Dramin looked at the elf who walked out of the forest and forgot that many humans tend to be enchanted by their presence. Unbelievable. He sighs and puts away his log of the recent events and stands up to greet the woman in a formal Elvish.
"Hail there. I am he who Bacarov speaks. Dramin, adept of magic and blade." His tongue is very by the book and doesn't leave much to dialects. Despite what commands Bacarov speaks out with, Dramin finds himself rolling his eyes to the situation. If something is going to strike I will know about it in due time. Right now we have more pressing matters regarding this situation. However once he notices the spells being cast by Bacarov and the weapon gathering, he decides its time to show a little prudence. The day is at an end anyway, no need to get stingy.
"Entagari" And with a hand coats himself in a protective layer of Mage Armor.
He puzzles out about the darkness over Ravenmoor, the disease and the potential men chasing her.
"This feeling, this presence, do you think you can describe it? Do your best as it may be helpful in the future. Perhaps I can divine out what it may be. You can never know too much after all." His face gets pensive as he says that as if it has a deeper meaning.
He doesn't even give her room to breathe as he immediately jumps onto another stream of thought. "This mask, it is of a stirge and these vials..." He waves a quick Detect Poison on the vials to confirm the information she provided and relays the information that he knows regarding stirges. "It is clear at this point that something dark is going down at Ravenmoor. I only needed a few more pieces of information to really nail down the hypothesis. Between this blight, the spared town, the stirges, the missing lives and the strange lunar fascination, I can only believe that something occult is going on."
He doesn't feel comfortable admitting he is unable to come to a true conclusion yet and instead internalizes what he may be able to piece together. Instead he draws his bow to emphasize the fact that he's done with the idea for now. Looking at the floor, he realizes there is still some other loose end as he thinks back on what Calwen mentioned regarding the extra tracks and the talons.
"Despite all this wonderful information you've provided, I would like to hear what this journal has in it before making any further assumptions regarding the state of the forest, Ravenmoor and your own allegiance." He doesn't sit and instead just finds a spot where he can hear and see the elf clearly.
First the ass chews me out for showing compassion to our client. Now, he's chewing me out for being wary of a complete stranger.
"Men. If she ends up being an evil werewolf I'll just let her eat your insides." I snorted and kept my scarf out and loosely wrapped around my hands. Ready to use, just in case. Then I listened to the story the elf had to tell.
"We already knew something strange was going on in Ravenmoor. Having more information's good." I admitted, finding the information disturbing. Unsettling. Nature and I weren't exactly best friends but even I knew this blight spreading would only mean disaster for the city and maybe even the world.
While the others discussed journals and samples, I whispered to the spirits and wandered through my own memory, searching for knowledge.
.
.
Blight, shadowy folks in the forest...an isolationist town holding it at bay. Please don't tell me the Queen of the Festival's prize is a one way trip to the altar...
Dramin's response in elvish is admirable and poetic, but his eye rolls only reinforce Bacarov's original impression of the youth. You told me you seek knowledge and experience but you always think you're the smartest in the room. Careful, boyo, one of these days those rolling eyes of yours are going to be quickly followed by your head rolling from your shoulders. But Bacarov stays on task. The kid mentions what he's been thinking, a cult. You don't kick everyone out after daylight or worship a traveling god but do no traveling if there's not something wrong with your town charter.
"Flayleaf...one of Minvandu's fighters down at the Matador uses it. Something to do with mental toughness," Sebastian wonders at the drug, thinking on the possible uses.
Warshawski slips her comments to Marsh like a knife and for the 50th time he wonders if bringing Marsh along was a mistake. Marsh thankfully goes to recon the elf's backtrail. Bacarov didn't know this Calwen from a hole in the ground. Frankly, if she's hanging around with druids she's probably got a good connection with her surroundings. But he trusts Vinnie's skills in the wild.
He nods appreciatively to the elf's summation and agrees with Warshawski's request. "So, group of attackers, using sickles...poisoned at that...you've notes the tracks of another attacker with a pointed depression next to it which might be a scythe-like weapon..." Bacarov rubs at his chin as he takes in the information. His mind goes back to prior cases in the city.
¤ (cults or murderers/cases with this type of m.o. | weapons and use of poison and flayleaf | use of stirge masks)
¤ (magic rituals for protections against blighting)
As he thinks and listens, he inspects the mask, studying the scents and other clues available. Perhaps there might be traces of leftover magics or auras...he mutters a scrap of poetry under his breath to access his arcane abilities.
¤ (anything peculiar about the blood stains in the mask)
¤ (signs of magical workings in the mask
In response to Calwen's request for info, Bacarov looks up from the mask. "We've passed through Galduria by way of the river. Seems the town there has a hands off approach with Ravenmoor. It's reportedly not too welcoming, folks there don't cater to overnight stays. No taverns or inns," Bacarov gives the odd mask a wave. "...but they do have a fondness for stirges. Keep them as pets in fact." He goes back to studying the mask when another thought occurs to him. "The spider silk, was it naturally spun or a manufactured binding?"
