Dmitri also hangs back, uncomfortable but not entirely sure how to intervene without escalating things. One of his hands wraps around his holy symbol as he frowns.
Aduard grinds his teeth, but holds his peace. Tempting as it might be to explain to this fool just how ignorant he was, it was counter-productive.
With that finished up, there is still time in the day to pursue other leads or visit other locations. What would you like to do?
Radag smiles a moment but the brief moment passes into a cold stare. He crosses his arms, "Why you want a guy to come with us if you haven't the man power?"
Aduard sighs upon being escorted out. He walks away from the hearing of Lereia and her father - then sighs.
"I'm not sure how well I handled that. Mr Stockl - you have my apology."
He turns to Dashil and speaks somewhat stiffly
"Thank you for your support Ms Dashil - or is it Ms Masozi?"
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The Doctor was prone to melancholia. Great, monsoon-like bouts of it, that would arrive at the manor's doorstep with an increased state of agitation, and then hover over the man's manor for days, days in which the Doctor would stay in bed, bemoaning the state of his life, of Brogol's education and intelligence, and of Ustalev, great decaying Ustalev, being eaten from the inside out by always mysterious forces.
After a couple of these bouts, Brogol would settle into a routine. There was little direction from The Doctor during these periods, so Brogol would do his daily chores - breakfast, shopping, lunch, tea, dinner, cleaning and studying. In between these chores, Brogol would sit with The Doctor and his uneaten meals and listen to the man's wailing, his rants, and his invective, always hurled at others, at the forces in the man's life that during these dark periods, the Doctor seemed to blame for every misfortune in his life.
And Brogol became quite good at reading the man's disappointments, and alleviating them, The Doctor's emotional handkerchief so to speak, there to absorb the emotion and pain of one rubbed raw by his own existence.
Which is not to say that The Bookman was entering a state of melancholia, but rather that were simply some undeniable parallels between The Bookman and The Doctor, and Brogol slipped into his past role of handkerchief rather easily.
"Yer did just fine, Do--. Er, Master Bookman. Better than Aye would've fer sure. An' we know tha town records may be of use ta us - shall we go visit yer friends there? Aye'm sure they'd be please ta see yer."
The truth was, either Lereia was fine, and her own grief and fevered imagination was responsible for her "visits" from the raven Eronal, or Eronal was actually visiting the girl, and the girl would need their help. Only time would tell, and if The Doctor's bouts with melancholia taught Brogol anything, it was to wait, and things would change.
The ice-skinned woman sighs at Aduard's question, before running her fingers through her long, blue hair. "Like I told the ki- like I told Brogol, it's just 'Dashil'. My last name is... is not used much." Is dishonoured; is stricken from the rolls; is expunged from the archives; is blotted from the escutcheon. Take your pick. "It's a long story. But you're welcome for the support - we're on the same side, after all - aren't we?" Ever the inquisitor, she cannot prevent that from turning into a question.
She nods at Brogol. "Yes, let's see what the town records have to say."
"Thank you mister Stockl. You are very kind."
He rounds on Dashil
"Are we on the same side Ms Masozi? Let me be clear. I have two goals. Lorrimor asked me to see his daughter through this time, and I intend to do so. He did not ask for me to avenge his death, but I intend to do that as well. I don't intend to start some crusade, clean up the area, give his killers some chance to repent, or see them brought to justice."
"I do not make friends easily. I do not lose them easily either."
"As for your name, I think I understand. I wasn't born with the name Bookman - it would be a coincidence indeed for an author to have that name. By all means pick a pseudonym or cognomen. I will respect your choice. Should you wish I will even refer to you by your first name - though doubtless those we meet would then impute a more intimate relationship than we actually possess."
"I'm not impressed that you've allowed me to look the fool by referring to you as 'Ms Dashil'" he speaks and stands stiffly "It would have been easy enough to correct." he pauses "At first. I suppose as time went on it would be harder and harder to speak up. I am prepared to consider the issue buried." this last line is delivered with an air of magnanimity.
Dashil gives a grim smile, before taking a swig from her hip flask. She grimaces at the taste: it's not the same. "Don't worry, my crusading days are long over." Her tone is bitter.
