Dashil rolls her eyes, semi-humorously: "Well, you know us heroes, we have to do heroic things from time to time..."
She's in an odd mood. Looking around, she frowns slightly. "Radag, go and get the Professor, will you? Looks like we're ready." After a moment of terrifying, appalled silence, Dashil throws a hand over her mouth (in a manner she'd previously thought people only did in bad literature, doubtless the sort written by Bookman and his ilk), but the words are out before she can stop them.
"Oh, Goddess..." Dashil is about to babble an apologetic litany of excuses, but recollects herself. There are no excuses. Not for this. Uttering instead a heartfelt apology - "Kendra, I'm truly sorry. That was inexcusable. Please forgive me" - she retreats to the hallway and spends the next few minutes alternately cursing herself and putting on her armour and weapons; while she waits for the others to repair the damage she's caused.
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
By the gods of good, woman! What's wrong with you! Probably drunk
Aduard sighs
"It almost seems like he's still here, doesn't it. I think in a way he is. Not his spirit - there can be little doubt it has been expedited to one of the heavens. But in the same way water cuts grooves into solid rock so that more water will follow the same course. The Professor has encouraged others to investigate mysteries, and to help others. The path he carved with so much difficulty now shows us where to go."
"Stockl, perhaps you, Kendra and I could stay here. Would you mind grabbing the sherry?"
"Irefist, Zorya, Wakati, can you go with Dashil, and look after her. I would prefer to do some investigation in the village tomorrow before we tackled this haunt. At a minimum I'd like someone to use the Planchette to ask who died. A haunt is an echo - likely the act that created it is worse than the haunt itself."
"Using the planchette sounds like a great idea, why don't you be that someone and have the honors of using it first. Also don't confuse me with your servants Aduard, let alone a baby sitter." Radag speaks in a sharp and serious manner as he follows after Dashil into the hall. "I'll leave you to ship your sherry together so you can talk alone." Radag pauses just before leaving the room to emphasize, "Gods help you from me if you are up to anything, Aduard."
Radag gives Dashil a hard prode as he comes up behind her while she dons her armor, "Hey!" he balks, "What's gotten into you? You didn't hear me asking you a question before or are you trying to ignore me again. We know that doesn't end well for either of us."
Brogol winces as Dashil slips up, and unconsciously pulls the hood of his cloak tight around his face, but says nothing. That's why I'm spare with my words, poor woman.
Perhaps it was the ways in that the Bookman's manners reminded Brogol of the Doctor, or perhaps it was that Aduard was a little too obvious, with the tone he spoke, his slight nod and the rolling of his eyes in Ms. Lorrimer's direction. Regardless, Brogol understood immediately that something was on Aduard's mind - as apparently did Irefist.
Standing still, unsure for a moment after Radag's outburst, Brogol watches the temperamental half-man leave the room, before clearing his throat and looking to the ground. "Hnng. Aye'd prefer ta stay in tonight. Too much starin' a books earlier - ma head hurts." Looking pointedly at Aduard, Brogol continues. "Aye think Aye'll take a constitutional, if yer don't mind, Ms. Lorrimer."
Brogol strolls to the back of the property, and blows into his hands, suddenly wishing he'd had the foresight to pack a heavier cloak before he fled the Doctor's manse. "Irefist is a sharp a his voice, but he's a lot o bluster, like a wind off o Avalon Bay. Pay him no mind an' be thankful when there's bugs around. What's on yer mind, Master Bookman?"
Dashil shakes her head at Radag but doesn't meet his gaze, instead fiddling with some of the straps on her armour "Sorry. I - I'm - it's just -" She sighs. Even by her standards, that's inarticulate. But what can she say?
She clears her throat. "Yeah. I have a lot going on right now - in - in here." She points to her head. "You know I spent decades - decades - on duty in Ustalav, yeah? My memories are either horrific or terrifying, and I screwed up badly. Really badly. Worse. Being back here is..." she can't even find the words.
She pauses. Why is she telling him this? Because he's there, she guesses. Besides, he's worked with her for years - his opinion of her can't go that much lower, can it? "Anyway, the kid we helped tonight. Said she could tell we're heroes. I'm not. But it stuck. And then, when we were handing out the equipment just now, it was like old times, you remember? I worked with Petros for over 20 years, and I just... forgot he wasn't here any more. It's ok, you can say what you like. I totally deserve it."
She shakes her head again. "So no, I didn't hear your question. I was out of it. What did you want to know?"
She takes a sip from her flask; the first in several hours. Her hands are shaking, she notices. She glares at them, but they don't stop.
