"Eh, Calwen, just so you know. This drake is black because it is decended from the true black dragon's ancestry somewhere back in the days of primordial ooze where men were like insects. A full grown drake eats fishermen as easily as it does fish. I am hopin that this one here has been domesticated, but Uh, things could get dicey. Especially if it decides to get stupid hungry. These guys usually keep an underwater larder like a croc. They like their food rotten and water logged. They eats it whole, bone hair, everything. They spit acid from their stomachs or somethin. Digests everythin. "
"I'm thinkin that we need to find its proper food type."
"This estuary place ain't too far away. They had a whole scad of these things back there. There's probably plenty of food. Rather than hunt why don't we spend our time checkin out the place. We can hit the bandit camp on the way."
"Besides, there might be survivors out there still. We wait too long they'll be dead meat for sure. Or if there are more bandits they might get away. I think time is of the essence here."
"As for this crazy ass gnome, is he infected with somethin? Is this blight like a fungus or somethin? Cause in the wild animals don't usually let things like emotion get in the way of food. If the drake says somethin's wrong with'em there's more to it. The drake would happily eat the rest of these guys."
"I think it's best that we do split up. It should save us time and Sebastian and Warshawski need to make report, write statements, impound evidence all that."
"The four of us shouldn't have much problem with whatever we come across. By the time Sebastian's done with his detail, we'll meet back on the road."
There are also six empty wine bottles lying on the ground nearby.
The captain of the garrison, Rhett Malfoight, is a stern-looking young man with short-cropped hair. He quickly approaches as you enter the garrison, having been summoned by his subordinates as soon as you approached. He gives a quick salute in greeting. "Captain Malfoight. What's going on here? First time I've seen somebody drag a gnome in here," he says, staring at the Professor. "You must have one hell of a story to tell. I'm expecting a damned good explanation for this."
It does not take long to find the small complex of hastily-built structures that form the so-called "estuary." Built over a stream that branches off from the Lampblack River, it has the look of a structure intended to be set up, broken down, and moved about quickly. The fire that had likely been intended to destroy the facility and cover the Professor's crimes seems to have burned itself out without destroying the estuary outright, though the smell of burnt flesh hangs heavy in the air.
Inside one of the structures, the pen, you find the mutilated forms of two adult river drakes. From the looks of things, they were killed while they slept, and several of their internal organs were removed postmortem.
Inside the main housing, you find a sight still more grisly: the bodies of the Twilight Academy magicians manning the facility. One is horribly burned, while the others seem to have been bludgeoned to death or shot with crossbows. Three of them appear to have been young, maybe teenagers; their right ears have been removed, but more horrifyingly, their hearts have been cut out as well. All of their gear and spellbooks lie in a scorched pile in the middle of the room, ruined.
In the back room, you find another body, a girl that looks as if she couldn't have been older than sixteen. A crossbow bolt juts from her neck, and like the others, her right ear and heart have been removed.
I say there was silence. That's not exactly true. Spirits circled the gnome like vultures circled a carcass. Each whispering and begging, needing justice. Needing to see the man that lead them to their death find punishment in this world and, perhaps, the next.
"He's done this before." I said to Bacarov, speaking to the living in hopes of drowning out the dead. "Led a group out on some ugly job and gotten them killed. Maybe even killed them himself so he could keep the loot. The dead are sticking to him like flies on dog shit. I'm guessing he's got several outstanding warrants."
Dalton's mouth forms a thin grim line as he surveys the massacre. "Such barbarism in the name of attaining personal wealth," he comments aloud. He casts about himself for a digging implement to bury the bodies with.
If he can find one, he will set to burying the bodies of the Academy students immediately.
There is discovery and there is wanton slaughter. This was the latter and despite Dramin's desire to seek out the world, it wouldn't be in this way.
He faced away from everyone and composed himself after surveying the bloody scene for but a moment, and sent out a quick Detect Magic in the area, focusing heavily on anything that may still be floating around. If this ritualistic killing is any sign, there may still be some sort of energy in the air.
He musters what he can with a short curse to Nethys and turns back afterward, to examine the bodies. "They have all had their hearts cut out. All of them." He stands near Marsh, stone faced and continues, "However, there are some things here that don't add up."
He debates waiting for someone to ask what, but decides to carry on in his monologue. "No one would burn spellbooks like this, not any wizard anyway." He runs his hands through the ashes, pained.
His head is a blazing mess of thoughts swirling, as his anger fuels him to recalling back everything he may have read regarding the subject here; like traversing an old hedge maze of thought.
"These will come in handy. I'll take the poisons . . . And the Flay Leaf. Heh, nice tool kit, this should work on the strong box nice."
"Dramlin, check this thing for heat. I'll do it too, but ya can't be too careful right?"
"Looks like these guys had a real party."
Vinnie's eyes wander everywhere, but to the elve's own. His shoulders slump and he is visibly the most outwardly vulnerable he has appeared since Calwen joined the group.
"I was wonderin what made ya ask about that cause . . . <<<nervous cough>>> . . . No one ever assumes I ever . . . Well that is to say I come off as . . . You know, as I am."
Marsh falls silent and takes several deep breaths.
"I was a dad. <<<choke>>> an I was a good husband too."
Marshes eyes light up a bit.
"My wife. You shoulda seen her, face like a dryad, eyes that sparkled like light in a dwarf cut gem, rosey cheeks and a heart more beautiful than anythin I've ever experienced. . . The kids took after their momma. Heh, good thing too right! I mean . . . No one wants to . . . You know be like this guy."
"She was a good one to em. A real proper mom an a lady to boot---no crown or titles or nothin like that, but no less a noble person, ya know what I'm sayin."
Marsh stalls his story a bit. The elf can tell he's fighting back emotion and steeling himself up for the final push.
"I can't believe I'm tellin ya this. Probably don't want to hear now right? Like heh, oh boy sorry I asked. <<<nervous little laugh>>> Well ya asked sincere an all so I'll spill it to ya. I don't much trust people, well humans anyway I guess. You say there are bad elvess, sure, makes it easy when they've got black skin. Humans are monsters an you can't tell nothin about em from just lookin at their outsides. Anyways, you are the right sort of elf, like right out of a story book. I can tell you haven't been hangin around us cave monkeys long. You got that clean slate, pure heart look to ya."
"I won't bore ya with the details, but I was workin on a case. . . Men who . . . Men who stole women---girls actually. . . Used em like sex slaves and meat puppets---an worse."
