Waving the implement in Markham's direction he says, "N-n-never mind me, Vinnie. Get those b-b-bloody fetters on Markham. Bind his mouth too. D-d-don't want him c-c-calling a dire sasquatch or something..." He winces at the effort to just talk and grips the wand to tap it against his own thigh.
(Bacarov)
His wounds close completely, the only remnants on the surface the raw red markings of freshly formed skin. "Better...better..." He looks down at the wand, then to his hand. Flashes of his nightmare erupt behind his eyes. He shuts them, noting that the wand's healing did nothing for the pain in his back.
Once someone gets Markham situated, Bacarov uses the wand once more, this time on Markham to keep him from bleeding out.
(Markham)
Bacarov returns the wand to its sheathe and wipes at his eyes once more and let's the handkerchief fall to the floor as he tries to push away from the wall and stand upright. But as he does so, immeasurable pain slashes thru his spine and travels to his left leg. The limb fails to support his weight and he collapses to the floor.
"Bloody hell..." he grunts and tries to push himself to his feet again. He works his way along the wall and collapses into a chair. A few deep breaths and he nods to everyone. "Not the best arrest, but it'll do." He frowns at the room, rubbing at his eyes again. "Where's Calwen?"
"I'm alright, I'm alright." Dramin looked at the monk as he said it, but he was wondering if the words were indeed correct. Sure he had not been injured, but that is hardly the entire story. He had almost killed an old man, and worse, would have done so at the expense of his comrades who were dealing with a scythe wielding madman. I'm alright. I'm fine.
"You injured at all? I don't have much in way of healing but I can at least keep watch while we patch ourselves up." He had seen men die before, it was a common occurrence when you work among foolhardy boys who have something to prove; those who don't realize that the world and its secrets are so much bigger and scarier than they. This was different though. He tried to pin it and looked at the room in the process. Its the scope. This entire thing looks like it has the power to consume more than just a small crop. Its bigger than a bugbear problem, more than just a troll controlling a bridge... He furrowed his brow. Thats why my chest is thudding so much. If one of us falls, there is a good chance the rest will do so after. He wandered down to Bacarov and Marsh.
"Big man, is he alright?" He didn't wait on an answer when he heard Bacarov jump out of his too close rest. The man was pale, but that was to be expected when you get so close to death's door. Dramin knew that Marsh could handle it and went back to the boar and the ichor on the floor.
It was vile.
He looked at the arrows in the blood and debated recovering them. They could prove useful I suppose. Worth a look at least.
He hears Bacarov ask about Calwen. "The knight is outside. Her horse may need some attention Bacarov, if you have a minute." He didn't want to speak for her, but she might be too proud to ask.
The voice in his head echoed.
And if one of us falls...
Perhaps Markham performed some blasphemy out of devotion to his unnatural religion, and that is what led to this boar's suffering, Dalton considers to himself as he looks at the black blood. Not trusting his own memory to recall knowledge of the sort, he mentions it to Warshawski, who seems to have some knowledge of otherworldly things.
"Is corruption of the blood mentioned in Beliandral's texts?" the monk wants to know. "For that matter, does that particular deity have texts?"
Dramin's ears perk up as he looks at the blood on the floor.
"You know what Dalton, I have never considered that." He didn't want to send people on a wild goose chase so he looked around the room and checked to see if the traditions passed by were aural or (as he hoped) had any written documentation. He wasn't sure if it was worthwhile, but then again, that was the learning process after all.
He looks at the monk and doesn't want to waste his time but carries on anyway.
"Thanks for the spark of inspiration. We need all the information we can get."
He finishes scooping up the bile and looks at it. I wonder if I have time for a lengthly analysis... He heads over to the fire and to where there may be water. "I'll be checking on this blood, don't disturb me unless something occurs... or if you can tell me about this corrupted bile."
Calwen enters. Through the door this time and looks concerned around. "I am here. Thanks to your god, thanks to Abadar you are alive. Anyway, good work everyone. That may have ended considerably worse." She sighs holding a piece of cloth which she used to clean Windmanes hooves off whatever dark blood that was. The poor stallion had been completely shaken by that demonic experience, even though that had not stopped him from crushing the head of evil.
She listens to the others talking about the corruption. "Yes, that creature, that giant boar, was deeply corrupted and what was running through its veins was more akin to tar than blood. Is Markham still alive?"
Damn you. she thought. You just had to be deep into all this. I did not want to be your enemy, but I am with the forest and everything that is truly beautiful and not with evil behind a pretty mask.
"We need to get some answers. What's behind this cult? What's behind Beliandral? And..." She stopped herself from continuing and glared at Markham. It was all so confusing. She keenly remembered the promise she had given to the Lyila to avenge Armand. She wanted an easy way to end all this. But there was no easy way, there was blood and terror and little answers. It was difficulty to find any light in all this.
What would become of Abner now? Regardless of whether or not Markham was alive, he would not go free. She casts a glance to Warshawski, trying to figure out what she is thinking.
