Morning.
Dramin slips out of the barn and finds Marleyna sneaking back toward the barn from the house to the south, where her and her father lived. She sees Dramin and seems startled at first, but quickly relaxes, her shoulders slumping. "Sorry," she says quietly as she draws near. "Went back to try an' gather my things... my spellbook. My papa took it from me a while back, thinkin' I was gonna use it to curse him or somethin'. Thought it might help with that scroll you gave me, but..." She shrugs. "I didn't ever find it... Did y'all grab that when you were in there, uh, yesterday?" She glances about cautiously. "I kinda want to just go... I ain't good at goodbyes or nothin'. I don't really know what to say to the Korzhas. They been real good to me over the years, an'... I dunno. I dunno what to do anymore." She hugs her arms and seems to shiver a bit, despite the heat. "But thanks for that scroll... it'll give me somethin' to concentrate on. I can't think about what's happened in the last day. It'd drive me outta my mind, y'know...?"
She heads into the barn. "Could y'all let me know when you're ready to leave? I'm gonna spend some time with Dio 'til then..."
- - - -
Warshawski finds the pond and sees a fine opportunity to wash yesterday's filth away. As she approaches, however, she notes that the pond is not unoccupied.
A pair of Ravenmoor locals is bathing in the little watering hole, furiously scrubbing their bodies. One of them, a middle-aged man, babbles to himself almost incoherently while his younger companion seems to sit in the water, staring ahead blankly.
Listening in, she is able to make out some of the older man's babbling:
"...years... years wasted... never knew... it was always too late for us... damned Krieglers... tore up our minds, they did!... the things we done... I understand now- we were misled, y'see? We gotta... gotta make up for what we done. What he made us do. Gotta repent... gotta find absolution... y'hear me, boy? Gotta make things right... or we'll hear them whispers forever..."
- - - -
The crowd in the town square seems stunned into silence after Bacarov's speech. Some of them shout out objections or questions, but most of them are completely convinced by his words. Those that are not are quickly cowed by Viorec Korzha, who steps forward and confirms much of the Inspector's story. Many of them are shocked that Mayor Kriegler could have been capable of such wickedness, but there also seem to be those in attendance who have witnessed something more, and many of the community begin to grow restless and angry at having been deceived for so long.
One man, who appears to have some authority- in fact the town physic, who lived near the Lupescu family- steps forward. "We won't stand in yer way, Inspector," he says. "Just go quick, and don't cause us no more trouble. I can't speak for everyone here, but I'll stand by Miss Voyla. I suggest-" he turns for a moment and glances at the rest of the crowd, confidence rising in his voice- "-that you all don't give the young lady trouble. You seen her at the Festival. She might be the first real Desnan to step foot in this town in years. We're all gon' need her help, an' I intend to give it to her."
A few people in the crowd clap, and a few even shout out in agreement, but from the looks on their faces- and on Voyla's, as she reads the temperament of her hometown's people- proves that this will be a long, hard journey to salvation for this isolated, deeply traditional community...
- - - -
"That's real rich ya know, us causin you troubles. You can shut yer trap and show a little more respect."
"We showed up yesterday and damn near half the adults of the town were members of a death cult sacrificin yer best and brightest after yer little festival."
"A bunch of ya addicted to flay leaf, which you let be grown right here in yer town before we burned the fields."
"Still more of ya stood by while a little girl and many others like her got played with, mutilated and murdered in the basement over there. Not to mention ya let an entire farm of mutants run around just over there where, THINGS bred with yer own flesh and blood you fed em!"
"I could give a shit about yer suggestions pal."
"Volya is gonna be your spiritual leader, she's one of our friends the whole town owes her yer lives. Mr. Korzha and his family are the only ones certified free of taint to my reckoning at the moment. A tax collector is gonna be comin once a year. I expect a letter at least once a year givin me an update on this place. It better be good or we'll come back, got it."
"For those of you here that didn't actually know what was happenin, here is another bit of information. The goings on in your town caused a whole bunch of young people connected to the magic academy to get murdered. Uh, but don't worry we killed those bastards too."
"So the inspector here and the rest of the Occult Unit we're running are going back to report what we saw here. He's gonna give you all a chance to prove yourselves so you aren't cleansed, the whole lot of you. And we will tell the magic academy the same thing."
"May Desna have mercy on yer souls and I sincerely hope you find peace."
Having only experienced the tail end of the goings on at Ravenmoor, Niklos keeps a steady distance from the denouement as it unfolds. He is eager to be away on back upon the road... though perhaps it would be wiser to enjoy it with other blades beside him this time...
He watches the young girl but she happens to notice him.
"I can understand that. One day you'll have to face it, though it doesn't have to be now." His face gets softer for a moment, the young arcane woman clearly being easier to talk to than most of the others.
"I don't know if your book is down there, but I'll check one more time. If not when we get to Galduria, I'll give you a hand." He starts to walk off sensing that she needs some space. "It might be better to start with fresh clean pages anyway. There are many things you can write into a book like that in anger."
He hopes that she doesn't notice the hypocrisy in his voice.
She'll know about it one day, but today isn't it.
"I'll get you when we leave, I have some parchment still if you wish to practice on the road over. You might be able to get a leg up."
He keeps talking as he walks away, the sight being awkward but he is sure she isn't looking anyway.
And she'll help Marsh along the way, trying not to grab his arm and guide him. Just letting him know when he's about to step into a hole or something.
- - - -
Before the hour can grow too late- and tensions in town can reach a crescendo- the party regroups and prepares to depart Ravenmoor.
Calwen's remains, as well as those of her noble steed Windmane, have been properly seen to. Warshawski's communion with the ancient elven king that once reigned over this land has assured her that the elven knightess' soul has ascended to join her ancestors.
Voyla bids the party farewell and Godspeed, and seems quite resolved to her task of redeeming the faith of her birthplace. She is determined, and everyone in the party has seen her strength first-hand, but she is also young, and Ravenmoor is far from a simple task. Her expression as the group says their goodbyes is one of both resolution and longing, and it is clear that hers is an unenviable task. The other companion that joined them mid-adventure, however, remains at their side- the ever-mysterious halfling Niklos, and his hulking bear Duroj, accompany the group as they head southward toward the ferry. It appears, even with few words exchanged, that they shall share the road at least with this quiet but forceful performer.
The Korzhas are waiting for the party from Magnimar when they arrive at Skender Cardzi's now-unattended ferry. Dalton shrugs as he turns to the rest of the party- and his report of the ferryman's treachery returns to their minds. Cardzi had been a part of Kriegler's inner circle. Luckily, operating the ferry does not seem terribly difficult, and the Lampblack River is not so terribly wide at this point that it will take long in any case.
Viorec Korzha removes his hat and steps forward to greet the group- and Marleyna, who tags along aside them, Dio sticking close to her side. "I guess this is goodbye..." he says, and he and his wife both hug Marleyna. Young Ornigaard, his pet stirge Applesauce clinging to his shoulder- mercifully with a harness around its torso, tied to the rope held by the boy- weeps openly. Marleyna gives him a hug and a kiss on the crown of his head. "We'll come see you in Galduria sometime," Viorec promises. "Who knows? Maybe we'll leave this cursed town behind someday soon... an' head south."
"I'd like that," Marleyna says, and they say their goodbyes.
- - - -
The trip across the river is brief, but the road to Wolf's Ear is long. The days pass quickly, and each member of the party finds ways to occupy themselves during the journey- with their case notes, with their studies, with their communion with spirits, or with little else than their thoughts. Marleyna, for her part, studies the half-completed scroll Dramin has gifted to her, and though her progress is slow, it is steady.
Wolf's Ear is but a brief stop. Captain Malfoight seems to know of the party's passing, and briefly approaches as the group makes its way through the town square, alongside a handful of his men. "Inspectors," he says with a nod of the head, indicating Bacarov and Warshawski. "I pray that your task to the North was successful? You should know that my men have been investigating the late Nettleby Brackenweld's known associates and comrades. We managed to turn up a few names- but there were two names that were common across all of his aliases. One is Markham Dagwood, from Ravenmoor." he says, producing a piece of parchment from his coat and handing it to Bacarov. "The other is a man named . Not much information available on him, other than that he fled Kaer Maga some forty years ago, wanted for various occult-related crimes... and headed for Ustalav. Lot of occult activity in that cursed land. Thought you might be interested to know."