"I got into it wit em. I mean I was taken it to em hard. I, I don't like that kinda shit. Sent a lot of em off to Hell, Jail, an other places. I was passionate about it. . . Thought I was makin the world a better place for my kids. I had my own kids. I worked with the parents that were missin their kids---made it a personal matter, get it?."
"See, I didn't want em growin up like I had it. I literally grew up in the dump. Like as in the city's cesspool. I didn't have no dad. My mom, she was an angel, had to sell herself to keep me alive an she did."
"That's another sob story that don't need tellin though."
He pauses and his eyes search hers apparently expecting to see distain or some other form of disapproval. Finding none he resumes.
"I f+!*ed it up Calwen. They couldn't get me. I was their worst nightmare. I was what made those evil men afraid in the darkest allies they prowled. People like that don't respect shit. They dodged Sebastian's beloved codes, didn't play by Warshawski's stupid rules and hid behind the nobles that purchased their wares. I didn't play by the rules either when justice needed to be done, but I got those girls home when I could. That's all that really mattered."
His face is beet red now.
"I got careless or somethin. My cover got burnt. They must have figured me out. My work followed me home. . . I was."
<<<Swallow>>>
"Fugitive Taskforce an Extraditions, ten years."
"They took'em Calwen. I got to missin my family so I went home. It's my fault. They waited til I wasn't there and they took em. No signs of forced entry. Probably someone my wife knew, thought it was safe. An inside job. . . They sold em . . . To <<<gag>>> (unintelligible) Skinsaw. . .
His eyes screw shut and his teeth clench so hard Calwen half expects to see them shatter.
"By the time I tracked em down."
You think he's going to barf.
"They were . . .This shit here (indicating the dead at the estuary) it's bad but it ain't nothin like they did to my family."
"They left the little one to---Oh god!"
Vincent doubles over. Calwen senses his rage brim, a gift he seized on to continue with.
"Now I ain't a dad, I ain't a husband, I ain't nothin no more. Nothin worth anythin that is . . . I met Sebastian at the scene. He's homicide. Couldn't get rid of that guy. He thinks I am a mess too. Just feels too sorry for me to let go I guess. I can never repay him. No one understands me any more. Not even myself."
"Sebastian's good people. So's his dad. Both good men, but Sebastian don't have his old man's sense of things. Good thing I guess. Keepin him alive is the only real purpose I have in life now. I am too stubborn to do myself in. I told my wife I'd make myself go on and my word to hers as good as she was to me."
"So anyway, that's the scoop."
"That story about the savage being spelled, heh---Sounds good, but she didn't do this all by her lonesome. She wasn't beatin down on people with a two handed hammer in one hand and reloadin a heavy crossbow with the other. All those a#!++$#s had a part in this."
"So we've got mayhem, murder, arson---not to mention burglary, vandalism and buggerin with the dead. I've gotta take some notes for Sebastian."
Marsh goes over and checks the young girls pulse once more before passing his hands over her eyes to make the slack lids close over her dulled and dried out eyes.
"Sleep easy sweetheart."
"Don't let her hear I said it, but I wish Warshawski was here to helps these souls cross over or whatever it is she does with em."
"It's a cryin shame. They didn't have to go to this extent. This little girl wasn't a threat to nobody."
"You succeeded though sweat pea. The drake got away an we'll watch over him for ya. We can at least try'n make your sacrifice worth somethin."
Marsh nods at Dramin's assessment.
"You got that right, unless the barbarian girl did it. Some of the tribes are awful suspicious of anythin magic. But you'd think the gnome bein as greedy as he is woulda kept em to sell."
"I wonder if they shot the drakes with Drow poison then butchered em when they passed out."
"Those bandits made their own bed they can rot in the open as far as I care, but these people here deserve better. I'll look around there's gotta be some shovels around."
"Ey! Dalton! I'll give you a hand buddy."
The text within is nearly indecipherable, scrawled in twisting, ugly script and dotted with arcane symbols and patterns with little rhyme or reason. As you flip through the pages, you occasionally find a few handwritten notes written in a different script, one still unfamiliar to you but clearly of a different language than the rest of the book.
You also spot a folded-up sheet of paper stuck into the back of the book. On it, written in common, is:
Nettleby-
You were right. Ustalav. I'm going back there soon myself. Beliandral says that our brothers there are well at work on their "special project." Hope you make it that way soon.
Keep listening for the whispers. You will know the way.
-Markham
- - - -
You rack your brain in search of some answers regarding what you've found, but in truth the removal of the heart and other organs was once quite common in the old faiths of Golarion- particularly those dedicated to the worship of or . It was also considered to be a sign of dominance, the ultimate show of victory to remove and consume the heart of one's opponent after defeating them in battle... but this was hardly a battle. Human hearts, particularly those of the pure or of virgins, are often used in summoning and planar-binding rituals, though in nearly all cases the act of removal is done as a part of the ritual itself, not performed beforehand. To cut the hearts out beforehand and leave the bodies behind seems to throw off the idea of using them for such a purpose.
You detect no lingering magic from the pile of burned spellbooks, however, a fact that continues to trouble you as the investigation continues.
.
.
.
...
It's a quiet walk. Bacarov is thankful to Warshawski for the silence while he sorts through the last few hours. What had started out as a missing persons case had become a window to the past. Warshawski makes mention of the spirits hovering around the gnome and he nods, unsurprised.
"His sort of evil begets that kind of attention. Tell them he'll get what's coming to him, on both sides of the veil. Dirtbags like this, they never realize the gains they reap here turn bad on the other side. Eventually they all burn." The specters of the past loom large as he contemplates the horrors the gnome most likely dabbled within.
He changes the subject when he speaks again. "I think you know my father's a Watchman. Twenty-eight years on the job. Did I ever tell you my mother's a priestess at the Abadaran temple?" At Warshawski's silent head shake he continues. "I suppose if I got my respect for the law from my father, I got my love for it from my mother. If it'd been left to me, I'd have rejected the Inspector's division and stayed with the Watch. But she convinced me Abadar had other ideas. How does that old saying go? 'If you want to make the gods laugh, tell them your plans.'" Bacarov chuckles and continues. "Over the years, her and the church have kept me sane as the work became more and more grim. Without them, I think I'd have gone Marsh's path long ago."
He raises a hand, knowing what the man's name prompted in Warshawski. "It might change things, it might not...but hear me out." He takes a deep breath and continues, falling into his mode of storytelling that normally earned him free drinks from the local Watch grunts. "Marsh was a Watchman, a brutal one, but a good one. He went after the worst of the worst. Where I investigated the who of the crime, his division would take that information and get proactive. That all ended when the job followed him home..."
