The magus saddles up and rides Signior over to the carnage site but he dismounts a ways away from the offending odor and leaves the horse to its own. Knowing that his mount is only a whistle away, Pellius walks over to the human bodies.
The magus, now looking like a road brigand with his bandana over his mouth and nose, draws his sword as he discerns the potential threat of a large predator. He points to bodies that likely served as a meal and nods towards Pyotr and Dunagan, "Eyes open gents; it looks like a large scavenger was here last night and may still be around."
Difficult though it may be to interpret the creature’s facial expressions, it does seem rather exasperated.
“Agus shíl mé raibh uruk amadán! Mé. . . a dhéanamh nach bhfuil. . . labhairt. . .. . teanga. . . de. . . fir! Táa fhios agam ach cúpla amhráin sinuile. . . maith roinnt mílte a bheith cruinn. Tá leabharlann! Ní féidir liom a fháil ach amháin ará leis an scéal díreach. B'fhéidir nár chóir dom a bheith chomh hars artú. Tá mé cinnte mbainfidh tú inann a bheith ag obair amach cad tá mé ag dul ag i ndiaidh an ghnímh. Ar ndóigh, faoin am sin beidh séa bheith dócha ró-mhall. Feicfidh tú a fháil ar an madra ar ais, áfach, ba mhaith liom builfaoi thuairim. Níl sé airbhfuil siad ag glaoch tar éis an tsaoil."
Sylvan:
The Conductor of the Fens turns to its cricket, obviously now considering the bug the best audience for its tirade.
“Ar chóir dúinn a thabhairt suas anois? Támé ag iarraidh i ndáiríre mo dhí cheall. Bhí casadh maith déag an pi onós, ach i ngach mbliana fadanach amháin cineáltas i gcrích. Támé ag iarraidh ach nach bhfuil sé i ndáiríre i monádúr tar éis an tsaoil. Ag múch an Rí Aédrom ar, cén fáth go raibh deoraíocht siad dom a ghabhann leis an marbh, lethris uaigneach?”
Sylvan:
“A ligean ar iarracht amháin níos mó dit-tidh. B'fhéidir go mbainfidh sé a fháil dóibh smaoineamh ar feadh na línte ceart. D'fhéadfadh rann oireann dá shílmall. A dhéanamh ansin leo, is féidir a n-Seirbigh a gcuid féin, agus is féidir leis an ciorcal a dhéanamh cad a theastaíonn sé leo.”
Sylvan:
The Conductor of the Fens starts to wag a finger in the up-down march of a two-four rhythm, and its cricket furiously sets to singing a jaunty little backing. This time, the Conductor’s voice is that of a small child.
"Ozza, ozza, ooh, ozza, ozza ooh, follow the wisp into the marshes do
Izza, izza, ee, izza, izza ee, so the boy’s baby brother’s following too
Bukka, bukka boo, bukka bukka boo, and of course the bayhound all loyal and true
Ozza, ozza, ooh, ozza, ozza ooh, baby brother, bayhound and a boy all adrift
Izza, izza, ee, izza, izza ee, lords go a-looking with the constable on shift
Bukka, bukka boo, bukka bukka boo, all across the marshes dancing will ‘o a’ wisps
Ozza, ozza, ooh, ozza, ozza ooh, morning brings the boy back to his father’s hold
Izza, izza, ee, izza, izza ee, and the guard at the gate sees he’s got a pot full of gold
Bukka, bukka boo, bukka bukka boo, and so the guard asks about these riches untold
Ozza, ozza, ooh, ozza, ozza ooh, a ghostlight lantern showed me the way
Izza, izza, ee, izza, izza ee, the boy with the treasure did venture to say
Bukka, bukka boo, bukka bukka boo, but the constable on shift, well he lost his way
And my lordly father in the swamp he will stay
My lady mother lost out in that mist so grey
And for my wretched baby brother we only can pray
But at the very least the bayhound might come back one day."
The Conductor of the Fens simply waggles its tapering fingers in a helpless gesture. Conversant as it is with many of the songs of men, including the general meaning of their lyrics, it does not speak Common and has no idea what Delkaneth is saying.
Pellius notes how the mound has been disturbed overnight and warns his companions. With weapons drawn, the three edge around the perimeter of the corpse pile. Expecting to find a large scavenger hidden on the far side of the hill, they are not disappointed. As they round the slope of torn and mangled flesh, an owlbear is revealed to them, barely thirty feet away.