Markham Dagwood slowly begins to stir after the healing wand's magic courses through him. Though clearly still wounded, his wounds close and the bleeding stops after a moment. His eyes drift open and he quietly surveys the situation; when his eyes move to the fallen dire boar, he trembles in anger. "You have any idea how much of my time you've just made into a waste?" he mutters. "Y'all are gonna pay for-"
He stops as he attempts to move and realizes that he has been restrained. He struggles for only a brief moment before realizing the situation is hopeless.
Markham glares at the party, and smiles in self-satisfaction when he sees how badly hurt Bacarov is. "How're you doin' over there, brother?" he asks.
♤
♧
He nods with relief at the sight of Calwen, glad she'd not been killed. But the wound at her side still bore the tale of the fight. "We have a hard earned break in this case and the plague on the area." He pushes himself up from the chair, glancing to his right and finding one of the old man's canes leaning to. Out of instinct and in response to the flaring pain in his back, he grabs it up and uses it to cross the floor to the elven knight.
"We'll get cleaned properly later, but for now let's close up that wound," He withdraws the CLW wand and holds it up for use. After getting a nod of acceptance from her, he uses it on Calwen.
Frowning down at the wand, and assessing that she needs more healing, Bacarov makes as though to use it once more. But a glimmer flashes across his mind, a memory of a lake and his bleeding friend. The Inspector raises a hand and makes as though to view the wound more closely. But he closes his eyes briefly and mutters the words to ands old tune... "♬ There's a place I like to hide... a doorway that I run thru in the night.... ♬"
The palm of his hand glows slightly and he presses it to Calwen's shoulder. It's no more potent than the wand, but he sees her flesh knit together between thew plates of armor.
He slips the wand away and whispers a thanks to Abadar.
Seeing no one else do so, Bacarov grits his teeth and proceeds to bind Markham's feet with his set of fetters. After, he gathers up his belt and checks the big man's eyes to ensure he's still out. Then he says softly, "For the interrogation, I will need to do and say things that may not...align to what you know of me. But I must make him believe I'm willing to go as far, if not further than him and his ilk. I ask for your trust."
That done he returns to the seat near Markham and collapses. Bacarov rubs at his eyes again. Things in the room seem so much blurrier, grey even. Dramin's form in the kitchen is but a shadowed outline. Exhaustion... Too much going on the last few days, mate. It's taxed flesh and spirit.
Dramin works at his samples, reminding Bacarov briefly of his friend Aldridge back home. Always fussing with chemicals and the boundless knowledge. A glance to the boar and the dark fluid pouring from its many, he wonders at the mention of corruption
》 (assist Dramin)
》 (discolored blood)
-----------------------
Bacarov drums his fingers on the arm of the chair and smirks at the big man. "I've had worse from better than you, Dagwood. It takes more than a jumped up country bumpkin to rattle me. And had I fallen, I had faith in the skill of my comrades to ensure you and your little piggy weren't far behind." He leads a glance to the dead animal and chuckles with contempt. "What a waste... Good pork is hard to find in the city." Back to Markham. "Have you ever had roasted pork belly, Dagwood? With smears of spiced sauce..." He lingers on the thought.
He sighs and presses a hand to his temple, then let's it fall, a few fingers gesturing to Abner's unconscious body near the bedroom door. "First off, I want you to know that your father will receive proper care. I'll see to it he has a furnished apartment and all the oils and paints and elixirs to keep his golden years full of contentment." Bacarov let's his now sky blue eyes rest on the big woodsman, raising a single finger. "If I get the answers I seek from you. Otherwise he will share a long struggle dangling from the gibbet. I won't let his neck snap, I'll have him gently lowered into position."
Bacarov drums his fingers again. "All this time you've spent following Belindrial and seeking the darkness beyond. Wasted time." He shakes his head and tsks. "Chum, the noose is all you'll receive. Don't think you're special, Dagwood. I've stopped other cults and power seekers who've done and seen worse. You're not the first, and you won't back the last." Another sigh and a shake of the head and he mutters, "Your kind never learn."
His mind drifts to a far off darkened land, a poisoned drink and the hands of a madman at his throat.
"Now," Bacarov gives himself a shake and continues. "...I want no illusions between us. Markham Dagwood, you've confessed to the involvement in cultic activity in the realm, assaulted with the intent of murder representatives of the Magnimar government. You're also the prime suspect in the murder of a druid named Armand, an honored comrade of a knight of the white rose. There is no survival for you. I'll see to it you're hanged in the public square so all those who think they they can defy justice will see the truth." Bacarov withdraws his pipe, eager to get something to cover the stench of the dead pig.
"For your father's sake, I want to know the names of these amateurs you alluded to earlier. The ones in Ravenmoor. Then we will move on to the 'Thirty' and Carrion Hill."
(Markham)
He leans back and lights his pipe, puffing it to life and waiting.