- - - -
Another few days pass, and Galduria beckons on the horizon. Marleyna's mood visibly brightens as the city in which she lived with her mother appears before her, the squared, fortress-like towers of the Twilight Academy jutting up from its center. Here, the Lampblack empties out into the beautiful and vast Ember Lake, and beyond that lies the Yondabakari river- which leads westward, back toward Magnimar. But Galduria is not just a place to catch a river boat- it is also where Marleyna, and presumably Dio with her, will depart.
The girl sighs almost wistfully as the group draws close to Galduria's city limits, eyes sparkling as if close to tears. "I never thought I'd see this place again," she says. "I should talk to the folks at the Twilight Academy and see how much tuition'll be... Maybe I can get a job at a local shop or somethin', to help pay my way...?"
Dramin sees the Academy rise up over the horizon and knows full well this may be the only respite for a while. While they were bound for Magnimar, there was a good chance that fate would sweep them away from that place far faster than they imagined.
He hears the girl's plight.
"I'll see what I can do to get you started. To me, it's always been the journey and the learning that has been the reward. I really don't call anyplace home so for me it is mostly immaterial save a few expenses." He nods his head over to Marsh.
"I will be checking about Galduria for the time being, seeing what I can dig up regarding this Crove man."
He walks on by to Bacarov and whispers something.
"Do you recall a small locked journal that Bartley had? I feel it may be her old spell book, and while I can sense the unease in your mind right now, I will take a look and see if there is anything... profane in there a young student shouldn't be cavorting with. It would be trivial to remove the offending magics, and she expressed her desire to find it. Its important to her."
He waits a moment.
You also feel that each time the weapon is used, or even when it is held in one's hands, that there is some vague connection to the Dancer in the Dark. Perhaps she can use the weapon in some form of scrying...? And, if that's true, could the same perhaps be done in reverse...?
♤
♤
♤
He sits alongside Warshawski in the Guardsman’s office, listening intently but allowing his eyes to survey the desk in front of him. With the custody of Nettleby consuming his attention on their first visit to Wolf’s Ear, he’d not taken the time to study the man the Watch had put in charge of the town’s safety. He kept a tidy space, bereft of nonsense so as to not clutter the necessaries of his position. Bacarov nods approval more for the appearance of the man than the information he provides. Clear headed, took initiative with the investigation, I’ll ensure Captain Olfrey knows about him. If he can be spared, I’d like to see this Sergeant promoted to the City.
”Inspector?”
Bacarov finally notices the man looking at him, intent upon a response of some sort to his revelations. ”You’ve done well, Sergeant Lydic. Well done indeed.” He glances down at the sets of notes and focuses on the name; Waldur Crove. ”As for Ravenmoor, the minor cult there who’d been responsible for many more disappearances than just Elias Kyle, has been put down. Their leader is dead along with the devilry he sought to summon.” He produces a tightly wound scroll, one meant for the leg of a bird. ”We also ran across a Markham Dagwood and confirmed his affiliation with a cult to the north. He too had been planning on a journey northward to Ustalav. It seems a good deal of scum and villainy finds solace in that cursed land.” The tiny scroll spins along Bacarov’s fingers. ”Good job, Sergeant Lydic.” He stands, wincing at the lancing pain in his spine, and offers a hand to the Guardsman. Then he hands over the tiny scroll. ”See to it this is sent ahead of us to Magnimar for Watch Captain Tacitus Olfrey. It contains a brief on my report and recommendations.”
He nods to Warshawski and heads for the door. But he pauses briefly and looks towards the hallway leading to the holding cells. The place where Nettleby had ended his own life. Even though at that distance, the world seems fuzzy at best, he can imagine the bloodstain on the hardwood floor. ”Ensure your floors are cleaned of the mad gnome’s blood, Sergeant. And see to it my message is delivered on raven’s wing within the hour.” Sebastian grips the door handle and clears his throat. ”Good day.”
--------------------------------------------
There are several miles of silence that stretches between them all. Ravenmoor had its share of indelible marks upon their respective spirits. But Bacarov remains quiet as he sees to his case journal or acts as Vinnie’s eyes while they travel.
On one evening, he sees to it he shares watch with Niklos and his companion. He withdraws his vihuela and strums absently a few chords. ”I’ve yet to thank you for joining in on our effort back in Ravenmoor. As I see it, that was not your fight.” He strums a few more chords, the beginnings of a melancholy melody he’s known for a long while. ”If it is your choice to continue on this journey, no matter where it leads, I would like to know more about you.”
He lets the question hang in the air as he continues to play a few notes.
--------------------------------------------
”I suggest a night or two in town to take our rest.” Bacarov grasps the spear he’d claimed from Kreigler and nods towards the Twilight Academy’s tower. ”I’ll accompany Vinnie to the Academy and see what form of healing or wizardy can be leveraged to cure Vinnie’s blindness. Perhaps we needn’t wait so long as Magnimar to have it done.”
Sebastian nods in agreement with Dramin’s words, but inwardly he twists over them the way the Rook studies his puzzle boxes. You journey blindly. Just as blindly as if you were Marsh. Wariness is not in you. He puts aside his thoughts and gestures to Marleyna. ”See to it you do find work. It will keep you grounded as you learn more about the world around you. “ His eyes darken, and his voice takes on a more even tone. ”Remember from where it is you come, Marleyna, and how intentions - good or bad - can lead someone astray. Guard yourself and proceed with your eyes wide open.”
With that, retrieves a small pouch from his satchel and hands it over to her, a hint of a smile on his face. ”Take this and use it well. You should be able to get yourself started.”
When they continue to walk through the town and Dramin asks his question, Bacarov shakes his head...
He continues to walk and shakes his head. ”She speaks to you in your dreams, Dramin. Doesn’t she? This Dancer as it were. Be mindful that your enthusiasms to plunge headlong into knowledge are your own and not her desires. I lost three friends in Ustalav in such a way. I would rather not repeat that horror.”
”If you’re all willing, we can meet at the inn and settle upon on some rooms.” He says after a moment. Then he puts a hand on Vinnie’s shoulder. ”Shall we see to this Twilight Academy, mate?”
Having kept mostly to himself and his ursine companion little has been shared by Niklos of his past nor what he saw in his future. Bacarov's question sees the halfling somewhat guarded and measured as he responds "Thanks are not needed... if one sees a blight spreading among the crops it is upon us all to see it excised. We were there, and there was a need to see it ended lest it taint our hearts and follow us upon leaving."
"I am Niklos... the ground beneath my feet is both hearth and home, following me wherever I travel. I leave little shadow and have nothing awaiting my return. My world is where I walk and Duroj my partner within it." he continues as a non-answer.
"Heh, I like that Niklos. I may have to try that. You know? Travelin around and shit. Maybe I should get myself a pet. Heh, I really liked Dio especially bein he was an orphan
An all, but he's better off with the girl up at the magic school place."
"I wanna get somethin exotic though. Somethin cool like Duroj."
***************************************************************************
Marsh seeks out Warshawski's hand with his own as they walked.
"Hey. Keep an eye on my boy Sebastian---for real though---we're heading down the path that's claimed a couple of us along the way. Most recently Phedron, but uh, you already know that. It's just . . . He's soundin different, like somethin's loose in his head. I can't quite put my finga on it like, uh, his personality is hazed over like his freakin eyes or somethin."
The big man slips a small, but heavy bag into Warshawski's hand from his pocket.
"I want the girl to have this, to help her with her school an stuff. I'm sure she sees me like, ah? Well you know, like everyone else does. I think she'll take it if it's from you. She don't have to know who it's from or nothin."
Marshes blind eyes focused on something unseen.
"And thank you Warshawski."
Response to Bacarov
"Perhaps it is best then after all." Dramin doesn't buy the inspector's response but he doesn't wish to push the point. Perhaps he is right in a way.
"While her home may have been filled with horrors it is still a home; I wouldn't deprive a Chelishman their home simply due to the dark past there, nor would I be so judgemental as we head toward Ustalav and the people who have come from there." His tone isn't harsh, it seems to be a warning to the now changed inspector.
"She may speak in my dreams but they are still just dreams. I am my own man still and I will remain my own man." He drops the collar and shows the marks. "They are but marks. I would go see what can be found about them, though I am hesitant to become a research project for any prolonged period of time. I will keep an eye out naturally; there is no reason to dive headfirst to Pharasma. Until then though the more she speaks to me, the closer we can pin our hunt down. Links like this do go two ways after all."
After a moment he speaks back up.
"Though I have to say, I will take your warning to heart; I am a friend now and I would hate to add to your statistics."
Niklos frowns darkly at Marsh's use of the word pet. He speaks with intent "Not pet... familie. Duroj is not beneath me, he walks beside... you understand the difference yes?"