While it would be nice to have a more detailed description of the manner of wounds that did the poor druid Armand in, you can imagine it probably had something to do with poisonous sickles like those. No particular murders with similar M.O.s come to mind- aside from a case from decades ago all the way out in Ustalav, which you only remember reading about in passing.
Although your knowledge of the arcane is formidable indeed, you are unaware of any exact rituals designed to reverse or protect against blights in general- such things can come about in a variety of ways, and can be fought against with an even greater variety of spellcraft.
Judging from the arrangement of the long-dried blood spatter on the broken mosquito-like mask, a truly violent wound must have sent a powerful spray upward and across the top of the mask. Probably a wound to a major artery. You get the impression that the blood on the mask probably belonged to the one wearing it. No magical signatures or workings are detected within, however, even if it stinks badly of flayleaf.
If Calwen was irritated by the conversation in halfling she didn't show, nor whether or not she understood.
To Dramin she replied: “Well, it was like noticing something extremely flighty out of the corner of an eye, which one cannot see by looking straight at it. I have been bestowed with the temporary ability to commune with the trees and the plants of the forest and while that is a new experience to me, it confirmed my doubts. Trees don't think, they grow thoughts. They experience life in a way that differs completely from ours. But they can be helpful. They cannot tell me what anything looks like, but they feel the tremor of the steps and now on how many feet it walks. In this case, two.”
“The webbing in which I found Armand looked natural. I must admit that I did not have the heart to examine his remains as closely as I should have. There were numerous holes in his body, whether they were the cause of his death or applied post mortem I could not say. In combination with the strangely organic tissue in which I found him...” she prodded the small folded leather piece in which a sample of that webbing was stored, “I think... It's possible...” she had to swallow and avert her gaze briefly before she continued, “that his body, alive or dead, may have been used to host the larvae of a parasite. Something that wraps the its victims in that kind of webbing. I can't say for sure what happened to him though, Armand's remains were already in a state of decay that suggested he hung there for at least five days before I found him. I buried him in a place that think he was fond of...” Tears were showing in the corner of her eyes and she grasped her flute tighter.
As Baracov comes to speak of the stirges, which are kept as pets in Ravenmoor:
“Wait...” replied Calwen, and while she expresses herself smoothly and accurate as ever, but her gaze seems lost in the distance and her eyes widen. One might even get the impression she becomes pale, even though her skin is already impossibly white. “If the people of Ravenmoor themselves associate with stirges, then the shadows over that village shift, the Dreamweaver is not the Great Dreamer after all and that is the pit into which Armand fell. And so would I have fallen, had the Great Dreamer not sent me to you. It might not be hope that reigns this village, but fear and submission into a dark fate, darker than destruction. I need more than a suspicion, I need to be sure, but if Kriegler is a traitor, he shall die by my sword, so Savoured Sting help me.” She didn't raise her voice, but instead looked down, filled with both sorrow and shame.
She takes a breath and looks Sebastian with her bright blue eyes. “Forgive me if I am being cryptic. While I would very much like to know more about the man you are trying to find, what it has to do with taxes – are you bounty hunters? – I believe the time has come to tell you the rest of it.”
She opened up Armand's journal and started to read, but she omitted any reference to Lyila from when she read the relevant passages. [See Armand's entry in the wiki]
"I've got to agree with the Knight of the White Rose." The more she talked, the easier I was growing with this elf. Maybe that was a mistake but my gut was telling me she wasn't the enemy.
I listened as she read the journal entries. It was like story time only it was the sort of story that made you want to pull the covers up over your hear and sleep with a loaded crossbow in hand.
"What she's saying meshes with what I found in the records." I said to the group when the elf stopped reading. "There was a blight years ago and this Iola Kriegler did end it with some sort of ritual, though the grape fields were left as ash at the time. I'm not the world's most informed person when it comes to religions outside of my own, but isn't Desna's arch-enemy a giant insect? What if good old Iola didn't come back with Desna's blessing but with her enemy's? And what if now they're a cult and Stirges are their symbols?"
The monk, who had been silently watching and listening to the exchange, feels that Calwen's query should be resolved quickly, and finally speaks. When his voice breaks in, it's a bit of a surprise to everyone, as he had been so silent as to fade into the background around you.
"Bounty hunters is a strong term for who we are. I call myself an adventurer, and my name is simply Dalton the monk," he says, touching fingertips to chest and gesturing at those who had already introduced themselves, "but those I travel with are truly professional investigators. I humbly offered them my assistance when they set out to find Elias, who has a loved one that is concerned for his safety."
He glances at Warshawski. "I know little and less of your strange religions, but I confess I had my suspicions about any town that thinks highly of the parasitic Stirge."
“I am afraid I have no knowledge on the ethos of Desna, but, if it is so, there may well be a connection.” she replied thoughtfully to Warshawski's comment.