Aduard stands shocked into silence as Irefist leaves.
When Brogol suggests a constitutional he nods "I'll join you."
One a tha girls was curious. Name of Lereria. Little Varisan girl, slender an' pale, wit black hair. Brave little girl whose in some trouble, Aye think. Her raven, Eronel, went missing a few weeks ago, an she's been acting 'wierd' according ta tha other girls. Didn't Radag have a run-in wit' a raven last night?
Brogol shrugs. "Aye'm sorry if Aye wasn't clear. Tha raven, Eronal, was Lereria's, before it disappeared. She's been distraught since it happened. That's what Aye know. Tha girl was gone before I got tha rest o' tha story from her friends, an' they didn't know too much. Just kids, ya know?"
"Aye did say that. Her friends say she's been acting strangely, an' Aye think she's perhaps trying ta find her raven by treating with tha beyond - probably wit' a Harrow deck or the like. Aye warned tha girl ta be careful, but perhaps she's already been corrupted. It is perhaps worth investigating tha girl some more.
Aduard's voice does not change, but his style echoes archaic
"I met this girl you talked of. Lereria. I have to concur with your intuition once more. I don't know that she has yet attempted to cross the gulfs of death, but she is poised for it. I have heard the stories of too many witches in just such situations when their familiar came to them."
"I felt I needed to act quickly. I steered the girl from Lore to Law - I hope. A moment later something from across the shroud attacked me, and nearly blinded me. A strange coincidence. I believe your advice led us to interrupt some dark patron trying to recruit the girl."
"I've kept this just between us - I noticed you were being careful on that count. I do not think you are wrong. What would the others do to her, to 'save' her from darkness, if they worked it out?"
"I drove off what came for me, and I told the others it was a Haunt. I think it was - whether on the fountain or the girl I don't know. I suspect whatever was coming for her intended to twist that power into a familiar, and when I ruined the plan unleashed it on me instead."
"Speak bluntly, for time is short. What was your intention. If you sought to recruit her, then do so quickly. If you sought to push her back from the brink then the work is not yet done."
"Sorry?" Radag almost grunts. "Old times and new, heroes or not, somebody's got to do the horrible s$$@e so little girls and boys can make it through the night... You've already answered the question, and I've got nothing to dole out because you don't deserve nothin. Especially from the likes of an arse like me. I could do all the 'It gets easier' stuff or quote this and that... but the short of it is, you have to let yourself feel it."
Radag pauses a moment before tugging on a loose strap Dashil hasn't managed to fasten yet, "Stop putting your armor on, you're not going to be Aduard's experiment tonight, cause I certainly can't have a blind man and your condition backing me up. So I'm giving you a choice. Bar? Or bed?"
The next insight came down on Brogol - hard - staggering the young man. Wrapping his cloak around himself, the apprentice looked away and leaned into the wind. The Bookman was, in many superficial ways, just like the Doctor - an educated man, a man with authority, a man who tread in the darkness of other men. But, the similarities ended there. The Doctor never once had asked what Brogol's intention was.
"Aye, Aye suppose he would... we should... try an' help tha girl. An' if she's beyond help, be prepared wit tha means to do the worst. Do ya feel comfortable wielding tha haunt siphons?"
Despite everything, Dashil manages a wry not-quite-a-smile at Radag. "I must be in a bad way when even you're being nice to me... But you're right, I'm in no state to provide backup for another venture tonight." She shakes her blue tresses at his suggested courses of action. "A drink is probably the last thing I need right now; and I'm too tense to sleep just yet. I'm going to go for a walk, take the night air. I need to..." she trails off.
So saying, she gathers her equipment, and heads off into the night.
Dashil grits her teeth as she runs the blade of her scimitar lightly across the inside of her left arm, opening a series of shallow cuts. She watches as her blood - Celestial in origin, she has always been fascinated by that fact - oozes out, forming a thin rivulet down her arm. She's careful not to let it fall on the ground (this is, after all, Ustalav). The pain is liberating: the thoughts and feelings that have been crowding her mind are forced to flee - she can, if she concentrates, think clearly for perhaps the first time since she arrived back in this forsaken country.
She blinks, and focusses her attention on the headstone before her. It was perhaps inevitable that her wandering feet would bring her here, to Petros Lorrimor's final resting place. For the last twenty years or more, he's been there in her difficulties; and she came here tonight to pour out her heart to his absent presence. The pain however has given her space to think again.
