Aduard blinks at the ghost's final words.
He stops.
Only when Radag talks does he move again. His voice is cold, tired, with none of his normal irritation or superiority. It is the voice of someone going through a procedure. Checking off a list."[/b]
"We need to go back. The town meeting will be starting. We need to convince them to come back here, bury all the bones in a proper cemetery, get them sanctified. Just in case. We need to set up a monument - a shrine - to the Hawkrens. We need them to patch this place, or fill it in properly. We need to find out why the church didn't deal with this decades ago. We need to lay the boy..." here his voice catches "Brogol. We need to lay Brogol for his wake."
It is a maudlin, silent procession that makes its way through the bowels of haunted Harrowstone. Even Aduard - ever in love with the sound of his own voice - is silent with his thoughts. Only when they come to the Devil's Swimming Pool does he stop.
"We've a long way to go, and a difficult journey. Brogol deserves better than to be hauled around like some dressed animal. We should stop, and fashion him a proper bier. A simple plank would be better than this. There are certainly ropes and chains in this place, and some wood should be structurally sound."
The wizard points at the precarious lift they have fashioned to the upper level. "This will need to be modified as well."
"In the meantime" he suggests "While the Warden's Wife has told us all is clear, I would prefer not to see a resurgence. I suggest we try to clear some of the corpses. Haul them out into the sunlight, for now, and then get them a proper burial in sanctified ground tomorrow. Even just the skulls would help. Leaving the corpses of murderers to germinate in the darkness like this is just asking for another infestation."
"I suggest we form two teams. While one makeshifts a bier and gets Brogol up, the other can look for the remains we have left scattered behind us. We've not been down here long, today. I doubt dawn is passed. We've time to do this before our meeting with the town." Aduard looks to Dashil "I've little strength to argue, today, Dashil. If you'd rather we let the undead lie in desecrated soil where they fell, so be it. I will not haul Brogol around like this, though. Nor leave him here. The lad" he catches himself "the man - deserves more respect than that."
Dashil shakes her head, wearily. "No. I've no taste for leaving the dead here. Let's get them into hallowed ground." She grimaces. "I'd suggest burning this place to the ground, but they already tried that and it didn't take."
She looks reluctantly at the pit of the Oubliette, filled with water. "I'm guessing the Splatter Man's remains are down there. Best make a start."
She strips off her armour and as much outerwear as is decent (no point getting it wet), before grimacing. "Bet it's freezing."
It's not going to get any warmer for waiting. She dives in.
Despite the cold and murky water, Dashil finds the skeletal remains of a human male; charred by flame and jaw hideously broken. In addition to this, she finds a pair of blades in rotting leather scabbards and a gold ring with a silver shield set into the front.
"I'll look around," Esta mumbles, distracted and barely listening. "I don' think I'd be much help buildin' stuff."
Kinda like how you weren't much help keeping Brogol alive.
Borrowing a rope from one of her companions, she wanders through the crumbling hallways until she finds herself in the Oubliette, remembering briefly their encounter with The Lopper.
She turns to Oolong. "Stay 'ere. I'll be back."
The fox peers down into the hole as she ties one end of the rope onto sturdy stone and lowers herself carefully down towards the floor below.
I'll start on moving Brogs up the lift.
Aduard snaps "Wait."
He catches himself "I'm sorry, Ire - Radag. Let's just get one of these planks, lay it under him, and attach the rope. You can haul him up in a second - if we can engage the pulley I'll pull from down here."
Before the boy's body is lashed to the beam Aduard takes off his fine black cloak - still sprinkled with white cat hair - and lays it over Brogol. The cloak, laid diagonally, stretches to cover the boy's boots and glazed, accusing eyes.
Dashil emerges, shivering and bluer than usual, from the depths. "Unpleasant." She dries herself as best she can and puts her armour back on, trying not to let her teeth chatter too loudly.
