"No. It never gets easier." She puts a hand on Kazador's shoulder - for comfort, or support, or both.
Hal nods. He fossicks through his pouch for a simple looking bead and throws it to Kaz. "I'll scry for that. Want me ta take the Fox too?"
He squints at the body, mutters ""Paranoid much" then reaches out and gingerly touches Perrin with his walking staff. A moment later Hal and 'passengers' vanish.
"I think Rally can stay, thank you," Mel says.
Hal returns the body to Brookside while Rally stays with Mel, looking around furtively. Very soon, there is a swarm of law enforcement as well as royal guards, or the Concordat's equivalent, all over the alley!
”I can’t think of any good explanation.” Kazador said, as he stood up and reached his arm out. His torc shimmered and took the form of his hammer. ”Time to teleport out. Unless ye’ve got a better idea?” He paused, giving Mel a moment before he made good their escape.
"I plan to stay and explain," Mel says. "I can only imagine the distrust it would sow in the peace talks if something like this happened with no explanation. Each side suspecting the others, each side denying responsibilty ... it would be a mess."
"If you would prefer to go, I think I'll be fine."
Kazador shook his head. There were many things in his life couldn’t be lived down. Fleeing when a comrade stayed? The thought of it caused a lump to form in his throat. The very idea that he could still have honor had been hard fought. He wasn’t willing to let it go so easily.
Mel turns to meet the arriving guards, her bow slung across her back, both hands out and empty. "I expect you'd like an explanation for this disturbance," she greets them.
The guards come in with spells readied and weapons drawn, a middle-aged wizard flying in and huffing "An explanation and a total surrender by you and your party, if you please!"
Kazador frowned. He looked to Mel, hoping she had a plan.
Mel calmly hands over her bow and dagger. "Some months ago we helped the Bishop with some problems with the Hand of the Reaper -- the Reaps, they're called. We've tangled with them a few times since then as well, and have kept an eye on their doings. This morning we confronted their leader, a man known as the Plague Doctor, in the sewers beneath the city. He revealed that he had placed an explosive rune on the wall here, months ago." She frowns. "Why is it that villains always seem to feel the need to brag?"
"I don't know what its original purpose was, but he planned to trigger it today in order to collapse the guardhouse and kill everyone inside. Once we finished dealing with him, we rushed here to stop it. Neither of us are arcanists, really. So Kazador here took care of it the old-fashioned way: he smashed it with his hammer, detonating it prematurely. It hurt quite a bit. But since the building is still standing, it seems like we got here it before it could reach full power."
"It's over now," she concludes. "The Plague Doctor won't be causing any further trouble, and the rune has been dealt with. I'm sorry we couldn't deal with it without disturbing everyone."
The guards take you into custody, holding onto your weapons. They take you to Colonel Smythe, who grudgingly admits that you have worked with the Bishop before. He has your identities confirmed as thoroughly as possible, divinations cast on the alley to validate as much of your story as possible, and eventually concludes, in concordance with the heads of security for the Elven and Iustian delegations, that this incident is concluded and you are free to go. It takes 12 hours of checking and processing, of course, so you are released late at night.
Drained, Mel just stands on the darkened street outside the guardhouse for a few moments. "I'm exhausted," Mel says to Kazador. "Let's head back to the inn and get some rest." She carries Rally -- already sound asleep -- in the crook of her arm.
Kazador grunted an affirmation. The day had gone well enough, but he was glad that it was over. What he truly wanted was a bath. Anything to wash away the lingering smell, and something to drink to get rid of the horrible taste in his mouth.
Once they reach the inn, Mel pauses only long enough to say a brief wordless prayer to Ostara before tumbling into bed.
The next morning she wakes slowly and lies staring at the ceiling, the unfamiliar warmth of a small, furry body curled up against one hip. "Tänään minun täytyy haudata ystävä," she says softly.
Rally stretches as Mel rises and gets dressed.
"And what am I to do with you?" Mel asks the fox.
Rally sits and curls her tail about her feet, looking up at Mel.
"All right. Come on. Let's go get breakfast," she says, stroking the fox's head once. Rally leaps off the bed and trots after Mel as she goes downstairs.
Mel orders some extra kippers at breakfast for Rally, and eats quietly. I hope Hal finds us soon, she thinks.
Hal does find you at breakfast as you make plans for a funeral at Brookside, months after the last batch of funerals. This one will be quieter and much less attended as there is only one body and few in Brookside, or anywhere, know what Perrin has been doing.