"I'm going to miss you, old friend. I knew you'd go sooner or later, but I was really counting on at least another twenty years of your counsel. Now I have to cope on my own." She pauses, deep in thought, as if listening to someone. "Hmm. Maybe I do need to start taking some responsibility. I have been dependent on you always being there - and on this." Dashil holds out her flask, adorned with the holy symbol of the Dawnflower. "I know you never really approved of what I kept inside - but thank you for never lecturing me about it. Here."
The blue-haired woman upends the flask, tipping out a large volume of fine whisky on to the turf above the grave. She watches with a mixture of regret and determination as it soaks into the grass at her feet. "Enjoy, old friend. I'll see you on the other side. But not too soon, please."
She presses a handkerchief to her arm: the blood has already stopped flowing. The cuts will scab overnight and in a day or two they'll be nothing more than pale scars, just another part of the network of tiny white lines that criss-cross the inside of both her arms.
A look of relief passes over Aduard's face - then a look of confusion.
I was hoping for that answer. Why?
His speech reverts into a more modern - if still old fashioned - style, and after a moment he answers in a businesslike, pragmatic form.
"He? Petros? Indeed, he would help her. I doubt she can be beyond help yet. Despite what many clerics would have you believe, a single mistake cannot damn a soul. The gods of good are just as happy to save a soul as the gods of evil are to damn it."
"I'm comfortable enough with using the Haunt Siphon - we all should be - but it treats only the symptoms. It is the Planchette that is more useful, for it can give us the information to undo the Haunt entirely. I am reluctant to disturb the girl's parents tonight. Reluctant also to go probing the village for stories of murders and ghosts late at night. Primarily I believe we need to know if the Haunt is tied to the fountain or the girl. If anyone else had seen the Haunt it would help with that knowledge."
"If we can assist her in gaining justice for Eronel, I think she will be safe enough."
Brogol regards the Bookman carefully, unsure as to how to respond. He seems... surprised with himself. And I was speaking of the Doctor, not the Professor. For some reason inscrutable to Brogol, a rising sense of shame fills the young man, and he's hesitant to correct Aduard. Of course the Professor would helped Leieria, because it is the right thing to do. The Doctor would have as well - to prevent an outbreak of further madness, or tragedy, or violence in this community. But morality would never have entered into his calculations. Should it have?
Blushing, the half-man stumbles over his next words, stammering and avoiding eye contact.
"Tha, uh. Hnng. Professor. Y-yes. He, ah w-woulda helped tha girl. Hnng."
Fool! You lie like a child caught with his hand in the sweets jar!
Looking back to the Bookman, Brogol's voice is next more clear, more assured. "Tomorrow then, we investigate tha haunt, an' stop it from coming back. Yer or Zorya should use tha planchette. Ms. Masozi is too unstable, an' Master Irefist would just incite tha spirits into bringing all our doom down on our heads. Aye'm not... strong enough for it."
Mistaking the young man's stammering for grief, Aduard uncharacteristically puts a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"We all miss him. You're honouring his memory helping the girl. It is what he would have done. He would have been proud of you."
Brogol stands silently for a moment and then nods his head in a solemn gesture. "Yes, he would have. Tha Professor wer a good man. We should let tha others know we're ta put tha ghost raven down tomorrow."
Thankfully, the next morning comes without nightmares. Kendra greets each of you as you come together to form a plan for the day. "I think I found something interesting last night. I was reading about Harrowstone, some diary my father had tucked away. It claims that at the time of the fire, five particularly notorious criminals had recently arrived to await execution. Warden Hawkren triggered a deadfall in the lower levels of the prison to seal it off and prevent them from escaping. The fire that destroyed Harrowstone came shortly after. I'm not sure if it's helpful, it's just a detail I don't think was discussed."
Dmitri listens as Kendra adds more to the pool of information they've collected, not sure how it all adds up. "As far as I can tell, it sounds like there ain't nobody who didn't make mistakes in this whole deal," the cleric states, frowning.
Dashil is surprised to find anyone still up, and is concerned by how tired Kendra looks; but she does at least have the wit not to say anything about it. Returning Kendra's smile, she looks the young woman over (purely out of professional interest, she lies to herself), to see if she can read anything.
Her mind races as she searches for something to say - does she apologise again for her earlier blunder? Does she let it lie? Least said, soonest mended, and all that... She's not sure. The clarity of thought she attained by the Professor's grave does not, alas, appear to last in Kendra's presence - especially when she smiles...
By the Lady of Light, you're over 90 years old! You have no business getting flustered by some chit of a girl! But those riding pants - Goddess, and that loose shirt; didn't you just want to - no! She's Petros' daughter - She.Is.Off.Limits. Now pull yourself together!