--------------------
It's over a year ago and he's standing over the mutilated corpses of a family. Sebastian's holding a leathery mask in his hands, the flickering torches held by the officers on the scene casting only hints as to the hideous materials put into making it.
In the background, there's a man roaring in rage and grief and utter despair; the wails of the living drowning in the wake of the dead. Bacarov's face is impassive, he's searching the scene before his own emotions get the better of him. Blood, so much blood! It caused him to wonder if the killer had brought in some just to muddy the scene. Later he'd confirm that theory. The extra blood played havoc with the wizards and their rituals.
This scene of unimaginable horror is where he meets Vincent Marsh. It's his family's blood staining the cobblestones red. It's his anguish peeling back the last few layers of decency in a man who'd already seen too much.
Weeks go by, blood and echoes haunting Bacarov as he hunts for the killers responsible. Marsh is a stone, all emotion now covered over in silence. He doesn't help. Bacarov knows the type, a hypothesis reinforced by Marsh's jacket in the Watch. If Bacarov is to solve the case, he'd have to stay one step ahead of a man bent on vengeance. It isn't that the inspector blames the guy, but no matter the horror of a crime, he believed that responding with justice kept the soul of a man clean. Justice is blind, it deals retribution in a manner only the truly impartial can understand. Revenge is too narrow, rarely does it see the forest rotting as it chops down a single tree.
The case is Bacarov's first run in with the Seven. Rumors abounded of a secret society of thrill-kill cultists dedicated to Father Skinsaw, but the mask in his possession leads him down a path of terrible confirmation. Leaning on a contact out of Absalom, Bacarov discovers that the mask is woven from human flesh, processed multiple times to make it less obvious. It's features are the stuff of nightmares. He lives with the certain truth that Marsh's family's last view of this world had been a group of men bearing this horrific visage.
In the end, passed the blood and the lies and the whispered secrets, Bacarov found his key. There'd been a disconnect between the scene of the crime and Marsh. How in the Scales of Abadar had Vinnie shown up in the crossbow sights of the Seven? These guys are organized, terribly so given their macabre passions. So why the family of a cop who worked his beat? It isn't until Bacarov is given clearance to review Marsh's caseload. Months later, he discovers Marsh had unlocked that key himself. Maybe Sebastian's progress had spooned out a measure of trust in the hurting man. In the case files, Bacarov finds a name. A piece in the puzzle that finally links the Seven's activities to the Marsh crime scene.
Korisal Splitknuckle. A dwarf of particularly nasty proclivities and vengeful temperament. Marsh had singlehandedly brought down one of his most lucrative operations. What Marsh had not known, Korisal was a member of the Seven. While not selling slaves in the blackmarket, he'd been a supplier to the Skinsaws for their rituals.
The arrest is swift. Bacarov had found the connection and gathered his arresting officers in the same night. A week behind bars and Korisal is found dead in his cell, guts spilled and ritualistic runes scrawled beneath him. The scene made worse when it is confirmed that his wounds and the drawings were done by Korisal himself.
--------------------
Bacarov returns to the present and looks Warshawski's way. "I guess my work on the case earned Marsh's trust. He shows up one night in a local tavern, buys me a drink, then proceeds to tell me about his family. He's a different man...boisterous and laughing and affable. By the end of the night I've found a friend who's seen the horrors of the street and survived. The months go by and I'm finding the deeper meaning of Vincent Marsh. He sees me as family, the only one he's got. So he watches my back when he's not hold up in Lowcleft watching over a grimy bar like a bruising paladin." He stuffs his hands into his pockets and a great sadness comes over the Detective. "That night at the pub, it was my only glimpse at the man he'd been before the murders. I've never seen that guy again. Sure he's joked and we've grown to be more like brothers than anything. But I've never seen him smile like that again."
"Look Warshawski, I don't tell you this to earn him pity. I just know, you're like me, every case that crosses our desks needs perspective."
.
♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧
.
Bacarov offers a salute to the captain's rank and produces his badge. "City Watch Inspector Sebastian Bacarov. In the course of a missing person's investigation, my group ran across a party of poachers. They'd been tracking a juvenile drake through the forest." He gestures to the two humans who are bound and gagged, providing their names. "These two have been cooperative as noted in my brief. The last is Nettleby Brackenweld, the ring leader who hired these men and others."
On the road, Bacarov had made a copy of his report to pass along, he does so now. "The two men are to be charged with illegal poaching and banditry and accessory to murder. However their cooperation in my eyes should be sufficient to commute the death sentence. However, the gnome is to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, murder in multiple acts with heinous intent, and undisclosed cult activity and organ trafficking." He nods to the bindings covering the gnome's eyes mouth and ears. "He is a magic-user and in my impression a ritualist. A mage-cap for sensory deprivation is of the utmost importance."
"My party presses on to Ravrnmoor to complete my original task. My hopes here are two fold, that these prisoners are delivered to Magnimar on your next rotation. And that this message be delivered by raven as soon as possible." He hands a tiny leather scroll case for attaching to a courier bird. "To be delivered to Commander Tacitus Olfrey."
》
“May your family roam free in Elysian fields.” answered Calwen seriously to Marsh. Things like this were terrible, for a human probably even more than for an elf. There was no time for decades of grief and starting over afterwards. “And your heart not loose the light. The Star Song sings for you at night and the Eternal Rose blooms closer than you may think. You are brave to keep on fighting.” She put the soft leather on the inside of her armoured glove on his shoulder and left it there for a moment.
There was nothing she could have said to the drake that he would have understood, but she touched his neck carefully in a resemblance of a hug to give him comfort. “I am very sorry...” she whispered to him in elven, hoping that her tone would make him understand. She tried to lead him outside... he was still young and while it was probably to late now and the images would forever remain in his mind she tried to lead him out.
She sighed as she looked around. At least the death was too recent for the bodies to smell all to horrible, but what she saw was painful to look at. Nevertheless she tried to focus. How were the victims killed? What was taken from them. Was there any indication of different persons which they were yet unaware of at the scene? Was there anything that might give a further clue about the motive of the bandits? Was there anything that connected this to the disappearance of this Elias or the blight in the forest?
“Please wait a bit with tending the victims' remains, I would like to have a thorough look at all this. We should also find out how river drakes typically honour their dead. Though I am almost afraid to ask.” She sighs. “This may take a while.”