It’s a rather sorry example of its deadly species. Rather scrawny despite a belly bloated with carrion, the faded tawny pelt of its torso and the mottled feathers of its head are pockmarked with mangy patches of bald, pink skin. In many places this coat is matted with gore where the owlbear appears to have been rolling in its putrid feast. Golden eyes that should be sharp and hawlish are dull; the colour of old honey. The tip of the upper mandible is broken, and it’s left forepaw ends in a stump.
Surprised by the sudden appearance of living men, the owlbear shifts awkwardly on its three legs, shuffling back a few paces whilst drawing its current morsel – the lower trunk and half-eaten legs of some poor fellow – with it. The owlbear hisses and clacks its beak in warning.
Some of the more daring knights even developed the habit of playing chicken with the owlbear; demonstrating their horsemanship by riding closer and closer to the irritable beast, before racing away when it lunged at them. Thanks to its missing leg, One-Paw-One-Claw was rarely fast enough to catch any of these teasing braves.
Surprised by the sudden appearance of living men, the owlbear shifts awkwardly on its three legs, shuffling back a few paces whilst drawing its current morsel – the lower trunk and half-eaten legs of some poor fellow – with it. The owlbear hisses and clacks its beak in warning.
The magus stops in mid-stride, not even breathing trying not to make any outward movements to call the monster's attention. He whispers to his two companions, "That's One-Paw, an infamous owlbear who often trails orc carnage sites. As you can see, it's old and maimed but I'd still be very careful. I think the best bet is to lead him away to see if he scares off. We can then keep a watch on it."
Pellius noted the monster's clicking, "But we may not have a chance if it sees us a threat so carefully ready any ranged weapon just in case."
The magus slowly takes his light crossbow and fits a bolt while backing away from the owlbear.
Bonegrit, looking utterly lost by this point, spares a worried glance towards Delkaneth. "Gozreh's leaky teets! What are you going on about? Can you understand that barkin' loon?"
"Best we count ourselves lucky he's not tryin' 'a ensorcel us and enjoy a nice human, half-orc filet. We got a trail; don't need his cricket or his songs to follow that, ya get me?"
Pyotr begins moving out into a flanking position, away from the carrion hill. His eyes narrow dangerously as he circles away from Pellius and Dunagan. The second-hand greatsword makes a grating, rusted sound as he pulls it free from its scabbard.
"That's not a chunk of orc-flesh it's bartering over. That is one of the honored fallen of Castle Firrine. That is a brother in arms, not a morsel for that mangy beast!"
The Conductor of the Fens gives his visitors one final glance, hushes his cricket, and turns to hop away into the hanging banks of mist.
Pellius retreats, his light crossbow in hand with a quarrel in the groove. Dunagan cautiously keeps pace with him, his adamantine warhammer held fast in his hand. They halt some sixty paces from the owlbear, which has stopped watching them and instead turns its attention to Pyotr who circles slowly around the beast.
One-Claw-One-Paw continues clapping its beak aggressively at the half-orc, the ruff of feathers around its neck standing on end in a threat display. Despite its warnings, it can’t resist its hunger, and quickly ducks its head down to tear a strip of flesh from the human remains at its feet.
The Conductor of the Fens hops away and is swallowed by the swirling mist. Bonegrit, Delkaneth, Modoru and Amiro continue to venture deeper and deeper into the Ghostlight Marshes. The ground underfoot becomes wetter and more treacherous. The physical tracks left by the dog start to become harder and harder to follow as they pass across shallow reens and patches of gloopy mud which collapse in on the footprints immediately after they’ve been formed. Thankfully, Shambles’ scent remains strong in Bonegrit’s nose, and the half-orc leads them unerringly onward.
They spend half an hour sloshing through through the bogs, Delkaneth doggedly reinvoking his dancing lights whenever they flicker and die. Suddenly, there is a whimper up ahead, and Del’s glowing globes shed their soft illumination on the object of their quest; Shambles, looking wretched and miserable, curled up in the cover of a straggly swamp oak that grows no higher than Amiro’s shoulder.
The second-hand greatsword makes a grating, rusted sound as he pulls it free from its scabbard.
Although One-Claw-One-Paw is obviously distressed by adventurers’ proximity (particularly Pyotr’s), it seems unlikely to provoke a fight unless someone gets closer or starts firing ranged weapons.