"Well yeah, Dio was a member of the group and could talk an think like a human an all that, but it's not like I can afford a dragon at the market or purchase a friend like that. I can see Duroj is special. I was thinking more along the lines of something I could get. Bein realistic for me."
"There are many hounds who would make for a worthy companion... if you have interest we can seek a kennel at the next city?"
Marsh was right. Something was different about Bacarov. I recognized it in him because I recognized it in myself. It wasn't just that he had seen something horrible. Like me, Bacarov had obviously touched something outside of himself. Something bigger than himself. Something amazing and frightening that threatened to swallow him whole.
I thought about Marsh for a minute, weighing his bag of gold in my hand. What he did, back when the journey started, to that bandit didn't seem as important anymore. Maybe he'd changed. Maybe I did. I don't know. Hells bells, maybe the whole damned world had changed.
So, I leaned in and kissed Marsh on the cheek.
"I'll make sure she gets it. Go get your eyes fixed." I told him. "We need your maul for whatever comes next."
I stopped by the academy briefly. Just long enough to give Marlena the gold Marsh had left her and to hug her goodbye. To wish her luck. I gave her the address of my parents, back in Magnimar, in case she needed support. I know they'd help her.
Then I went and found the local cemetery. I needed to spend time away from the living. At least I knew where I stood with the dead.
Dramin nods at Bacarov and departs from him and Marsh. No need to drag them into my affairs here anyway.
He recalls the process of finding a way in and sees where that Drake was once bound up, where the onlookers gaped and stared. He thought it funny how much things change and how different perspective becomes.
The young practitioner wanders up to the entrance and seeks a way in.
If there is information on Ustalav, the Dancer and this Crove man, I'll best find it among my peers.
"Hey ah? Can somebody lead me to the church of Abadar already? I'm f%*+in blind over here! Or a Church of Desna, I figure that broad owes me one anyway. Heh heh heh."
- - - -
The squat, fortress-like Twilight Academy looms over the group as they draw near, in search of... well, many things, or nothing, perhaps. It could be an answer to the problem of Marsh's blindness, or a source of tools or knowledge that might be useful in the coming trek to Ustalav in pursuit of Beliandral and her mysterious "Keepers."
As Dramin and Dalton may recall, the front entrance is guarded by a pair of magi in violet robes, with wands in their belts and sabers at their sides. They regard the approaching group with something between curiosity and disdain.
"State your purpose," one of the guards says. "Visitors must fill out an application with the front office unless accompanied by a student or faculty member..."
The size and makeup of the party does not seem to particularly alarm- or impress- the guards.
A sudden clapping from behind alerts the group to a presence behind them. Those who turn to address this intrusive newcomer find a girl with a head of messy brown curls and large, circular glasses, acoompanied by a tall, lanky boy with freckles and arms that seem a bit too long for even his considerable height. The girl wears a too-familiar smirk as she slow-claps, glancing over the party.
Dramin and Dalton might also recall these two- Remy Muggas and her friend Bernie, who made quite a show of getting the pair of them into the Academy during the party's original arrival in Galduria, what feels like months ago. Remy was also the source of the scrolls Dramin was given during that time.
"Fate does conspire, doesn't she?" the girl says, still clapping as she approaches. "My journeyman wizard and his fabulous foreign friend..." She winks at Dalton, who seems to shrink back into his hood a bit. "Well, it could be argued that I have been practicing my divination in hopes of learning the exact date and time of your return to Galduria, but...!" She shrugs. "And this must be the rest of your illustrious party! Party, I am Remy Muggas, your self-appointed guide to the simultaneously magnificent and frustrating world of the Twilight Academy!" She then half-heartedly gestures to her companion. "And this is Bernie. He shoots fireballs at things."
"Yeah, hi," the lanky boy says, as if wondering what he and Remy are even doing here.
"I know what you're thinking," Remy pipes up again, giving the party no time to answer. "Who is this mysterious and enthralling girl, and why is she talking to us? Well, aside from the obvious gift of my mere presence, I have returned to the aid of my good vagabond wizard friend here-" she points vaguely in Dramin's direction- "-to ease your passage into this veritable house of wonders. And horrors. And tedium. Especially tedium."
Behind the party, the guards roll their eyes. Clearly, this is not an unusual occurance. "Aiyiyi... fine, fine. You can all head inside. Just don't explode, all right?"
"Oh, they aren't going to explode," Remy assures the guard with a pat on the arm as she leads the group inside- a familiar scene for two of the party. "I already told these two about the 'collects the chunky bits' guy."
- - - -
Dramin smiles at the two. "So it appears we have truly come full circle. Shall we then?". He starts to walk in with Remy.
He sees what is abnormal for many, but a normal sight for him.
And it gives him a large smile.
"I'm looking for some research and possibly finding some new spells to add to the old tome, and while we're here possibly even help out this young apprentice we have with us. She has been through a lot and perhaps I can help out in my own way." His smile dries up.
"Any ideas?"
Sebastian gives Marsh a reassuring grip on the shoulder. "We shall do stop by the Academy first." He says. Taking Vinnie's hand and placing it on his own shoulder, Bacarov leads him along, following Dramin.
Once introductions are made, at the gates he offers his own, doing his best to return to the man who'd left Magnimar only a few weeks prior. I am so far from him now. My past and my future conspire to see me unmade.
One of the two students is eyeing him, curiosity clear in their gaze. Bacarov responds with a smile. Had Marsh been able to see, he'd have thought the old Bacarov had returned. "Inspector Sebastian Bacarov, at your service. I...I and my companions, Dramin included, have returned from some business in Ravenmoor. Some of which has resulted in injury to my friend here. Normally I would seek the assistance of an alchemist friend of mine back in Magnimar, but with Mister Aldridge so far away, I'm curious if one may be available for consignment here?"
clerics/churches in town
At the Twilight Academy...
Remy and Bernie continue to lead the party into the Twilight Academy, pointing out the various wings of the facility. Upon Dramin introducing Marleyna as a "young apprentice," Remy's bespectacled eyes light up. "Ah, a young neophyte, eh?" She takes a moment to size up the Bartley girl, who blushes and looks away as Remy looks her over like some sort of class assignment. However... "Oh, my stars! Would you look at her, Bernie? She's perfect. Just look at those lost little puppy eyes!" She makes a show of pointing to Marleyna's face, and both the girl and Bernie seem to blush and look away. "You said your name's Marleyna, right? Well, if you're joining the Twilight Academy, consider yourself under the protection and guidance of the great Remy Muggas." The three youths share a slightly awkward giggle, but it seems that, in some odd fashion, Marleyna might have potentially found a friend.
Potentially.
Regarding Marsh's condition, Remy offers the following: "Ah, that's a bit tricky. Healing's not really in the arcane wheelhouse, I'm afraid. I'd direct you to the local church of Abadar-" -she pauses to gag exaggeratedly- "-but those hacks don't have a priest among them capable of casting the spell. They might be able to ship in a scroll, but that could take weeks. Of course..." A curiously mirthful look crosses the student wizard's face. "...I do hear rumors of a certain student at this Academy who happens to have a habit of scribing scrolls day in and day out as one of her many assorted hobbies, even scrolls of divine spells that she is not capable of casting herself. Now, what said student might charge for such a scroll, I can't say, but I imagine that she might be paid in favors..."
Bernie pipes in: "Yeah, she's just talking about herself. Don't let her false modesty confuse you."
"Well, obviously," Remy says, obviously a bit annoyed at her friend. "But yes, I happen to have a fairly large collection of handmade scrolls, both arcane and divine. I could be persuaded to hand over such a scroll, if properly motivated." She raises a finger and then pokes it lightly into Bacarov's chest. "Not that I don't want your large, intimidating friend's blindness cured. But another of my many assorted hobbies is collecting favors from interesting people, so you can see how I stand to gain from this."
♤
♤
♤
Bacarov looks down at Remy’s finger as it pokes him in the chest. Then his eyes come up, staring darkly into Remy’s. Within him he feels the cold stone turning and the frigid void spiraling thru his veins. Though he doesn't notice it, a dark blue glow rims his irises and when he speaks a subtle smoke of frost wisps outward despite the heat of the day.
”I'd prefer you request financial compensation, girl. Instead, you would set favors against the healing of a man who risked his life for your fellow pupils? The one who brought their murderers to justice?” Bacarov takes a step forward, the muscle of his jaw working but his voice remains calm. ”What favor would you ask of an Inspector of the City Watch? How specifically will you debase yourself? I ask this because I am to report the fate of your outpost in the Churlwood. And I want my report to the instructors here to be complete.” Another step forward. ”I'll punctuate my findings with your request to coerce our favor.”