"So, did you get anything 'cept a slap f'r savin' 'em all?" Hal asks. "Normally when I do a funeral I try ta use the rites of whatever god the s... person worshipped. Reckon there might be a better choice from here?"
From inside a pouch Hal pulls a mess of holy symbol necklaces - the cords and chains tangled like coiling vipers - and puts it on the table.
"We got set loose without any penalty, the peace talks will proceed, and I don't much care about anything else right now," Mel replies.
"Where is he, Hal? We need ... I need to get him back to Brookside. It wouldn't be right to lay him to rest anywhere else. As for the ceremony, well ... I'm not sure if he has any family there in Brookside. If so I'd defer to them. Otherwise, a general Pharasmin ceremony, I think. There are few who would object to that."
"Yeah, he's safe. Not sure if he's got family in Brookside, but from what we've heard he's got Family. You sure about this?"
"Yes, of course. If anything, that makes it more important. That Family he dispatched may well be causing problems for Brookside. Let's go."
Hal shrugs [b]"I'm runnin' low on shortcuts, but I could find another if you want ta get there right now?"
Hal shrugs "I'm runnin' low on shortcuts, but I could find another if you want ta get there right now?"
You get to Brookside in a hurry and find the small village is buzzing with talk. A few people who had just moved to Brookside suddenly left, just a few hours after Perrin's death by your reckoning. The Reapers are in disarray and will need time to choose new leadership while they seem to have no reason to stay at Brookside. After all, Perrin was not the leader of the Reapers because of great personal loyalty that was paid to him.
Perrin's aging mother is his only surviving family member in Brookside. She mends clothes to barter for life necessities and Perrin has sent her enough money to live comfortably on for the rest of her life.
With Hal's assistance, the group retrieves Perrin's body. Mel cleans him up and carefully removes any sign of affiliation with the Reaps, leaving him dressed in a clean white shirt, a pair of brown trousers and some simple leather shoes. Mel stows his plague doctor mask in her haversack.
They carry him the last little way into Brookside, in a stretcher made of a blanket and two stout tree branches, carried by Mel and Kazador.
In response to queries about Perrin's fate, Mel says: "Perrin was doing what he always did -- looking for ways to help people. I don't want to dwell on the details. But he died doing his best to save people. Doing his best to protect his community. I'm proud to have fought alongside him, and grieved at his fall."
When Perrin's mother presses for more details, Mel tells her privately "The Bishop is hosting talks between Iustia and the Concordat right now. Perrin helped us uncover a plot to assassinate the leaders of all three nations using a magical trap. I believe their deaths would have caused a war, probably unlike anything we've seen since the Second Blackthorn War eight centuries ago. Perrin ... got caught in magical backlash when we dealt with the trap. I tried to heal him, but the injury wasn't to his body. It was to his mind, I think. I'm so sorry. He ... the important thing to remember is that he spent his life in service to others, and he always looked for the best. I wish he had lived. And I grieve alongside you."
She also asks if a Pharasmin ceremony would be acceptable or if she would prefer some other service.
Perrin's mother weeps at the tale of her son's heroism and nods, agreeing with the Pharasmin ceremony. "He always was a good boy, trying to help everyone he met. When he was just three years old, he gave his lunch to a stray dog. Pharasma will send him to a quiet rest, I pray."
Kazador remained quiet. How many mothers had been told such stories, to help them grieve? In his experience most men died screaming on the battlefield, with the unlucky ones slowly bleeding out. It didn’t matter if it was in the tunnels, on the plains or atop a mountain. After the fact their mothers were told that they died heroes. He hadn’t said anything to the contrary then and he decided that he wouldn’t start now.
Mel nods. "That sounds like Perrin," she says. "Kind to everyone. I'll speak with Vors about the arrangements."
Mel seeks out Vors Falchen, now serving as a sort of de facto mayor of the village following his heroic performance in what is already being called the Battle of Brookside. She speaks with him quietly, arranging for a simple Pharasmin burial. "Terrible thing," Vors says. "Just terrible. But I'll speak with those as need speakin' to, aye. We men will prepare him this evenin', and come the morrow we'll hold a viewin', with the funeral to follow. And a wake in the afternoon. You've been travellin' with him of late, aye?"
"Yes," Mel says shortly, forebearing to mention how brief their last shared journey was.
