As you enter the the inn, a warm hubbub of merchants and locals washes over you, alongside the scent of tender roast lamb and root vegetables.
As you enter, you see the mayor is in the inn, chatting with some merchants. She speaks briefly with Alcie and you are soon ushered into a backroom. A steaming bowl of stew is set before you, along with some dense chewy bread to soften in the liquor. Mayor Sandra Trinelli joins you, along with Alcie, who stands with her back against the door, preventing anyone from entering.
As you eat, the mayor quizzes you on your progress and quickly gets to grips with your investigation.
"So, this Demon's Bile... the name itself fills me with dread." She sighs heavily, "Perhaps I should fill you in on some local history?"
Alcie shuffles uneasily from one foot to the other.
“It’s a painful history,” she admits, “but more than a hundred years ago, our town was little more than rural holdings belonging to Cheliax’s House Sarini: Sarini's Hollow. At some point, the Sarinis began dabbling in diabolism. It made everyone uncomfortable by all accounts, but no one said anything until it was too late.” She pauses, and when she continues her voice is filled with palpable anger. “Those horrible nobles exsanguinated several innocent youths in service to their dark patrons, like they were nothing but toys. The townspeople rose up, and in their rage, they hanged every Sarini they could get their hands on. They changed the town’s name to Sarini Gallows as a warning, though it eventually became Saringallow. Since then we’ve never knowingly suffered a Sarini’s presence in our town.”
The mayor takes a deep breath, calming the passion that welled inside her while recounting the tale. “However,” she continues, “We paid a price back then even beyond the lives of those young people. During the hangings, the townspeople began turning on each other, accusing folks of diabolism at every turn. The real villains lost their lives, but so did many innocent people, and I can’t allow that to happen again. If I do, I’ll very likely have blood on my hands.”
Alcie's eyelashes flicker, a lone tear tumbling down her cheek.
The mayor continues, "That's why we're discussing this in here, not in the public bar.
"We've some cold-iron in the militia stores, I'll have some of the watch clear the graveyard of every trace of the stuff. She scratches her neck thoughtfully and mutters "Demon's Bile" before addressing the room again, "No word of demons or devils should leave these four walls," Alcie nods silently, "we can't afford it."
Then she looks at you, her sombre tone lightens, "Of course, if brave heroes could save our young folks then the story we tell each other might change? Maybe we'll be the town that put its past behind it and saved its young folk from danger? It would be nice to think of this as a place for heroes."
"If you want to stock up on any gear before you head out, that note will open the general store, and get you a 10% discount. Just knock loudly and call out for Barango."
She appraises you quizzically, "What's your next move?"
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As they are siting down to eat Ink the scorpion tattoo on Verathis's neck crawls into reality. Verathis seems totally absorbed in feeding his familiar but when the mayor is done with her story and Grel has said his peace Verathis promptly answers the mayors question."We planed to look at the orchard here in town. we have reason to suspect your missing youths might be hanging out there. That might also give us a clue as to where Gellion might be. he seems to be the key to this so far."
He then asks in an off handed way"You don't happen to know anything about him do you?"
Sandra shrugs, accepting Verathis' presence without question as he seems so integrated within the group.
Alcie, on the other hand, is fascinated by Ink.
The mayor responds thoughtfully, "Gellion, no... but his parents are fine folk, the Vazarro's, they're very effective factors, middle-men between our farmers and the merchants who pass through Saringallow. I've a lot of time for them."
Then she changes tack, "The orchard has been neglected since Molloi picked up regular Stevedore work: it's a communal property. It is a place that troubles might hide under our noses."
You soon make your goodbyes and draw close to the orchard. The night is drawing in and you may well need some kind of illumination to see beneath the shade of the drooping apple trees.
The orchard is enclosed by a low, crumbling wooden fence and you enter through two gate-posts whose gates lean against the fence a few feet along.
Rows of neglected apple trees sway in the wind, and the occasional rotting, worm-eaten fruit falls with a wet thud to the ground below. The earth is heavily trampled near the southern end of the orchard, and an overturned barrel of apples lies broken on its side, exuding a sickly sweet scent.
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Verathis says in a hushed voice."Ink is very stealthy and can see in the dark. Should I send him ahead to scout? Also dose anyone know how to track? We might want to know if there was anyone or anything besides those kids out here. In any case we will want to know where they might have gone .If we cant find them that's our next clue."
As you whisper at the gate, strange, glowing lights flicker and bob through the dark in the orchard.
As you enter the orchard, the sound of buzzing reaches everyone's ears.