Remy holds Sebastian's gaze for some time, as if attempting to mentally overpower the Inspector... but, finally, she seems to relent, realizing that this is a battle she will not win. She sighs and adjusts her glasses. "If you wanted it for free, you certainly could have just said so," she mutters. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were involved with what happened at the Estuary. I actually knew some of the students that were killed there. Actually... I applied to be a part of that project, but couldn't afford the fees. I suppose I've no right to demand anything of you in light of that." She takes a step back from Bacarov, clearly uncomfortable. "Er... I can get you the scroll you'd need. You'll still need to find someone to use it, of course, but..."
She steps away from the Inspector and murmurs to Dramin:
"And did he really just blackmail me? ...Gods, is that what that feels like? Bernie, note: do not imply vague threats toward anyone ever again. Makes me feel like I need a bath."
Afterwards, she appears to perk back up. "Right! Well, Marleyna, was it? If you're looking to join this illustrious Academy, a tour might be in order, right? Perhaps I can show you around a bit as I go to procure the, uh, Inspector here's scroll." She glances momentarily at Bacarov, and appears to shiver. "Best if we just keep out of their way, I think."
"A valuable lesson for you youngling." Bacarov waves for the girl to lead the way. "...always know with whom you wish to enter into a bargain. It's less about know what they desire than it is how far they're willing to go...or are willing to offer to get it. How different this conversation would have gone had you asked a few questions. You'd have learned our identity, possibly our work in the Churlwood. Perhaps then you'd not have sought a bargain but offered the charity."
"As for the scroll, once I have it, I'll see to its use myself." He gives Marsh a grip on the shoulder and leads him onward. In the process his tone softens. "Don't worry, Vinnie, we'll have you right as rain in no time."
"Heh, how long did you spend trainin watchmen out in the field? That girl's ass is gonna be sore after that chewin. Good points though, but make sure you don't take it overboard. Threats have a place, just make sure . . . well, you know what I'm sayin."
To Remy
"He is a good man but you are only slightly off. You see, I'm the one that read the book but he was on the precipice of death. I don't know which is worse to be frank with you. He is an Inspector though and a really good one despite the way he comes off."
Dramin sighs a little.
[b]"He is vicious toward his friends, but despite all of that he is a man of Abadar and thus the law. Keep it in mind, the holy symbols people wear are more than masks."
He watches Bacarov carefully as he takes the scroll and just looks at Marsh, hoping that the big man would feel his eyes on him and know what he was thinking.
Business in Galduria is wrapped up with the swiftness and efficiency one might expect from a group charged with a higher task.
Vincent Marsh's blindness, inflicted upon him by the desperate Andretti Kriegler during the final battle for the fate of Ravenmoor, is stripped away in an instant as Bacarov manages to decode the scroll provided to him by the student mage Remy Muggas. Despite Bacarov's apparent doubt in the girl, the scroll works like a marvel- and once more can the proud warrior Marsh see. It is painful at first, like stepping out of a dark room into the sunlight, except that the feeling takes days to fade, rather than minutes. Still, it is better than being blind!
Marleyna, with Dio for a companion and a fair amount of gold set aside for tuition- not to mention the curiously eager Remy Muggas as her self-appointed guide- appears to be set up to begin her studies at the Twilight Academy. In just a few short days her entire world has transformed, from victim of an abusive and psychotic cultist father and nearly becoming a human sacrifice to being back in a town she loved finally enrolling at the school she has dreamed about for years. It is no secret that she owes this to the efforts of the party- and makes the time to find them and thank them again before they leave town. There are many hugs and more than a few tears before the departure is made final. Dio, enthusiastic as ever, seems overjoyed that there are other River Drakes in the care of this facility to interact with and befriend; not one, but two beings robbed of their happiness by the machinations of Beliandral's cult have been pulled up from their despair and given a second chance at life, all thanks to the investigators from Magnimar.
But it is Magnimar that they must return to, as there is much to do. The death of Elias Kyle must be reported to Jeminda Anikee, the clerk who hired the group for this job in the first place. The missing tax money has been recovered and should be turned over to the proper authorities. And then there is the looming threat in Ustalav- whatever the Dancer in the Dark and her mysterious Keepers have planned must not be far from completion. Perhaps among them is Waldur Crove, the mysterious man whose name is connected to Nettleby Brackenweld and Markham Dagwood.
Whether by the whims of irony or fate, it is once more the halfling Captain Bach whose ship will bear the party to Magnimar. He seems amused enough at the circumstance, though he knows nothing of that which transpired to the north. He does note, however, the far more dour moods of the party, and the presence of Niklos- a fellow halfling, which Bach notes he does not see enough of. Especially those accompanied by dancing bears.
Finally, after long days of travel down the Yondabakari river, the City of Monuments stands upon the horizon, its familiar, dramatic skyline a welcome sight- and perhaps a bittersweet one, as the party's stay is destined to be a brief one. Carrion Hill calls to them. The Dancer in the Dark is waiting for them there.
The party departs and Captain Bach wishes them well; but before the party can get far, the monk Dalton Thorpe steps forward to address the group. He has been quiet since Galduria, always deep in thought. With some apprehension, he announces that he will not be moving on to Carrion Hill with the rest of the party. He fears that the darkness experienced in Ravenmoor threatens to corrupt his mind, and that should he go on to Ustalav, that corruption would only grow until even his own convictions and traditions would rot away, exposing him fully to Beliandral's whims. No, he cannot do that to himself, and cannot threaten the party as such... With a heavy heart, Dalton wishes the party well, and takes his leave. Before he goes, however, he thanks them for allowing him to fight at their side, and tells Bacarov not to let the darkness consume him. The monk is perceptive, but anyone can see that the Inspector has been changed by Ravenmoor.
And with that, the group finds themselves left to their business in Magnimar.
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Lowcleft, Magnimar
1:00 AM
♤ ♤ ♤ ♤ ♤
He sits on the floor, tucked away in the corner of her bedchamber, watching her sleep. Regret swirls about the tumbler in his hands, a dark amber that warms his stomach and grips at his mind with velvet hands. Bacarov finishes the drink in a single swallow, his left hand already moving to the bottle on the floor next to where he sits.
Four years you’ve worked with her. You never said a word. Never gave a hint. You’re so good with hiding it. Why now? Another sip of the alcohol, a single malt whiskey Vandana keeps in her bureau. His eyes retrace the bed, swooping over the lines of her. His sky-blue and given now to varying shades of grey when the lights are extinguished. Safety. You wanted safety, you selfish bastard.
He looks back to the glass in his hands, grinding his teeth. You could’ve gone to the Dreaming Dryad, popped a line of Dust and gone off to La-la land. But no… Looking over the room he sees his clothes piled by the door and sighs. Another drink. ...no, no, no, you cheeky bastard. You brought it here. To her. I thought you loved her enough to keep away. Hadn’t that been the plan all these years?
A whisper of skin and fabric as she stirs. A deep breath and a lingering exhale. ”I can hear you grumbling, ‘Bas.” Vandana yawns, eyes still closed as she stretches. ”You working on an apology to Captain Olfrey?” She piles a few pillows behind her and leans up. Though she can’t see in the darkness of the room, Vandana still turns her head directly to where Bacarov is sitting. ”...or an apology to me?”
He watches her for long seconds then finally answers. ”I shouldn’t have come, love. I let a case get the better of me...let it get the better of my senses.”
”We’ve always been close, ‘Bas. I’d hope you could always come to me when it gets rough. Tonight…” He sees her smile genuinely, nothing lurid or colored. ”...tonight is no different. I’m glad you see me as....as home. There’s nothing wrong with us having that closeness...in other ways.”
”Your brother would beg to differ.”
”Jorga is a priest, a warrior priest. He likes few things not concerning Abadar.” Her voice softens with a snicker. ”But he actually does like you. Even asked me if you’d ever consider the priesthood.”
Bacarov doesn’t answer, simply pours another three fingers of whiskey.
”You shouldn’t have yelled at the Captain.” She changes the subject as quickly as she switches from warhammer to short sword. Vandana is a Legate, an officer of the law. Well, more than an officer given she has the authority of judgement given her.
”I’ll send him a note.”
”He went out on a limb for you, ‘Bas. 15 men, 5 priests to Ravenmoor just on your message alone.” She laces her fingers together across her stomach, lips pursed. ”You may not have worked with him long, but the man does his homework. Olfrey requested you by name for the Ravenmoor investigation. And that reputation held sway enough to get things moving.”