"Well then. Take some time this evenin' to find some words to say, if you would. And ye'd best stay with us, tonight. Reinala'd never forgive me if I let you stay elsewhere. We'll find room for your friends, if they like. Or ..." He grimaces. "We still have a couple empty houses. No one took them since the Battle, 'cept those ... newcomers ... who seem to have cleared out. I couldn't put my finger on it, mind, but somehow I never took to them. Anyhow, your friends can bunk up in one of those for the night if they'd like. We've kept 'em in good repair and all."
"Of course I'll stay with you," Mel says gratefully. "After all, I need to tell you and Reinala and your kids all about the brave young man Kelian became."
"I'll confess I was wonderin'," Vors says. "We've had letters from him 'n all, but somehow he never says half as much as we wish, and I get the sense there's a great deal he's not sayin'." He shoots a keen glance at Mel, giving the clear message that he thinks there's plenty she's not saying, either.
"I promise, Vors. I'll tell you everything. Just ... let's see to Perrin first. I fear I won't be much good for anything until he's at rest. After that I'll tell you everything ... " she thinks suddenly of her vow not to reveal King Stephen's occult abilities. "Everything that's mine to tell."
"Aye," Vors says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Aye, Mel. That'll do. Now, excuse me. I've work to be about." And so saying, he strides off to prepare a final welcome for Perrin, a son of Brookside come home for one last time.
That evening Reinala feeds Mel, Hal and Kazador a wonderful homemade meal. The children -- mostly Karia and Jael, now nearly fourteen years old, and less so the sixteen year old Vargos -- spend the meal asking questions of the curious visitors. Mel is a known quantity, so they focus mostly on Kazador and Hal. Which suits Mel fine.
After dinner Mel retreats to the guest room and spends the evening trying to work out what to say the following day. Trying to find the right words. She fills pages in her journal with words, crosses them out, writes new ones, crosses those out in turn ...
It is late indeed before she says her prayers and crawls into the comfortable bed for a comfortless sleep.
Hal takes well to answering questions, which segues smoothly into telling stories. His words take on the cadence of a trained storyteller as he tells tale tales of epic heroes - those being Kaz, Mel and Túrion - that are technically true, if incredibly overblown.
"...And then Túrion's noble actions and carriage convinced the elven maid Isabella to share with the heroes the secrets of the dark lord's evil tome! But while she was willing to part with secrets, she was not so willing to part with him!" He pronounced, before stopping to shove an entire fist-sized baked potato into his mouth in one go. "He was there" he somehow mumbles through a full mouth, gesturing to Kazador with a fork "ask him!"
Mel emits a tiny snorting noise at this wildly embellished account, then puts on a face of complete innocence when Karia shoots a glance her way.
Kazador raised a bushy eyebrow at being mentioned. Coughing as his drink went down the wrong way, he waved his hand back towards Hal, as if shooing him off.
Hal proves quite the raconteur and entertains Vors' family well over the course of the meal and evening! Passing the time together helps assuage the pain of Perrin's death a little and you all head off to sleep for the evening.
Dawn rises on a cool, misty morning in Brookside with the sounds of the songbirds and the river babbling past.
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Reinala feeds them a hearty breakfast of eggs, oatmeal sweetened with a dollop of honey and draughts of cool, fresh well-water. Mel hardly tastes the food.
At least appropriate clothing was no problem. Mel tugs on her sleeves, causing her clothing to shift into a black mourning gown -- elegant, but restrained.
She stares at herself in a small mirror hanging from the wall of the Falchen guest room.
"Paska," she snarls at her reflection. "Perrin wouldn't know me."
In a fit of anger, Mel tears off the enchanted sleeves, hurling them into a crumpled pile on the bed. Dozens of things thump onto the bed after it as she upends her haversack: her diaries, a rock from Kazad Gravr, maps of Helm and Bannerhold, three packets of illicit dreamtime tea that she never found a use for, half a bottle of Longshank's Old Bootrot whiskey, a pile of books -- Perrin, peering over the captain's shoulder at her Student ID, mouthing the words "seven books" and looking curiously at Mel as though expecting the books to materialize ... -- and all her clothing.
She fishes out the same, simple outfit that she'd been wearing that day after Cyrus' death, when she was too late to help, topping it off with the same battered cuirass of leather she'd worn through the the fight for Brookside.
She checks the mirror again.