Mentally shaking herself, Dashil makes a wry face: "I keep odd hours. Besides, I find sleep hard to come by at the best of times. But what are you doing still up...?"
Playing for time while she tries to think of what to say next, she shrugs out of her armour and her weapon belt, hanging them up while doing her best to hide the fresh cuts on the inside of her arm:
The young man wakes with a yawn and stretch, Brogol's tongue flicking along his pointed teeth. Sighing, he wills himself out of bed, much like any other morning since he started in the Doctor's employ - the hardest part was always leaving the warmth of a bed's blankets on any typically chilly Ustalevan morning. Dressing quickly, the apprentice heads downstairs to find Ms. Lorrimor at the table.
Brogol takes his customary toast and jam, and puts some tea leaves into the teapot to steep. Smiling a flat little smile at Kendra, Brogol busies himself with straightening and cleaning the hearth, waiting for the others to wake, which happens soon enough, but not too soon for Brogol to avoid some painful small talk with the lady.
-----
Nodding enthusiastically as Master Zorya's comments, Brogol offers his agreement. "Indeed. As is often tha case when strangeness is afoot - or so tha Doctor would tell me - there's a confluence o' happenings here building themselves ta a great, an perhaps even an unintended, but still designed, outcome. Tha' is tha way of tha natural, and tha supernatural."
Turning to Kendra, Brogol continues. "Ms. Lorrimor, do yer know tha names o' any o' tha five criminals?"
Radag wakes at the first calls of the sun rise, another day and no closer to any answers, not for the professor and not for Erec. 'Who am I to say they deserve answers in death any more than I in life. The Lady may keep it.' Radag thinks to himself before drawing the spiral over his heart and rising to descend the stairs and meet with the others.
He hears Dmitri make his observation on mistakes and replies, "Everyone short of the gods makes mistakes, we are all doomed to failure from the beginning. The only question remaining is how we can make it right. Something is happening at Harrowstone, and whatever it was, it was worth killing to keep hidden."
"Your intuition has proven uncannily prescient. What is your opinion?"
It is early morning in the garden. Dashil sits cross-legged on the ground, waiting for sunrise; her cloak is spread out in front of her, facing the East. In theory, the rising sun should catch the gold threads in the cloak, picking out the insignia of the Dawnflower. Dashil wonders if it will work - the cloak is old and tattered. She winces as she remembers telling the girl, Lereia, that it once belonged to a mighty Paladin. Some truths are almost worse than a lie.
To her surprise, the sun's rays do what they are supposed to: what comes next? She has not performed this rite for ages: too many late nights, too many hungover mornings; too many excuses. Oh, yes: Sarenrae, come with the dawning of the day; Sarenrae, rise like the sun in my heart; Sarenrae, illuminate and guide me; Sarenrae, make yourself known in fellowship, in friendship, and in the struggle against evil. Dashil silently repeats this litany, over, and over, and over. Still silently reciting it, she rises in one smooth movement. She ties back her long, blue hair, before taking out a red and gold scarf and blindfolding herself with it; turning, she tries to locate the direction of the sun through the layers of fabric. Next she draws her scimitar. She cuts, and wheels, and fences, dancing almost, blade and feet moving as she directs. This exercise, too, is part of the rite - although if truth be told, Dashil's physique comes from her aasimar nature (and given her inability to stick to a healthy routine, this is probably for the best).
She'd forgotten how exhilarating this can be: her face lights up in a genuine smile. Finally, as perspiration begins to form a sheen on her ice-coloured skin, Dashil hears movement in the house as the others wake up. She takes off the blindfold and lowers the scimitar, barely out of breath.
The rite is over. Time to go and see if there's any coffee.
-----
Dashil sips her coffee while she listens to the others. "I think Harrowstone can wait for the moment, until we're sure what's there. Like the ki- Brogol - said, we need to know who was imprisoned there. If they're haunting the place like the Professor's notes suggested, we need to know as much as we can. For now, I'd rather clear the haunt away from the fountain. That means we need to know what's causing it and how to end it."
She sighs. "I've used those planchettes before. They're not very reliable: you get one question, and it has to be simple, like a yes/no type; and they can lie to you." She shudders slightly at the memories: the Professor was fascinated by Dashil's unnatural resilience to necromantic energies, and liked to study the phenomenon from time to time whenever they needed to commune with spirits.
Putting those thoughts firmly to one side, she continues: "We need to work out what the question should be. I suggest we ask its name: if it answers Eronel, we know it's the haunt of that poor raven Antrellus killed. If we find the body - and he said he buried it underwater, so it's probably in or near the fountain - and give it a proper burial, with Lereia there to say goodbye, that might end it."