Although One-Claw-One-Paw is obviously distressed by adventurers’ proximity (particularly Pyotr’s), it seems unlikely to provoke a fight unless someone gets closer or starts firing ranged weapons.
Recognizing the cornered animal for what it was, the magus yells loud enough to get Pyotr's attention, "Wait! Don't provoke it any further. As much as it pains me, I think it's just going to have its fill and leave. I'm hoping the size of its stomach means it's close to full."
The magus has an idea, "Here, come here and the three of us will make enough noise but also leave it a wide avenue of escape. You know, like they do when they're hunting a large animal. Only we don't want to trap it, just get it to leave. Makes sense?"
Dunagan sighs in relief at the shape the creature is in, "Nay. I suggest we let the beast have its fill and be off. It'll make our jobs all tha more easier. Jus' keep an eye on it. Dun think it has the mind to go messin' with us when its plate is already full! I can keep an eye on him if ye want to start preparing." Dunagan looks to the Magus and waits for a response.
His dancing lights are not alone.
Those multi-hued, diffuse glows that have fluttered in the veils of mist since the adventurers began their ill-advised expedition into the Marshes now reveal themselves. Slipping free from their skirts of mist, Delkaneth counts twenty . . . no, twenty-one, will o’ wisps floating forward to surround the little band in a perfect circle.
At about thirty paces from the adventurers they stop closing and begin a slow rotation, like a terrifying orbit of radiant pearls. All the colours of the rainbow are represented in this procession of orbs, each shade glowing with an effulgence that seems to carry a hint of darkness even as it projects light. Within the glare, shadows suggest the shapes of human skulls, and ephemeral shreds of the wisps’ forms drift away the globes, making shapes that resemble leaves, petals or thorns before they dissolve into nothing.
Del is aware that will o' wisps are immune to most magic, although simple magic missiles can hurt them. He also knows that they draw sustenance from the fear of other creatures.
Pyotr turns a gaping look of incredulity towards Dunagan and Pellius. "That's not some bit of horseflesh! That is a man! And a fallen soldier of Lastwall! Would you stand so blithely by if that were a piece of Clan Haarglick being digested? Would you not care a whit if that were your brother being gnawed to the bone, Pellius? Is this how the shining citizenry of Vigil serves their brothers?"
"If you wish to drive it off, then it must be now! I care not at all if the creature lives or dies... But, the flesh and blood of Lastwall is off of the menu! I'll not suffer one more bite!"
the three of us will try to drive it off. I think I got that right.
The magus grabs a discarded helmet and a broken sword and starts banging them together. All the while, he shouts to the owlbear and herds it to where some orcs and horses lie dead quite a distance away. Hoping the owlbear leaves the human carrion pile and munches on the other cadavers and eventually leaves once it's had its fill.
As things are not working as expected, he drops the items and grabs a small pebble. He quickly casts his favorite spell and makes the rock look like a smoldering coal, together with copious amounts of smoke. He throws the pebble near the owlbear again trying to herd the beast away from the human remains.
Bonegrit's gaze remains level, despite the arrival of a score of prismatic interlopers—or are we the interlopers? Heeding Delkaneth's advice, Bonegrit nods slightly, then crouches low to the ground. He takes a few deep sniffs to try and determine if any other strange scents are lingering in the area before letting out a short whistle to Shambles. "C'mere boy! Don't be afraid, now. C'mere!" Between encouragements to the dog, involving subdued hand gestures, clicks, smiles, and whistles, Bonegrit surveys the array of will 'o wisps rotating around them. Now, who's the boy and who's the bayhound?
Shambles lurches out from the hollow of the tree and dashes across to Bonegrit as the half-orc beckons. The mongrel immediately finds new shelter between the ranger’s firm legs, rubbing its cold, shivering hide against its protector and mewling softly.
Amiro stands firmly despite the unsettling situation. Astride the warhorse, Modoru slowing eases his longsword free of its sheath, his shadowed eyes moving from one wisp to another.
Bonegrit sniffs the air, but detects nothing but the rich, rotting wafts of the Marsh, plus the scents of his companions and the rank smell of Shambles’ terror. The will o’ wisps themselves carry no odour.
One will o’ wisp, deep red in colour and perhaps slightly larger than the other twenty, floats forward out of the circle of others. It halts barely ten feet from the three adventurers and their beasts. Whispered words float through the air, not seeming to come from any visible source, although the internal glow of the crimson will o’ wisp waxes and wanes with the cadence of the words.