Marsh turns his back to their prisoner. He gets out his handaxe and gives the bearded head a few passes with the puck shaped stone from his belt pouch. . .
<<<shink---shink---shink---shink---shink---shink>>>
He checks it with a finger. Satisfied, Marsh goes about extracting the great boars tusks.
It was better than taking it to the side of Markham's head. Sebastian was still acting like they were a block away from the precinct. Marsh was glad they weren't burdened with Bartley as a prisoner. Now the group would need to babysit this one and the old man. The mayor was friends with Abner. The mayor had lied about a few key points. He knew what Marcum was about. It would have been impossible not to.
The boar's head was putrid, but the ivory was thick and impressive. A mature alpha boar had significant weight in white gold. The tusks would be an important trophy and would send a message . . .
"Don't f$~! with us."
As the steel bit bone the big man guided the beveled head along the seam of the nose bone. The widening gap would eventualy crack and detach itself from the skull near the sinuses. The lower jaw had a seam at the center eventually he would have four quartered off pieces removed. The work gave him something to do. Slaughterhouse work was always avalible in the slums. It was filthy work. It could be dehumanizing seeing how animals and people came apart. Inside living things were all about the same . . .
<<<Crack!!!>>>
"Thank you." Calwen whispers as Bacarov heals her and just nods as he asks to trust him. She has given her word to let lead the investigation, she would not break.
Silently she stepped through the room had another look at the paintings, but only briefly, before she turned them around, one by one, so that only the backsides could be seen anymore. The interrogation would probably be simpler if Markham was not constantly watched by his mistress or whatever she was. "Are you indeed an elf?" she asked the woman silently. "How could you do all this?"
The message to Markham was that he was in the power of their little group by now; and that his mistress had long turned away from him. And even if she had not, Calwen doubted that Beliandral was of a kind that looked kindly on failure and Markham had not exactly been subtle. Markham still seemed defiant. Was it simply obstinancy? Did he not realize defeat? What did he hope to achieve by refusing to cooperate? He was probably... addicted to that creature in some way. But he must realize that she would not save him, even if she could.
When she arrived at the location on the floor where the old men lay she wettened her fingers and held them close in front of his mouth to check his breath. When she was pleased she got a pillow and a blanket from the nearby bed and put it over him and under his head, reaspectively. Finally she stepped to the cauldron where his medicine was boiling, casting that obscene smell that made it hard for her to think straight.
Every now and then she would look to Bacarov to see whether there was any signal for her.
As Marsh begins his attempt at removing the boar's tusks, a horrid surge of lumpy, black ichor pours out of the wound and sputters onto the ground. The stink of death floods into the room, assaulting the senses of everyone present.
As Calwen turns the portraits of Beliandral away from Markham's sight, he seems to weaken. Bacarov's interrogation seems to be wearing away at his defiance, though he seems thankful when Calwen provides a bit of comfort to his unconscious father.
"...Let me tell you this 'fore we get started. My old man ain't never hurt anybody. He's an innocent in this, an' that's the truth. He's felt Beliandral's kiss on his neck, sure, but all he ever done is paint and long for her. She's all he cares about, not the faiths she sows. An' he's a peaceful man. So you make good on that promise to keep him safe, an' I'll talk... as much as I can stand to."
He sighs and rolls onto his side so that he can see the rest of the group. "There's a cult in Ravenmoor, all right. I been a part of it, an' I transcended it. It's lost its way, thanks to the weakness of its current leader. Beliandral's lost interest in them. She tasked me with watchin' over 'em while she worked her way with her Keepers, her boys in Carrion Hill. This is all too small-scale for her, now." He shifts uncomfortably. "I'll tell you straight away who the leader of this cult here is: and that man's name is Kriegler. An' there's only one Kriegler in Ravenmoor- bank on that."
"As for that Armand boy, yeah, he was killed, but not by me. His killer's still in Ravenmoor, an' if you thought that killer was me, then you're lookin' too obvious. Armand's killer was a woman, more or less, and I'll tell ya this much: she ain't what she seems."
"Thirty is the number of people inside that cult. There're a hunnert-an'-sixty or so people in town, so I wouldn't start up a witch hunt if I wanted to avoid a riot. Some of 'em are obvious. Some of 'em ain't. Your friend Bartley, for instance, he wasn't involved with 'em. Them Lupescus, though- you keep your eye on them. They indoctrinate early and thoroughly. That girl'a theirs, I guarantee you she's in on it by now. They're fanatics, though, loyal to Kriegler 'til death. The whole cult's gone wrong, though. Lost sight of things, grown weak over the generations. Leadership's gone soft, lost sight of Beliandral's true goals. You want to get 'em all at the same time? Tonight's your night. They'll be out there in them sick fields, most likely the whole lot of 'em."
Dalton keeps his mouth shut, mindful that saying the wrong thing could ruin Bacarov's interrogation. He doesn't react when the foul-smelling ichor plops out of the boar's dead wound, only wrinkling his nose faintly in disgust.