She swaps her scarf for a black one and checks the mirror again.
"That'll do. I guess."
She leaves all her worldly goods scattered across the bed, and slams the door after herself.
------------------------
Vors had found space for the viewing in a barn not far outside the palisade -- now firmly reinforced, Mel noted. It lay a good quarter mile outside the village walls. The door was new -- its wood not yet weathered to the same silver as the surrounding planks. This must be where the karak got his "shield," Mel thinks. All the pointless wrath that had animated her earlier drained away as she approached.
Just now, the doors stood open, and the space within prepared for a viewing. Seating made of hay bales lined the walls and formed small circles through the structure, filled with black-clad villagers. They looked up as Mel entered.
And Perrin was there, at the far end.
They had set up a table and draped it with a black cloth before setting his coffin on it -- a simple affair of pine. Someone had thought to put up flowers. Nothing fancy. Some white daisies, mixed with a handful of yellow roses. The lid was open.
Mel walked through the crowds, nodding to familiar faces: Abigail Dorner; her student Susy Nolton standing with an awkward-looking halfling boy Mel didn't recognize; the ratfolk Whisky and Pats who had fought with her from the tower; and more, so many more. The entire town had turned out to say farewell to the simple, country doctor who had patched them up so well.
And Mel would talk to all of them, of course.
But first ...
He lay with his hands clasped gently across his breast, wrapped in a winding sheet. His skin looked waxy and pale. He hardly looked like Perrin at all.
Mel placed her hands on the edge of the coffin, gazing down into it. "Well, Perrin," she says, barely whispering. "This is it. You've done everything now. All you'll ever do. I'm sorry for ... oh, everything. This is not how I wanted your story to end."
She goes silent a moment, then continues. "I've got some words to say for you later. At the funeral proper. But I don't know if they'll be good enough. So ... take this."
She reaches up and removes her necklace: the holy symbol of Ostara, a snowbell etched in a fragment of the first bow Mel ever made. She tucks it into his hands.
"I hope it helps you. Safe travels, my friend, and may the Gray Lady judge you for the kindness in your heart above all else."
She presses a kiss to his cold forehead, and then turns to join the crowd, sitting and talking with them for the next two hours.
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A solemn procession wound from the barn where the viewing had been held towards the burial grounds: Perrin's mother at the front, flanked by Vors and Mel, then the pallbearers with Perrin.
It seemed that in the months since the battle that spring, the town had decided to establish a formal cemetery in the field east of town, along the road towards Astin, where they had buried the fallen after the battle. Long grass now covered the oblong graves of the spring, each one marked with a headstone. "Perrin will need one of those," Mel says suddenly. "I, I didn't think. I can pay for one ..."
"Easy," Vors replied. "Perrin paid for that long before you came to us. Paid for it with tonics and gentle fingers and stitches and poultices. He'll have the best headstone we can manage for him, and no one would dare sully it with coin."
"Good," she said. "That's good ..."
Vors squeezes her shoulder gently. "Bear up. He's almost home."
Mel nodded jerkily.
The procession drew to a halt before an open grave. The pallbearers set him gently down, and the trailing townsfolk gathered in an impromptu half-circle.
"Thank ye all for comin'," Vors said. "Though it's sorry I am for the occasion. Doc Alders has come home for the last time. We gather here to honor him, and bid him farewell. He has been away these past few months. You all know Mel Elden. She's been travelin' with him, and so I have asked her to say some words." He nods to Mel, then steps aside.
Mel takes a deep breath. Before she can step foward, something catches her eye in the grass:
A single snowbell, a spring flower blooming entirely out of season here at the ragged end of summer.
Almost without meaning to, Mel leans down and plucks the flower. She twirls it gently in her fingers a moment, looking at the delicate petals catching the afternoon light.
A sense of peace washes through her, like cool water. Slowly, she reaches up and pulls her scarf off. She shakes out her hair, then tucks it back behind her ears.
A murmur goes through the crowd, many of whom had no idea of her elven heritage. She tucks the flower behind one ear.
"For a long time, I believed that stories make people. That the stories you hear when you are young shape who you will be as you grow older. And Perrin once told me a story. He said it was important. That it had stuck with him. I won't repeat the whole thing here, but it was a story about a clever man who was willing to do anything in pursuit of his goal."
"And I could see how that story had shaped Perrin. When he set out to do something, he was relentless. He was always willing to do anything to achieve what he set out to do. He would take on any task, bear any burden, and pay any price to fulfill his aim."