She looked around, choosing every step carefully to avoid destroying tracks. She tried to find tracks that fit to no person they were aware of and had at the bodies, the blood stains, tried to figure out how the victims were killed and which wounds applied post mortem. She was no investigator like the humans, but she wanted to know the face of her enemy. And this scene simply screamed for answers, there must be something that gave all of that some resemblance of reason, even if that reason was more cruel and terrible than the deed itself. She particularly looked for those strange holes in the ground that she saw at the scene were Armand was murdered.
“Hm... was this man burned during the fight or post mortem along with the rest of wizards' possession? Why did they burn all this anyway? Spell books are valuable, are they not? The gnome wizard did not use fire spells... used them all up? Or did they use some kind alchemy... the burnt man I mean.” she was talking more to herself. It would be difficult to find the remainders of possibly non existing potion vial in all this mess and identify it as such. She cast a quick glance around to see whether there was any coin left at the scene – if there motive had been greed they would definitely have take it.
A little louder to Marsh she asked: “What have you got there? Research notes?”
"He has a choice." I pick my words carefully, grabbing and discarding them like clothing on date night until I find the right ones. "The way he talks to me or other women, is that the way he'd want someone to talk to his daughter? Would he want his wife to see what he did? Because she might. They might all still be around. I hope not. I hope they've gone their way to a better place but they could be watching as he drags himself into darkness. Until he becomes what killed them. He's the only one who can stop himself, Bacarov. And I won't stand down and pretend a hard luck story excuses what he's done or what he said. He has a choice. But I am sorry. Someday, I hope we can hang every Skinsaw that ever lived. I'll even chip in to import tines from Cheliax."
The gnome wizard did not use fire spells... used them all up? Or did they use some kind alchemy... the burnt man I mean.
Calwen suddenly remembers that she saw the gnome wizard attempt to use Burning Hands on Dalton, the monk. However, he was so nimble and elusive that it did little other than scorching the grass, so it's not surprising that it slipped your mind.
"The gnome had a wand and had an alchemists lab with him. I am bettin he was collectin body parts for whatever sick lotions and potions he was wantin to whip up. Freakin Alchemists, always on the werids."
"But, uh, check out this book of his here. It was in the bandit camp strong box. The text within is nearly indecipherable, scrawled out in twistin, ugly script an dotted with arcane symbols and patterns with little rhyme or reason an'shit. As you flip through it, you occasionally find a few handwritten notes written in a different script. I am guessin that is in gnomish."
"Sebastian an I ran across somethin kinda like this with a chaos cult once. I was gonna wait to show him the book when we joined up, but uh. Maybe we should look at it an figure out if anyone here can read it. I was bein cautious because I know some things are best left unread."
"There's a bit more. I found a letter in the book too. Had a talk with Calwen here and it got me thinkin I need to try an be a bit more trustin of you folks so any way here it goes."
Vinnie digs a parchment out of his jerkin.
"It says."
"Nettleby-
You were right. Ustalav. I'm going back there soon myself. Beliandral says that our brothers there are well at work on their "special project." Hope you make it that way soon.
Keep listening for the whispers. You will know the way.
-Markham"
"Sounds like some dark conspiracy shit right there. I don't like conspiracies, they always end up with someone dead."
"Yes Calwen, spellbooks are indeed valuable. It makes me wonder the reason of this all. If it was for money they would have taken them." He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts, "I also sense no magic here. Nothing. Its unsettling to say the least."
He walks back from the scene and moves toward the large man with the lockbox. "I am no alchemist, but perhaps I can read that book. Marsh if you don't mind?" He holds his hand out in wait of the book and with his other he moves his fingers around and speaks out "Cethalni." and the magic of a Comprehend Languages is upon him. "I do not fear what it may say Marsh. The march of knowledge is a force greater than any force made by man itself. This is my last one for the day, so lets make use of it shall we?"
"You should fear many things Dramin. Man doesn't have much force in reality---that's why we seem to be the favorite conduit of all the other powers. I don't think this book is that bad. The words don't crawl off the page or give you a headache, but something cracked that Gnomes mind. Bring a brotherhood into it and that adds another layer of danger cause not everyone is a member of an organization like Dalton's here."
"Ah well, hope this doesn't wind up bein a bad idea."
Marsh hands the kid the book.
"As for the crispy critter here, I could check his lungs. If it was post-mortum then the lungs will be pink an clean. If it was cause of death they will be soot filled an scorched. We can check the mouth too, but the lungs are the best way to tell."
Several of his men come over and begin wrestling the captives into their cells. The Professor is given his own, and the Captain has one of the men fetch "the muzzle" from a closet. With more than one sword pressed to the man's neck, they secure the strange contraption to Nettleby Brackenweld's head and remove his gag. The gnome wears a strangely serene look on his face for a man who has just been imprisoned and is sure to get the death penalty.
"That nice new hat of yours means no spells for you, you little creep," one of the officers says. "But don't think for a second that it's an invitation to start flappin' your lips. We don't like what we have to say, we'll stick you with the pointy end right now." Typical threats, likely not given with a great deal of seriousness, but the gnome shudders anyway.
Captain Malfoight takes the two of you aside and goes over some basic paperwork, and has a secretary fetch payment for you- it turns out that Nettleby Brackenweld, alias Tomwell Brakindu, alias Tomarindi Parthenvalt, has not only quite the rap sheet, but a fair bounty hovering over his head as well. The surviving brigands also have outstanding warrants as well, in Wolf's Ear proper no less. "I'd say you struck gold stumbling across these men," the Captain starts, "but that would seem fairly tasteless considering the severity of the crimes. We'll get a team out to that research outpost immediately to look into it, and I'll send that raven out to your friends in Magnimar straight away."
As you are leaving the garrison, you overhear a bit of a bustle as one of the officers you saw earlier practically smashes his way into the Captain's office. "It's the gnome, Captain! Come quick!" The Captain rushes after him, and audibly groans when he reaches the Professor's cell.
The Professor lies dead in his cell, blood oozing from his head, still wrapped up in the mage-muzzle. "He wasn't in there but for a minute before he started bashin' his own head against the bars. Killed himself. Must'a known he was gonna hang for what he done," the officer says. "He was mutterin' some crap before he died. Somethin' about whispers."
From the cell across the hall, one of the arrested brigands- Vikas- goes to the bars. "I know what he said," he offers. "Crazy bastard. I've heard him say that crap before. 'I hear the whispers; I know the way.' It was like his personal mantra or something. He said it before he cut those kids' hearts out, too."