Kreigler... he thinks to himself, remembering the unknowable look in the man's eyes grimly and gazing out the cabin window.
Calwen steps by Bacarov's side, cover's her mouth with her hand in Markham's direction and whispers to him. "The person whose tracks I found had likely been shorter than him, the stride was shorter. It's thinkable that it was a woman. I can't say for sure."
She was wondering what he meant when he said that there was only one Kriegler. Was he talking about Andretti or Leonard? Or none of the two? Leonard seemed to be too much about a hothead to make for a high priest, but the looks might be deceiving and Andretti might be just a figurehead. Or they both were.
She did not like the prospect that Shel was in on it. So, she was a youvenile poison who played her beauty well and deceived those around her. But by Calistria, Calwen had had her own phases of being a nasty vamp in her youth. But if she was too deep in to it she might already be lost, too deeply indoctrinated. If Markham was speaking the truth about all this, but he did not exactly strike her as a schemer or manipulator. The death of Andretti's wife might be the key to this.
She would of course never do anything to harm an old man painting works of art of outstanding beauty. But she could hardly let this show right now.
A direct confrontation with thirty of them would be too much; and even if it weren't, a massacre could not be the answer. But they had to find out the truth... A strange night tonight. Was the festival a distraction for the cultists to perform the rituals? Or was it their ritual and Markham tried to put them on a false trail?
What did any of this have to do with Ustalav and what that Nettelby was doing; he clearly was in the service of Beliandral as well, but not necessarily part of this particular sect of cultists. And what was Beliandral's goal he spoke of? If they wanted to destroy the evil at its root they would at least have to find Beliandral. That there were more sects in different places was not good; it was probably best to focus on this one for now.
♤
♤
♤
Bacarov nods understanding, a passing glance Calwen's way as she confirms the possible stature of Armand's assassin.
Then his mind considers the dead boar and the filth issuing from its opened body. He gestures to Marsh and says, "Thjs book of blood is better left untouched. But if it's needed, ensure whatever trophy you acquire from the beast is thoroughly cleansed, Vincent. It's flesh and bone and soul is tainted by necrotic energies."
Bacarov focuses back on Markham and says, "A good start, Markham. Your father is well on his way to those golden years I promised." He taps again on the arm of the chair. "A tricky thing, isn't it mate? Balancing the loyalists of your would be goddess with those of the blood?"
He digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes and then scratches at his nose. He opens his sky-blue eyes and focuses on the grey shades of the big woodsman. "Confirm the true Kreigler, is it Andretti and his spouting of false Desnan allegiance? Or is it his brother, hiding behind the illusion of an ill-tempered nature?"
"Then describe for me the particulars of this woman who not what she seems." Bacarov pauses and steeples his hands in front of him, the burning pain in his back tenting his demeanor and tone with the promose of malice. "Answer unreservedly and without parable, Dagwood. This evening, your father survives because you aid us in destroying the rotten vine of your...cult in Ravenmoor. But even after your death, if the information you provide does not prove accurate or is misleading, your sire will not long survive your betrayal."
Markham looks as if he is struggling to choke down a mouthful of sour food, his lips twisting even if no words are coming out. "The 'true' Kriegler..." he winces, and cuts himself off before he can finish his thought. "...Guess you couldn't be convinced to just find out for yerselves, could you? No... no, of course you couldn't... Of course not."
His breathing seems more strained than it was before, and his eyes appear distant. He shuffles into a seated position.
"...Papa, I fly unto our Lady's grace, a bit ahead of our brothers and sisters, even if they should join us soon enough." He looks up at Bacarov with a strange expression, fear and amusement simultaneously. "You've seen this before, haven't you? You should know I can't tell you. She won't let me."
He then mouths a phrase in some ugly language- a language Bacarov suddenly and inexplicably understands:
Almost instantly, Markham's scythe begins to materialize on the floor below him, its long blade angled up toward the ceiling- and Markham throws himself onto it, impaling his throat upon its blade with a sickening, squelching sound. His eyes bulge as blood spurts from his throat.
"Heh! Would ya look at that. The guy just off and kills himself."
"Well . . . that worked out remarkably well for us."
"What were they cookin on the stove anyway?"
". . . What!?"
Dalton jumps in surprise at Markham's sudden scythepukku, his normally calm outer exterior shattered. His eyes widen and his hand immediately goes to his temple sword, though there are no enemies to be fought. None except the enemies of sanity, the enemies of the mind. "This...Beliandral inspires a truly dedicated following for some, it seems..."
He shakes his head. "Pah. Religious zealotry claims another life full of potential." his voice is slightly shaky. Killing a man in combat, in self defense, that was a fact of life - it changed you, true, but it could be rationalized as a contest of wills made manifest. Witnessing this man kill himself was something different.
The smell of death, with Markham's soul added to the pile, became too much for the monk. Covering his mouth with his robe's sleeve, the man throws his hood over his head and steps outside through the window, since the boar's body is blocking the doorway.