Carefully putting the skeleton to the floor, she looks closely at the two swords and the ring.
"Sorry Dashil." Aduard apologises "Normally I'd have a spell to dry you off and warm you up, but this morning I prepared combat spells in its place." He looks to the cloak wrapped bundle "Not that it helped."
Aduard closes his eyes for a moment, as if feeling for something. "Alright. What are we likely to be facing at this meeting? The Good Gods know small town administrators tend to be unpredictable when their bailiwicks are disrupted. They do have a tendency to want to take it out on someone - and actual guilt is seldom a factor."
"Radag - you've dealt with the sheriff. What has he said?"
Dashil smiles, grimly. "Not a problem - I have the perfect remedy for small-minded small-town folks. If we get anything from them but a 'sorry for your losses, and thank you for cleaning up the mess on the outskirts of our town that we couldn't be bothered to do ourselves,' I'll set fire to them."
Aduard raised a hand "No, Dashil. We can't kill these people. And I doubt that they'll take kindly to having their incompetence rubbed in their faces. If they don't need us, we're just an embarrassment of evidence they don't want. " Aduard thought for a moment "Although if you are bad inquisitor, and I am good inquisitor, we might just pull this off."
The remains of a human man, leg bones hideously snapped, lie in a heap at the bottom of the oubliette, along with about thirty feet of old rope, frayed at one end.
In addition to that, Esta finds a second human skull, 120 gp, a broken masterwork heavy crossbow, a masterwork longsword, a cube with a strange rune, and a heavy mace that glows with faint light.
Esta stuffs what she can into her bag, tucks the rest under an arm, and climbs back out of the hole. Upon returning to the group, she lays the weapons on a chunk of debris before quietly settling herself onto the ground. She places the odd cube and glowing mace in front of her, and rests her hands above them.
Dashil lets out a long sigh. "I know. I know. I just... have a powerful urge to hit something or someone until it stops moving."
She looks straight at the wizard. "I saw his death coming, Aduard. A few days back, when we were walking up to Harrowstone, I saw a gravestone with Brogol's name written on it. I just assumed it was this place acting up, but it wasn't - it was a warning. And I ignored it. I liked having him around, he was - well, he was nothing like me. And that's why he's dead, because he's nothing like me and I didn't send him away."
She bites her lip again. "But that's my burden, and I can't immolate the council just to feel better."
She shakes her head briskly. Just one more of the long list of deaths to add to her conscience. One day it will stop bearing the weight. "Alright, that's enough confession. Make yourself useful and identify these, would you?" She passes him the things she found from the bottom of the pool: the sword, the dagger, and the ring.
Way I see it, Brogol is the only reason he's phone now. He didn't need to jump in the way of that magic. His selflessness for a man that didn't deserve the sacrifice has to carry that now. Bookman needs to remember Brogol gave his life to spare him. Everything Bookman does now should be to honor Brogs's sacrifice.
Aduard gives a grim grin "I take no offence Radag. Brogol was the best of us. It never occurred to me someone might voluntarily give their life for mine. I've not had many friends. I make a poor one. There is, in fact, few redeeming qualities to a friendship with A Bookman, but there is this; Power. Honor his sacrifice, Radag? Sheep talk. I plan to undo it! I'll bring Brogol back, or die trying." Aduard rests a hand on Brogol's body. "Difficult, expensive, but not impossible. I'll need to bump him back in Pharasma's queue until I can get the components, keep his body whole and fresh, but that is within my power even here in this forsaken hellhole!"
You should not mess with the natural order of the Ladies Boneyard. Radag says sideways. We may try to call his spirit back to his body but if he should refuse, that's the end of it. We've enough undead in this country as it is without you muddling this up with your... powers.
"Rest assured, Radag, that should the boy's spirit decide to stay in the Boneyard I will respect it. It would be no favour to Brogol to summon him back against his will." Aduard agreed.