She looks around to see if anyone has any better ideas.
"There is no better way to see what is in Harrowstone than visiting it ourselves. The cultists didn't care about the fountain, neither did the professor." Radag says kicking his feet up on another chair as he sits down on another with a dismissive grunt, already resigning to the inevitable consensus of the others.
Aduard stumbles down the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet. Blearily he looks around the room.
"What time is it? Is that coffee? I'd kill for a good hot cup of Qadiran coffee. I'd do assault for a cup of lukewarm Chellish java."
---
"He did? That is interesting - and a relief. It suggests the girl will be safe if we can keep her away from the fountain."
"It seems there are facts and suppositions we haven't all shared. I suggest we clear the blackboard and do so."
Radag groans as the blackboard comes back out.
Drawing a book from his satchel, Brogol begins flipping the pages. The book will be familiar to Aduard - the Doctor bought the book from Aduard about a year or so back. A quarto-sized tome, bound in a bleached white leather that to Aduard's trained eye can only be human skin, the book's page edges are gilted with gold. It carries no title or other distinctive markings, though the Bookman can spy formula - arcane writings scrawled in inkpen cross the pages in a tidy, printed manuscript. Likewise, in that same precise writing, there a entries - writings, musings, even poems. Noting Aduard eyeing the book, Brogol grunts and hands the book to the Bookman, held open to a particular page. "Aye give my intuition great respect. Ignoring it wer my greatest shame. Bring tha book to breakfast - Aye won't need it tonight."
Turning on his heel, the apprentice makes his way inside to bed.
This is not to say that 3 Baker Street was well-kept. The paint around the windows was long peeled and what remained faded, weeds grew wild and free along the short path to the house's door, and the building's three chimneys all sloped dangerously, seeming in danger of toppling in any strong wind.
The rumors among the neighborhood children were that a lonely widow lived there. Her husband long dead, the widow's fortune slowly dwindling, the woman had contented herself to letting her property go, shutting herself inside while the sun set and rose, and time walked itself on through the seasons, rain, snow, wind, sun, on and on. Her only visitors were the weekly delivery of groceries from a local laborer's son. The boy described the widow as proper in demeanor, if a bit cold and obviously angry at her dwindling disposition and failing health.
Above the front door was a transom, a beautiful abstract work of stained glass designed to let the light into the hall while hiding the interior of the house from view. One morning, on the way back from market, there was a shape above the transom. Presumably, the gas lamps were lit in the hall, and the shape was backlit in such a way that between the stained glass and the light behind it, I could not make out any details, other than that it was probably someone's head, looking out to the world beyond. Whoever it was, he or she must have been tall - the door below the transom stood, like many in this affluent portion of Caliphas, at least seven, perhaps even eight feet tall.
A shudder went through my spine. Perhaps the widow came into a little money - some long-lost coin tucked into the corner of a closet, or an inheritance from a sister or brother passed on. Probably the shape behind the glass belonged to a retainer, or family member in town to visit. Gathering my foodstuffs, I looked back at the road and made my way home.
The next two days, when I passed the house at 3 Baker Street, there was that shape behind the transom, staring out at the street. Each time, a shudder went up my spine. My hair stood on end. I would then look away, finding some other distraction on the street to keep my attention.
On the third day, I woke as usual, and stoked the hearth fires that had burned themselves down over the night. Gathering my cloak, I made my way towards the market for the day's supplies. It was a brisk morning, full of sunlight, the last gasp of autumn before winter set upon the city. As I approached 3 Baker Street, I noticed first a gathering crowd. Hurrying forward, I saw the widow's door was cracked open. Above the door, in the transom, the shape moved, as if the head was slowly turning back and forth. A pair of small feet, clad in worn leather shoes, lay splayed on the floor just beyond that cracked open door, toes pointed to the sky.
I ran back to the Doctor, and roused him with an impatient shake. Quickly donning his brown leather duster, wide-brimmed hat, and grabbing his crossbow and broadsword, we made our way back to 3 Baker Street, and along the way I explained to the Doctor what little I knew - that for the past three days, someone - or something - had stared out from behind the house's transom. Surely the feet just beyond the door belonged to the laborer's son, who had likely made his last delivery to the widow earlier in the morning. At the house the crowd had grown. Still, the town guard had not shown up, and no one had dared to enter 3 Baker Street.