”If he trusts my judgement, then why the questions.”
”You didn’t say it outright, but your inference was for an inquisition of the town if things were not improved by the change in leadership. Olfrey was owed some more answers.”
”We all want answers.” Sebastian pushes against the wall, hand braced against the corner to steady himself. The room wavers as the alcohol sets in on his faculties.
Vandana leans towards her bedside table and turns the knob on the lantern, letting some of the vapors in and the light to slowly rise. She watches in silence as Bacarov crosses the room on uncertain legs to gather his clothing. ”What happened in Ravenmoor, Sebastian?”
”Memories.” He suddenly has the urge to leave.
She doesn’t press any further. Only watches him dress then collapse in the chair near the bed.
”I’ll be leaving the city again. Heading north to Ustalav in a few days.” He looks down and realizes he’s still somehow holding the tumbler. ”Like I told Olfrey, I’ll wrap up my caseload first, then go on leave. A few days should be enough.”
Her legs slip off the bed, and as she turns her hair spills down her shoulders like ravens descending. ”Phedron? Nosatrub?” She knows. She understands. Vandana is one of the very few who knows about his time in Ustalav.
”Maybe. There was a man in Ravenmoor we put down. He’s connected to a group that’s heading to Ustalav. I’m bringing Vinnie with me. A few others. I’ll see it done.”
”Is this man the one who gave you the limp?”
”He is. Or was.” He stands again, the pain in his back and leg dulled by the contents of the whiskey bottle. ”I’m meeting Vinnie down at Thessal’s.”
”The Rook?” She looks ready to stand before Sebastian shakes his head. ”Are you certain? “
”I’ve got a free pass down there, love. We have an understanding.” He sets the tumbler down on the nearest table and reaches to the the back of the chair to get his satchel. ”Look, I’ll be around for the next few days...I’d like to see you….if…”
”Yes.” There is a seriousness in her tone. In her eyes. If she knew it would work, she’d try and stop him from leaving right then and there. As it is, she watches as Bacarov nods once in appreciation and departs.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
He hires a two-wheeled coach to take him south as far he’ll dare into Lowcleft. Along the way, rain begins to fall in panicked swaths to distill the clops of the horse’s hooves. Sebastian lets his hand hangout of the coach, letting the water soak his hand and then the sleeve of his coat. He stares at it for a long while.
Safety.
He pulls his hand back inside, dries it on his coat and pulls open his satchel. Inside are a few scrolls and a pair of files, cases he’d need to close before departing Magnimar. One of them is extricated and opened before him. Of the things that had changed in him in Ravenmoor, at the least this remained holy. The hunt. The law. If anything, his zeal for it had increased the more he saw how being lazy to the law bred things like Ravenmoor. Had there been proper leadership, who’s to say what might have been different.
He takes in a deep breath, still smelling remnants of the lilac perfume Vandana favors. Bacarov allows himself a smile for a moment, then buries himself in the case file before he lets his darker nature corrupt it.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Case: N-1551 | Lord Eldred Pentwert | Proxy in the House of Lords
Found: outside the Gilded Cage
Cause of Death: Strangulation, silk scarf on person bloody and matching the bruising patterns on the neck…
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
The time passes in a blur of notes and drawings. To his surprise, the coachman is willing to bring him to the door of the Stag Herald, the tavern and inn run by the Rook in south Lowcleft. Sebastian tips the driver and exits the coach, heading to the three steps and the double doors beyond.
”Evenin’, Bacarov.” Gruhn nods, opening the door for him. The half-orc is dressed well, slacks and cuffed shirt and tailored vest and a well maintained haircut. Bacarov knows the doorman by another name, one the Rook gave him after Gruhn had beaten a pair of dwarves to a bloody pulp when they took liberties with one of the girls.
”How’s tricks, Gruhn?” He pulls off his hat and smiles up at the man. The last waves of inebriation cause the edges of Gruhn’s face to distort, the light from the interior of the tavern hallowing him.
”Won’t complain, Bacarov. I have a job, n’ a roof o’er my head.”
Bacarov heads inside, wondering at the smile playing across his lips. Wondering at why he feels suddenly unburdened. Because this is a different part of you. The one playing at games with the Rook. The one centered on the Hunt. Here, you work.
”Well, well, well…” A familiar, feminine voice greets to his left. A woman of middle years and ready smiles saunters forward and plants a kiss on his cheek. ”Bacarov, you sorry sod. I’d heard you opted out of city life.”
”Very nearly, Molly.” He smiles back and gives her left, then right cheek a peck in greeting. To do otherwise for the Madame of the establishment would be a grievous insult. ”I see my absence hasn’t caused you to don the black veil.”
A fake pout crosses her face. ”We keep a stiff upper lip at the Stag Herald, darling. Our hopes were ever with your swift return.” Molly’s smile returns and she walks him to a table near the back. ”Here to see the boss?”
”Meeting Vinnie first. Then, yes.”
”Vinnie, eh? How is the big lug?” She pulls back a pair of chairs and sweeps an invitation for Bacarov to grab a seat.
”I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you too, Molly. He’s no worse for the road, alive and still bellyaching.” He doffs his coat and lays it across the back of the chair, placing his satchel alongside. He slips the Pentwert case file out and lays it on the table. ”I wouldn’t mind a bit of whiskey, Molly. If one of your girls is free.”
”On its way, love. I’ll let Thossal know you’re here.”
And with that, Bacarov is back in his element. A case file open before him. He gladly accepts the whiskey delivered by a waitress named Lorietta. There he bides his time, drowning the horrors of the road ahead under whiskey and murder.
--------------------------------------------------------
History
The Rook's sad tale starts with violence. In southern Kyonin, a dark merchant stalking the shadows of Greengold preyed upon an elvish maiden and assaulted her. Left behind to die, she instead survived, scared and pregnant. As a follower of the old ways, she bore the child to term. It shamed get community, and with the birth of the child, that community exiled her and her newborn.
The Rook - named Thessal - grew up wrestling with his conflicting heritages and the growing hatred of those who’d driven his family from their home. Ultimately, his mother killed herself, the despair of shunning too much for her to go on. Thessal's rage grew, his heart turned to revenge. He had 100 years to learn from his mistakes. 100 years to resolve his revenge and become his own being. Honing his skills as a huntsman and killer, embracing the harsher angels of his nature, Thessal returned to exact revenge upon his so-called homeland.
But blood seemed to give no solace to the tortured soul. Time passed and Thessal saw himself becoming that which had sired him; a stalker of the night. He turned from his path and focused on finding the instrument of his creation. Following the trail of his father eventually lead him to Magnimar.
Years later, Thessal took on the namesake of the Rook, establishing a small section of criminal enterprise in order to establish a network for information gathering. He owns the Stag Herald, a tavern and inn located in southern Lowcleft. A modest but clean establishment, it also is a den of ill-repute, catering to those distinguished clients who depart the higher castes to find their anonymity...among other things.
-----------
Crossing Paths with Bacarov
There was a time 5 years gone that Bacarov wasn't so chummy with the Rook. The purveyor of fleshly goods had been the prime suspect in the murder of one Bumpy Raiushin out of Dock-a-way. All the evidence pointed to the Rook, nice and neat. That alone gave Bacarov incentive to do more digging. Cases were never this clean.
Three months research and working his contacts and the evidence, Bacarov saw through to the real culprit. Finding Horatio Bilfew also brought him his first contact with a group of sadists who had a nasty habit of harvesting skin-suits. He'd have run ins with them for years to come.
A year later, Bacarov was sent a message. In no vague terms, the Rook wanted to have a sit down. Sebastian was curious, so he went. It was made apparent that the pale peddler of desires had been watching the case with great interest and studying Bacarov in the wake of its success.
It was in that interview that Bacarov learned that the Rook knew the victim quite well. Bumpy Raiushin had been a thrall of the very vampire who'd attacked the Rook's mother. The very undead monster he’d been hunting for a 100 years. Now, seated in the office deep in Rags End, he was enlisting the aid of a City Watch Inspector in his hunt.
By the end of the evening, Bacarov had agreed to do what he could in exchange for some assistance now and again. Deep down, Bacarov would have done it for free.
---------
Personality
Centuries of life tainted by the shadow of his father has taught the Rook to love order. He's become a creature of structure in order to best control his domain. But as the owner of the Stag Herald and the purveyor of all things carnal, his countenance os one of cordial fellowship. He utters few lies, but dispenses truths as shrewdly as any Abadaran banker. His animal companion, a wolf named Agrinost, follows his master's personality.