She nodded gracefully to Dalton as he introduced himself. “What I know about stirges is limited but from what I have come to learn they are mammals, not insects, despite their odd faces they have more in common with bats than midgets. They are predators who feed on blood and themselves no more or less evil than any other animal; unfortunately they are most often contagious. I... don't know whether they are parasites or weave nets, but I doubt it.”
“If you are going to Ravenmoor I would ask you take me with you. It seems very unwise to disclose my own agenda or what I have learned in this place.” She got her water skin out of her backpack and drank a sip to get the shale taste out of her mouth. “We should also be very careful what we eat and drink in this forest and particularly what is offered to us in Ravenmoor.”
With a nod to Sebastian she picked up her flute without a further comment and started to play a soft, thoughtful melody which build up over time.
Dalton shakes his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'm no scholar of beasts, but it seems unlikely that Stirges, no matter how bothersome, could overcome an experienced druid like Armand by themselves. No, there some other party at work in that, I'm sure."
"Where I am from it is said that it is ill fortune to turn down an offer of help from an elf. I welcome you to come with us to Ravenmoor."
.
.
.
Calwen reads from the journal, the words like the horror tales Bacarov favored as a child. Warm comfort twisted to oddity twisted to the sprung trap. Warshawski's metaphor of the honeyed trap comes to mind. It's a welcome change of pace when she seems to soothe her nerves with music. He looks at his vihuela leaned against his gear, understanding.
To Dalton's response, Sebastian agrees. "It would seem there's a larger justice to be found here. I concur, your presence and experience is welcome."
Sebastian finishes studying the mask and hands it back to Calwen. The wearer died violently and bloody, an obvious observation. But at the least, it meant Armand didn't go down without a fight. Then there's the idea that his attackers may have been the town's folk. If they've given themselves over to a power that keeps them safe, then they'd do anything to cover it up.
"Isolation is the warm blanket of anonymity psychopaths love to hide under. Let's their minds get all comfortable with the dark things they've done." Bacarov says finally as he stares at the ground in thought. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his vest, absently pats around for his pipe. "So we've got your friend running afoul of this group, add to it our fellow showing up. Ravenmoor has been busy indeed trying to cover up their secrets."
He realizes finally that his pipe is in the inner pocket of his coat and guess to retrieve it. "What's worse, our theories and evidence circle around the possibility these people truly believe they're defending their way of life. A potent mixture. There are few places a name-giver wouldn't go to defend their family."
"Bear with me here," He finds his tobacco pouch and begins stuffing the bowl of his pipe. "We're going to be going in there on an errand to collect taxes, maybe ask after Elias, who's to say they don't simply put us in a hole immediately? Are we prepared to fight a whole town?" Bacarov lights his pipe and holds up a hand. "Worst case of course. I'm suggesting that we come up with a plausible story for our visit in order to buy some time to investigate."
"The possibility is there that Elias was...waylaid," Dalton says, his mouth forming the euphemism with some distaste. "But there was only one of him, and there's five of us. Six now, miss," he says, nodding to Calwen.
"There's no question that one's religious beliefs can lead one down dark and irrational paths. This exact problem is why religion was outlawed in my home country." he shakes his head. "I can only hope that these citizens will listen to reason peacefully, but I believe we could hold our own long enough to escape if things really got out of hand. Elias only had himself to rely on. We have each other."
Dramin looks upon the group and shuffles through the diary once Bacarov is done with it. While interesting, it has no hard facts and the data is purely subjective; and this doesn't exactly worry him but makes him more thirsty to find some hard fact himself. I always seem to stumble across the greatest of fun. I suppose I can change my entire thesis after all of this.
He turns to Bacarov, "This place does indeed smell, though I suggest we do not draw conclusions yet as we are still dealing with hypothetical situations. As plausible as something is, it doesn't necessarily make it probable or even possible once all the facts are gained. While I do believe most of this elf's story, I feel that at the very least we should corroborate it. If something foul is going on, I would like to know about it; likewise if something is not wrong, then I would like to also know to save myself more wasted thought in the future." His tone is very matter of fact and doesn't betray any emotion toward the now dead druid and the potential danger that may lurk ahead. His neutral facade drops and he puts up a smile when he faces Calwen, "Litsenon ar' naski'lelaeth venma' maker lle lye omentuva. Tenna' san'".
In Elvish
"If this is a setup, you will face the light. Until then."
He continues to promenade.
"If we must head to this town and we must fight, we lack sheer numbers; even with my bow on your sides. I do submit to Bacarov's idea then, though I am not one myself for cover stories and intrigue." He kneels down to the discarded mask. "You did say anonymity allowed one to reign free, liberated from all worldly shackles..." He picks it up and carefully tries to fit it to his face. "Perhaps if we stumble across these pursuers we can acquire more anonymity." He places the mask on the rock delicately where Dalton sits.
"Regardless, I am of the opinion that we should wait on Marsh's return as unfortunate as that is." He leaves the statement hanging, letting the vagueness float in the air.