"No!" Calwen yells up in surprise as the scythe suddenly appears, but there is nothing that can be done about it anymore.
She takes several deep draws of breath. The whole situation is completely unreal. A strong and powerful warrior killing himself in the presence of his unconscious father, who depends on him. "I... I don't know. I have a feeling her influence is not simply based on charm. It is... like a spell that compels them to secrecy. Nettelby and then Markham, sacrificing themselves for the cause of evil, just out of pure conviction. Conviction it may be, but not out of pure faith."
She sighs. "We must tread more carefully; it was a mistake, to confront him directly, I am sorry. If we leave a trail of blood and destruction in our wake while the truth eludes us yet, that may do more harm than good. I may be a warrior and ready to kill for what I believe in, yet my blade is meant to cleanse and guard those in neeed, not helplessly sow destruction in the face of riddles." She pauses briefly. "What do we do with Abner? He needs someone to watch for him. I suppose we have further investigating to do here as well."
She takes a look at Abner to see whether he is actually unconscious and adds a little lower: "There is something odd about what Markham said... but not here."
She leans down, moving Markham carefully around to stop him from bleeding on the floor. And that even though the old man was so terribly set to keep this place clean. came a most inappropriate thought into her mind.
"I guess I'd better drag him out and search him. I can hitch up the cart an drag this little piggy out too."
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Bacarov watches as Markham does himself in upon the scythe. He grips the arms of the chair, frustration in his eyes. Then he hears the words Markham had uttered with his last breath. The twisting consonants looped around vowels like a constrictor's could around a throat. As the woodsman's body slumps and bleeds, Bacarov slumps in the chair and sighs.
"Zealotry, faith, conviction...all in service to this witch Beliandral. It matters not what we think, it only matters what they believe." He stares at Markham's corpse for a good long while, even as Calwen moves to right him enough to stop the flow of blood. His eyes unfocused, swirls of greys in his vision, he says, "It was no mistake to come here. We've bypassed the brambles and found a root. A good Inspector can go years without a break this big. I know that first hand. As far as the results thus far, we should anticipate more bloodshed considering the level of dedication in this group. to not do so would be to blame ourselves so what happened riddles I like steps out of the darkness, sooner or later will find a way to the light."
He rocks a bit in the chair, flares of pain causing him to grimace. "There are a great many things Mr Dagwood has admitted, even going so far as to offer what was clearly forbade by his benefactor. As you said, Calwen, a spell or enchantment of some sort. But at the very least our enemies step further out of the lake's mists."
Dramin, Warshawski, the thirty in the village...I know their faces now...
He rubs at his eyes and feels exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. "We will need to secure both Kreiglers. He said 'bank on it' - meaning my instincts about the mayor were correct. The way he controlled that crowd, the way he bristled like a prima donna when I questioned his clerical abilities. He behaves like a man who's come to a...refined understanding of power." Bacarov shakes his head. "The again, it could be the brother...or someone else in the bloodline."
Or his dead wife...a woman killed Armand.
...a woman...more or less...not what she seems...
Marleyna...
Bacarov scratches at his nose and shakes his head. "A woman killed Armand. I'm concerned we've underestimated Marleyna. I'll leave it to Calwen and Warshawski to dig deeper, but Bartley had a...concern about her activities. Things that lead along paths a madman like him didn't like. It could mean nothing, perhaps she just wanted something clean and good and that's what set him off. But we should be cautious."
"Markham also mentioned the sick fields... I'd like nothing more than to identify who is out there. My bet it's either the fields outside the Chenkwitz place. That or where they're growing the flayleaf."
He shakes his head. "But we need rest. I suggest we bunker down here. Clean up the place and hold up for the night. Is there a horse tied outside that goes with that card? Perhaps we can use its strength to clear the boar. As for Abner, perhaps between us we have some herbalism that can aid him in sleeping thru the night. Then we decide on the morrow."
He looks to the others for suggestions.
The scythe. He only heard the final result of the suicide...
If I was paying more attention maybe I could have figured out where it came from! He was kicking himself, but it wasn't about the lost lead or the now dead man who was working for them; it was for the scythe.
He supposed he was back to normal. Or he would have if he realized what normalcy was.
"I apologize. I didn't notice the enchantment that may have been on him." Dramin returns to the group, taking the silver lining of knowledge with him. "I do think Calwen is right here though; we must tread more carefully now. If these people have enchantments on them, it could be that she has divinations upon them too..."
His eyes shot open.
"May I take a look at Markham here? Its unlikely there is any trace but perhaps we should look for brands or any signs on him as we wait." He grabs his falchion off the floor. "As much as I think this girl may be involved Bacarov, there is no way in all of the underworlds that we are splitting up after this. Its not that Calwen and Warshawski aren't capable... I just think that with what happened here we may be better off not doing that."
He starts kneeling next to the body and gets ready to open up the deadman's shirt, continuing his talking without break.
