Giltharon: You hear the man's last breath gurgle from the wound where you pierced his lungs. Further blood from the wound spreads across the floor amidst the rubble and debris, mingling with the pungent liquids of the toppled jar of tongues.
There is a commotion building outside as well. Voices are growing louder as a bustle is building. It doesn't sound panicked, but doesn't sound joyous either. Nervous, perhaps.
Or perhaps it's providence, as certainly the mangled innkeeper's body--crushed and run through--would not reflect well on the newcomers in this small town.
Mandus thinks back to the ancient, moss-covered stone temples that dotted the swampy forests that made up his home. Strange hieroglyphs from long-dead tribes remain perfectly preserved in these temples through a combination of waning protective ward rituals and the natural enclosed environment of the cool temples' interiors.
It is in some of the remoter temples that priests of Quetzalcoatl go to study and learn from elder Servants of the Sun God. Mandus recalls the rigorous, long hours of study and contemplation, the rote memorization of ream after ream of ancient texts and glyphs. His knees would ache terribly at the end of each study session before the great story-walls.
He recalled one that described a fey tree spirit, not very unlike the description the innkeeper gave, whose touch left marks on the scales of the victims. Though the scales felt no pain from the mark, nor gave any outward sign of injury, the spot was in fact a grievous open wound. The mark was a symbol of illusion that completely masked the pain and made the victim unaware and unable to treat themselves. As a result, victims of the fey spirit's embrace would succumb to infection within days of walking about with their flesh hanging open in secret.
Turning his mind back to the present, Mandus frowns. "Gil, we must attempt to dissuade any from entering the inn until I've had a chance to properly study the...evidence." he looks down, to the corpse of the innkeeper at his feet.
"Can you see what that racket outside is, and attempt to keep the doors shut for at least a few moments?"
Mandus: Much like the glyphs you recall, your trained eyes recognize the illusory nature of the mark. Trickery is a hallmark of the fey. This is good news, as illusion magic does no damage in itself... though as you recall it can mask something rather dangerous. In this particular instance, the illusion is rather conspicuous. You suspect that it's nature might have less to do with concealing something sinister, and more with perhaps attracting it.
Skorabor is about to deliver a final warning when the inn keeper launches at Horn. The slayer is to slow to react only managing to slap the arm aside while Gil plants his sabre in the man's chest. "Brother, are you ok?" he asks fervently.
"Do what you must. I shall keep the crowd in check", Skorabor tells Mandus. The slayer grabs his axe and goes outside to see what the crowd has gathered for.
He recalled one that described a fey tree spirit, not very unlike the description the innkeeper gave, whose touch left marks on the scales of the victims. Though the scales felt no pain from the mark, nor gave any outward sign of injury, the spot was in fact a grievous open wound. The mark was a symbol of illusion that completely masked the pain and made the victim unaware and unable to treat themselves. As a result, victims of the fey spirit's embrace would succumb to infection within days of walking about with their flesh hanging open in secret.
Standing above the corpse, still sneering and looking ready to stab it again, Gil looked up at Mandus' request. "With any luck someone will give me a reason to hurt them." He muttered, turning to follow Skorabor, his movements like those of an irritated feline.
Skorabor and Gil: The sun is only beginning to crest the tops of the trees to the east, casting long shadows of forest and building alike across the relatively small steading. The inn is at the southern edge of town, across from the abandoned chapel and near the stables that almost burned down the night before. A chicken nearby flutters from it's perch atop a barrel, and in the distance a large crowd is gathering.
About twenty of the townsfolk, mostly men, are moving toward the central square where a large bell is transfixed between two lodge poles. The bell begins to ring out, casting its peal over the rising sound of curiosity and commotion, beckoning others who have not already been stirred by the crowd.
From the west, deliberate and menacing, come three riders approaching on walking steeds. The front-rider sports the broad brimmed hat of a witch-hunter, while the other riders hold aloft ceremonial torches.