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---
The town hall is a much different place since you've last visited. Once solemn and empty, now the large room has something of a carnival atmosphere. The pews are packed with townsfolk, eager to see the drama these mysterious outsiders have brought to their town.
Upon the raised stage sit the four councilors of Ravengro, dressed in ceremonial black robes. Vashian Heartmount eyes the party with barely concealed disgust, while Ghaeren Muricar nods to Aduard with a smile. The other council members, women both,give no impression either way. Shanda Faravan, a handsome woman in her early fifties with short black hair streaked with grey speaks quietly to Mirta Straelock, a stout woman and former tavern owner that turned her popularity into a political position.
Sheriff Caeller stands off to the side of the room, although much of the hostility he seemed to bear yesterday has vanished.
After a prayer to Pharasma from Father Grimburrow, the meeting begins. Councilwoman Faravan clears her throat. "Before we discuss the occurances at the prison, we were under the impression that you had another accomplice, a Mr. Brogol? Where is he?"
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It is a sombre procession that makes their way through the dawn light. Once again the professor’s allies act as pallbearers, carrying the cloak-shrouded figure of Brogol Stockl to Kendra’s house.
While the others explain to Kendra - only just finishing dealing with her father’s body and now with another thrust upon her - the tragic events that had befallen Brogol, Aduard takes to studying his journal like a madman.
Grim-faced Aduard, cheeks gaunt and eyes shrouded in shadows by fatigue and grief, closes his eyes outside the door to the town hall, murmuring something - a prayer or a spell - as an invisible aura seems to settle over him.
After a few moments he opens his eyes and turns to Dashil.
”Dashil. These people… they’re going to be scared. Scared people like to bury problems. We’ll need all the authority we can project to make sure they don’t try to bury us. I’m counting on you - on everyone, but especially on you - to make us look dangerous. To make us look too hard to bury. To make us look too hard to make scapegoats.” He hesitates, murmurs another word and reaches out to the hem of Dashil’s cloak.
Gold thread sprouts like seeds in spring, weaving through the fabric as if with a mind of its own. Grey darkens. Caught threads reweave. ”I’m sorry Dashil” Aduard’s eyes are to the ground, unaccustomed shame in his voice ”Their lives depend on it.”
Without another word Aduard spins and pushes in.
The town hall is a much different place since you've last visited. Once solemn and empty, now the large room has something of a carnival atmosphere. The pews are packed with townsfolk, eager to see the drama these mysterious outsiders have brought to their town.
Upon the raised stage sit the four councilors of Ravengro, dressed in ceremonial black robes. Vashian Heartmount eyes the party with barely concealed disgust, while Ghaeren Muricar nods to Aduard with a smile. The other council members, women both,give no impression either way. Shanda Faravan, a handsome woman in her early fifties with short black hair streaked with grey speaks quietly to Mirta Straelock, a stout woman and former tavern owner that turned her popularity into a political position.
Sheriff Caeller stands off to the side of the room, although much of the hostility he seemed to bear yesterday has vanished.
After a prayer to Pharasma from Father Grimburrow, the meeting begins. Councilwoman Faravan clears her throat. "Before we discuss the occurances at the prison, we were under the impression that you had another accomplice, a Mr. Brogol? Where is he?"
Aduard quivers inside as Grimburrow preaches, but nothing shows in his manner. The priest is fortunately brief, and Faravan makes a play for control. ’Can’t let that go on.’ Aduard takes a breath and dives in - ignoring Faravan.
”First, I know there is a lot of quite reasonable worry in the town, but let me say that as a professional advocate I am convinced - - I can save you all from hanging as traitors. Saving you from Heretic’s pyres will be a little harder, but so long as we are careful I think ultimately doable.”Aduard turned to the minute keeper ”Please tell me if I need to slow down. This statement is likely to be one of the pieces of evidence relied on in upcoming trials, so it is important it be captured accurately.”