“Who will be the envoy of our vengeance?” comes the whisper like a still wind.
Beating discarded, broken remnants of weapons and armour, the three adventurers try to frighten off the scavenging owlbear. One-Claw-One-Paw looks from one to the other, hissing and clacking its beak once again. When this seems to do nothing to quell the din, the monster simply choose to ignore it, bobbing its head down to tear once again at the human body beneath it.
Then Dunagan adds an enormous belch to the cacophony. For some reason, One-Claw-One-Paw finds this ferocious burp far more offputting than the clanging metal. With a screech of annoyance, it turns about and begins to lumber northwards, throwing baleful looks at the interrupters of its breakfast as it passes between where Pyotr and Pellius and Dunagan stand.
Pyotr roars and beats the flat of his blade against a badly dented helm. But, in the open air, with the mists of the Ghostlight dampening the air, his shouts sound thin and hollow even in his own ears. He casts aside the helm and readies his sword as the beast lowers its head to continue its feast, when a sound like nothing Pyotr had ever heard erupts behind him.
Pyotr spins, ready to find a yawning chasm and all of Abyss erupting forth... Dunagan stands relaxed, holding one hand against his stomach as he beats his fist lightly against his chest. "Gonna have to talk to Crinkles. Can't stomach that hardtack without a stout ale to wash'er down with. Bad for my digestion."
Pyotr wrinkles his nose in disgust at the vulgar expulsion. But, as off-putting as he finds it, the owlbear seems to find it truly terrifying. One-paw makes a beeline straight between Pellius and Pyotr, trying to put distance between it and Dunagan. As it moves a more comfortable distance away, Pyotr turns back towards the Ghostlight. Even in retreat, One-paw moved away from that dismal place. His sense of foreboding for his allies grows.
After a time, Pyotr begins a circuit of the mound to check for more surprises before beginning again his labors constructing the cairn.
"If it be me underneath a beast an' me spirit is already in the halls of Torag, leave me to tha beast. Better to fill its belly than the belly of 'sum worms beneath a hill o' rocks then it havin' a chance to hurt my fellas." The dwarf stretches out towards the sky after latching his warhammer to his belt and lashing his shield to his back. He looks over the area and rubs his weary eyes before walking towards Pyotr.
"Yer helmet is in a hideous shape! Lemme round out them dents when we get a break." The forgemaster looks back towards camp and speaks up, "'Spose we should let them know it is all clear."
There seems no easy avenue of escape; no more than ten paces separate one wisp from another, and although their circling at present is rather languid, they give the impression of being able to muster much faster speeds if required.
The lead wisp flickers again, and again the air fills with the sound of its whispering.
“Oh, but you should indeed be here. You have followed our lure, into the heart of our demesne. We have no interest in peace, and our rage has echoed long over the centuries, from the generations of men who shed their blood to water this land, until the time when there no more generations, just this perpetual existence of ours, bound within the confines of our failure.”
“One of you has been sullied by the seed of our enemy, and is useless to us. But two of you will serve as our envoys, and carry our vengeance back to the enemy that drove us to our greatest folly.”
A second wisp, this one sickly green, leaves the dancing circle and begins to drift towards Modoru. The paladin grabs Amiro’s mane firmly with one gauntlet, and raises his blade with the other.
“All we can do is die as honourably as these mysterious foes permit,” he says.
With the owlbear lumbering away into the distance, and no other threats apparent in the vicinity, it might be time to report back to Dierik that the coast is clear.
Pellius is ever glad he had his scented bandanna on his face; the thing that came out from the dwarf's mouth probably smelled as bad as it sounded.
In any case, old One-Paw took off which was best for everyone involved. "C'mon, let's head back." Still wary, the magus nears Signior, promptly mounts, and leads the way back.
Dierik and Santrain were waiting as the magus nods his head, "It's clear now. There was an owlbear but we chased it off. Still, have the men warned and perhaps some missile weapons ready just in case it heads back. Was there anything else, sir?"
Bonegrit only just manages to stifle a grunt as the crimson orb whispers its cryptic tale. Giving Shambles a reassuring pat, Bonegrit resumes a fully upright posture as he turns to speak to Delkaneth. "I didn't know any better, I'd say they want the two of ya to kill orcs for 'em." A hand that had been reaching for his bow relinquishes its goal and drops calmly to the half-orc's side. Seconds later, it comes to rest on Amiro's shoulder. Bonegrit shoots a severe look to the paladin, accompanied by a quick shake of his head. "Keep yer pants on, Ser. Nothin' honorable or noteworthy about feedin' worms in a bog when it can be avoided."