"The hell," the Captain mutters, biting the tip of his thumb. "I don't like when this cult-y stuff gets thrown my way. More and more stuff like this been happenin' lately, all over Varisia. Why can't we just ship all these crazies off to Ustalav?" He turns back to the two of you and sighs. "Listen, we'll find out if this guy was infected with something- you men, don't touch that blood! Get somebody from the temple down here, right away! Anyway, you two are free to get back to your missing persons case. Don't worry about this anymore. My team will get to the bottom of this."
- - - -
From the looks of things, it was not only the spellbooks that were burned- all the records of the research they were doing on the drakes, all the journals and diaries of the students, everything- all the work done at the estuary. The Professor was thorough in his spite.
Calwen keeps a suspicious eye out for similar tracks to what she found at the scene of the druid Armand's death, but finds none of the telltale pinpricks in the dirt. The tracks do seem to match what the brigand had confessed to before- that their group had come up from the river to the north and approached on foot. Investigating the body of the burned man, you find that the burn wounds were the cause of death, not post-mortem... but the removal of the hearts of the mages was, indeed, done after their deaths.
Thanks to the comprehend languages spell, Dramin is able to read the book- and determine what language it is written in. Aklo, said by some to be the first language, an obscure and twisted tongue associated with very old and very dangerous things. It is a book of rites, rituals, and odd anecdotes that make your head spin just trying to make sense of them. You imagine that sitting down and spending time reading this stuff would be enough to drive a weak-minded man insane. The notes in Gnomish are not much more helpful- mostly ravings and notes. There are a number of repeating themes you notice in the writings: "seven days and seven nights," "the dark dancer in the wood," "those who sleep behind the stars," and "hear the whispers; know the way." It looks like a load of esoteric mumbo-jumbo, but it sends a chill down your spine nonetheless.
"Dramin, could you ask our little friend here how we should honour the remain of his parents, brothers and sisters? Should we bury them, too? I know they are river drakes, but I don't want to raise the impression that made them less. I shall try to keep him away a little. He has seen more than he should already."
Dalton keeps a respectful distance from the river drake. The bodies of the slain haunt his vision even when they're buried underground. He stares at the sky for a few long moments before he can achieve mental quietude. He approaches Marsh as Calwen speaks with the drake and Dramin.
"I have heard nothing but ill tidings from Ustalav, and I've met one or two individuals from that country in my travels. They were unpleasant, to say the least, to the last man. The gnome would fit in well there, I'm certain."
"There are some things that worry me, but I can count them on my hand Marsh. Madness is not one of them as Nethys watches me afterall. Call it naivete, I prefer to call it required." He shuts the book and hands it back, detailing the feeling he got from it. "It was Aklo, an old language. I wonder what it may have to do with this all?"
He smiles wrly at the drake and Calwen, walking up to Dalton after. Opening his pack he shows the monk what remains of the drakes, blocking the sight of the others. He nods and then walks off alone to sit and light a small candle in silence, not using his magic to do so.
Dalton nods silently in acknowledgment.
"A great injustice has been done here. I sometimes wonder if punishment from law-men like Warshawski and Bacarov goes far enough..." as the monk trails off, he stares at the nearby piles of dirt, and sighs.
"It's better not to dwell on it. I hope they rejoin us soon."
He moves off to bury the drakes' bodies as the drake wished.
Bacarov watches the blood pool beneath the dead gnome. "Bit of a pain when they fear disclosure more than death." He glances Warshawski's way, raises an eyebrow. "Anything?"
You know what I'm asking and I'm sorry...but is he floating around somewhere?
He considers anything in his case loads regarding the phrase, 'I hear the whispers; I know the way'. Perhaps an old car with a cultist tint. Then he considers the aliases.
"Have your cleric see to his disposition quickly. But I'd like to examine the body now if you don't mind. Is there a private place we can use?"
---------
Bacarov, with Warshawski if she's willing, sets about examining the gnomes body and personal effects. He searches for tattoos, ritualistic carvings/branding in places normally hidden by clothing. After a thorough search, and if anything is find, he applies local knowledge, minimal anatomy skills and his grasp of the arcana to assess any findings.
Lastly, he puts quill to parchment and writes his note:
-------------------
Commander Olfrey,
We've find a group of poachers lead by a gnome magic-user. All are fugitives with the latter of particular interest. Of the group, two survive with the killed and the gnome committing suicide.
Signs of cultist activity, gnome after drake organs and witnessed in the slaughter of students at the Twilight Academy outpost 'Estuary'. Evidence and prisoners forthcoming.
Gnome used following names; Nettleby Brackenweld, Tomwell Brakindu, Tomarindi Parthenvalt. And spoke this phrase before suicide; 'I hear the whispers; I know the way.' Suggest you involve Marcum Aldridge on that topic.
Pressing on to Ravenmoor.
Sebastian Bacarov, Inspector City Watch
-------------------
》 (phrase | aliases)
》 (branding | tattoos | ritual carvings)
》 (Out of Place wounds or deformities)
》 (magic related results)
Marsh accepts the book back, wraps it in leather and stuffs it to the bottom of his rucksack.
"Perhaps the gnome thought the same thing, Dramin. Overconfidence precedes carelessness and is certain death of the artist who practices it. Early in my career I was accused of being overconfident and even cocky, but I really was confident that I had done the trainin and didn't see any other reason to say otherwise."
"You let us know if somethin starts eatin at the edges of your mind. You start hearin whispers or seein shadow people or somethin, you speak up. Sebastian can get you help before its too late ya hear. No joke. . . thanks for takin a look at it."
"That took balls kid. Sometimes you gotta take a risk."
To Calwen and the others musing over the dead drakes.
"Well, these are creatures of nature. What happens when an owlbear or unicorn dies in the forest?. Nature reabsorbs and distributes it in its own way to create more life from the end of a single one. I think its us namegivers that get wraped up in ourselves when we care for our dead."
"That said, I say we wrap up the students bodies individually in whats left of the canvas. Burry em too keep the temp down and then stack rocks, timbers, an'etc. on top on top of that to protect em from scavengers attention as much as possible."
"Their families will want to lay them to rest in their own way. . ."
"If the drake wants something done with his family we can try to do that as well."
Marsh looks towards the river flowing past the estuary.
"Crap, we aren't that far from Wolf's Ear. . . should we just take the boat down the river with the bodies? It might take us less time and the clerics could see to them."
"I know what your oath means." I wanted him to know that I did. "And that you made it... hell. I don't know. I don't want to prove Marsh right. I'm not trying to manipulate you but..."