Witch Hunters serve as the fiery brand of the Inquisition's quest to purify the kingdom. Tales abound of both their cruelty and efficacy in rooting out even the slightest taint of "witchcraft". If Karl's Creek is as the late innkeeper described, there's little surprise that one would come here eventually.
What do you do?
"Oh for the love of..." Gil hissed, diving into the nearest cover. "Not these idiots again." He peaked over his cover, catching the odd expression on the Slayers face. He sighed loudly. "I dont know if you are presently aware, but these, "people", the inquisitors, they are a branch of the military." He ducked back behind his cover. "Ive run into a few along the way, and none of them seem too fond of my kind. Not surprising really, I hear they are often in charge of the effort to stop elven excursions outside Da'asthyr." He got up slowly and began to move back towards the tavern. "The peasants may not care, or be easily fooled by a little disguise work, but the inquisitors always seem to realize what I am, probably anatomy classes or some such nonsense. At any rate, you are on your own."
With that, he ducked back inside.
While you don't remember many specifics, there's no way you could forget how negatively the inquisitors view elven kind. You're certain that you would not be received well at all, and likely hunted should you be discovered.
Cursing his bad luck Skorabor watches the inquisitors with a fixed gaze. They where zealots and dangerous ones at that. Eventhough he himself had nothing to hide he doubted that they would take kindly to what was happening inside the inn. And just entering the village the travelers would probably be looking for an inn. He also figured that he was nothing close to invisible, a dwarven slayer standing just outside the entrance leaning on his axe. Still, a slayer runs from no one. Should the inquisitors provoke a fight they would get one. Scrapping the stealthy route Skorabor opts to wait to see what they want. He keeps his gaze fixed on them waiting to see what happens.
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Horn feels a terrible chill pass through him as the innkeeper's fingers touch his leg. Standing there with a look of shock and bewilderment, he merely nods when the skink bends to examine the spot.
He bends down and rubs the spot which Mandus explains is now "marked" in some way, fearing momentarily that whatever this "Oak"'s taint is might indeed be enough to separate him from the First Roots.
When the skink mentions that he'll be eating the brain of the innkeeper, Horn somehow only manages to nod again.
Hearing of the inquisitors' approach shakes him finally from stewing in worry...into a bigger worry as he looks about his companions. This could be good for us...or very very bad.
Standing just by the door so that all three can hear him, Horn says. "I heard a tale once from a sparrow about these witch hunters, but he was heavy on color and light on details. Do any of you know what sort of taint they hunt? Is it too much to ask that they might be allies against this 'Oak'? And if not...should we make like a rabbit here and disappear?"
Mandus, receiving the quiet assent of the druid, smiles up at him briefly after nodding in thanks to Skorabor. As the others focus on the commotion outside, he murmurs to them, "Be warned - this mark will be attracting trouble to our friend the halfling. To use an animal's analogy, due to that mark, Horn 'smells' quite strongly like prey to...something. I know not what. Regardless of what form this trouble takes, I feel that we should not be among unarmed peasants when it finds us. And it will find us." His gaze never left the dead innkeeper's face. "I intend to get some answers."
With calm efficiency Mandus will hold open the innkeeper's eyelids and stab out each eye with his bone dagger. Each eye he eats, like an appetizer. After cutting out the optic nerve the skink works the thin, wiggly-shaped dagger into the cranium through the eye socket, withdrawing with some brains, that he then consumes.
Mandus: People often react poorly to this practice outside of your own culture, which is unusual as certainly none of them have even tried it. If they had, they'd likely relish it as much as you do. Like standing beneath a waterfall, memories begin to wash over you. At first it's just emotions. Interestingly, the physical senses react first--you can feel the temperature change, the ground shift beneath your feet, your own body morphing to match that of the innkeeper's. Next comes the visual--hazy at first like just waking up, a world full of forms and shadows begins to take place. You hear the sounds slowly building before finally the taste and smells connect as well. With these last senses, suddenly you know; and you're back in your own mind, but different.
It's not like you live out the memory. You just have it. As if you lived it before:
The Tongues.