"All it takes is for one of us to get snatched away in the night, split up, and enchanted. At that point, there is no way we can trust each other. What if they returned, only to be dominated and compelled as he had? Could you turn your hand against them? I wouldn't be able to break the bonds. Would we know?"
Dramin saw Bacarov wince at the pain. "Though I'll leave it in your capable hands. Without further time, shall we strip down and look for any clues? It is a longshot but we never know."
"I don't think the girl is mixed in this. I don't think we have time to waste either. The festival is in full swing. We need to hit the Chenkwitz place. We know somthin's up there an if Bartley wasn't a part of all this then where did all the negative vibes and bugs come from?"
"Don't'cha worry about Bacarov. He's had to slip a friend a blade before. S**# happens."
Vincent performs a search.
includes the +3 for locating concealed items from trait.
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Bacarov waves off any concern from Dramin regarding his back, "I fear Markham's blade has done permanent damage. But I've suffered worse before." He gestures to Markham's body. "Check his neck. Nettleby had a marking there. It might be the way this Beliandral delivered her enchantment."
"Let's not worry about knives in the dark just yet, Vinnie. But perhaps we rest here the afternoon, then head out to the Chenowitz place near sunset. Scout it out. Maybe get into a position to observe. If all thirty of these dancing nancies shoe up, we've got no chance to combat them. But at least we'll know more about them."
I know their faces, standing in the mists of Encarthan...
He blinks and focuses on Marsh. "I would rather Marleyna not turn out to be involved, but I'll not turn a blind eye to the possibility. There is an ocean between what we want to be real and what is reality. We must be cautious." He looks around the place and shakes his head. "If we do approach her, we can do it together, but I think Calwen and Warshawski should do the talking. It appears my knack for arrests in Magnimar have far less blood-letting involved than in Ravnmoor. Perhaps I'm just losing my touch?" He chuckles at the last.
For the time being he watches Dramin work and looks I the others for their opinions.
Searching Markham's body reveals what most of the party was probably already expecting: either side of his neck is covered in the same sort of telltale bruises that marked Dramin's only a night before. These are quite ripe, almost purple, and again look very much like love bites.
Markham's gear is of excellent quality. In addition to his finely-made hide armor, his scythe remains on the ground where he fell upon it. Anyone attempting to detect magic upon his person would immediately notice a faint magical aura coming from his boots, as well as his cloak.
In his pack are several flasks, including two potions that require identification. His belongings, which he had left near the sitting area, contain a very well-made composite longbow, a quiver of arrows, and a variety of mundane hunting and trapping supplies- including beartraps, tripwires, and various daggers and hatchets.
Examining the house itself reveals little. Other than the paintings and ordinary furnishings, there seem to be few personal items about. That is, of course, aside from Abner Dagwood's multitude of paintings...
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nope
He closes his eyes as Dramin does his search, extending outwards to feel along the magical lines remaining in the room.
boots (aiding Dramin)
cloak (aiding Dramin)
Bacarov assists with reviewing the woodman's accoutrement, nodding with minor interest at the cloak and boots. "An aura upon them, Dramin. What do you think?"
"Lets take a look then." He casts a detection upon hearing Bacarov's own study.
"The cloak and the boots. They definitely have something."
He sees the bow and the quiver as well. "I have no qualms with salvaging from the dead in a place like this." He taps his quiver, now missing a few more rounds. "I doubt they will love to fletch for me."
When Bacarov casts his detect magic spell, he notes a few other auras as well; the scythe, the longbow, and the two potions.
Marsh sets about his work and, after the bodies are removed and Abner's still-sleeping body is moved into his bed, the Dagwood cabin is eerily quiet.
Calwen levels the flames under the pot a little, lest it boils over again... just enough to keep it warm. The old man is in for quite a surprise when he wakes up.
The intense smell of the medicine, the presence of blood and dead body made her long for the moment when she could leave. But when she did she almost stumbled over the corpse of the dire boar out there.
"If Markham spoke the truth about a woman being Armand's murderer - and he did not mention the other dead body I found there, so there is at least one piece out of place - we should not forget about the tailor. Or, shall I say... the weaver. I do not want to raise the impression I was accusing her; I do not even know how old she is and whether she is physically capable for such adventures. Apart from that... I am not sure what to make out of the way he accused the Lupescos. Mister Lupesco clearly had no idea who Beliandral is and her description did not mean anything to him in the conversation I overheard."
She sighs and pulls herself up on Windmane's back. "The festival must have started by now, if we want to talk to anyone we will find them there. I wonder whether Markham's statement that this night was used as cover for cultist activities was a ruse to direct our attention elsewhere... but I do believe the Chenowiz place is important. What about the dead bodies?"
- - - -
After a few minutes, Warshawski, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor in deep concentration, groans and gets to her feet, her cheeks flushed. "Nothing," she grumbles. "Nothing at all. It's like the entire area's been swept clean of spirits." She looks over at Bacarov and Dramin, a grim expression on her face. "Remember what happened with Bartley's spirit?"