"In anyone else, a drive like that might have gone very differently. He could have had wealth. He could have gained power. But that was not what Perrin wanted. He only ever had a single goal: helping people. Healing hurts. Soothing troubles. Making the lives of his neighbors and family better in any way he could. Perrin always put the needs of others before his own, and once he set out to help someone, he would stop at nothing to see it done."
"Watching Perrin Alders taught me how wrong I was about stories. So very wrong. Stories don't make people. It's the other way around. People make stories, by living them. Every step, every breath, every choice is another word, another sentence in the story that you live."
Melira surveys them for a moment, reading a variety of emotions in their faces. Vors stood with the stoic grief of a former soldier who has seen too many friends buried. Many wept openly, Joren Golightly, Nancy Yenwood and Bethany Lem among them. Some were still looking at her curiously, especially some of the very young children like Soren Rockhill and Berry Nolton. A dark-faced Alice Dorner seemed to be on the verge of storming away from the funeral of the man who failed to save her father's life, restrained only by her mother's iron grip on her shoulder.
"That story Perrin heard might have influenced him, but it did not determine who he was. Perrin lived his own story. A story of a kindness so pure that no shadow could ever dim it. He loved his people, and he was always willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, to protect and heal. That was the story Perrin lived: he did everything he could to serve his people. Even, in the end, sacrifice his own life to save others."
"I count it a great honor to have known him. And a grievous blow to have lost him." She looks down a moment, her throat working. Then she looks up again, and brings one hand up to trace a spiral in the air. "Pharasma, Grey Lady, Mother of Souls, your son Perrin Alders returns to you today. Guard his steps on the long road that leads to Your seat. When he stands before You, look on him, Grey Lady, and grant him judgement both fair and swift. Thus pray we all."
"Thus pray we all," the villagers echoed back, raising their hands to trace spirals in the air.
Vors nods to the pallbearers as Mel steps back. They step forward and lift the coffin by ropes laid in the long grass, walk the few feet forward, and lower it gently down into the grave.
One by one the villagers pass by, each tossing a flower in atop the coffin. Mel waits and adds the snowbell last. It floats gently down onto the drift of flowers.
And with that, the funeral is done. Mel walks back to the village with Reinala and Perrin's mother -- not feeling the need to watch the gravediggers at work, though Vors stays to the bitter end.
At the wake, Melira gets stone blind drunk for the first time in her life.
The village of Brookside was too raw and tense after the Battle of Brookside to have a normal wake. But months later now, the community is ready to grieve more freely. The mead, ale, and beer flows alongside the tears, tragic songs are sung, and hard hugs are exchanged frequently. Of course, not everyone knew Perrin well or was attached to him. But the people have plenty to grieve. Further, the news of the successful diplomatic summit in Helm lifts the pall of oncoming war, deepening the village's emotional release as they finally get to feel like they can return to their normal lives.
In the morning, Mel wakes up with the worst headache she has ever had. She dresses slowly and joins the Falchen family for breakfast.
"Sweet goddess," Mel says, rubbing her bleary eyes. "I am never drinking that much ever again."
Reinala sniffs, running a sympathetic eye over the elf. She pushes a cup across the table. "Water," she advises practically. "Lots of it. And some solid food in your belly. Ye'll be right as rain in, oh, two or three hours. Or four, perhaps." She follows the water up with a stack of pancakes with butter and honey.
Mel groans, but tucks in meekly.
It's afternoon before she really feels like herself again. Once the headache clears, she asks for a word with Vors, in private. "I said I'd tell you everything that was mine to tell," she says.
They walk off, heading upstream along the brook until they find a private place in the woods. There they sit on the sunny banks, and Mel tells him everything.
It takes the better part of two hours, picking up from when they left Brookside. She omits no detail -- with the exception of those she promised not to reveal. In particular, she does not reveal Kazad Gravr's location, or what exactly the Concordat sought there, as she swore oaths to Kazador not to share that information. That the clanhold and the treasures it held are both gone matters not at all -- an oath is an oath.
Nor does she reveal anything that might bring trouble to the door of Isabella or the Circle of Friends, far off though they might be. And she silently omits any reference to King Stephens' abilities, saying only that he examined the evidence of Beaumont's activities and found the Duke guilty.
And, though it breaks her heart, she tells him, voice low, of the bargains Perrin struck to gain the powers that he wielded.