A few short minutes later the speak easy door opens again. This time Vincent Marsh's massive form fills the portal as he exchanges a spirited ribbing banter with the guard.
"Suck it Gruhn! Just be glad I'm not lookin to get into the door bouncin business. Want me to tell da'Rook I sat outside yer stoop for about an hour ana'half unnoticed? Heh, heh heh --- Oh and wait, here's your coin purse back . . . (Shocked then muffled protest from outside before a challenge) . . . I watched him walk in here dipshit an no, I don't need no invitation. . . You can't read anyway I coulda handed you a grocery list an you wouldn't know the difference ya ignorant dretch. . . Anonmidity is probably the word ya mean---don't worry about it, I ain't here lookin to out creepin husbands . . . (More unclear talking from outside) . . . Heh heh, no I ain't lettin you pat me down for weapons today. Molly and the girls already know what I'm concealin. . . You really think I'd bring Masher in here? . . . Naw . . . Yeah I can---ask your mom heh heh heh."
Marsh steps into the room followed close on his heels by a very red faced half-Orc.
"You're an a%*+#&@ Vinnie!"
Marsh takes off his faded and salt stained cloak revealing the fine clothes and well kept weapons underneath.
"Yeah, I guess I am sometimes."
The former pit fighter places his cloak on a hook with exaggerated care.
"Don't worry, I'll give Molly my sheathed sword if she wants it. Heh heh, at least she knows what to do with one Gruhn."
Marsh looks the bouncer in the eye.
"Relax, I ain't here to cause problems didn't come lookin for one at least. Hell I ain't even been drinkin that much."
Vinnie turns his attention to his pal Sebastian deliberately turning his back, but not his senses, to the angered henchman as he walks over to the table.
"I figured this is where you'd come after you came, oops I mean went, to yer girlfriend."
Marsh pulls back the seat and prepares to sit down.
"An before you get all uppity and shit, your dad sent me. Said you'd been drinkin and looked all f#$@ed up in the head. Well, he didn't actually say it like that exactly."
Gruhn stood fuming.
"What the f@*# Gruhn? I'm tryin to have a private conversation ovah 'here. Are you mad bro? --- Bacarov, get a load of this guy. Beat it doorman."
From behind a curtain Molly appears and elegantly sweeps over towards the big man without a word. She gave Marsh a sweet welcoming smile, but held out an open hand. A single arched brow a few seconds later had Vinnie reluctantly unbuckling his sword belt and handing it over to the Madamme.
In a pleasant voice she responds, "Thank you Vincent, I'll be happy to put these someplace safe for you." she pats him on the shoulder and hand shoos Gruhn back outside. The tension in the room is similarly banished.
"Thanks Molly, I'll take a stout, put it on Sebastian here's tab, looks like he's already started one. He an I can settle up on it later."
As the middle aged, but still vernal and curvy woman disappeared behind a screened doorway Vincent leaned over conspiratorially to his pal.
"That broad is the most dangerous thing in here besides the Rook himself. Best lookin thing in here too in my opinion, that gal knows what the hells she's doin too. Kinda reminds me of Warshawski really."
Vincent sits back in his chair and throws his palms up defensively.
"Why you lookin at me like that? The door guy was givin me grief, I didn't break the house rules? The Man told me no open carryin of weapons. I gave em up inside the door, just like all the fops playin at cloak and dagger games. What the hell was Gruhn gonna do? Stand around outside with it?"
Marsh leans back in.
"Besides, this way I got an up close and personal look at Molly's screaming dairy pillows. Someday I'm gonna liberate the halfling twins she's got attached to her chest. Damn things were winkin a me. Did ya smell her perfume?"
"Come on Inspector Serious, crack a smile at least."
What time was it? The young wizard looked at the windows. Right, I boarded them up. Since he had returned from Ravenmoor and had left the sanctuary of the Twilight Academy he had hit a sense of malaise, or at least that’s what he told himself. He hadn’t seen most of the party since they had parted ways at the dock. He didn’t even know why, he just felt compelled to go home, wherever that was and followed his feet silently.
Home for him right now was a decrepit shack; presumed to be abandoned. Is this how you’re going to treat me when we finally meet my dear? He shook his head and unconsciously pulls the collar up around his neck. Gotta get a grip. He hears a squeak which pulls him back to the land of the living. For most people the rats would have been problematic, but for him they were just a whole new slew of tools to take apart.
Dramin walks up to the door, or more accurately, the dresser blocking the door and refreshes the alarm spells placed upon it. All I need is the law to walk on in, or worse Bacarov. He would think me as this Phed--- He stops for a moment and takes a breath. Come now, Phedron was a good... solid... man. The voice of the woman echoes, its laughter filling the nearly empty squalor of the shack. He waves his hand as if warding off a mosquito, or sending off a troublesome valet. ”There is work to be done today... I hope.”
He heads over to the lone piece of newly mended furniture and checks the rat pinned down on it. Its still not taking. Nethys forsake me if this doesn’t work today. He opens the small jar and a stench comes out. Its the smell of the now dead Spawn of Ghalunder, mostly rotting away. Serves me right for dropping necromancy I suppose. He laughs at the situation, heartier than anything he has done as of late. ”You see your spawn god of rot and parasites?!” He continues to laugh as it is the only way for his own sanity to mend; knowing full well that this is possibly the last good day for trials as the material will soon become useless.
”I know you’re in my head and listening ‘dearest’. Just know that when I figure out the link between this scythe and the rotting outsider before me, I will turn sights for you. This head doesn’t have room for stray thoughts as estate isn’t cheap, so no vacancy!” He smirks again knowing that the hovel he sits in is much the same, there was barely enough room to squeeze in an area to clean his own body properly.
He had taken to abusing his arcane talents.
... When he had time.
... If it was prepared.
He frowns for a moment and starts to work.
As he starts to apply the final touch of distilled outsider down to the rat, he feels a burning on his neck, more painful than any other time this had occurred. And with a scream, the vial falls down to the floor.
”Well then. Perhaps that’s a portent.”
He gathers his things, his books, weapons and tools and heads on out; as to where... he was going to follow his feet as normal.
He turns to the room and the dead rats everywhere.
He closes his eyes, sighs and lays down a piece of parchment with only a few words on it.
Don’t mind the mess.
Dramin really was never one for jokes.
--------------------------------------------------------
He faces the Stag Herald from a distance away. He knows full well that this establishment is one that is frequented by the man he knew as Bacarov. Knew? He wonders on the funny choice of words, but as of late it seemed to be the safe bet.
The half orc guard sitting at the front wasn’t very attentive and seemed to be taking weapons.
He feels the weight of the scythe on his person. No one can have this. Not even for a moment. There has to be another way. The young wizard bides his time until a drunkard or trouble starts. Won’t take much to cast invisibility and get in there. Eventually he sees a big cloak of a man start roughing his way in and decides now was the time.
There was some arguing but the magic flowing through him was dulling the world out and in a blink he was gone. He only had a short time but he bolted inside, his mouth ready to cast another.
What he stepped into was nothing like what he expected. The lights gave a moody, almost sensual look... if one could ignore some of the crowd. He does a quick look of the establishment and proceeds to pick out the inspector. The man had an aura about him that seemed to pull those into his own ichors.
When he sees the big cloak take a seat, he already knows who it is.
He casts another spell, hoping the hulking half-orcs grumbling will muffle him out and then wanders on over to the inspector and takes a seat as soon as the veil of invisibility falls off.
”Dairy pillows Marsh? You get your sight back and that’s what you’re looking at?” He smiles at the man and pulls his own cloak back a little, showing the hilt of Markham’s scythe to his two comrades; knowing full well that this could get Bacarov off on the wrong foot. ”I hope you understand that I can’t leave it in anyone’s care... considering the link with her. I don’t feel the need to drag down others into our horrible fates.”
His eyes quickly scan the papers in front of the inspector.
”Oh good. I was getting a little bored.” Dramin flashes a smile quickly and pulls the collar up a little higher just out of habit.
He really hoped that he didn’t smell of rats and alchemy.
A figure wrapped head to toe in a black cloak watches Jodare leaving his shack from the alley across the street. To think that someone so important would have such humble accomodations...the figure's eyes narrow slightly, following his movements and trailing him to the Stag Herald's door. For now, he remains far away and out of sight, watchful. The figure sidles up to the bar window and glances in, his eyes searching for Jodare and the one known as Sebastian Bacarov.