Calwen listened and played her flute as she did. The humans seemed to struggle a bit with the proper form to salute her and she took a certain delight in it. She had heard “madam” in different ways of abbreviation but never the entire word, “mistress”, “miss”. Of those she liked “miss” most, she wasn't married after all. She wondered whether she should point out that but human protocol the correct form to salute a knight would be lady, but not milady (though she did not own land, the best comparison was an Eagle Knight), that it was perfectly in order to use her name and the comparison she enjoyed most was “honey pot”. But for now she just enjoyed to leave things as they were; they would probably start to use her name once they got familiar. Humans didn't usually take long for that.
“Elias”, so that was the name of the man they were looking for. She couldn't remember any human by that name. Then again, she had just come back from Irrisen, so it was hardly to be expected.
She found the idea of a cover story a bit too complicated. They had a good story. They could simply stick with it, but not admit everything they suspected. Even if the villagers, or some of them, had something to do with Elias appearance, they would likely rather maintain a façade of innocence than attack them, raising unnecessary attention would be the last the villagers wanted. Making a single one man disappear was a lot less suspicious than a band of investigator who investigated the disappearance of the first. But that was hardly her choice to make.
Consequently, she wondered, if she was true, if the people of Ravenmoor had anything to do with Elias disappearance. Even if her suspicions were correct he might have gotten lost for any number of reasons in the forest. If they wanted to avoid attention, simply paying him out might have been the better choice. But maybe they needed fresh blood for their sinister purposes. Maybe they didn't have the money. Maybe they didn't care because they didn't expect a reaction.
If they found the root of that evil they might not have to fight anyone else. No matter what the people there had done, genocide of its population could not be their purpose and if they defeated the cause of all this, they might not choose to fit, even if they were in it.
That the story seemed to have a romantic component, that Elias loved one was part of the reason why they were here gave the story a sweet touch, yet she feared that a happy ending was not very likely and it would cause pain to more good people.
Dramin had the right idea. If she was trying to fool them, it was not to lead them into an ambush, that didn't make a lot of sense, but to bring them up against the villagers for her own purposes. She certainly wanted to find out the truth as well and her ideas were so far simply a theory based on circumstantial evidence. After all she did not fully trust them either, that was why she had played down Daravon's role and refused to mention Lyila at all, exposing herself was one thing, but she could not expose her friends. She was a bit disappointed by the direct threat he uttered. Being careful was one thing, an accusation and a threat another, she did not deserve that. She finished her song with a long tune.
“I cherish the light more than I fear the dark. May the light shine on your path as well.” she replied smoothly with an intense but somewhat sad look. She did not return his smile, whether or not he believed her did not make her more right or wrong, she had no reason to fake amusement or engage in a game of dominance. “I need to brush Windmane and check his hooves.”
I listened to the chatter. The men talking back and forth. The elf woman responding on occasion. I went over the facts in my head and closed my eyes. I tuned out the conversation and listened to the whispers of the spirits on the wind. It isn't as easy outside of the city. Like people, spirits press close inside urban centers. Outside, they drift apart like dandelion seeds floating on the breeze.
"Eh, well there's evidence that a number of humanoids have passed through this area in the last few days- perhaps the last few hours, even. Lookin close though they appear to be headin northward, their path winding and nonsensical. Not sure what to make of that, hopefully not the wanderin dead."
"There's another set of tracks too, likely belongin to some kept animal, couldn't exactly what type. Could be bandits- the footprints suggest rugged, well-worn footwear of varying sizes and shapes, nothin any civilized man might be marchin about town in. It's hard to determine the exact size of the group considering the ramshackle way in which they moved through the area. In any case, they don't seem to have been heading deeper into the wood, so it is unlikely they followed or even ran across our elven newcomer."
"So I'm still thinkin we got ourselves a bonfide elven Knight of the Rose here with us. Maybe ya'll already figured it out that even an elven bandit, if there were one, wouldn't bother spendin all her money to get that get up together to fool people on a road no one travels to a place no one wants to be."
"Can't say for sure, but I am guessng those tracks mean someone's lookin for someone or something."
"We should probably keep a bit lower profile I guess."
"Dammit. You already did all the story tellin didn't ya!?"
As Marsh finishes his scouting report, you all realize from the changing color of the sky and the increasingly loud trilling of the cicadas that night will soon fall.
Dramin ponders on Marsh's words. "Seeing as most of us cannot walk the darkness as well as others, perhaps we should set up a post tonight and continue in the morning. Marsh do you believe that you can continue to track some clues in the morning as we move over to Ravenmoor or do you feel as if they might become stale overnight?" He eyes the bigger man, judging his call as if to learn some more himself.
"Whatever is chasing the elf might still be on the hunt though, and if it is a beast of the dark there is no need to fight it in its home terrain at an inopportune time; though it pains me to lose that excellent observation, I would rather die studying something grander like immortality."
He sits down, waiting to hear the rest of his companions.