I leaned over and kissed Bacarov on the cheek.
"Don't tell anyone. Got it?
Warshawski keeps her eyes peeled for any sign of the Professor's spirit, but it is already long gone. Perhaps his actions guaranteed it some place in the afterlife and delivered it accordingly upon death; it is hard to say.
Bacarov and Warshawski put their heads together and rack their brains in search of some way of making sense of all this.
Brackenweld's body bears no unusual tattoos or ritual markings; in fact, the only things you find unusual are the signs of burst blood vessels under the skin on either side of his neck. They look like, for all intents and purposes, hickies.
Going through his personal effects, you find little else of note. He did not seem to keep much on his person. There does not seem to be any particular magical aura coming from him or his belongings, either.
The phrase, however, could bear fruit. "I hear the whispers; I know the way," is similarly phrased to a line from a very old book known as the Pnakotic Manuscripts: "Listen now to the whispers from on high, and you shall know the way." Neither of you has ever read the Pnakotic Manuscripts, nor are there believed to be any surviving copies of the texts, but it is a topic of debate among scholars of the occult, known to be associated with "the Old Cults." It also brings to mind the mysterious organization known as the Whispering Way, worshipers of undeath active mostly in Ustalav. That said, you know of no connection between the Manuscripts and the Whispering Way.
There are many sorts of bizarre forces and extraplanar beings that corrupt mortal beings through their faith: demons, devils, and all sorts of fiends, as well as stranger beings still. Identifying what exact manner of force had corrupted the professor- assuming, of course, that he does not turn out to have simply been crazy- would require an exhaustive process of elimination requiring more information than you currently have... but the Professor does not particularly strike either of you as a worshiper of demons, at least considering what you know of such cultists. There's some element missing here, even if you have yet to stumble across it.
Warshawski spends a while rolling the phrase around on her tongue in search of double-meanings in any other languages. In some obscure tongues, 'whisper' is often used in reference to divine messages, particularly instructions; 'the way' only reinforces this impression, implying that the deeper meaning behind the words are that the speaker has received instructions from some higher power and is acting according to their divine will. As she continues her thoughts, she becomes certain of this conclusion.
....
There'd been a lot to say and with the events of Wolf's Ear so fresh, Bacarov wasn't sure which trail of thought he should follow. A sadistic gnome with murder in his heart polarized his own oaths of loyalty to Mash. Even psychopaths have loyalty...even loyalty unto death. The image of blood oozing from Nettlby's head mixed with the memory of gore dripping from Vinnie's weapon. But then he sees Marsh laughing and carrying on about his family. No, my loyalty's not misplaced...
He's deep in thought when she speaks up again. Then she graces his cheek with a kiss as though to seal her understanding. His first instinct is guilt, thoughts of Vandana back in the city. Cork it, moron. She's never said boo any of the times you've asked her to dinner...
"Not a word..not that it was a bad thing necessarily...." Bacarov is sure the embarrassment is clear on his face and coughs into his fist before speaking. "Thanks, I mean thanks for understanding," he responds, grinning at his own awkwardness. "Uhm, look, things are going to get worse before they get better on this little caper. Our departed gnome is just the beginning..." He sighs and clasps his hands behind his back, the typical posture he assumes when plaguing out a tough case. "I...guess what I'm trying to say is...I'm grateful you're in this too. You've got a good mind for things, sharp where I'm dull, affable where I'm too bullheaded..."
A moment of silence as he searches for the right words. His cheek feels like it's on fire. He clears his throat again and puts away his embarrassment, allowing proper gravity to his next words,"We're a good team, I'm thankful you're here, Warshawski."
He relaxes and chuckles. "I don't even know you're first name..." The unspoken question puts some distance between their place on the road and the uncomfortable revelations behind them in Wolf's Ear. I fear we'll need Marsh more than we'd either admit before this dark path reaches it's end.
Bacarov's reaction to a simple kiss on the cheek amused me but his words afterwards touched me. I knew he meant them. He rarely said anything he didn't mean. Not really.
"We are a good team. You see things I don't. You're smarter than me. Know things I don't know... and I don't tell anyone my first name so you're in good company."
Dramin eyes Marsh for a moment and seems to take his words to heart, or at the very least takes them to thought. "Believe me when I say that I will be documenting this process, if there is one. If you wish, I can share it with you if I feel it is becoming far too burdensome of dangerous; though I wouldn't worry too much about it, this was child's play to say the least."
His arrogant tone drops in an instant though.
"These students need a resting place, and I would prefer we get them somewhere where the wolves do not feast and they can get their true rest." His normally self-interested reasons are suddenly overwhelmed with purpose and his voice is resolute. He looks at the river, "What have I gotten myself into?"
---
On the Road to the Estuary
@Calwen
Dramin walks up to the elf during the trip to the estuary, his movements wary and hesitant. He speaks quietly and in elven to minimize what is heard by the others.
"Calwen.
He doesn't wait for her to turn, though he hopes that she notices that he used her name over the constant 'elf'. For him it has always been difficult to speak about certain things and subtlety was required; this was no different.
"I mentioned that earlier we needed to discuss something, but that was a lie, you just have to listen." His harsh choice of words cuts the beautiful elven tongue down the middle, his emotions getting the better of him.
"Your kind caused my mother great grief in her life, so much so she almost paid in blood for it." He stumbles on a few words but continues on. "Your kind with their talk, their flowery words and their snake-like tongues; poisoning every place, and every ear she decided to tread. Speaking of neutrality and balance but not showing any of it in their actions."
His voice raises slightly but simmers down almost as quickly as it began.
"From what I have seen Snowpaw, you are not like them. You are not like them at all. For that I wish to apologize." The last word comes out as a struggle, but is genuine.
"Taelanor aeye ama amrun."
Dramin starts walking off without any further words, his mind focused on the path ahead.
She replies to Marsh: "This drake is young and he may not have decided yet who he truly is. But there is enough reason in him to make a choice whether he is a beast or not. I cannot teach him what it means to be a drake but I can teach him compassion and so I will. He cared about his family and he asks as to honour the memory in the same way we do with the humans and that I will. They were creatures trying to become something more than what fate seemed to dictate them. True beauty comes from the inside." She recites the central tenet of the dogma of Shelyn, a Taldan deity. She wondered whether Marsh realized that there were many elves who thought about humans in a way that was similar to the way he thought about dragons.
She looks for a patch that is close to the river but high enough that she will not hit water all too soon when she digs and starts to excavate graves for the drakes.