She frowns. "I'm not changing my name for your convenience. Call me Dashil, or not, as you choose - I've no care what others think... or impute." She flicks the word around her tongue with scorn.
"And we appear to share the same goals. Petros was my mentor - my friend - for over 20 years. Those responsible for his death will regret the day I was ever born." For a moment - just a brief moment - her otherwordly nature shines through: a Celestial vision of purity and stern judgement. Just like that, it is gone, and Dashil remains.
She discreetly says nothing of Petros' daughter.
Shifting uncomfortably, Brogol clears his throat. "Hrrm. Well then. Ta tha sheriff? We can check in ta see if there's any thing else tha needs ta be done, an' then head ta Harrowstone, perhaps?"
"An excellent idea Mr Stockl. We can warn him about the madman in his midst. Perhaps we can convince him to authorise us to investigate the prison."
"Zorya - are you confident in your burial ceremony, or do we need to do this on holy ground?"
Almost immediately after that, the rest of the party enters the sheriff's office. Sheriff Caeller gives the new arrivals a cool look and announces: "It's your lucky day, folks. Mr. Irefist here has convinced me to let you look around Harrowstone."
"I worry not of my intentions and what you'll discover of us, despite your xenophobia, but the willingness and ableness of your selected deputy. I will not argue the point, I'll leave that to my companions. Just consider yourself warned, any man or woman that comes with us must be ready for the worst."
Radag turns to face his companions that have already come in, "The sheriff has been so kind as to permit our entry into Harrowstone to investigate the late professors death at the hand of the cultists. He is sending someone with us to report on our activities... or to die trying. With no more excuses, I say we head there immediately." Radag says with crossed arms and a puffed up chest, his eyes narrowed and expectant of resistance.
Dashil catches Radag's eye and gives a brief nod, to acknowledge a job well done. Far better to explore with official sanction, and if they have to take a passenger, well, so be it.
"Sounds good to me; everyone ready? No last minute supplies needed?" If truth be told, Dashil wouldn't mind a few vials of holy water, but hasn't the cash right now for them. Still, she has the magic arrows from Petros' hidden cache; they will have to do. She looks over their new companion, assessing his abilities. "Hi. I'm Dashil, this is Brogol, Aduard, Dmitri, and Wakati; what's your name?"
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Aduard winces at the familiarity
Dmitri sighs, not entirely clear on what's happening. Once introductions are handled, he states, "Let's get movin', then."
It feels good to get back to the mood music. :)
The road to Harrowstone is a partially overgrown track leading from the southern edge of town. It winds around the base of a barren hill, the high walls of the ruined compound looming above. A stark, sagging roof can be seen through a large gap in the crumbling enclosure. The path suddenly veers sharply upwards on the south side and directly towards the prison.
Set between a pair of stone guard towers is a slumping gate of rusted metal and moldering wood. What once must have been an imposing barrier now hangs negligently open, creaking softly with what wind touches the ruined bars.
Your legally required chaperon, Riff, is a deputy with a mess of freckles and straw blonde hair. He looks younger than Brogol and seems deeply unnerved by being this close to Harrowstone. His eyes dart back and forth, as if looking for a bugbear to leap out at any moment.
Dashil is wary in the approach up to the infamous prison; her eyes flicker this way and that, keeping a watch on the surroundings - and on their newest team member, who is clearly still wet behind the ears. Her scimitar is loose in its sheath, and her longbow is strung and to hand. Her long, blue hair is tied back in a simple braid that keeps it out of her way. Her free hand strays more than once to the wooden holy symbol of Sarenrae worn around her neck.
As the group reaches the gates, she grimaces at the sight of the compound beyond. "Ruined... but not ruined enough. Too much cover. Well, shall we?" Taking a deep breath, the ice-skinned woman glances at the ruined gate and walks in through the open passageway.
If Radag were afraid or worried, he doesn't show it, he just has that usual look; mouth agape, blank half open eyes that sweep the scenery for anything of interest. Once or twice he looks beneath an overgrown cropping of leaves.