Rodcliff didn't know how else to fight. He didn't know how he could resist. The Oak had his wife, or at least something that resembled his wife--had all her memories, her quirks, her personality. He couldn't risk losing her, not if his obedience kept her from being lost. His own death means little, as long as he does so with enough obedience for Sarena to be spared.
But doing nothing seemed unacceptable as well. He was one of the few who had seen what happened to those who disappeared... because his "obedience" helped it happen. He would let in the shadows. They couldn't be killed, they couldn't be stopped. They would slink in, devouring light and heat as the glided past him, then leave shortly after in the same manner. They wouldn't kill. They didn't need to.
Anything they struck would be corrupted. Whatever they struck belonged to her now. Over the next couple weeks the person would grow weaker, sicker. Skin would turn pale, hair would begin to fall out, and the nightmares would grow worse and worse. Those in the town who were unaware fear that it is a plague, and those in servitude such as yourself (Rodcliff) use that fear to have them exiled from the others. You need them out of town because you know that the final step involves them shedding their flesh like a peal, like an overcoat, as a new shade is born.
Only the sprites, those messengers of the Oak with their mouths sutured shut are able to maintain their flesh and memories. Though they are shadows within as much as the others are without.
After the first two shades were born, you knew you had to do something. You're not a religious man, but your heart is not void of the ancient scriptures either. "In a man's tongue his soul resides. When it jumps the true spirit is revealed; when it's held a whole being is restrained; and when it is finally silenced, if such a thing is possible, there is no longer a spark to light that hollow shell. It is the last bastion of a man's strength and the only muscle that no discipline can fully tame." -- First Antiquities of Luistron VII:18-20
Every shade since then, or rather every person doomed to such a fate, would find you removing their tongue before the shed their skin. If they could be saved... If there was any hint of their spirit left in that body now corrupted... that's where you would find it. You had no idea what to do with them, or how you could use that to help them. But you had to do something.
So you kept them. You aided their demise because you couldn't let her perish for your disobedience. But you rebelled by preserving the last bit of their souls, should you ever find a way to restore them. You kept their tongues.
-----------------------
Gil ducks inside with perfect timing as the man in the brimmed hat, with twisted mustache and dark brows, turned to observe the main cartpath south. He notes the lone dwarf standing there beside the inn and the tragically neglected chapel.
Skorabor, you know you've been seen, and must stand out. But from this distance it's difficult to gauge his reaction. He turns back toward the center of town and begins a conversation with a taller, salt and peppered gentleman who seems to carry some local authority himself. Twice in the conversation the witch hunter tilts his gaze back in your direction.
Those that wish to gather have now congregated at the central square near the large bell and the three riders, though they keep a respectful distance. Several more line the windows and shudders, observing from the conspicuous comfort of their mistrusted sanctuaries.
"Are you finished in there?" Skorabor asks through the door keeping his voice from carrying over to the gathering of witch hunters and villagers. "Get a move on, you don't have much time before they come this way."
Horn turns away from the horrid sight of Mandus and the innkeeper. How low have I sank, associating with this vile brain-eater? Even our foes deserve better...
Replying to Skorabor, he says "I had thought at first that we could talk to these witch hunters. They might have become our allies in pursuing this 'Oak' and her minions. When they see a necromancer consuming the brains of the local innkeeper though...
So where do you suppose we go? The tunnel that the wargs and shadows came out of is over in that barn there...that's likely the direction to go to continue our hunt. Running now will surely cast suspicion on us...but no more than staying. I'm afraid either way is liable to end in us needing to shed the blood of those that aren't our true quarry."
"I got a surefire way to draw their attention away from us." Gil said, smirking as he walked behind the bar and started breaking bottles of moonshine, the extra strong stuff. "We set this place ablaze, and while everyone scrambles to put it out, we slip away. Works every time."
Grabbing a handful of bottles, he walked to the innkeepers corpse, uncorking a bottle and beginning to empty its content upon it. He looked at everyone with a haughty expression. "What? Oh dont give me those looks, not that I care ofcourse. I'm sure the village will be fine, its just a little fire."