Lowcleft, Magnimar
The Stag Herald
1:00 AM
♤ ♤ ♤ ♤ ♤
Bacarov looks around the table, his jaw working as Dramin covers over the scythe. Over the magician’s shoulder, he spies Lyle and Cora approaching. He takes in a breath and stands slowly, ”Stay here.”
The inspector departs the table, intercepting the twins and drawing them close. ”I’ll vouch for him.” He says simply. When Lyle looks unwavering in his attention to Dramin’s back, Bacarov clears his throat. ”Lyle, I said I vouch for him. He is...an odd fellow, but he has his reasons for entering in such a manner.”
”And the weapon?” Cora asks pointedly.
Bacarov looks to her, surprised for the few seconds it takes for him to remember their magical countermeasures and senses. He nods again. ”It’s part of an ongoing case. Myself, and those who work with me, must keep it within sight at all times.”
The twins exchange a look then turn back to Sebastian, their faces share fraternal similarities, but it’s their expressions that mark them closer than most siblings. ”You’ll have to explain it to him. If we know, then he will too.”
”Understood.”
Satisfied, they turn away and head into the office behind the bar.
Bacarov grinds his teeth. He didn’t like pulling cards too frequently. Habits like that got your welcome turned from hot to cold faster than the Rook’s blades. He turns back to the table and finds his seat. He pulls off the cap to the whiskey bottle and pours another drink. Glancing Dramin’s way, he wants to discuss the scythe further. Wants to discuss the man’s appearance too. But as he takes another snort of whiskey, he doesn’t think he’s in any position to offer lifestyle advice.
”I’ve some business to conclude in Magnimar before we depart. Open cases.” He places a hand on the open file in front of him. ”Job one; Eldred Pentwert. Newcomer to Magnimar. I backtracked him to an import/export business run out of Horus’ Tavern in Lowcleft where he checked in six months ago. He’s since left the establishment. Through witnesses, I’ve tied him to 2 killings in Lowcleft. The rest of the murders have the same hallmarks as the first 2. Knives judging by the wounds.”
He points out the information on each of the victims. ”They seem random, except for the Sallworths, but I’m looking to tie them all together. That’s why I’m here. The owner of this establishment has a lot of ears throughout the city.” Bacarov leaves the file on the table to be reviewed.
-------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------
Eldred Pentwert Case File (link)
-------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------
”As for the owner, his name is Thessal. Folks around here call him the Rook. He’s congenial but shrewd and should be respected. He’s been in the city for a long time, longer than we’ve been alive.” Bacarov presses a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. ”Thessal runs this establishment for the express purpose of maintaining anonymity for his clients. You can tell by the workers here what that business might be. But you’ll also note that the clientele is not your normal population out of Lowcleft. Do your best to not upset the apple cart here. To do so gets me kicked out and I lose a valuable asset in this city.”
He looks around the table to see if there are any questions and to also see what they’re impressions are of the Pentwert Case.
--------------------------------------------------------
Outside the establishment, the stranger has leaned against the building in an effort to blend in. Beneath his cloak, his lips curl in a grin. There he is. Still ever the negotiator...
Unable to hear anything of the conversation within from his current position, he gets up off of the exterior wall and glances up and down the street, checking his exits before moving to the front door. He waits for another group of locals to move toward the entrance and follows them in closely, avoiding their notice.
Once inside, the cowled figure finds an open chair in a tucked-away corner. His senses were sharp as he tuned in to the conversation as casually as he could.
Dramin eyes the detective and the file and then gives a sigh of relief. "Thanks for putting your neck out for me, they wouldn't believe the story if they had heard it anyway."
He takes the hair out of his eyes and looks around. He feels something, his divinations sharpening, but he can't put his finger on it. No matter, if something were to happen I would know the second it begins.
"So this Rook, would you call him friend?" He looks quizzically at Bacarov, "Only because we have our own discretion we need to keep and frankly I was sincere when I said I did not want to drag anyone else to Ustalav." He tries to judge the situation but he was never good at reading other people, his reliance on his natural unsease could only go so far.
Best to ask straight out.
"The Dancer still speaks you know. I just want to know how far you can trust this Rook. If he's in here right now and is as wise as you say, he's bound to get a message from those two over there about the scythe." It pulses gently under the table, "And he's bound to ask. Information is power after all."
He doesn't wait for Bacarov to answer and looks at the file.
"Just a standard manhunt? This seems a little out of our range nowadays." He chuckles a bit, his smile wry. "I can't say I know any of them, but when was that 7th victim? The ink here seems fresh."
There's one question you aren't asking.
He looks away from the file and at Bacarov in the eyes, "It can't just be murder... Did the suspect take anything?"
The stranger hunches over his folded hands as he sits at the nearby table, studiously avoiding even a sidelong glance in their direction. He knew full well the perceptiveness of those he was eavesdropping on. The time was not yet right to...introduce himself.
Lowcleft, Magnimar
The Stag Herald
1:00 AM
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Eldred Pentwert Case File (link)
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Bacarov eyes the door through which Lyle and Cora had disappeared then settles his gaze back upon Dramin. He lets the man’s questions linger in the air, strings of words lazily pricking for knowledge like a hundred bitemes. A good investigator breathes in the questions of those around him, taking in the familiar and unfamiliar and to piece together the cogs and gears of each person.
Vinnie is as simple and complex as they come. The scion of a conquering soul flourishing free from the restrictions of decorum and convention and pretension, but cowered in a heart-rending slavery to the painful phantasms of his past. Bacaorv loved the man like the brother he’d never possessed, so to know an inkling of the morass swirling beneath the exterior is enough for him to come back time and time again when others would have severed their loyalties.
Then there is Dramin. Hale in his youth, but given to such an indeterminate source of self-assuredness as to mark him a man of many more years. But listening to him further draws out the thread of a cocksure man of few years advanced in his thinking by scroll and tome but little experience. At least, that is what Bacarov had surmised upon their first few days of interaction. Now he sees him more clearly. An impetuous man running headlong in a darkened hall with a bared dagger carving through the blackness in front of him, heedless and senseless by turns. And this connection with the pale lady in the lake didn’t help matters one whit.
His fingers drum along the table until he finally responds. ”Yes. The twins are speaking with the Rook, letting him know about you and about me. He’s a practical sort and hasn’t run this establishment so well without taking precautions.” Drawing the case file documents back he places them to the side. ”No more magic. Not here. That is my request of you. If you can’t live up to it, mate, then I’ll have the twins escort you out to preserve my arrangement with the proprietor.”
”Now, do I trust him? Yes. My dealings with him in the past have forged a bond of sorts between us.” More drumming along the tabletop and more doubts flitting about his mind. ”We have an understanding. I aid him on occasion, within the bounds of the law. He provides me with information to which I’d not normally be privy.”
Vinnie knew the Rook. Had a basic rapport with him. Surprising to all but Bacarov, the big man had an excellent head for the Stones board and Thassal looked forward to their matches.
But Dramin would be a source of interest for the pale proprietor, and not for the reasons the young mage would estimate.
”Thessal won’t bother with the scythe. There is one that won’t like the thing, but that’s natural for him. If there is information you don’t want to share, he won’t pry. He’s got too much class for that sort of thing. And contrary to your belief, Dramin, I’m not here visiting him to discuss you and the pale lady of nocturnal bites. I’m here on this…” He points to the case file, finger resting on the drawing of Eldred Pentwert. ”I had put out some inquiries prior to our little jaunt to Ravenmoor. The Rook has something for me.”
”Now,” Bacarov taps the drawing again. ”...yes, the 7th victim met his end while we were out of town. Millios Djargo. An elf businessman, silks and clothing, out of Naos. Same as the others, death by short blade, most likely a dirk or a dagger. “ He flips through the pages of the bundle of parchments and withdraws one with more of his scrawling pen. ”Yes, something was taken from each of the victims. Nothing grotesque like an ear or a finger, but personal items nonetheless. A sword, a pouch of brewer’s spices, leather calipers, a robe of many-dresses like Warshawski’s...and with the latest victim, Millios’ signet ring...” Bacarov’s voice trails off as he reviews the list aloud. Between Dramin’s question and his renewed recitation, something tugs at a thread in his mind. ”Items personal to each. Things I would use to identify someone…”
Bacarov looks up and nods to Dramin. ”Good question, mate. Good question indeed.”
Out of the corner of his eye he spies Molly’s sauntering form as she approaches the table. She drops off Marsh’s drink and then tips her blonde pile of curled locks towards the stairs. ”Boss will see ya, love. I told him ya had company.”