He turns back to the crowd, raising his hands ”Rest assured the Darkhallow has been defused just in time. We have managed to stop the Ascension of the wraithlord and the possessions and reanimations from the last week should have stopped. I now believe the cabal of necromancers trying to overthrow the throne were from out of town, and have moved on” he lied ”and thus we need not worry about mass assassinations if they realised our investigations. Until this point both we and the town officials have had to be very careful about revealing the truth, and while I apologise for the distress this may have caused I truly believe this was necessary to prevent further murders.”
”In summary; Yes Harrowstone was haunted - in fact it was the site of something called a ‘Darkhallow’” Aduard manufactured the word on the spot ”A situation where the massive numbers of painful deaths, and the terror of those buried underground after the fire and forced to eat each other to survive, managed to create a link to the plane of - well, let’s just call it “undeath”. Fortunately the Darkhallow, while potent, was kept in check by circumstance.”
”Professor Petros Lorrimor was aware of the danger that Harrowstone possessed, and was quietly and unofficially responsible for monitoring that danger. A month or so ago a Cabal of necromancers came to the town and performed a ritual that awakened the Darkhallow. Professor Lorrimor in his monitoring of Harrowstone discovered this ritual taking place, but tragically the necromancers involved murdered him.”
”Obviously the authorities had their suspicions, but put out word that the Professor died in an accident despite the evidence obviously and transparently giving lie to the claim. This was a wise move, for if they had publicised the truth it is likely everyone here would have been murdered and reanimated by the monsters who awakened the Darkhallow before they left.”
”Councillor Hearthmount was a friend of Petros Lorrimor, and well aware that the people who would be coming to his funeral would be exactly the experts needed in such a dire situation. He talked to us that night.” Aduard paused ”I should pause here to introduce our credentials. We consisted of an experienced hunted of undead, two skilled investigators, a scholar of some renown, and no less than three divinely empowered individuals, including Ms Masoz here, who has long experience as a Paladin.” Aduard waved a hand at the dazzling figure of Dashil.
”We experts spoke with councillor Hearthmount on our first night here, and then later came to agreement with councillor Muricar. We liaised with the Sherrif, who lent us manpower for our investigation. We were attempting to organise formal meetings with the council as a whole when we realised just how dire the situation truly was, and that there was every chance one or more of the council was possessed or in league with the necromancers.”
”Only now, with the necromantically empowered wizard-wraith stopped from becoming a new Geb, his spirit bound, his remains removed from the Darkhallow of Harrowstone and ready to be buried in consecrated soil, are we able to finally deal with them openly. The road to dismantle the necromantic death trap whose shadow lies over this village is lengthy, and tedious, but in our expert opinion no longer dangerous.”
”Ms Masozi will now answer any questions you may have.”
Aduard walks over to the desk holding the four councillors as the shocked crowd recovers, their voices rising in a hubbub of distress and questions. Quietly he speaks to the four individuals around whom everything pivots.
”Councillors. Technically everything I’ve said is the truth. You may want to dispute that truth. I suggest you consider this; the crown will hear of this - but there are two stories that might go to Caliphas.”
”One is of a town that left a hazard to Ustlav as a whole grow on their doorstop. That missed open treason and necromancy. That ignored a local expert and did nothing about his suspicious death. That actively tried to stop experts they didn’t hire for from stopping a new Tar Baphon from rising in the east. Possibly out of criminal negligence, possibly because they were in league with Tar Baphon’s Whispering Way”
”The other is of heroic councillors quietly trying to deal with a problem left by their count without causing panic. Hiring experts as needed. Keeping information quiet out of necessity.”
”Traitors. Incompetents. Fools. Heroes. You choose the role you will wear in this story. Choose it well.”
”Here is the cost of that choice; you must do the right thing from here on. Defuse Harrowstone. Publicly agree you intended to hire us. State those who suffered to save this town are heroes.”