Bonegrit takes a couple of steps away and towards the crimson orb as calmly as he can force himself to. A closer proximity to the creature does little to improve his grit given the circumstances, however, and the steel and gravel his voice should be carrying issue out as a subdued just-shy-of-shaky tone. "That 'bout the right of it, then? You need these two to kill some Belkzen-born in your name?"
“Yes . . ,” the will o’ wisp lowers itself until it is eye level with Bonegrit . The half-orc can see the faintest shadow of a human skull, a negative imprint contained within the crimson glow of the orb. On the brow of the skull, the faintest suggestion of a crown or headdress, formed from what look like sickle-shaped thorns.
“The lesser will take one life of the enemy for each soul sacrificed in the working and unravelling of our final answer. When the scale of blood is balanced, our vengeance shall manifest in the greater, and our rage will finally be made substance upon the despoiled, wasted carcass of the land that lies to the north.”
As Pellius swings Signior back into camp, he sees that Dierik has already gathered and outfitted a workforce of some twenty men. They carry just about all the picks and spades the caravan possesses, as well as long lengths of sturdy rope. A pair of oxen and a pair of strong drafthorses have also been included in the team, First Master Deramil is busy checking their work halters.
Dierik listens quickly to Pellius’ report, raising his eyebrows in appreciation at the news that Pellius and his companions chased off an owlbear. He instructs those of his men who carry crossbows to fetch them, then orders Callan and his guards to protect the caravan in his absence, overseen by Second Master Santrian. He also summons Kelya and asks her to accompany them to the battlefield – “a few prayers might ease some of those souls on wherever their next journey leads them.”
His final instructions are to Santrian. “Looks like the fog over the Marshes is starting to clear. Keep a cautious watch in that direction, I’ve not given up hope that our men and that paladin might return to us yet. But under no circumstances set foot in that swamp, understand me?”
- - - - -
On foot, the work party makes the trek to the battlefield. Kelya weeps openly at the sight of such loss, and even the flinty joviality of Dierik’s crew is quelled as they bear witness to the slaughter.
“It’s been many a year since I’ve seen life wasted on such a scale . . ,” mutters Dierik, before he starts to direct his men on the construction of the cairn. He then walks over to Pyotr, Deramil leading one of the oxen behind him. After pausing to hurl a stone at a crow that has the audacity to land atop the heap of dead men (with the owlbear gone, the birds are now brave enough to venture onto the pile once more).
“Modoru Redgrave’s horse,” he says “Show me where it is and we’ll move it over to the cairn.” Dierik indicates to the sturdy beast behind him.
Pyotr directs the captain towards the twisted and ungainly remains of Modoru's horse. The powerful leverage of the patient oxen makes short work of moving the fallen charger.
With little to contribute beyond a strong back and stubborn determination, Pyotr begins the arduous task of building the cairn with Dierik's men.
Suddenly, the two will o’ wisps dart forward with lightning speed. The crimson one strikes Modoru and dissolves into threads of red mist. The paladin immediately drops his sword and slides off Amiro in a clatter of armour, landing face down and unmoving in the swamp muck.
The sickly green wisp targets Delkaneth, slamming silently into the man’s chest and also collapsing into ephemeral shreds of vapour. The Chelaxian’s eyes roll back in their sockets and he keels over unconscious beside Bonegrit.
With this attack, the remaining will o’ wisps immediately wink out. Some seconds later, Delkaneth’s dancing lights also dissipate one by one, leaving Bonegrit in darkness. The mists close in about the half-orc, his horse, the dog, and the two unconscious men lying beside him.
With the body of Ironring, Modoru’s horse added to the pile of dead, work begins in earnest in constructing the cairn. The draft animals are used to tow the largest boulders in the area to the base of the charnel mound, where they are set as a heavy and sound foundation. The men then continue by carrying the heaviest stones they can manage atop the tumbled dead. Its grim work indeed, necessitating much clambering over the macabre surface of the hill of corpses. Many a dry retch is stifled as workers look down to find their boot resting on a slack, pale face whose eyes regard them without any sign of life. Many a shiver is suppressed as someone loses their balance on the gory slopes, only to steady themselves by grasping at an outstretched hand, a hand frozen in the rigor mortis of death and reaching for nothing.