Radag nods at Dashil upon the request to enter, and then looks to Riff, "You ever kill a man before, Riff?" He turns and presses forward, not waiting for an answer, and if Riff does go to answer, Radag shushes him sharply.
Aduard makes polite conversation with young Riff as they walk
"Very good of you to come with us Riff. I can see you're a brave young man, not afraid of any superstitions. It's good to have a local with us - to show us where it happened. I hope you don't mind playing tour guide. Now, should anything happen, Riff, you might want to run away. Don't. Old places like this can be treacherous if you're not paying attention to your footing."
He points at Brogol
"We've an expert here with us. Nothing he can't handle. We're lucky to have him. Anything goes wrong, you 'stick with him like glue and he'll see you through' - as they say."
He smiles encouragingly
"Mr Stockl. You'll look after Riff if anything happens, yes?"
Nethys knows I don't want to have to explain a dead deputy if he runs off and gets eaten
Aduard closes his eyes and murmurs, fingers twisting as if playing cat's cradle with something much larger than himself. He glows for a second, then his eyes snap open as he goes back to a casual walking stance.
He walks through after Radag, hands loose and empty at his sides, slowly and carefully moving his head to take in the surroundings.
Wakati follows close on the heels of the rest of the group. He occasionally cocks his head to the side, listening to the sounds around him. As they get near the prison gate, he speaks up.
"Oh my, yes. There is history here. Can't you feel it? It wants to soak into my bones. Be on your guard. Past and present will start to blur inside this place."
He then hefts his shield and follows the others into the prison yard.
Brogol finds the trip to Harrowstone deeply unnerving. A resident of the city most of his life, other than the journey to Ravengro, which was spent mostly in vehicles, it was the first time - ever - that the apprentice had ever truly been outside, in Ustalav's countryside. The hill that the prison sat upon was larger than any house Brogol had ever seen, and the prison itself was larger than most buildings in Caliphas. What creatures could be found lurking in this land, with so much uninhabited land to hide them?
Snapped from his thoughts by the Bookman's pointing, Brogol pulls his hood tight and looks to the ground. Is he making fun of me? No, the Bookman is not a cruel man. He's just trying to keep the deputy - and me - out of trouble.
"Aye'll look after Riff, if it comes ta tha'."
-------------
Brogol hustles after Wakati, shuddering as the blind elf utters his warning. Past and present will blur? You're not equipped for this type of work, Brogol.
Looking to Riff, Brogol is suddenly filled with a mixture of strange emotions - worry, duty, anger. And now you're a babysitter to some green kid, greener to you, who's probably going to stumble into some trap or ghouls' nest or something get himself killed - and you'll be right beside him, next in line.
"Well, come on then, Riff. Keep yerself close an' heed tha Bookman's directions."
I've been waiting so long to deploy these. :)
Harrowstone’s grounds are contained within the crumbling stone wall, the eastern portion of which has fallen away into a huge sinkhole that formed when the extensive eastern wing of the prison dungeon collapsed after the dreadful fire of 4661—this collapse took with it part of the grounds, which now lies in ruins at the bottom of the murky pond that filled the sinkhole. The soggy ground that leads to the water is dotted with tombstones; the area that fell in was likely the graveyard.
A two-story stone building looms in the center of the prison grounds. Ivy and moss cling tenaciously to the walls, while above the wooden shingles of the roof are often missing entirely, exposing the wooden rafters of the upper structure to the sky. Here and there, leering stone gargoyles perch on the eaves, once functioning as drainspouts and decorations but now seeming almost to serve a more ominous role of sentinels. Many of these stone decorations have crumbled away and lie in ruined piles on the overgrown ground below. Windows in the building’s facade are narrow and blocked by grills of rusty iron bars. Stone columns support a slumping wooden balcony over the building’s wooden front doors, both of which hang askew and reveal dark glimpses of chambers within. A pair of larger stone balconies sit to either side of the asylum; the easternmost looks out over the sinkhole pond.
In front of the asylum, squatting amongst the overgrown grass of the yard is a small house overgrown with thick sheets of grey-green ivy. The roof sags ominously and the door hangs open. A pair of towers, the only two remaining on the wall, rise an additional ten feet above the fortifications, their wooden roofs collapsed.