"What?!" Skorabor exclaims before settling down to not attract attention. "Stop that fool! They know we are here at the inn. Torching it will attract to many questions!" he snaps over his shoulder while trying his best to look calm.
Mandus lets out a soft sigh as his eyes open to look upon the waking world once more. He sucks a bit of loose brain matter from between two teeth and swallows before replying in a soft voice. His throat appears to have recovered from its scorching the previous evening.
"Yes, I'm done. Skorabor, I believe that the questions will fall on our heads regardless - we were witnessed coming to the inn last night, and the innkeeper lies dead before us. Unless we dispose of that possession of his" he indicates the jar of tongues with a brief narrowing of his eyes, "they will discover that as well. Besides," he says with a small shrug. "The witch hunters were never very likely allies to begin with..."
"Not with the symptoms you all will begin to show in the next week or so." The skink frowns at each of you, in turn - Skorabor, Gil, and Horn. "Those shades from last night have marked you the Oak's property. Unless we find a way to undo the damage the shades did to your souls, you will become like them."
The skink frowns at each of you, in turn - Skorabor, Gil, and Horn.
Outside, Skorabor watches the Witch Hunter and elder conversing. The air is thick as the town has little doubts as to why he's here. There's been some foul works at play lately. But what would be anticipated as relief comes across much more like fear. Witch Hunters root out everything, and anything with a hint of corruption is cleansed. Even those who have nothing to do with the darkness over Karl's Creek are likely to still have reason to fear the Inquisitors' judgement.
Another horse comes galloping from the same direction that the others had come, though it still has yet to reach the town. Beside it runs two smaller animals keeping pace. The Witch Hunter turns to note the arrival, then glances back in your direction again. He's clearly keeping tabs on everything going on.
As the inn fills with the stinging scent of alcohol, you remember that should you wish to light this tinderbox there is still a satchel within that hole in the wall which you may want to preserve.
Inclining his head towards the hole in the wall, Gil tossed the remaining bottles around the room, flammable liquids and shards of glass flying in equally generous amounts. "Whats this then?" He said, greed evident in his speech. Walking into the alcove, he picked the bones off the satchel, releasing a disgusted sneer as he realized what creatures they had originally belonged to. Swiping the satchel off the floor, he quickly strode back into the main room, riffling through the bags contents. "Hmmm, will have to see if this is worth anything later." He said with a bit of disappointment, then looked up and about the room. "Mandus, get some fire ready, ill take a moment to salvage some kind of score from this debacle."
Striding behind the bar, he proceeded to shovel anything of value into the satchel, then headed upstairs to make the rounds.
"Ive done the smash and grab hundreds of times, this wont take but a moment."
"I'd be happy to assist, Gil." Mandus will extend both his arms and let the fire fall from his fingertips like a waterfall. It spreads harmlessly around his feet until it begins to grow and actually burn the wood, at which time it becomes normal flames and will hurt him.
"I said get it ready not light the damn lot now!!" Gil howled, rushing back down the few steps he had taken up the stairs, a longing pained glance at the stairs and the missed opportunities that may lie upstairs. "Gotta get out of here fast now, this place will go up in smoke like a campfire in no time!"
He tore the door open, satchel tugged under his arm. "Keep your heads low and hustle." He said over his shoulder in a more measured, yet hectic voice. Sticking his head out just enough to survey the crowd up the street, he waited, even as the fire took hold of the alcohol and started spreading in rapid bursts across the floor. "Wait....waaait..."
"NOW!"
"Never fear Gil! I'll grab it!" so saying, the necromancer bolts for the stairs, hoping to make it out before the flames get too high.
Watching the skink slither up the stairs, Gil once more found him self questioning his commitment to the lizards survival. "Damn it all!"
Ignoring whatever their two allies were doing in response to his previous order to rush across the street, he dove across the room instead, following Mandus upstairs.
Horn, still more than a little dazed by the invisible "mark" on his leg, finds himself sinking into an uncharacteristic paralysis and despair at his rapidly worsening situation.