"Do ye mean to tell me we laid a devil worshiper to rest in our cemetery?" Vors splutters.
"Demon," Mel corrects him, automatically. "Vors, you knew Perrin his entire life. He was so, so driven to help people. And so hopelessly naive. He never believed that anyone but him would ever pay the price for his bargains. And maybe he was right. I said yesterday that his was a story of a kindness so pure that no shadow could ever dim it. And I believe that. Not even that vile thing he consorted with was ever able to change him. Manipulate him, perhaps. But change him? Never. He remained true to his own self to his very last breath. And he spent those last breaths helping us prevent the very scheme he had been instrumental in setting up. He turned his back on Haagenti, and the demon claimed his life for it. Not, I pray, his soul." Her hand goes automatically to her throat, reaching for her absent holy symbol. She lets it drop again, uncomforted. "He was good man, for all his terrible flaws. I can see no harm in letting him rest here, in the village he loved."
Vors inhales deeply through his nose, his lips set in a thin line. "I can't say as I like it. Not one bit, Mel. To think of it. Perrin? Our Doc Alders, consortin' with fell powers? It just ... just ..." he gestures broadly, as if trying to pluck words from the air.
"I know. Believe me, I've wrestled with this for months. He was a living contradiction in terms. And now? Well. He's done all he'll do. Let him rest."
Vors sighs gustily. "All right. All right, Mel. He's dead and all. And it's a crushing burden you've given me, this secret of his, but I'll carry it to my grave. No sense temptin' anyone to follow his path. I doubt many could walk it the way he did."
"Yes. Kelian knows also. Thank you, Vors."
"Aye, aye. Mind you, I'm bringin' in a priest from Astin to consecrate the graveyard at the first opportunity."
"Well, that's only good sense."
"Is there anythin' more? If not, well, I've plenty to be about."
Mel nods. "There is one thing ..." She tells him; and he agrees at once.
After Vors leaves, Mel sits on the bank for a few minutes, watching the sun play on the water. She strokes Rally, curled up in her lap, and listens to birdsong in the branches, a balm for a weary soul.
Then she rises, and walks back to Brookside, Rally trotting at her side.
She has one more task to see done this day.
Mel knocks on the doorframe of the house where Hal and Kazador have been staying. "Kazador? Hal? Could I have a word, please?"
Hal peeps through the hole overlooking the door he set up before opening it, but his paranoia is more habit than anything else. In a voice full of forced cheer he snarks "Given how ya look I'm half tempted not ta invite ya in, but it's you, so c'mon in then. Tea? Booze?"
"Ugh. Yes. Well, that was a mistake, I guess. But not one I plan to repeat. And the headache is mostly gone at this point."
"Actually, I need a hand with something. Could I borrow you both for a few minutes?"
Kazador shrugged. ”So long as it doesn’t involve sew-.” He said as he got up, stopping when he realized that the quip might be insensitive. ”Ach. What’ya need?” He asked.
"Nothing like that. Come on. It's not far. We're going to Perrin's house."
Mel leads them to a small three-room building on the edge of the town, albeit one made from stone rather than the usual wood. Like most of the houses in Brookside, its door has a latch, but no lock. Mel opens it and lets them in.
The front room contains only a simple chair, a desk with scattered papers on it, and a raised cot for patients. Beyond that is a closed door leading to Perrin's bedroom, and a slightly open door leading to his lab.
The lab itself is a clean but cramped room, its small dimensions giving the objects inside a cluttered appearance. The room is well-lit, though, by a broad window set high in the far wall. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of finished alchemical products, with the racks and shelves flanking the doorway devoted more to raw ingredients obtained from Brookside and the surrounding forests, as well as basic equipment like beakers and scales. To one side lies a small fireplace with some sort of grate over it, currently cold and empty. Next to it lies a crucible with an attached funnel, coated in residue from what appears to be molten gold. On the wall above the grate are carved several strange symbols and runes that seem vaguely unsettling.
The remainder of the space is dominated by a narrow L-shaped table beneath the window, with a tall wooden stool in front of it. The table is filled with miscellaneous reagants: some dry, wilted holly and mistletoe, a handful of gold coins, and a dessicated hunk of salted meat.