"I can ward this area for a prolonged time, but magic is just a tool and we would still require a post. Marsh, if you wish to hear the story I'm sure one of us can fill you in." He looks for the journal, "There is some light reading required though." partly smirking.
"Well, if you want to find the makers of those tracks we could follow em, but we want to get to Ravenmoor right? Or did somethin she had to say change our plans? As in why an Elven Knight of the Rose is out this way in the first place?"
"Oh yes we still need to get there. Though it would be prudent to see if the tracks end up near Ravenmoor as well. If this hunter is chasing our new elf friend and it came from Ravenmoor, we will know that much moore." He chuckles to himself before he realizes that Marsh was gone for most of the time.
"It will make more sense when you hear the rest."
With a backward wave Dramin goes off to find a stick to measure the clearing, noting how much space there is to work with. He is lost in thought in an attempt to maximize potential sleeping arrangements. Every so often he pulls out a tiny piece of wire and rolls it around in his hands, shaping it unconsciously.
"Alarm spell. Nice."
"Might as well sleep where they've passed. If they didn't cut the track it will be a while before they pass back this way . . . Unless they're goblinoids, then they might keep wanderin past dark. Spell casters that need to recoup spells sleep first. Two up on watch at a time if we can manage it. With casters we're only gonna be able to travel 12 hours a day and be fully rested."
"The elf doesn't have to peace tie her sword. Her lot is thrown in with ours. She's a Knight of the Rose, she has earned that blade and I want it on my side in a fight."
Dalton can't help but smile as he watches Dramin and Marsh prepare for the night's rest. Their professionalism and seriousness belied their scruffy appearances. "I'm a very light sleeper, and in my past travels I often stood watch the entire night. I'd be content to take first watch."
Marsh returned and while the news was good, his words were just as infuriating as ever.
"Midnight watch." I said the words, then worked to help set up camp in silence. I wasn't stupid. I know very little about sleeping in the woods so I asked for help.
"Calwen, right?" I approached the other woman and offered my hand for shaking. "Name's Warshawski. I work taxes in Magnimar. Investigations into tax dodgers and the like. Since we're stuck here with a bunch of boys I figured you and I could share some ground. A tent if you're the sort to sleep in tents and a latrine area away from prying eye."
I know it wasn't an apology for being suspicious but I didn't have anything to apologize for. Alone, in a forest full of things that wanted us dead and heading towards a town filled with more things that might want us dead? Paranoia was smart.
Dramin was surprised at the ruffians recognition of the spell he was contemplating. "Have some personal experience with it Marsh?" He was half joking, but it came off more sharply than intended. The next time the wizard looked at his hands he saw the wire bent into the shape of a bell.
"I can only cover this area here with magic." He drew a line in the ground with the stick, no more than 20 feet. "We will have to bunch in close." His eyes settled on Warshawski and Calwen, his voice dry and clinical. "Assuming you want to be in the range of my alarming ward that is. Do what you feel you should though, it is no more or less effort on my part. I just require my rest for the morrow."
"Yeah, it's a useful spell, but like you said it can't stand on its own. Nice thing is when you storm the camp, sometimes the caster pops his head up to look, makes it easier to lop their heads off."
Dalton chuckles as he sets his small collection of equipment down on the ground within the circle marked by Dramin. He only leaves his weapons equipped, and glances around at the darkening woods around him. "Would you all object to a fire?" he asks, curiously. "Nights can get chilly in these parts. I can see plenty of firewood in that treeline."
Dramin listens to the monk's query and weighs the pros and cons in his head. At that point it becomes clear that the fire would work in his favour threefold, by keeping them warm, casting light and potentially drawing the hunter in. The latter would not be considered a pro by many, so he just smiles and nods to the monk, leaving his agenda silent.
"If I require to take watch I would request the first, as then I can place the alarm for the remainder of the time and refresh my own armor before settling down; otherwise we will have a blank window of time and I dislike wasted time." He doesn't press the issue but sits on the word 'if'.
Dramin places his falchion by Dalton and his stuff, keeping his lighter bow on hand and the small ceremonial dagger on his hip. Rummaging through his stuff he finds a small pearl and focuses onto it intently.
.
.
.
"I'll take third watch." Sebastian speaks up. "My mom venerates Sarenrae. I guess greeting the dawn has been a habit of mine for a while." It's also the only time of day Bacarov feels at peace. He wouldn't be surprised if Warshawski told him it's the time when the spirits leave the living alone. For the Magnimar Watch Inspector, he sought the dawn hours greedily, hoping Abadar saw no offense in his smile towards the Dawnflower.
He toes at some if their gear and grins. "Assuming we're unmolested tonight, I'll see if I can dust up a serviceable breakfast."
He then searches thru his pack and pulls out a signal whistle. It's battered and tarnished but still bears the sigil of the City Watch. "It might be a bit mundane, but whomever is in watch, this can help in waking the others. 'Fill your hands with weapons, fill your mouth with noise,' as my old sarge would say." Bacarov looks at the old thing in his hands and smiles, remembering his first night on the streets when the whistle and his uniform had been pristine.