”I am sure none of you are so ungrateful as to think of trying to scapegoat your saviours, but understand that if you do a third story will make its way to the king. A story you can’t stop. One of a town in league with traitors. Necromancers. Of a town too close to a Darkhallow to save. Of razed houses, and salted fields where the only thing that still grows is the gallows tree.” Aduard shook his head ”No-one wants that story. A very good friend of mine loved this town, and I would see that story published only if there was no other choice.”
”Be heroes. Take the accolades. It is, after all, the right thing to do.”
the diplomacy check is likely to be 15+5 (complicated aid) + cha=20+cha. Again, not great odds with +12 to the roll, so if I can get any aids or anything it'd be good. Might have to drop the 'complicated aid' part.
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It's not the first time that Dashil has returned from battle having lost a companion; and it likely will not be the last. It doesn't make it any easier, but it does mean she knows how to do it. You just push everything else to the back of your mind and focus on things that need to be done.
Stone-faced, she knocks on the door of the Lorrimor house; without meeting Kendra's eyes she explains in as few words as possible what happened, her flinty stare repelling any attempts at kindness or sympathy - neither are what she needs right now. She'll apologise later (story of her life). Right now she needs to hold it together, and that means edges and sharpness to repel any well-meaning acts of kindness and warmth.
But disconcerting acts of kindness can come from the most unexpected of quarters. She whirls round as Aduard touches her cloak - "What are you do-" her breath catches as the long-lost emblem slowly takes shape in gold thread, like a flame spreading across paper; she falls silent, lost for words, as her cloak, long-tattered, bedraggled, bleared with grime, seared with failure and regret and acts that cannot be undone, shines like new, gleaming in the light of day as when she first put it on...
She glowers at him. If he'd been a necromancer, she could forgive it. This? Not so much.
He's right though, damn him. They need every edge they can get.
Dashil isn't much of one for words, so she lets the wizard do the talking. She does a good line in ominous stares and grim silences, though; and Councillor Heartmount gets one of her finest glares, pinning his fat, lazy, pampered backside to his seat - and warning of worse if he so much as thinks of causing trouble.
I've just lost a good friend and I blame myself. You want to cause trouble? Go ahead, lunk: Make. My. Day.
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As Aduard wielded his words, Radag cracked his crooked smile and crossed his arms. The part about Radag being an undead hunter sounded pretty nice. The title felt right, given the reasons he landed in this forsaken country to begin with. Though the part about letting the leaders of the town have the opportunity to reap the rewards for all the Professor's work and the party's efforts, that didn't sit well with Radag. His crooked smile faded to a glower. A secret desire, begging for the Councillor to doing something brash and undeniably stupid formed in Radag's head.
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Esta follows closely as the group nears the town hall, staring at the ground while absentmindedly worrying at the hem of her tattered cloak as she wonders once more about what she could have done differently back in the bowels of the prison. Death was not new to her. In her travels there had been plenty of people she couldn't save, despite her most heartfelt attempts. But this... this was different in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint. She barely knew the boy, after all, yet her inability to save him weighed heavily, painfully, on her soul.
As they enter the building and approach the councilors, she straightens her skirts, squares her shoulders, and holds her head high in an attempt to mimic the confidence and authority her new companions always seem to so easily exude. As she carefully takes in their surroundings, she finds herself drawn to Aduard’s voice, almost soothing, awed again by his elegance and ability to speak so eloquently.
She finds herself, not for the first time since their meeting, feeling a bit lacking. She doesn't have Aduard's penchant for speech, nor Dashil and Radag's commanding presence, so instead she stands quietly by their side, wondering not for the first time how she, of all people, came to be in the company of such impressive individuals as these, ready to assist the best she can, should they need her.
For letting them down now, after everything, was absolutely out of the question.
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Kendra accepts the news of Brogol's passing with a mute numbness. She nods through explanations, doing her best to remain stoic. She shoots a desperate look to Dashil, but the inquisitor's harsh gaze rebuffs her.