"It feels like forever since I came here," Mel says. "This is where I first identified Perrin's ... patron." She nods towards the runes on the wall. "Those are in Abyssal. I don't know exactly what they say. I couldn't read them -- not even with the aid of magic. And frankly, I'm glad. But that one on the end -- that's his name." From the way she spits the word "his", it's clear she means Haagenti.
She turns back to them. "I want to make sure that no one stumbles across anything here that could point them down the same path Perrin took. Hal, I'm hoping you can help me search for any lingering magics there might be, so we can destroy them. And Kazador ... those runes on the wall have to go. I'd love to smash them myself, but I just don't have the tools. Whereas you have a hammer that's the next best thing to a holy weapon. Could you? I spoke with Vors about it earlier, and he approves."
”Abyssal?” Kazador said, eyebrow raised. His lips turned down in distaste as his torc shifted and shimmered, shifting from bands around the arm and into his runic hammer. ”Stay back. I’ll make short work of it.” As far as he was concerned such filth should be erased no matter what. That the request came from a friend was immaterial for such an important task.
Mel stands back to watch, arms crossed in front of her, face set in an unaccustomed expression -- cold, relentless wrath.
Chips fly under Kazador's skillful blows, and in a matter of minutes the runes are effaced, leaving a patch of freshly exposed stone, brighter than the surrounding areas.
"Thank you, Kazador," Mel says as he finishes. She sweeps the chips up. None of them bear any recognizable symbols any longer. "I'll toss these in the river, downstream of here," she says. "Let the water clean away any lingering taint."
"Hal? Finding anything we need to worry about?"
"If the two of ya want ta take your auras and all those chips out ta the river I'll try lookin' for subtle signs - otherwise I'm likely to miss somethin', what with all the other auras."
"Of course." Mel ushers Kazador out to give the mage space to work.
Indeed Hal does find several suspicious magical auras. Unholy water and incense that were used in casting Commune with some evil entity as well as very difficult to identify gloves. Eventually, Hal determines that they assist the wearer in performing surgeries, particularly delicate ones, but have an odd enchantment curse of some sort, altering the wearer's memory if used long enough. Based on the timeline, Hal determines Perrin had not used the gloves for quite enough time for the curse to alter his memories according to whatever program is contained within the gloves.
Kazador frowned at the news. He understood that this was a friend of Mel’s, and that they were both safeguarding others from being tainted and protecting his memory. And he knew that he was not one to judge, as he had fallen truly hard. But the unholy magic? The lad had been dangerous, and demons were all too willing to exploit those with good intentions. While he kept it to himself, he was glad that they were able to stop him before anyone got hurt, and before his actions became such that it would be impossible to protect his name. At the end of the day, being mourned by friends and family was the best end he could picture for such a person. And while tragic, he kept it close to his heart as a warning as towards how far the wrong path might go…
Hal relays his findings and shakes his head "I don't wanna be the bearer of bad news... but demons are good at taintin', and this particular one is one of the best. I c'n clean up the traces, and I've found one trap... but might be better to just burn the place down. Never be 100% sure you've got everything in a case like this."
"I don't think burning the building will be necessary," Mel says. "Let's clean up what we can. Vors mentioned he was going to bring in a priest to consecrate the graveyard. I'll suggest that they do the same with the house. Please clean up what you can, and remove that trap."
"As for theses," she taps the three flasks of cursed water, "I'm pretty sure I know why Perrin had it -- it's a component in a healing spell. One with downsides. He would use that one. It's exactly Perrin, to a tee." Mel heaves a sigh. "Anyway. This stuff is not inherently harmful to anyone but celestial beings. I think we can just pour it out and let it evaporate." She does so, pouring the three bottles into a broad, shallow pan from the alchemical supplies, clearly designed for evaporation.
She wrinkles her nose at the incense. "I don't think this is inherently malign in and of itself, even though it can be used for fell purposes. Still, rather than burn it I'll bury it in the woods somewhere and let nature reclaim it."
"These gloves, though, are truly dangerous. These we burn." She builds a fire in the grate and burns the gloves, monitoring them carefully to ensure they're reduced to fine ash while Hal finishes up his efforts.
It takes a few hours to finish, carefully checking everywhere in the small structure. But in the end, Mel pronounces herself satisfied that the structure is as clear of Haagenti's influence as they can make it.
It's late afternoon, pressing on towards evening when they emerge once more. After a quick dinner with the Falchens, night settles in, and the three retire to their various beds.
Hal shrugs at Mel's decision "You're the boss." he agrees easily.