Before anyone can postulate any more on the subject, a groan from the bedroom where Abner has been laid up steals everyone's attention. The old man rolls over in bed, his eyes drifting open. He seems to have regained consciousness.
While outside, Dalton had decided to attempt to move the colossal boar's body so that it's clear of the house. Grasping the pig's rear legs and hiking them up under his armpits, he tries to haul it back so it's pulled free of the woodwork.
Is he successful?
While outside, Dalton had decided to attempt to move the colossal boar's body so that it's clear of the house. Grasping the pig's rear legs and hiking them up under his armpits, he tries to haul it back so it's pulled free of the woodwork.
[Dice=Strength Check]1d20+5
Is he successful?
"Best to tell him Bel took his son to be with her. It ain't no lie . . . ."
"What's the matta with you Sebastian? Why are you sittin an actin all weird?"
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"Consumed." Bacarov sneers at the thought, but there is relief in his chest knowing that at least he still draws breath. "The sounds of bugs in this area, much louder than others in and around Ravenmoor. I shudder to think, but we may need to be...vigilant to ensure another swarm of those little bugs doesn't descend upon this house..."
(listening for bugs)
Bacarov grins slightly Marsh's way, but there are twinges of a in in his eyes. "I think Markham's second strike upon me caused...unforseen complications. We will see if time and rest put things aright." At the suggestion he nods. "As good a plan as any, I suppose. His infatuation with her may aid in easing the loss."
Bacarov shakes his head at Calwen's statement on a ruse. "No. The big man was telling the truth. At least as much of it as Belindrial's enchantment would allow. He wanted his sire taken care of despite the fate that awaited him."
He stands up from the chair, grabbing up the cane, and crosses to the kitchen. "It's close to Afternoon Watch, so the night is but 3 or 4 hours away. We have time to dispose of Markham and some of the pig then take our rest and then I think we use the cover of the festival to investigate the Chenowitz place." After a brief search in the cupboards he finds a mug and ladles in a helping of Markham's concoction. "After setting this scene to rights, our next priority is dealing with Abner." Bacarov lifts the mug and gently whiffs the brew. Then he heads for the bedroom, limping along with the cane. "Our options are going to hinge greatly upon how Abner takes the news of Markham's...condition."
At the bedroom door, he looks back to Calwen. "He seemed to respond well to you. Perhaps a little assistance?"
In the bedroom, Bacarov pulls along a chair so he can sit down next to the old man. When Abner's eyes open, Bacarov's sky blue eyes meet them. "I hope you're feeling well, sir. I've brought your brew. Can you tell me if anything is broken?"
(Abner)
(Abner)
(Abner, physical condition)
Calwen had feared that. She got back into the hut and stepped besides Abner's bed and took a deep breath. How do you tell an old man that his only child - as far as I know anyway - is dead?
She kneeled down by his side. "I am afraid we have bad news for you, but please rest for now." She could not draw it into length too much, but she did not want to throw it into his face at once either.
Dalton struggles to move the boar, but with its vast weight, the task proves nearly impossible.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Bacarov and Calwen loom over Abner Dagwood as he awakens.
The old man's eyes blink a few times before he even seems to notice the pair of them, but when he does, they light up with an almost childlike glee. "Oh, visitors! You must be friends'a Markham's!" He starts to sit up, but winces as he puts pressure on his arm. "Oh, goodness gracious," he mutters. "Must'a fallen over an' bumped one'a my easels again. That's gettin' old fer ya." He again gives his visitors a broad grin. "Abner Dagwood, pleased to make yer acquaintance! So sorry, Markham must'a let you in. Pardon me, I'll put some tea on..." His eyes seem to go blank for a moment. "Oh, goodness! My medicine! Did I take my medicine, or...?" He shakes his head and takes the proferred mug when he sees it in Bacarov's hand, and his eyes take a suspicious turn toward the floor. "Y'all didn't track no mud in here, did you...?" He seems to have mistaken traces of blood on your clothing for something else entirely.
Mercifully, he doesn't seem to notice the state of the living room, nor the fact that his front door has been smashed in or that there is still a third of a giant boar lying with its head in the doorway.
Dramin hears the old man wake up. He really doesn't want to see him, let alone talk to him after what had happened. He decided that he would keep busy and instead take a look at the new bow that he salvaged from the now dead hunter.
Really, waste not.
He looks at the rest of the stuff on the floor, and his eyes glance at the scythe. While he can't pin the aura on it, he decides to do a look in a more mundane way. If he can see the value in it, perhaps he can judge the blooded scythe accordingly.
While he runs his hands over the grip, he looks for any strange markings. It had the ability to materialize, perhaps it may point me closer to her. The boots and cloak seem like something Marsh could use...
He scoops up the enchanted clothing and the potions; if they had to run he wouldn't want to leave valuable tools behind. They can argue over them after.