Riff looks around and swallows nervously. "Thank you kindly fer the offer, Mr. Bookman, but I'm the one that should be looking after you. You're here under Sheriff Caeller's permission and it's my responsibility to make sure nothin' bad happens."
Bookman stops for a second
Bravery or ignorance?
"Oh? I had thought you were here to show us where the body of Petros Lorrimor was found."
Realising Wakati was quickly coming up behind him, Aduard starts walking again.
"Do you know that, Riff?"
"Don't look after us Riff, you'll only get us or yourself killed. You're likely here because you crossed your boss. You'd be surprised what men take a slight to. Aye, let's have a look at where the body was found."
Dashil is suddenly afflicted by a sensation that her entire body is aflame. It passes almost immediately, but the after-effects do not. Passing a shaking hand across her forehead, she mumbles "Sorry. Place gives me the creeps - felt like my skin was on fire. Give me a minute before we go any further."
Great, now they think I'm crazy. Or crazier. Dashil is not sure which prospect is worse.
After half a minute or so, she is ready to continue.
Brogol shifts uncomfortably, keeping one eye on the deputy, the other on Dashil. One as accustomed as Ms. Masozi to living in the shadows to be suddenly skittish, that's not good.
"O' course. Take a moment, Ms... Dashil. An' then, Riff, please take us ta tha site of tha Professor's demise."
Riff leads you to one of the front walls of the asylum, past the crumbling house and to the right of the main entrance. The grass beyond the paved path has grown tall and wild up to the building, but one patch has been cleared away. A stone gargoyle lies sideways on the ground, clearly broken away from the roof. A red-brown smear of long dried blood coats one of the corners.
"This is where we found 'im," Riff reports grimly. "We cleared the grass away to..." the deputy turns as white as a sheet. "To collect the remains. He were just lyin' here, but his head had been smashed."
Aduard is all business, looking up to check sightlines, pacing the distance, calling out "Stockl, Nahodha - do you have any impressions? Zorya - can you help Riff?" he does not offer orders nor suggestions to Radag or Dashil.
At this point he stops at the wall. "Interesting. Some sort of painting - no, etching - here on the wall. Looks to be Varisian runes." he pulls out his book "Let me copy these down."
As he writes memories flash through his mind of proto-Ustalavs fighting his Varisian mercenaries.
The trick was to keep your men more scared of you than the enemy.
Dmitri nods, moving to assist Riff.
"His head was smashed?" Radag asked rhetorically, looking down at the statue and following it up to where it had broken off. "A gargoyle statue fell from way up there and only his head was crushed? Are you sure about that? Off place to lay down for a rest isn't it?"
Radag isn't keen on looking over anything here, his eyes and attention wander toward the entrance. Radag gives Aduard time to work, "Hurry it up, days wastin," he says but even his obligatory command is flat and lifeless as he stares off at something.
Brogol surveys the area but doesn't turn anything up of notice. Nodding, Brogol grunts as Radag voices his skepticism. "Master Irefist is right. Its a big drop ta just crush tha Professor's head. Something smells like tha fish market here. Aye--"
Thought process disrupted by Adurad's discovery, Brogol kneels and stares intently. "Its Varisian, yes? Mine's... rusty"
Sighing, the apprentice looks at the blood spilled across the runes. Taking a small thin spatula from his pack, the young man rubs it across the blood to check its splatter and coloration. Then taking a bit of the rubbing, Brogol places it on his tongue, before staring again at the runes.
Dashil wanders after the others, still slightly dazed by whatever it was that she's just experienced. She gives herself a shake as Radag and Brogol investigate the statue. "True. If something like that landed on him, you'd expect not to find much left. Particularly if he was standing - and why would he have been lying down, unless he was already dead?"
She shakes her head, momentarily overcome. "Ah, Petros. You shouldn't have come here alone. You never could see the danger." Her voice is heavy with sorrow and regret.
Seeing Aduard occupy himself with something he's spotted, she walks across, happy for any distraction from her thoughts. She watches as Brogol tries to identify what sort of blood it is; she doesn't speak Varisian, so she waits for a translation. "Odd. Do they go all around the foundation, do you think?" She follows the carvings as far as they will go, making sure that she keeps the others in sight as she does so.