As more and more stones are added to the pile, the weight pressing on the rotten flesh beneath forces the noisome gases fermented in the process of decomposition to escape, making the pervading reek of the area almost too much to bear. Despite these foul conditions, Dierik’s crew works on without complaint, doing their best to offer some protection to the bodies of this company of strangers.
Throughout the morning, Kelya intones singsong prayers to Desna as she walks slowly about the mound.
By noon, a layer of larger stones completely covers the corpses beneath. The cairn is close to completion, but a couple more hours yet are needed to reinforce it. As Pyotr suggested, the workers have begun a trench around the perimeter of the cairn; the sandy soil of the Flood Road’s surface will be used to cover their toil, binding the stones and filling the gaps between rocks. Eventually, the construction should be firm enough to resist any effort by scavenging beasts to exhume the corpses beneath.
A mule arrives, led by Lhairak the caravan guard. Wicker baskets slung over the beast contain a simple lunch put together by Crinkles.
It is somber magus that works tirelessly to finish the gruesome job. Pellius keeps looking behind him the way the owlbear left to make sure they are not surprised but it seems that the beast has had its fill and the number of people and animal around do their part in preventing further approaches.
Come noon, the magus sits down to eat the hard biscuit and jerky provided. His eyes also never stray too far from the marshes hoping to catch a glimpse of the men that went missing the night before.
Pellius sat next to Dierik, Santrian, and his companions,"What's the plan if we finish before the men show up? Do we go back and look for them?"
Bonegrit sits motionless for several moments, half-tensed as if expecting some final blow to come. As the mists swirl and coalesce about him, he relaxes noticeably, then hurries over to check on his motionless comrades. The encroaching fog is unsettling, but the ranger hopes that the men yet live.
Bonegrit heaves Modoru over, and clears the mud from his nose and mouth so the paladin can breathe. A faint movement of air passes from the man’s lips and nostrils, but he seems deep in the depths of unconsciousness, making no response as the half-orc checks him over.
Delkaneth is coming to even as Bonegrit moves over to inspect him. He looks unharmed.
Throughout this all, Shambles remains pressed at Bonegrit’s side, trembling slightly.
Besides a slight dizziness, Delkaneth feels no other ill effects from his temporary blackout or the attack that triggered it.
One-Claw-One-Paw does not show his feathery face again as the men work on the cairn. The only scavengers are the various crows, and with so many people around their attentions rest solely on the untended orc dead.
"What's the plan if we finish before the men show up? Do we go back and look for them?"
“My hope fades for your companions. Commendable though their bravery was, it was also imprudent. It’s unlikely they survived the night. I’ll not risk any more of my men, you three included, to go look for them. We’ve tarried here too long, and it’s time to move on.”
“Though such a major attack by the Belkzen orcs is not unprecedented, I’d rather counted on the border being quieter when planning this expedition. I don’t want to be here when it comes to the second round. We’ll head east along the ruins of Harchrist’s Blockade towards the Freedom Town. Hopefully things will be quieter there, I know the orcs in that region often trade with the settlement. Hopefully this means they haven't got involved in any hostilities.”
The work of the cairn is well under way when the mule bearing crinkles lunch arrives for the crew. Pyotr watches impassively as the work party leaves the construction, even as the sun moves past its zenith.
The work had begun in earnest. But as the walls climbed higher, and men had been forced to climb, hauling the material with ropes and improvised canvas sacks, the work had ground to a crawl. The oppressive sun, and even more oppressive shadowy mists of the Ghostlights, meant the men were only all too eager to take a break when the opportunity arrived.
Pyotr examines the state of the cairn. Once the walls were complete, the roof would move more quickly. Instead of the careful stacking and packing of rocks and earth, they could simply be poured across the faces of the dead. Pyotr steers his thoughts quickly in another direction, as even respectful burial seems an affront.
Without quite knowing why, Pyotr begins climbing the wall. There is no complaint from the well built foundations, even under the awkward weight of his nearly sixteen stone frame. The clerics at the Cathedral always interred the dead with a sword, even if only a token for the poorest parishioners. I can't even guess how many lie dead, here. There's no knowing who is Iomedaean.
Pyotr's eyes rest on a young man, who despite the grievous wounds to his neck and abdomen, wears a serene look upon his face. Without prayer, without ritual, Pyotr pulls the chain from around his neck. Dangling from the end is the small, silver, sword-shaped holy symbol Dierik Ironcoffer had given him. As though he simply knew it must be done, Pyotr reaches into the pile and pulls out the young man's hand. He wraps the chains several times until it remains tightly secured, and places the token in the palm, before closing it tightly and pushing it back into the pile.