Warning me to stay behind him, the Doctor slipped behind the door. I heard a sickly and muffled sound, as if someone was screaming from within a tank of water. Then a scuffle, short and punctuated with a grunt - the Doctor's - and the sound of a crossbow firing. Breathing heavily, the Doctor slid back out the door, a cut drawn across his face, as if he'd been slashed or clawed. "She hung herself," the Doctor said. "Dead but not gone, she twisted there for three days, the malevelonece and anger that fueled her in life fueling her in undeath. She left the door unlocked so that the laborer's son would find her body. When the widow took her own life I'm sure she didn't think she would linger on and take another."
Anger flashed in the Doctor's eyes, and he stepped up and cuffed me once on the ear. Grabbing me by the neck, the Doctor directed my gaze so that my eyes fell on those worn leather shoes, lying splayed on the floor. If any object could be described as forlorn, it was these shoes - with their scuffed and worn tounges and poorly patched soles. "Look at those shoes, boy!" the Doctor commanded, "Until they are burned into your mind! This is your fault - you ignored your instincts, and now a family lost a son."
Sighing, the Doctor looked away. "She twisted his head around. Gather yourself and head home. Make our breakfast. I'll stay and talk with the guards." With a wave of his hand, the Doctor dismissed me to mull over my shame as I made my way home.
Brogol nods to Dashil when she mentions the Raven. "A good deduction, Ms. Masozi. We'll know at least, that tha Raven is o' is not Eronal."
Smiling as Radag groans, Brogol stands, and in his halting speech, outlines what he knows - everything about the raven and the girls, as well as the house they are currently residing, the Warden Hawkren and his wife, and the fire at Harrowstone. Lastly, he mentions something that has been on his mind for awhile. "Could it be that tha 'V' we found in blood is related to the Warden's wife? We know tha professor were investigating tha Harrowstone, an we know strange things have been happening because of it."
"So let's assume the V is for the Warden's wife. What then?"
Dashil gives Aduard the warmly superior smile of one who has been up before dawn doing useful and productive things. "There was plenty of hot coffee half an hour ago, but Kendra's nice; I'm sure she'd make some more - no killing required, although a 'please' wouldn't go amiss..."
She nods at Radag; she's familiar with his impatience. "I know you want to get to it - but if Harrowstone really is haunted, I'd rather test out our abilities against a more simple haunt before going up against the spirits of a bunch of vicious killers."
"My servants seem to have been replaced by a sleuth of bears, judging from their snoring. I shall have to impose upon our hostess. If you please, Kendra?"
"That's an excellent point, Ms Dashil. There is an additional fact, however, that more than supports your suggestion of precedence."
"Mr Stockl shared some intuitions of his with myself and Mr Nahodha yesterday. He was reluctant to share them with the group without some collaborating evidence. I might interject here and say my respect for Mr Stockl's intuition and prescience has grown considerably over the last few days."
"He had an intuition Lereria might be being targeted by some dark force. Not for death, but recruitment. Perhaps some of you noticed last night my uncharacteristic behaviour with the girl. No sooner had I steered her towards putting her revenge in the hands of the law than that Haunt manifested and tried to kill me. It could be a coincidence, of course, but I believe Mr Stockl's intuition is once again correct. I believe I interfered with some dark plan, and the architect of that plan acted to punish me."
"I'm sure the girl can be saved - the professor would want it - but I believe even more strongly that this Haunt must be given both precedence and respect."
"Let us not forget that we are banned from Harrowstone. I hope that if we can find the Councillor's sheep-skinner we might be able to get that situation reversed."
"I also think we should take the time - all of us - to go through everything we saw yesterday. Perhaps the stories, viewed together, might allow us to see a larger picture."
Dmitri sits comfortably in his chair, looking a bit worried about having to describe everything from the previous day. '...I hope he don't pick me first,' the Cleric thinks, hand wrapping around his holy symbol.
"I don't care what you lot do as long as 'all of us' doesn't include me. I've got nothing worth sharing." Radag protests while crossing his arms. "Just be done with it already so we can tend to your fountain haunt and find those cultists. I'm sure they are just waiting around for us and not pushing some whispered agenda into action."
Dashil has half an eye on Kendra as a fresh batch of coffee is made. She intercepts the pot on its way over to Aduard, re-filling her cup with a grateful smile. She listens carefully to Aduard's theory about Lereia.
"I hadn't considered that possibility; if something's trying to recruit her, that is troubling. It suggests that the activity here is more than a simple haunt. It comes back to Harrowstone; what's going on there? Something's changed - the Professor lived here for years without it registering in his journal. Radag's right - we'll have to go there soon, permission or not. Before things get worse."