"Something else, and Vinnie can help I'm sure, if we want to expand our perimeter, I've got some twine so we can attach noisemakers." He grins at Marsh. "Remember that time east of Sandpoint? Our little twine perimeter gave us just enough time to shinny up a tree and let that bear have his way with our lunch." Looking Dramin's way he adds. "No offense kid, but I wouldn't mind some mundane back up to your spell. Like they say up in the snowy north, use layers."
Back around to Marsh, "I'll fill you in on the details so far..." Sebastian relates the previous minutes' conversation and the possibility they're dealing with a cult that worships stirges or a god who's avatar is the creature. "...chances are, the people of Ravenmoor see this entity or ritual as the reason their village remains unaffected by the blighting. The behavior of these mask wearing folk suggests cult, but their methods and use of flayleaf is interesting. Like they seek to firm their wills against something... I don't know. I've dealt with my share of crazy, but this one is new to me."
Over to Dramin, "If we can get the clothing that goes along with the mask, infiltration isn't a bad idea. But caution should rule. In my experience with cults, they tend to know the other members considerably well."
Bacarov continues setting things up for camp, After a few minutes, Bacarov will responds to Warshawski's request for aid
. "Spent some time with my dad camping out south of the city. I'm no trapper, but I can help." He leans in and whispers...
"I don't want to upset our new party member, but based on her descriptions and the ones in the journal, can you tell if this Armand's spirit is still around? Maybe staying close to her?" He nods Calwen's way.
To the others as camp is established, "Be sure to use those mosquito nets. It'd be a shame to survive cult-sickles only to be killed by a blood poison." Bacarov grins to himself and mutters, "Cult-sickles..."
Once done with setup he'll tune up his vihuela and nod to Calwen. "How about a tune to celebrate your fallen friend?"
¤ (would be same result for stealth at a +6)
Calwen is busy for a while tending her horse. Every now and then she would whisper words into Windmane's ear, even though it does not look the horse would understand her.
She smiles at Marsh's friendly words when he comes back. “Alas, as much as would like to claim otherwise, some elves may do follow the call of greed as well, there are elven bandits, if not many. My apology that you were excluded. I shall have a look at those tracks myself in the light of morning. The tracks did not look as though whatever left their print in the forest moved with particular care, did they?”
To Dramin she replies: “I may guard your sleep, if you want me to. I have no spells to prepare. I am not able to see in utter darkness either, my eyes simply require a little less light. For those of you who do watch – Windmane, my trusty horse, is gifted a very acute sense of smell and sharp ears. If you notice some discomfort about him or there is a fair chance something is approaching.” She was not sure whether they trusted her enough to let her guard them, but she certainly had to offer.
She takes Warshawski's hand gently in an elegant motion as it is offered, though it seems like she is not used to that kind of gesture: “I should very much like to accept your offer and join you in your tent. Thank you.” She adds a mild smile and lets go of Warshawski's hand. “Allow me to set it up for us then.”
She nods to Sebastian. "That would be the music this night deserves. It will be my honour to join you in song."
- - - -
Bacarov's watch.
Got 'em.
- - - -
Dramin sits up after the glow of the pearl dies down. "No offense taken Bacarov. Though I must say it is more of an augmentation of skills rather than a skill itself." He talks the words to Gravity Bow under his breath but doesn't complete the verbal components. "Thats where magic shines best." He looks down on the mask again, its pieces broken. "Let us hold onto this, I may be able to recall a technique my father taught me down the road. Though perhaps it is for the better then if it remained in this state, if it is indeed a cult then perhaps its absurd to think they won't have some sort of marks to tell each other apart."
Dramin grabs something from his pack before leaving the area, a Scroll of Shield though he notices the extra in the bag as well. Sigh. I only wanted to spread the interest and beautiful scripts. No matter then. He puts it in close hand as well.
"So without further distraction." He focuses on the thin bell he made of wire and begins playing the imaginary piano again with his hand, "Hilomni". A moment later a slight glow appears on the floor, though it vanishes as quickly as it came.
"If you must leave the perimeter, just say 'Infuertio' as you cross. Failure to do so will cause a small, though loud, noise. I would demonstrate but it really would defeat the purpose if we are to use it correctly."
@Budd:
Its okay, Pearls restore themselves when you prepare spells!
Also would you like me to detail where Alarm is cast?
.
.
.
Bacarov smiles in return to Calwen's acceptance and once the camp is established he grabs a seat near his pack so he can lean against it. He plucks at the vihuela for a time until the right song comes to him. An old man named Mueler had taught him the piece in return for finding us son's killer. The boy, a merchant named Herkel, had been killed in his stall after closing for the pittance in his pocket. Mueler hadn't seen his son in several years and had documented his emotions at approaching Magnimar. How the spires of the ancients and the modern scraped against the sky, it spurred him to write a song. In his time, Mueler had been an accomplished musician.