”Thanks, Molly.” He stands up and slips the parchments into their folder, then the folder into his satchel then the satchel over his shoulder. ”Bring your drinks, boys. Let’s go say hi the Rook.”
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No more magic. Not here. That is my request of you.
That was simpler than the man gave him credit for. He wasn't addicted to the magic, it was just another tool. But like Marsh next to him, there were times when a cudgel was not the proper tool.
"You have my word. Though if I feel magic may help the investigation, I will speak up first. Divinations are a useful tool afte---" The thought struck him.
"You said that personal effects were taken... Some magic requires such things. Though I have no desire to marry myself to this single idea, it is worth mentioning." Dramin wonders if he should say more.
"You also say it would be something used to identify someone. It could be nothing but..." His mind goes back to the faceless stalkers and he shivers, though he is unsure if it was the paranoia or the rubbery skin and monstrous physiques they had.
Best not to dredge that up just yet.
"Never mind, no need to sully the investigation with these thoughts right now. Lets not poison this just yet..."
A sleeves of many garments and a signet ring, some spices... Is this just revenge or is he trying to become someone else?
He grabs his drink and bundles the scythe underneath his cloak again.
"It's time to finish what you started before the world changed."
Your world. You avoided saying that didn't you? The voice in his head echoed away.
Lowcleft, Magnimar
The Stag Herald
1:00 AM
They head to the back of the tavern to find the stairs and ascending towards the Rook’s lounge. As they leave the common room behind, they note the sound of the hustle and bustle diminishes with each step. Bacarov had experienced the effect in the past, but still marveled at the twins’ ingenuity when it came to magic. Though well designed, and the hand crafted rails along the stairs beautifully carved, it is beyond well done architecture to provide such an effect.
The next layer of comfort for the Rook comes in the form of temperature. As they round the landing to take the last flight to the second floor, there is a warmth growing that doesn’t feel like one emitted by a fireplace, more like a warm blanket being rested upon their shoulders. Rounding the last flight of stairs they see the second floor is arranged with one hallway leading away, the second direction leading towards a softly lit anteroom.
“Bas, is that you?” The voice is smooth and silky, a tenor to rival even the best bard’s melodious voice. “Come here so these old eyes can look upon my friend once more!”
Bacarov turns from the railing and sees the anteroom, the light of which is low and inviting, coming from sconces in the wall. At the back of the room is a heavy, wooden table about which sit three human males all clothed in casual outfits of breeches and soft tunics, master-crafted leather armor and weaponry plain upon their persons. They didn’t look ready for action as they were playing at their cards, but fools are made making such assumptions.
Past the table, is an archway leading to another room. A soft glow of candlelight and hearth invite the three inside. “Come, come, let’s have it.” Comes the silky tenor.
One of the men at the table just gestures with a finger to motion them through, no attempt to remove their weapons.
Bacarov responds to the invitation as he and the others walk through the archway. “Still alive, Thessal?”
The interior is modest, but comforting. Well cushioned leather seating for five surround a small refreshments table. A barmaid is just finishing the placement of a wine carafe, teapot and glasses and cups prior to bobbing a curtsy to the man taking up one of the five chairs. She heads towards the right and disappears through a doorway.
Behind the set of chairs, a small hearth keeps the glow of a fire. At the foot of the fire, curled fur of black and grey rests a wolf of moderate proportions. At their entrance, the creature raises to a seated position, backlit by the fire, his silhouette stands 4 feet. Golden eyes observe them with cool calculation.
The figure in the chair stands with a wave of the hand, stepping towards Sebastian and motioning the Half-elf to do the same. “Still alive, Bas, and comfortably so.” At his gesture, the wolf returns to his relaxation in front the hearth.
The two embrace, Bacarov taken aback by the warmth in the Rook’s body, like a furnace in the man’s chest. As they pull back, he comments. “Hope you don't mind I brought Vinnie. I know he cleaned the floor with you in Stones last time.”
“And more…” He grins at Marsh. “...but I hold no grudges so long as a rematch is in the offing.”
The Rook is wearing a three-quarter length coat of blended cottons, navy and black and red. He draws it back to reveal the hilt of an Aldori dueling sword. He looks down at it and glances upwards from steepled brows. “What do you think, Bas? Can you believe the old swordsman finally gave it over?”
“How many years did Montalban take?”
The Rook drops his coat with a flourish, smiling from ear to ear. His face is smooth and clean shaven, the cheekbones high and well formed begging his elven ancestry. But the incisors gave way to the other half of his heritage. “On the twentieth year of my education!”
“Congratulations, Thessal. An accomplishment of grand proportions for one of such advanced age.” Bacarov fakes leaning forward to offer an arm. “Do you need assistance back to your chair?”
The Rook smirks. “I look better than you, Bacarov…” He looks at the way the Inspector walks. ”...and it would seem Ravenmoor left you with more a need for assistance.”
The wolf rises once more, padding over, a gentle manner to his stride as he stands before Sebastian and gives him a great sniff and lick to the hand.
“Glad to know he’s not still sore over me not giving him the rest of my mutton the last night I was in town.”
The Rook smiles down at his companion. “Agrinost holds no grudges either, my friend.”
He pauses and glances towards the others. “My apologies for not greeting you sooner. My name is Thessal et'Faril, my humble house is yours. You may ask any questions you desire,” He nods welcome to each in turn. ”I understand you're here to collect some information?”
The cowled and hooded figure drinking alone at his table tries very hard not to look up when he sees them leaving. He waits until all he can see of the party is their feet before making to follow them up the stairs, moving unnoticed away from the crowd.
He listens at the door for the conversation, but Thessal's large wolf catches a whiff of his scent and begins to growl, looking away from Sebastian's hand and toward the door when he does so.
Marsh narrows his eyes in suspicion at the wolf's reaction, knowing well to trust the signals that the animal kingdom provides. The big man is nearest to the door, as usual. Striding over to the closed door leading to the hallway leading downward, Marsh throws open the door and stares out - at nothing. Nobody is standing there, nor is there any sign of any eavesdropper. Unbeknownst to him as he glares back and forth to scan the hallway, the figure is braced against the rafters, hiding directly overhead. After a moment, Vinnie, satisfied, closes the door and returns to the room with Thessal in it.
The stranger exhales his tightly-held breath quietly, then lowers himself soundlessly to the floor, and makes to continue listening.
Dramin stepped up the stairs, tailing the inspector. He wasn't sure what to expect but at the very least, he knew he should be on guard. Despite Bacarov's assurances about the man, the weapon tugged at him, and the buzzing kept moving about his head. He stops for a moment on the steps and takes a breath, trying to compartmentalize the problems and thinking on the task at hand. It did become easier and easier, and he hoped it would soon vanish as a wisp in the daylight.
His mind senses the magic on the rails and on the steps them self. The abjuration aura is faint, but he recognizes the spell.
Silent table made permanent? Bacarov wasn't just trying to pull rank here, this is definitely a warning. He doesn't know which of the two twins had cast it, but it didn't matter... at least for now. He filed it away for further study.
His grin grew as he felt warmth on him. No doubt another spell. They do enjoy their abjurations.
When he hears the man inside greet Bacarov, the haze of magic ends. He knows its time for business and stands ready. When he passes by the bodyguards, he knows full well that they are eying him down, though he didn't care. If they were going to do something, they would have by now. The line between instinct and paranoia slowly began to blur as he followed into the larger room and toward the hearth.
He listens to the slight banter and when the dueling sword is shown, he recognizes its worth, not in gold but in status. It is only when the man flashes a smile that Dramin finally puts together what Bacarov had been talking about all those weeks ago.
Dramin keeps his eyes away from the wolf. He knows where his skills begin and end and decides to not test his luck with animal instincts.
As the two friends finish, he steps in.
"Dramin Jodare. Thank you for your assistance." He's unsure whether to move forward or just stand with the wolf there and settles with an uncomfortable nod. "A friend of Bacarov over here. We do in fact have some questions, but I'll leave the investigation to the professional." He motions over to Bacarov. "I'm truly just here for the consultation work." The backhanded self compliment comes out effortlessly, but without any subtlety. You know my love, if you spent time with me more often, you would know how to indulge people much more... tastefully.
He tries his best not to shake his head as the last word drips.
"I do not know where to begin. And with complete transparency, giving me such reign with questions generally ends up with far too many dawns." He chuckles a little bit.
Dramin moves over to the inspector, his steps light on the rug underneath. "You mentioned he had something for you. Perhaps we should start there and see where that leads."