She recounts the adventure with Antrellus: the history of his involvement with the King in Yellow, the sacrifice of his wife, the protective doll he carries - and his killing of the raven.
As Brogol finishes up his recounting of the previous day, the young man pauses for a second, and taking his formula book back from Aduard, begins flipping towards the end. "There were something else. Probably nothing, but tha girls - Lereria an' her friends - had a rhyme they were singing while skipping rope. Aye asked them who it referred to, an' they didn't know. But, perhaps there's something there. Anyways, it went:
'Put her body on the bed.
Take a knife and lop her head.
Watch the blood come out the pipe.
Feeds the stirge, so nice and ripe.
Drops of red so sparkly bright.
Splatters spell her name just right.
With a hammer killed his wife.
Now he wants to claim your life.
Tricksy father tells a lie.
Listen close or you will die.'"
------------------
When Dashil finishes her tale of Antrellus, Brogol frowns. "If he's not mad, tha's a disturbing tale. Anyone heard of a creature like wha Antrellus described, a many-legged beast wit an eel's mouth an' blisters wit brains in them?"
"So then, we're agreed - we take tha planchette ta tha fountain an' ask tha raven wha its name is?"
Dashil nearly spits out her coffee as Brogol recites the gruesome rhyme. "That's a skipping rhyme?! Ugh, this place is just..." She trails off, lost for words.
The rhyme stays with her, however, and she can't help pondering it. "Drops of red so sparkly bright/Splatters spell her name just right - isn't that what happened at the fountain? A "V" in blood, which we think is for the warden's wife; what if the other lines mean something, as well? But what are they referring to?"
As the party prepares to return to the fountain, Kendra looks worried. "Please try to be careful. We don't know exactly what we're dealing with here."
At the fountain, Brogol hefts the axe over his shoulder and stands alert, listening for the murmuring. "Well then. Get tha planchette an' ask tha questions. Let's see if this raven is tha girl's o' not..."
Dashil can lie with ease, reflexively, in thought and word; to herself, her colleagues, her friends, her supervisors. The only person she never lied to was Professor Petros Lorrimor. Apparently, whatever quality he had that compelled such honesty has been inherited by his daughter: the blue-haired woman opens her mouth to give some sort of story - more ravens, an accident, some weirdness (this is Ustalav, almost anything would be believable) - and finds to her horror that she's telling the truth. "Uh - right. Did it to myself. Needed to think - in a bit of a mess. Pain helped. Well, did till now..." She trails off.
Great. Now she thinks she's sharing her house with a crazy person. Nice going. Hells, why does the earth never open up and swallow you when you actually it to...?
Dashil finds she can't meet Kendra's gaze; she looks awkwardly around the room. "Anyway, it's late. I should go, you don't want me interrupting your studies." Yes, she should go. Now. Make her excuses and leave the room.
Yet she doesn't move. What is WRONG with you? A pretty face and the right curves and you're completely lost - Goddess, it's like Magnimar all over again...
Dashil nods. "I'll catch you up - I just want to refill this." She waves her empty whisky flask.
Once the others have left, she rinses the flask out and - making sure that they really have gone - she fills it with fruit juice. She looks anxiously at Kendra "Don't tell anyone, OK? I have a reputation to think of..."
Dashil sighs. She's not looking forward to this. Wrapping her cloak around her carefully, she looks around at the others. "I'm glad to do this in daylight, but if anyone comes by they mustn't know what we're doing. Here." She takes off her wooden holy symbol and hands it to Aduard. "You're probably a good liar. Hold this up and make it look like we're doing something holy that needs to go undisturbed. I want that back, mind - it was a gift from someone special. She carved it for me herself." She must be nervous. She never normally gives away personal details.
Unless anyone else volunteers, Dashil will take the planchette. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, she arranges the board on her knees, doing her best to keep it out of sight of any passers-by. Carefully - - she slowly opens her mind up to anything that might be out there. Dashil is strong-willed, and devoted to her Goddess, and basically fearless; but this sort of thing is disturbing. In her experience, spirits are not essentially kind, or good - they will possess her if they can. You have to know who you are. Thankfully, actually liking the person you are does not seem to be a requirement.
"OK, let's see who - or what - is out there." Deep breath. She takes a sip from her flask, and makes a face. It's not the ... But that was sort of the point.
"Spirit that haunts this fountain! What is your name?"
Crossing his arms, "So you all think a bird is going to tell you it's pet name?" Radag snorts. "Just how much is that piece of junk worth anyway? Cause pawning it is pretty much all I see its good for." Radag laughs amused as he wipes a bit of spittle from his jagged, scarred mouth with the leather part of his bracer.