"Guard them well, brother," he whispers, before making his way back down to the ground.
“My hope fades for your companions. Commendable though their bravery was, it was also imprudent. It’s unlikely they survived the night. I’ll not risk any more of my men, you three included, to go look for them. We’ve tarried here too long, and it’s time to move on.”
Pellius resigns himself to his commanding officer's words, "Aye, sir. I understand. Perhaps if we finish this task early and it's still light, I can take a ride out there with the others."
Seeing no echo in his suggestion, the magus gets back to work, more diligently than before while muttering to himself, "Let's finish this job first and then worry about finding the others."
LATER
With the cairn almost complete, Pellius takes Signior and rides out to the edge of the marsh. He stands in his horses's stirrups and shield his eyes from the setting sun while searching for any sign of his friends...
The sleepless, eventful night before has taken its toll on Dunagan. As the mid-day sun reaches its zenith, the Dwarf can be seen a hundred feet away from the Cairn propped up against a rock. He holds his warhammer across his lap as if it were a child and his head rests on the rock behind him. The most curious thing about the dwarf is that while he is rather crude and flatulent while awake, he is rather charming while he sleeps. He does not snore and lies relatively lifeless. If it were not for his awkward position, many would not realize the dwarf to be asleep.
Much of the morning he contributed his fair share to the work by helping move the larger, massive boulders into place. Yet, he has missed the worst of it as the others climb the corpse-mound to deposit the smaller rocks. The Dwarf is able to eek out a few hours of sleep in solitude...
The two adventurers haul Modoru over the back of Amiro. Although the Chelaxian himself is rather slight, his armour is heavy, and it’s some effort. Without a saddle, it’s a challenge to keep Modoru from sliding off the Dort Charger, but by guiding Amiro slowly, with Delkaneth testing the ground ahead to ensure it’s firm they get by.
Yet the mist is thick and disorientating. Furthermore, the soft mud has settled, obliterating the trail they created on their way into the Ghostlight Marshes. Atop this, as the bogs decompose the rotting vegetable matter languishing in their depths, they constantly release the stench of decomposition. These pervading swamp vapours play havoc with Bonegrit’s sense of smell, preventing him from locating the scent trail he and his companions left.
Soon they are lost. The clinging mists prevent a view of the stars, preventing their attempts at orientation. One patch of bog looks the same as another, a tiresome monotony of fen and reen. The only lights are those magicked up by Delkaneth – since their encounter with the will o’ wisps, no more strangely coloured flames move through the fog.
They plod on and on. Once Amiro stumbles and Bonegrit manages to grapple Modoru before he falls, but even this violent action does not stir the knight.
Imperceptibly, the gloom lightens. They’ve been lost in the Ghostlight Marshes all night, and now dawn has come, turning the mists spectral white, but failing to disperse them. Still, the light seems stronger in one direction – hopefully marking east. After an hour’s rest, Bonegrit leads them on.
Orientated or not, nothing changes about them but fog or trackless marsh. As during the night, no sounds or sights of living animals offer themselves to the travellers, although sorry looking reeds, stunted swamp oaks and stinging nettles grow well enough.
Ultimately, it’s the scavengers which provide them with their salvation. By the now, its noon, and with the sun at its zenith, the mists finally begin to retreat, offering a range of vision further than a few yards. Through a window in a disintegrating bank of fog, they see some distant birds wheeling high in the air. The battlefield!
Eventual escape in sight, they push on, sloshing through the rank water. Shambles begins to wag his tail, as if sensing he’ll soon be returned to familiar faces and environs. Nonetheless, it’s still several hours more of struggling through the difficult terrain before finally they see the nearly completed cairn to the dead of Lastwall like a squat boil upon the horizon, with men hard at work atop and around it.
On the Battlefield
Dierik looks on as Pyotr makes his silent tribute to the fallen. As the half-orc clambers down from the cairn, the Trail Captain offers him a respectful nod but says nothing. Dierik has been putting his back to the work along will all the others; his long-sleeved white tunic now grimy with sweat and dirt. His eyes wander over to where Dunagan lies sleeping, but Dierik makes no comment, perhaps remembering his recently repaired armour. Or perhaps he’s just amazed anyone can find slumber in such a morbid place of death.