She listen to Dramin, as he addressed her as well. It disturbed her how he generalized the actions of all elves, though she was curious for the story behind all this. A bit strange was this talk on neutrality. That sounded more druidic that elven. Elves made their choices slower than humans and their choice tended to be more complex, but as she herself was concerned, she knew exactly on which side she was in this. "Seraph, amid all this splendour, I can see the moon."* she whispered in elven, as though she was reciting a song as he departed.
-----
* Leah - Ex Cathedra
Dalton finishes his grim burial of the river drake's family, and nods. He is ready to finish this business.
Marsh nods to Calwen as he speaks with the elf and monk at the grave sites.
"Yeah, at some point someone domesticated wolves into man's best friends. This little guy seems to be on the road to domestication. At any rate we can't just turn him loose."
"I'd keep him close to you though. Most will assume him to act like every other drake they've run across or heard of."
"That kid Dramin worries me. He's so hot to pursue knowledge for its own sake . . . I hope he has enough sense. . . life experience. We're gonna have'tah watch out for him."
"Well . . . I guess that's that then. We'd better get movin. Gotta catch up with Sebastian an'friends on their way back. I want us all together when darkness knocks."
Bacarov grins in response as they continue down the trail. Eventually they arrive at the point where the conflict had taken place. Not seeing tracks indicating anyone had emerged from the forest where the Estuary camp is located, he suggests they move a bit onward to find a secure place to hold up and wait for the others.
In the mean time, he sets about structuring his notes and committing more details before his memory began adding bad information.
As morning rolls over into afternoon, both parties finish their business and begin making their way back toward the path to Ravenmoor. In order to remain on schedule and arrive in Ravenmoor tomorrow, you will need to travel later into the day than you had before.
Bacarov and Warshawski, approaching from the south, spot the rest of the investigation team up ahead. The young river drake is still with them.
Marsh remains deep in thought on the way back to the road. As Bacarov and Warshawski approach he picks his baggage back up and prepares for the journey further inland.
"Well, lookin at yer faces tells me ya learnt somethin. We did too. You wannab start fist?"
♤
♧
♢
Bacarov steps forward and grips forearms with Marsh. It's a common greeting, but between the two long time friends it speaks volumes.
After, he steps back and nods greetings to the others and withdraws his notebook to review their findings. He's a bit surprised by the presence of the drake, but it'd been a nagging concern regarding turning it loose after the Estuary had bred some of the wild out of him.
He smiles at the drake and then turns to reading thru his notes. "Vikas, one of the human poachers, all but confirmed the gnome was at the heart of this evil. A tale confirmed by the long list of warrants outstanding for one Nettleby Brackenweld, alias Tomwell Brakindu, alias Tomarindi Parthenvalt." He pauses a moment as he lowers his pack to the ground and turns from one page then returns to another. "Brackenweld hired the group of poachers, attacked the Estuary, then promptly dove in for murder. Vikas told us he chanted some sort of phrase as he...removed the hearts of the students..."
A brief look to the others and it's all he needs to confirm that the last description is accurate. Bacarov sighs. "Bloody hell, I was hoping that part wasn't..." A sigh and he continues. "The phrase was 'I hear the whispers, they know the way.' Brackenweld said as much when he killed himself by bashing his head against the bars of his own cell."
"Warshawski and I found two things unusual; the phrase and these odd kiss marks (hickies) on his neck where some blood vessels had burst." He shares a drawing he did of the gnome's neck. "The phrase though, it might point to some cult activity a colleague of mine researched in Ustalav. Those Whispering Way lunatics and the like. I'm still chewing on it. But I think he was after more than a tidy organ-legging profit."
He closes his book and stashes it away. "As distasteful as it is, I should mention the bounty for Brackenweld and the two poachers was generous..." Bacarov toes his pack on the ground in front of him speaking again, his tone is somber. "740 gold all told. I'm thinking if we know the names of those slain, some of it could go to the families. Just a thought." To look at him, it's clear the Inspector wants nothing to do with the gold.
I let Bacarov tell the others the scoop. Drake included. I knew enough to know the little thing was intelligent. Maybe even understood the common tongue, even if it pretended not to. When Bacarov finished, I had very little to add.
"There are clerics dealing with the gnomes body, in case he has an infection of some sort that can be passed along from one person to another. In a lot of cults, "whisper" means divine guidance. Or not so divine as the case may be. "way" is a specific plan. I say all the gold goes to the families. Maybe keep a small amount to fund this trip but... all we did was stumble across them. The families are the ones who have the real hard time."
Dramin takes in the situation and takes a deep breath. "You are correct regarding the hearts of the students." He goes on to describe the men and women in detail, stopping only once during the exposition. "What I feared was a possibility could very well be a reality it seems. This type of behaviour reeks of the cults of old." Satisfied of his initial hypothesis before he looks smug, despite the content of what he is speaking.
Dramin tries to remember back to the book he read and if that phrase ever appeared, though as soon as the spell started to expire it became a little more difficult.
He instead thinks on the 'kiss' marks Bacarov described. "These marks Bacarov, do you have an image of them? Perhaps I can narrow down a few more things. With what is going on it would never hurt to know more regarding this threat."
He pauses.
I suppose it is I who must be the practical one.
"The money. I was under the impression that whatever we found we got to keep. As unfortunate as this all is, I would like my share of that gold." He voice doesn't show anger toward Bacarov or Warshawski, but his voice drops low and chilly. "To be frank, we should all be keeping it. For one, we have no time to go deliver it; and two, we potentially may need money where we are going. Consider the taxman, the bandits and Ravenmoor itself; they all had one thing in common and it was gold. Gold drives everything and everyone and it is as much a tool as that big brain of yours Bacarov. Imagine what it would look like if it went there empty handed, it would raise alarms as a dragon in a gargant pen."
He sighs.
"If it eases your conscience, when you receive the payment from the client, pay it out to the families. But right now it is not practical in the slightest."
He gestures to the lot of them.
"Say what you must about that now and get it over with. We have no time to dawdle over what is right and wrong when we have seen what we have seen."
♤
♢
♧
"Aww, shucks kid, I was hoping you guys would camp out here for a few weeks while I went and found the family members." He brings his notebook back out, knowing full well the boy hadn't been paying attention when he'd shown the drawing of the skin marks earlier. Bacarov hands him the notebook, open to the desired page.
Opening his pack he withdraws 10 tightly wound leather pouches. "Each has 74 gold pieces enclosed, each person gets two, their share."