Wakati was quiet through much of the group discussion of the previous day's events. The talk of spirits attempting to influence the girl hit close to home, and he found himself lost in his thoughts.
He listens intently to what Kendra found regarding the prison, and those it held. When Brogol mentions returning to the Unfurled Scroll, he speaks up. "Aduard and I met with a town councilor today. I believe our resident author made a fair impression upon him, and he agreed to accompany us and allow us access to the town records tomorrow. Once we have examined the fountain, some of us should head there, and make use of their archives."
The next day, he is apprehensive as they approach the fountain. Remembering the previous night's events, he unslings his shield, griping it tightly before him. "The old man said he buried the bird underwater, yes? We should try to find where exactly." He moves cautiously along the edges of the fountain, peering into the water, looking for any kind of soft ground or disturbance where the bird may have been buried. He doesn't disrupt the others' attempt to contact the spirit, but he doesn't seem eager to participate, either.
Aduard approaches the fountain cautiously, his eyes ever on the sky. Even when Dashil attempts to pierce the veil between life and death, he is apparently more concerned with the advent of further ghostly raven assaults.
"A strange superstition. Burying someone underwater hardly seems likely to make them less prone to postmortem op... oh, perhaps he was confusing ghosts with vampires."
"Excellent, Master Nahodha. Aye'd very much like ta visit these town records."
Wakati makes a few passes around the fountain, studying the details of the construction and its current state. Finally, he pauses before one of the spigots.
"Ah, there is something here. Here in one of the spouts."
Wakati reaches over and grabs the edge of the cloth. He carefully pulls it out of the fountain, along with whatever else may be wrapped up with it.
OK, she's still talking to you, which is good; can you try not to sound like a crazy person?
Dashil closes her eyes so she doesn't have to either look at Kendra, or - more awkwardly - avoid her gaze. Taking a deep breath, she tries to explain. "Pain is liberating - no, no, forget that, it sounds terrible. I meant, pain is real: it forces you to pay attention to it. All the stuff in my head that isn't real or important gets lost; I can focus on thinking about the stuff that's really bothering me and decide how I'm going to deal with it."
Another deep breath. She's never really talked about this to anyone, ever. "So, when I - when I screwed up earlier and talked as though the Pr- as though your father was still alive, there was too much going on in my head. The pain helped me clear it, to understand not just that I miss him, but why."
Dashil squeezes her eyes tightly shut. "When I met him, I'd hit rock bottom; he helped me up, kept me sane - well, relatively... I realised tonight that I'd come to rely on him. Maybe too much. The pain helped me see that, that I need to take responsibility for myself. Decide to do things differently. "
That actually doesn't sound too crazy; she's encouraged. Opening her eyes hopefully, she watches to see how Kendra reacts.
Dmitri whistles, impressed. "Ya got a good eye. I didn't see nothin'."
Radag laughs at Dmitri's comment concerning Wakati's vision. "Didn't see better than Blinky? That's clever."
Dashil glares at them all as they chatter among themselves: She is trying to concentrate, a task made far harder by the fact that she knows what is coming; and their noise isn't helping at all.
The tricks with her mind have started already, she suddenly realises: she is both shivering despite wearing her cloak, and sweating profusely - too cold and too hot simultaneously. She keeps her hands steady on the planchette, and focuses her will on compelling whatever is out there to answer her question.
As Dashil waits, the world around her grows silent as if waiting for an answer. The silence stretches, to the point where it seems like the ritual had failed, until the planchette begins to slowly move under the inquisitor's fingers. Pushed by some unseen force, the tool slides around the board randomly, as if considering the question.
Suddenly, Dashil's concentration wanes with the sound of flapping wings and a weight pressing on her shoulder. The planchette jerks to the letter 'E'. The pressure on her shoulder begins to tighten. 'R'. Light pain blossoms under the pressure as invisible talons dig into her flesh. 'O'. The pain brightens as the talons pierce the aasimar's skin. 'N'.
Then, the pain disappears. The weight lifts from Dashil's shoulder, although the pain remains. The planchette finishes spelling 'Eronel' and begins to slide around the board once more.
At the same time, Wakati pulls the cloth bundle from the fountain's spigot. Carefully unraveling it reveals the ragged corpse of a raven. Waterlogged from weeks in the fountain, its head has been twisted all the way around.
Radag puts his hands together, the start of a slow clap. "By Pharasma's tears, well done. You just prooved birds have souls. Thank you for that. Now I can't eat fowl ever again for fear of it haunting me."