Dmitri frowns, saying a short prayer for the deceased professor. After he finishes, he states, "All we can do is try t' figure out what th' hells happened here. Maybe it'll give us a clue 'bout what happened t' the Professor."
"An' what he was trying to prevent, don't forget."
The blood-smeared runes continue around the foundation of the building, at least until Dashil can no longer stay in sight of her companions. She must stop at the foot of the stairs of one of the two balconies flanking Harrowstone.
"Lyvar... Hawkran..."
"Interesting - seems to be a repeating pattern of that one name. Wasn't that the last warden of Harrowstone?"
"Ah! This should mean something to me! It's like I'm remembering through cotton wool! Mr Stockl, Mr Nahodha, do you have any ideas?"
"These runes. They serve as the basis for ritualistic magic. It appears there are elements of both necromantic and abjuration energies to the ritual. So something involving a ward or protection from the dead. Its specific purpose, though, is beyond my knowledge. Question is: Did the Professor put it there, or did someone else? Can you offer any insight on that point, Mister.. ah.. Riff?"
Dashil looks slantwise at Wakati. "If that blood on the runes is human, we can rule out the Professor having done it." She's increasingly sure of less and less as her extended stay in this damned land gnaws at her mind, but she would stake her life on Petros not trafficking in such magic.
Brogol grunts. "Tha blood is human, an' older than tha professor's woulda been, were it his. At least, from tha last time he were here. A sacrifice most likely, ta power whatever ward this is. A huge magic circle, perhaps?"
"Hawkren were tha Warden o' Harrowstone."
Riff looks at Wakati, then the runes, and back to Wakati, incredulous. "Beats me, sir elf. This whole place smacks of witchcraft." The deputy looks to where Petros was found, pales, and stares intently at a bare spot of ground. "Does this satisfy your curiosity? I have half a mind to head home. I don't like it here."
Further down the foundation, Dashil hears a gentle clinking, like chains being dragged slowly across the ground. They only started after she called back to Wakati.
"Don't stay on our account." Radag takes a moment to look over the others and note their general condition and disposition.
Then he begins towards the entrance.
"Wait." Dashil checks Radag as he moves to the entrance. "Can anyone else hear that sound? Like chains."
She cocks her head, trying to get a better sense of where it's coming from; and slowly moves back towards the rest of the group.
She looks grimly amused at Riff's comments. "Good instincts. You want to leave, now's the time."
Radag does not turn from his course but he isn't quite reckless as his pace slows and he squints with a raised brow trying to hear what would be quite out of place and normally easy to discern.
"Very well Riff. Could you summarise our findings so far for the Sheriff. To whit: The walls around Harrowstone have been used in a necromantic-abjuration spell. This spell's focus seems to be the dead warden. While we haven't established the purpose of the spell, the use of human blood to forms the runes suggests ill. The sheer volume needed suggests one or more human sacrifices. That in turn suggests black necromancy. Black necromancers usually don't care about side effects on nearby villagers. Finally, it appears that Petros was murdered by whoever was doing it."
"While I hesitate to offer a conjecture, it seems reasonable to assume that black necromancers have called up the dead of Harrowstone, and are murdering those who discover this."
"Aduard looks over at Dashil [b]"Hmm - do you suppose the sheriff is incompetent, dominated, or in league? Rather important for poor Riff here, as if it is either of the latter two he's likely to be murdered on his return." He looks over at the young man "Riff - you've known the sheriff a long time. Would you trust him with your life? Has there been any sudden changes in personality or habits in the last few days?"
Brogol snorts. It hadn't occured to him that the sheriff may be involved in whatever is going on here at Harrowstone, but Aduard was astute, and it would be good to know what the kid thought of his boss.
But - there was the sound of chains that Dashil was hearing. Now was not the time for conversation. Moving towards Dashil, Brogol draws his falchion and cocks his overlarge head, listening intently for the jangling of chains...
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Aduard is far too in love with the sound of his own voice to shut up and listen for the noise setting the others on edge.
"Riff?"