I have to continue this hunt...and as little as I like it, I'm afraid our chances are slim without this necromancer and his pirate...but what now? Just as some witch hunters come the necromancer eats a brain and the elf lights the inn on fire! My gut says to turn to a hawk and fly far away from this mess, but...
With a glance down at his leg and a shake of his head, Horn steps out, grabs Skorabor by the arm, and says, "I suspect you hate this as much as I do, but the die has been cast. Will you run with me to the barn, to see if we can pursue this 'Oak' back to her nest?"
Horn waits for a reply from his blood brother before proceeding...but (if Skorabor agrees) will run at the barn at Gil's signal, and immediately try to find the tunnel (which I don't think he knows has closed over).
With a glance down at his leg and a shake of his head, Horn steps out, grabs Skorabor by the arm, and says, "I suspect you hate this as much as I do, but the die has been cast. Will you run with me to the barn, to see if we can pursue this 'Oak' back to her nest?"
”He’s going through with it?!” Skorabor snarls and casts a glance over his shoulder. He takes a deep sigh to reconcile with the situation. ”Yes, I will follow you to deal with the Oak. Your quest is my quest.” He takes another look at the witch hunter. ”But I’m going to need my gear if we are to travel.” He turns casually and walks through the door. Once inside he races up the stairs to the room where he slept and quickly gathers his belongings . Back at the common room he stares hard at Gil . ”Is there a back door?”
"Ofcourse theres a backdoor, never seen a tavern without one." Gil said dismissively. "Best bet is probably to head out the back, and then towards the mob. We stay out of sight and once they make for the tavern fire, we cross the road behind them."
Well, my instinct would be to not get in Gil's way. I'll roll my own DR:
Mandus gets down on all fours for quicker agility up the stairs and around the corner, the fire pulsing in his veins. Assuming he makes it to the top of the stairs intact, he searches for the satchel. He tosses blankets off the beds and overturns the mattresses as well.
The fire spreads out from Mandus' feet like tendrils, snaking along the trails of alcohol spread throughout the room. Immediately, the skink's curse attempts to devour the flame again...
Mandus: Recognizing this, the race toward the stairs in an attempt to flee the heat of the flames before it is painfully wrenched back into your veins. You're reaction is quick: swift enough to keep yourself from the flames but the curse pulls them along behind you, trying to devour them even as you flee. As you race up the stairs behind Giltharon, the flickering trail is pulled to the base of the stairs where you finally escape beyond the reach. This flame has spread much quicker than you might have anticipated.
Skorabor: There's a growing flame between you and the ascending stairs. Do you still race up them? How do you keep from burning yourself?
Mandus and Gil: You're practiced and discerning in your impromptu ransacking. You commonly find a few coins in your search, which seems to be adding up as well as a large jacket, 2 books, and a child's toy.
Horn: Smoke is beginning to billow from the windows. Much of the Inn's structure burns clean, but the alcohol does not--causing rather conspicuous smoke.
Mandus throws on the jacket, stuffs the books in its pockets, and puts the child's toy in his pack. So doing, he picks up the bag of coins and throws open the windows one at a time. Are there any windows with awnings under them, or are they all sheer drops of about 10 feet or so?
No awnings unfortunately, but on one side of the inn the second floor juts out about 5 or so feet from the wall of the first floor That side, of course, is the street side. So yes, a straight drop of about 10 from the second floor, about 20 from the third for reference.
Skorabor freezes and at the sight of the flames which catches him all by surprise. The arrival of the witch hunter must have distracted him from the warmth which was now growing to quite uncomfortable levels. When he left the the inn it had been a mess. Now it was on its way to an inferno. "By the shadowed numbers of Malumtanis, They've already started the fire", he says to Horn through the door. The slayer's voice is equal parts absent and amazed. He looks around for some kind of food storage so far untouched by the flames.
Finding a possible place where some rations might be kept Skorabor dashes towards the room and rummages through it as fast as he can in search of some durable food.
Skorabor turns and bursts out the door. Once out the in the street he bellows "Fire! Fire!" hoping to gather a crowd which he and Horn then can use to escape to the barn.