When Calwen joins him, Bacarov lights his pipe and offers tobacco in the fashion of fellowship. Then he plays a few notes to give her the key for the piece. The song is slow but the combination of chords lends hope and brightness to the words. Again, his gravely voice sings low and soft.
"When the night shows
the moon and stars they grow
All the strange things,
they come and go, as early warnings
Stranded fish have no place to hide
still waiting for the swollen twilight tide
There's no point in direction we cannot
even choose a side."
"I took the old dirt track, you know the one,
the hollow shoulder, across the waters.
On the tall cliffs they were getting older,
sons and daughters
The jaded underworld was riding high
Waves of steel hurled metal at the sky
and as the nail sunk in the cloud, the rain
was warm and soaked the crowd."
"Lo, here comes the flood
We'll say goodbye to flesh and blood.
If again the seas are silent in any still alive
It'll be those who gave their island to survive.
Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry."
"When the flood calls
You have no home, you have no walls
In that thunder crash
You're a thousand minds, within a flash
Don't be afraid to cry at what you see
The act is gone, there's only you and me
And if we break before the dawn,
they'll use up what we used to be."
"Lo, here comes the flood
We'll say goodbye to flesh and blood
If again the seas are silent in any still alive
It'll be those who gave their island to survive
Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry."
---------------
In the evening he dreams of passing spirits and the faces of the long dead who he couldn't save. He's used to the demons of his work, reconciling that justice would put them to bed. That and the occasional drink.
His turn at watch comes and he awakens to garb himself in his armor and gather his weapons. He loops his old signal whistle around his neck and begins walking the perimeter, bow out and arrow knocked and bull's eye lantern lit.
¤
I did what I could to help Calwen set up our tent. Then I prepared myself for the night. Even the possibility of ambush couldn't convince me to sleep in my armor, so I left that off. Then I cleaned up and crawled into the sack. I listened to Bacarov's song as I drifted off to sleep. Soon enough I would be woken up to take my shift and I would dance under the moonlight in devotion to the True Spark.
"Yeah I suppose, but I still ain't heard of no Elven Knight of the Rose getup wearin bandits. If you are the first so be it cause I'm fooled."
"I'll take whatever watch you want Sebastian just tell us the rotation. Good job on the stringin of the bells."
"Build a fire and whatever if they are gonna play music it won't much matter. Might as well be warm and loud."
- - - -
Night falls, and the party sets up camp. The cicadas provide suitable background noise to which much of the party gets to sleep; Warshawski performs her nightly obedience to Ashava, and eventually the watch is passed to Inspector Bacarov.
As the detective patrols the campsite, careful not to upset Dramin's alarm spell or his own tripwires that lie slightly further out, the only other lifeform that shares the night with him is Windmane, Calwen's loyal steed, who acknowledges Bacarov's passing with a snort.
Near sunrise, with Bacarov's watch about halfway over, he detects some presence nearby- coming not from the wood, but from down near the riverbed.
..
(hide)
(listen / watch)
Bacarov freezes once hears them, ascertaining their direction then angling to our a tree or brush between himself and the voices. Keeping an arrow knocked he places his whistle to his lips and clamps it there and returns his hand to the bow string. It's not hard for him to fall into practice, running the if/then statements in his mind.
Ok, chummer, if you're gonna miss where I'm hiding, then I'll stay cozy and listen. He glances back towards the camp. The smell of the now doused campfire looms large like a clanging gong. He looks back in the direction of the voices. Okay, first paluka I see, I do a little thought sowing...get him thinking the smell of campfire is 90°off. Maybe give my sorry hoop time to sneak back to the camp and wake the group quiet like.
Be settles in and listens...
¤ (sneak away)
-----------
- - - -
"...back into the water, I'm tellin' ya. Why would it go up on land? You saw that campfire up there."
A nasally, high-pitched voice responds: "Pardon me, Vikas, but who made you the expert on draconic behavior? I was once a professor at the arcane biology branch at the Twilight Academy! And I am telling you, it went up on land! You should be checking the foliage!"
A gruff, female voice chips in: "And you should be quieter, 'professor.' As loud as you're yapping, you'll wake up those campers back there. Now shut up, all of you. I'm trying to track."
By now, you can make out the shapes a little better: five humans, one of whom appears to be a large, muscular woman with some kind of heavy, two-handed weapon. The others are holding heavy crossbows. The last figure is a much smaller humanoid, perhaps a halfling or gnome.
Almost as soon as the tension in your muscles begins to lessen- they are aware of your encampment, from the sound of things, but have no interest in attacking you- you hear a small rustling from the brush nearby. When you glance over, you see a pair of glistening eyes staring at you from a clump of riverside reeds, and you can hear strained breathing.
...
.
.
(what the... is it?)
(shhhhh | hand gestures)
(insight into group)
.