In the faltering light, drooping branches throw shadows which sway and shudder through the gloom. A musty, cloying scent fills your nostrils, tinged with the vinegar sharpness of rotting fruit.
The shadows intensify as lights swish through the boughs.
The lights energe as three beetles the size of housecats fly toward you, their eyes glowing like torches and gooey ichor dribbling from their mandibles.
Carson's arrow zips through the dark, passes between a beetle's flapping wings, pierces an arrow and pins the arrow to the trunk of a tree.
Harada's second hammer smashes into the ground, half-buried in leaf mulch, but the first flies true, smashing deep into the skull of an illuminated, goopy beetle. The beetle falls to the ground, dead.
Verathis' flames wash over both foes but they seem utterly unaffected. Several hanging brnaches a deeply scorched but recent rains mean the fire does not catch.
In the next moment a gobbet of acid from Grel's mouth splashes across the nearest bug and sends it spiralling to the floor, where it twitches painfully.
With mindless determination, the remaining bug flies toward Verathis, mandibles clacking beneath its glowing eyes.
The insect's jaws narrowly miss Verathis.
As the last foe is smashed into the ground by The Hammer, you become acutely aware of the dark.
Now your only illumination is the faded glow from the disabled bug feebly pulling itself along the ground and Harada's wayfinder
The orchard is quiet, except for the low hum of the disabled bug, and the demon's bile is clear on the creatures' face. On the floor of the orchard, close to the apple crate, is a high-quality sap.
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Carson pulls out his bulleye lantern and uses it to examine the area.
"There was a fight here a couple days. The winner was a large fellow. You can tell by the size of those foot prints. He must have carried the loser off because the prints leading off that way are much deeper."
Picking up the sap and looks it over, "Someone is going to be missing this. This is the weapon of a kidnapper who wants to keep his victim alive and quiet. If we show it around town someone might recognize it or if the owner knows we have it he may come looking for it." A smile crosses his face at that thought.
The sun is almost set as you retrace your path to Pricknettle's Potions and Poultices. Saringallow is quiet and dark at night, a few lights glimmer from between shuttered windows but the tread of your feet and the occasional clamour of heavy armour and weapons bumping together ripples out into the darkness.
At Pricknettle's, there is a light from the workshop and the door is shut. As you push it open a voice calls out, "We keep civil hours in't Saringallow, come back tomorra."
Majara stands at a workbench, bottles bubbling and fizzing while their contents swirl with strange hues. She has her back to you all and is carefully pouring a pale orange liquid into a smoking carafe, half full of a green sludge.
Majara accepts the contrition in Grel's words,"Well, there's a civil tongue behin' that dusty ol' beard. I like Majara plen'y more'n 'lady', that's fer sure."
She takes a look at the demon bile, alchemical curiosity to the fore as she makes careful but eager analysis. She even asks Verathis to wash out some beakers so she can work more quickly and with greater concentration.
Her final analysis is proffered with an assured tone, "Well, first things first: this is an abyssal substance. It's not of this world; someone or something has brought this Demon's Bile to Saringallow.
An this stuff is a grower, leave it alone an it'll spread to somethin' the size of a wagon. Then it accelerates, chewin' up the land, train' t' make a little corner of the abyss for itself."
She glances up at you, "Ain't all bad news. Cold iron, or anythin' holy, will obliterate this stuff. You see any more o' this an you get it gone"
She takes a gobbet of the substance and plops it onto a dark metal saucer: the Demon's Bile evaporates in a few seconds, "See, cold iron."
Majara returns to her lecture, "This stuff will attract vermin and pretty much any creature who wallows in it for a while gets corrupted: tainted like a fiend to resist fire and cold, and to see in the dark, and strike with demonic energy against goodly folk."
"Oh, an one final thing: don't swallow any of the stuff. That ain't good at all. Drives y' mad. Like a lil' bit o' demon got in y' head."
She gives you all a long, sombre stare,"You keep folks away from this stuff. Don't nobody deserve the trouble it brings."
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Being a general curious person, and having played lab assistant in many fields Verathis steps right in line to play the roll again.
After the final analysis he says to the group with some concern "We had better get back to the orchard and check the graveyard again just in case more is there."Then he turns to Majara "Do you have any idea who might know where this might have come from? Or have a way to track it?"
She shakes her head, "Folks round here don't hold much with magic, especially summoning an' pacts with hell n that. We've a hist'ry, y' might say."
"Not a lot o' magic here, but then a lot o' caravans pass through, lot o' folks we don't know two bits about?" She shrugs, "Sorry I can't be a mite more helpful."