Anyone attempting to do the math can note that Bacarov takes none of the money.
He shoulders his pack and looks to the others, Marsh in particular. "So, other impressions on what we've got so far? Any other possibilities? I want to make sure as much as is reasonable is considered." Bacarov's posture says 'We can talk as we go...'
Dramin pays no heed to the tone in Bacarov's speech and silently takes the money with little argument. If he is willing to drop his share, I can't sleight him for the thought despite his pandering.
His eyes scan the drawing for the first time, he is unsure what to make of it but comes up with a few ideas.
He instantly scraps them when he realizes it would do nothing but be a waste of time and thinks up a new angle for the picture.
He knew that if it was from somewhere beyond their world, he may have heard of such a story a time ago.
"How about the Whispers of Ustalav? Sounds like a pretty catchy title for a horror book eh?"
"All jokin aside I gotta book and a letter here for you guys for evidence. Took some notes too about the scene for ya."
Marsh starts digging out his materials for Sebastian.
"We rolled up the scene. As expected, bodies were smashed, burnt and riddled with crossbow bolts. Parts harvested off the humans an drakes. The adult drakes had been put to sleep somehow then slaughtered. Regardless of what those blokes said they all had a part in it."
"Oh and there were a buncha wine bottles in the bandits' camp. We heard that there usta be vineyards in Ravenmoor at one point. Might not be related, but I didn't see a source for the bottles at the Estuary."
"We also got ourselves some poisons and a mobile alchemistry set outta the camp. Real nice set of breaker tools too. I am thinkin that gnome was usin a wand, but was more likely an alchemist than a spell flinger. Maybe he whipped up some liquid courage and mayhem juice and fed it to his crew before they hit the research base?"
"Anyways, the book here is written in Aklo, just awesome right? There are a buncha other notes made in the margins. Dramin read it, but sees no danger in it. Actually seems excited by the prospect of writtin about falling into madness as some sort of documentary."
"Here's the letter."
You were right. Ustalav. I'm going back there soon myself. Beliandral says that our brothers there are well at work on their "special project." Hope you make it that way soon.
Keep listening for the whispers. You will know the way.
-Markham
"It reminds me of that manuscript from that chaos cult. The words don't crawl off the page or give you a headache or nothin, but somethin cracked that Gnomes mind. I know you need it for your cases, but do me favor you guys please don't read it. You can ask Dramin about it. I'll carry it too."
"You know my dumbass can't read it, can't effect me right? heh heh heh, but seriously I'm startin to learn a bit of dragon and elfish lurkin around with these guys."
I wasn't taking the money. Not for doing what was essentially my job and my duty. And not when some mother wouldn't have her child come home.
"Keep it." I said to Bacarov as he attempted to hand me the coin pouch. "Put it with your share."
I hadn't taken my pack off. I was ready to move.
"Tonight, I'll talk to the spirits and see what I can learn about the book. They've sometimes got an insight into the horrors of the world that the living can't have. Being dead gives perspective."
♤
♢
♧
Not the Whispering Way, not those guys... Nosatrub and Duneheim's stories are enough... He looks at Marsh and a full conversation goes on with the silence. "Hold onto the book, Vinnie. Pack it up nice and tight." He glances Dramin's way then back to Marsh. "Reminds me of Phedron."
We both remember Phedron...how he'd sworn up and down he could handle the pages of that cursed book Duneheim'd brought back with her from Ustalav. We both watched him slide into the bottle, then Dream-dust...then his mind broke... All from a book in Aklo. The look he shares with Vinnie is enough. 'Keep an eye on him.'
He folds his arms across his chest and sighs again. Gods, why did he feel so tired all of the sudden? At the mention of the linguistics lessons, he brightens a bit. "You're snarky enough without knowing hire to curse in elvish and draconic."
They start the process if getting on the road and Bacarov is left with his thoughts and his notebook. He commits what he can to the pages before they leave, shorthanding where necessary. Abadar, set the balance, did he say they'd harvested human organs too?
To Warshawski, "Exercise caution in the discussion. I've seen what such topics do to the living..." Bacarov, reinforces his warning. "I'm not being condescending, I respect your ability."
Marsh looks down. His hand absently reaching for his main blade.
"Yeah . . . Phedron . . . "
He locks it up and meets Sebastian's gaze. His hand comes off his sword pommel and goes to rest on his stubbly chin instead.
"I mean yeah. I'll keep an eye on the kid."
Marsh speaks to Warshawski in an easy and knowing tone.
"We'd better hang on to the coin. I have a bad feelin we're gonna need it. This little trip ain't gonna end at Ravenmoor. <<<sigh>>> There's gonna be expenses. This might go cross country. It's got that scent. Riddleport figures into it---again . . . an Ustalov."
"Sebastian can't cut the cords to that place. Like freakin tentacles the evil there is always reachin out for him."
Marsh spits to the side and gives the homicide detective a wry smile.
"Another gods damn cult, uh Bacarov?! I shoulda known. Quick trip to Ravenmoor, he tells me. Sweet. This case is gonna have us lockin horn with a whole freakin Brotherhood this time. Heh heh heh sounds . . . All, I don't know? Organized an'shit. If you're startin up an Occult Intervention Squad I'm gonna have to put in a divisional transfer. Heh heh heh."
Marsh turns back to Warshawski.
"Oh---we burried the dead wizards. Made sure we wrapped em up good, stacked rocks and said some words. Figured you'd tell the officials down in Wolfs Ear. So, uh, I guess I'm sayin the families will have someone to, uh, you know, lay to rest. An, uh, we tried to help their spirits. Don't know if it mattered, but we tried. Burried the drakes too."
"Anyway. Better get walkin right? Yeah."
Marsh goes to move off.
Upon examining Bacarov's drawing of the "wounds" on the late Professor's neck, you reach the very same conclusion... they look like hickies. You compare this possibility with your knowledge of the denizens of the outer planes and realize that it is not unheard of for some corrupting fiend to consort with a mortal in order to better bend them to their will... succubi, for instance. It is hard to say for certain, but the idea rings very strongly in your head.
With the party reunited and ready to hit the road again, the drake looks up at Dramin. "This one apologizes for not giving its name before. Mother and Father named this one Dionysus, but it is not so arrogant as to expect friends to call it this. So much has been done for this one already. It cannot expect to ask anything more of friends, having saved its life and given family and wizard-friends proper journeys to the beyond. Know that this one will do anything it can to protect new friends if it can. It is the least this one can do."
"Shit Sebastian, were they hickeys? Or Stirge bites?"