Dramin hears Abner wake and Bacarov talking, and decides to go for a walk outside. The air was smelling of death and battle and he needed to clear his head. Yeah right, the buzzing is going to be worse out there.
As you step outside, you see Dalton continuing to struggle with the giant boar. Dionysus has drawn near, and is nibbling at the boar's tail. It peers up at you as you approach and mutters in Draconic, "That one is not good for eating. Most of body is filled with black worms. Not from swamp. Pig's master was unkind to put the black worms inside of it. Not good for mind, not good for eating, either. This one is hungry. Can it have real foods?"
Seeing the drake get close to the rotten beast, Marsh shoos it away.
"Ay! Get away from that yer gonna get sick. Lets go see what they've got to eat. I could use something myself."
Marsh pantomimes putting food in his mouth and chewing while rubbing his belly.
"Ya wanna eat, lets go see if they have a ham stashed someplace or something."
"Meh, I know you river drakes prefer this kinda rotten carcass, but yer girlfriend prefers to raise you on fresh food and I think there is black magic at work here. F&!&in stinks of it in fact."
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Bacarov smiles at the elderly man, looking down at his clothes and then back to Abner. "We've done our best to keep your home as clean as we found it, Master Dagwood." He watches the old man sip at his strange brew and considers the next step. Though he was an enemy, I gave my word that Abner would fall to no harm. That means arranging for him to get back to Magnimar... He presses thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes and breathes deeply. The stench of death still hung in the cabin like sodden wool. ...or perhaps we can enlist the aid of the Korzhas to see to his welfare.
Out in the living room, Marsh had been successful in removing Markham's body and that of the boar. Less trauma for Abner in the immediate future. Bacarov nods to Calwen and gestures to the door of the bedroom. "Master Dagwood, why don't we let you rest for a spell, yes? We'll make sure to tidy up out in the big room before Markham returns."
He turns his face away from Abner to face Calwen, Bacarov's eyes making a pleading look to the elf to head for the doorway out of the room, mouthing the words, "Trust me."
As they depart the room, Bacarov turns one more to Abner and says in a tone full of importance, "Testvéreink az északi nőnek türelmetlen va Ustalav. Szükségük van a fia. Belindrial van a fia." The language feels like burning castor oil on his tongue. It takes all his will to not vomit as he speaks it.
He waits for a response from Abner before closing the door.
Speaking in Aklo to Abner, saying the following...
"Our brothers in the north grow impatient. They need your son in Ustalav. Belindrial needs your son."
He's trying to keep him in place for now. Perhaps leave him to his own devices for the night while I try and see if the Korzhas will see to his welfare.
Abner blinks a few times and sinks back into his bed with a nod of understanding. "Well... I suppose I should take your advice, then. A nice little bit of a nap would be in order. All sore for some reason... might just hafta sleep that off..."
He sighs and finishes drinking down his brew, then settles into his bed a bit deeper and stares at the ceiling. "Markham's leavin' me again already, then...?" he ponders aloud. "...Used to be such a nice boy. Took good care of his old man. Now I'm lucky if he's home for a whole day before he leaves again. One'a these days, I ain't gonna be here when he comes home..." He looks up as Bacarov starts to leave the room. "Close the door on yer way out, wouldja...?"
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Bacarov feels honest remorse for the old man. Once the door closes behind him he mutters to Calwen, "Seems the woodsman spoke truly about the differing effects of Bel's enchantments. Some go bad while others recline in their adorations."
Something to consider in Dramin's case, old boy. The image of a woman pressing her lips to Bacarov's neck cases him to blink and shudder. Might be good news for you too.
Back with the whole group, he seeks to confirm their next steps. "I'm of the mind to seek the Korzha's assistance when it comes to Abner's welfare. They seem like affable people, and the attentions of their little boy might be just what this man needs to move on from Markham." He sighs and leans on his cane to get to a chair for sitting. "Come to that, I think we can avoid telling him all together. He's expecting Markham to leave and it allows us to introduce the Korzhas into the mix with little stress."
"Next, I suggest we take a looksee in on this gathering. See if we can't spy out who's involved. It might be a 1 or 2 person job with the others standing off in the distance. Maybe me and Marsh sneak up, watch and listen, then get the hells out of the area. Dramin keeps us all in contact it his speaking spell."
He looks to the others to opine on the suggestions.
Marsh raids the food in the shed and feeds the drake.
........................................................................... .............
Marsh frowns at his friend.
"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa! "
"You made promises to take care of the old guy, fine. But, you can't have a young impressionable boy hang out with a cultist---Alzheimer's or not. This guy is consumed with this Bel broad. He raised his freakin son to be like a high priest of it or somethin. There are 30 cultists doin gods knows what, but for sure killin people. We aren't gonna get the Khorzas mixed up in that b~~~&@!&."
"Now, seeing what's up at the old farm makes sense, especially when everyone is busy with three legged sack races and junk."