Bacarov lowers his weapon, eyes locked with the pair of eyes hiding in the reeds. With his right hand he lays it flat and attempts to signal calm and silence. Then he spots the viscous fluid in the ground.
Okay, fella. Seems they're looking for you...you're hurt too... The combination of shooters and the prideful halfling gives him an idea of their intent and how the eyes next to him are involved. He's glad the party's not interested in the camp, but the detective just isn't sure into what kind of jackpot he's just landed. He looks back to the pair of eyes as he hunkers down further, trying to convey to the unseen being that he has no intentions other than staying hidden. Okay, mate, let's you and me be friends, eh?
That done, he veeery slowly draws forth his wand of clw and allows the creature to see it. Now, a little more bonding here... nothing says 'I'm friendly' like a good healing... He expends a charge of the item for the creature's benefit.
Hoping his little magical influence helps, he puts away the wand then looks to the woman leading the party and focuses on her mind. Okay, my dear, let's see if you might want to just keep going on another direction... Corresponding with the direction she's already going into, Bacarov waggles his hand low in silent rhythm and plants the thought that her quarry has fled across the river away from their location.
- - - -
Looking at the group more carefully, you begin to put together an idea in your head. The woman in the lead, judging from her mohawked hair and hide armor, might be Shoanti in origin, and the short one now appears to be a gnome, whose long eyebrows shoot a good six inches off the sides of his head. They look like professionals, and carry themselves with a sort of self-righteous sense of aggression that reminds you of thugs or criminals.
As you approach, the creature hiding in the brush does not seem threatened, and makes no sudden moves. As you draw your wand, you realize what it is: covered in silvery scales, with orange-red fins, it is most certainly a River Drake. There are several crossbow bolts sticking out of its flanks, and blood oozing from its nostrils. It groans quietly as your wand heals some of its wounds, and fidgets somewhat in the brush.
As your sow thoughts spell goes off, you can almost feel it fizzle as the mohawked woman shakes her head irritably. "Hold," she says quietly. "Professor, these drakes know magic?"
"Unlike a 'true' dragon," the gnome says, "I highly doubt it. They are more brutes than anything else. Why do you ask?"
"Just a feeling," the woman says, then makes a quick hand gesture to the men behind her. The four of them nod, then begin to fan out, crossbows raised. The woman tightens her grip on her weapon- which you can now tell is a large hammer covered in sharp points, which the Shoanti call an Earth-breaker.
...
.
(in Infernal)
(Tossing Rocks)
-----
Bacarov barely resists the urge to unleash a string of expletives. Instead he keeps his mind moving. Out on the streets if you stopped thinking you died. No different here.
He grabs up a couple rocks, hefty enough that they might make noise once thrown. Then he rubs at his throat and gestures to the drake... Easy fella, stay still n' don't start thinking of me as delicious...
Maintaining his hiding place (stealth) Bacarov gutturals his voice and unleashes a tirade in Infernal (performance/bluff), "Suffer for harming those I call friend, intruders!" He immediately unleashes a spell to the leader, then side arms the rocks in his hand in an angling direction away from his position and away from the camp (ranged throw).
- - - -
Although none of the figures spot Bacarov, the Shoanti woman with the Earth-breaker's face twists up and she again shakes her head, fighting off the effects of the daze spell. "Son of a- there's somebody there! Men, open fire!"
The four hunters raise their crossbows and level them in the general direction of Bacarov's voice, though luckily none of them seems to have an exact bead on the Inspector, who is still hidden in the brush next to the bleeding drake.
"Wait, wait! That was the infernal tongue!" the gnome shouts. In infernal, he says: "Well met, devil! And how are you this fine evening? I am sorry to have disturbed you and your charge. But do tell, why did you not arise to protect this creature's parents and the Academy wretches caring for them earlier in the evening? Had I known a lord of the inferno was watching over these drakes, I would certainly have taken my search elsewhere. As it stands, I fear I must beg a pardon of you, as I really do need this foul thing's innards. It surely is already on death's bed; it is yours to claim but momentarily!"
He says this in as pleasant a tone as the infernal language can muster, but you note his hand reaching for the wand at his hip as he speaks.
The shoanti woman snarls impatiently. "Flush him out!" she says, clearly not understanding anything the gnome said. "Open fire!"
- - - -
Nearby, at the campsite, the sound of shouting causes Windmane to begin whinnying nervously and tearing at the ground with his hooves. The sounds easily snap everyone out of their sleep.
- - - -
"Something is coming." Dramin speaks in a deadpan stupor similar to a sleeptalking man would be. Before he even thinks about the repercussions for hitting the martial artist, he knocks at Dalton. "Get up Dalton. We have company. The horse is whining far too loudly." The tone in his voice makes it clear that he does not realize what he said upon awakening; chalking it up purely to the horse.
@Budd
He quickly snaps up his bow with little to no effort and decides to get up. At least the Armour is still floating around me. No crying over lost hours I suppose. There's plenty of time to sleep tomorrow hopefully, they best understand that.