So intent are the other men on their labouring they fail to notice the dwarf's cheeky nap.
- - - - -
At around three in the afternoon, work on the cairn is finally completed. Astride Signior, Pellius looks out over the Ghostlight Marshes, without much expectation of seeing anything, for what seems like the hundredth time. But on this occasion, something is different. The mists part, and slogging through the muck come the exhausted forms of his companions.
Delkaneth and Bonegrit flank the ranger’s mud-splattered warhorse, over which rests the inert, armoured form of Modoru Redgrave. Incredibly, pressing close to the half-orc’s legs, Shambles is also with them, loping along casually, his tongue hanging rakishly from his jaws, without a care for the trouble he’s caused.
Delkaneth and Bonegrit flank the ranger’s mud-splattered warhorse, over which rests the inert, armoured form of Modoru Redgrave. Incredibly, pressing close to the half-orc’s legs, Shambles is also with them, loping along casually, his tongue hanging rakishly from his jaws, without a care for the trouble he’s caused.
Pellius can not believe his eyes at the sight of his companions. He gives a couple of hoots making sure that everyone else is seeing what he's seeing and almost races Signior to the men.
He quickly dismounts in front of them; his facial features quickly changing between happiness and anger many times before they settle on relief. He opens his mouth to speak but something inside of him pushes him forward and he clutches Del in a hearty embrace.
Quickly recovering his professional demeanor, he breaks off, and grasps Bonegrit's hand and forearm. The magus shakes his head. "Well, I'm glad you are all back. I'm sure there is a tale here ripe for the telling. You had us all worried half to death."
Pellius then notices the form of Modoru, "What happened to him? Is he OK?"
Dunagan rises shortly before the work on the cairn is finished. He comes sauntering back just in time to throw the last few stones atop the mound, clacking against one another. Working his way down to the largest of rocks of the base, he pulls a hammer and fine chisel from his pack. Although he mainly uses it to decorate or inscribe his forgerune, today he looks to the others for input on what to write for an epitaph.
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Finishing the last few words of what has been recommended and approved, he gets up from his kneeling position and looks to the caravan which is now focused on something moving from the swamps. As the figures march towards them, the Dwarf smiles and returns his tools to his bags. Dusting off himself and his hands, he walks towards Pellius to hear the tale....
As the thought-lost trio of foolish rescuers emerge from the fog bank, bathed as equally in sweat as they are in what the seemingly endless bogs afforded, Bonegrit breathes a sigh of relief. The aches in his legs and feet have long since turned into a numb wobble, and by the time the nearly completed cairn looms before them his feet are dragging more than walking, accompanied by sloshing with every motion. Seeing Pellius mount up and approach, the half-orc turns to spare an almost longing glance to the roiling mass of mist and fog behind them. Gorum's chastity, I'm going to have to hear it from the lot o' them now. His eyes relinquish their hold on the wispy abode behind, and he bends over to give Shambles an affectionate pat on his gut. "Don't let em get to ya—yer worth the effort... maybe."
By the time the magus has completed his approach, the muddy remnants of the Ghostlights still clinging to the majority of Bonegrit's body have been baked ashen by the sun's assault—a slightly lighter shade than the half-orc's grey hide. Though he attempts to muster as proud a look as the ordeal will allow him, the caverns beneath his eyes and uncomfortable slouch spell the truth plainly for all to see: he is exhausted. When Pellius grasps his forearm, he flinches slightly, though seems briefly surprised. He had expected more fire in the man's words, though by no means would he begrudge the wrath being dulled to a warm reception.
As Bonegrit speaks, his words crawl out barely stronger than a whisper, almost slurred from his body's desire to recover from the jaunt through the swamp. "The swamp lights lured Shambles in. Think they wanted people to follow. Can't rightly say what happened exactly, but Delkaneth and Modoru drew the short straws. Or maybe I did? Some barkin' swamp-crawler with a cricket tried to sing us through it all, but I reckon our skulls were too thick to understand. Circle of the glowing blighters surrounded us and started barking about envoys, chosen, and revenge. Best I can figger, they wanna use Del and the unconscious knight over there to unleash Rovagug on some orcs up north somewhere."
Bonegrit's shoulders droop further, and his eye lids begin losing the good fight. "Shambles is back and safe, though. Least we got that much right...." He attempts to step forward, but his thighs are reluctant to oblige, and he collapses into a seated position on the ground instead.