At the town hall, the crowd reacts with shock at Aduard's accusation of treason, and worse, heresy. The wizards words wash over them, stunning them into silence and then convincing them of their correctness. When he is finished, however, the building is silent but for some murmuring.
The councilmen are clearly taken aback by the display. Hearthmount, in particular, has grown a shade paler, his jowls quivering with rage. "How dare you? How dare you?" he whispers.
Muricar recovers first. "Of course the town of Ravengro thanks you for your services, honorable heroes. This meeting was called in recognition of those efforts." The councilman stands up and claps, his applause echoing through the hall. Slowly, others begin to clap along. Councilwomen Straelock and Faravan applaud as well, clearly confused by the turn of events.
Only Hearthmount remains seated, staring daggers at Aduard.
When the applause dies down, Muricar continues. "I believe the agreed upon sum was 2,500 gold, correct?"
Dashil steps in front of Aduard, interrupting Hearthmount's glare with one of her own.
"You had something on your mind, Councilman? We're all friends here, say your piece. I'm happy to report back anything you say to the Sarenite Inquisition."
She raises an eyebrow as Muricar names a figure; she assumes that this is simply a first offer. Turning to Aduard, she whispers quietly: "Do we want to say 2,500 each, or do we want to push for more than that?"
Aduard smiles back and talks quietly through his teeth. "They can't pay what we're worth. They'd starve. This is a token."
"And salvage, of course." Aduard stretches out his hand and pauses "Please remember to itemise it to add to the bill for Harrowstone's owner. I fear the work needed after we've gone will keep everyone busy for the next few winters. We'll defuse the situation, but the work remaining cannot be skimped, and father Grimburrow here will be busy for weeks."
Happy to take the deal.
IIRC Ravengro has about 300 people.
Working on the theory that an average skilled person earns about (check/2) per week = about 400 a year, and half these people are unskilled (eg kids) that earn about 30 a year, their total income is likely about 64500/year. That'd make 2500 about 4% of their yearly GDP and likely all the money they have in reserve. If we all got a share (including Brogol and Wakati) it's 15K, and more like a quarter of their income.
Especially if they're going to have to pay to renovate Ravengro with their own cash. :/
They can't - and won't pay that much.
@GM R0B0: If I'm wrong please tell me!
On the other hand we've scavenged at least that much from Ravengro. I intend to keep that, and anything else we can find.
I also figure we'll get some checks in to make money ourselves.
Hearthmount drops his gaze from Dashil's. "Just get from my sight," he mutters.
Muricar pulls on his collar. "2,500, of course. And salvage."
Councilwoman Straelock stiffens. "If that will be all, let us put this extortion to rest. I am certain we all have some place more agreeable to be."
"Of course, Councilwoman. Councilman Muricar, if you'll come to the Lorrimor Manor I'll detail exactly what we found out for the town records. I'll also give you my recommendations on how to defuse Harrowstone permanently. I'm also happy to help draft any letters that you might feel should be sent to outside authorities. No hurry, however. " He nods to the crowd "I understand you'll need to calm your constituents."
Aduard turns back to the crowd and continues his speech, praising the foresight and wisdom of the crowd. Nothing he says is exactly a lie - but very little of it is really the truth.
Esta looks around the room, confused and amazed. "Wait a minute," she says quietly. "Tha's it?" She looks up at Radag. "I was expectin'... a lot more trouble. An' yellin'." She wasn't sure why she was surprised that Aduard had been able to convince the council of everything, but nevertheless, she was impressed and relieved.
"So.. wha' now?"
The month passes quickly. For the most part, the town keeps its distance from the Lorrimor Manor, allowing the remaining party members to spend their time as they please.
The remains of Harrowstone's dead, guard and prisoners alike, are exhumed from the ruined penitentiary. The bodies are consecrated and buried, or destroyed in the case of the infamous six serial killers, and the prison is collapsed. Stout Ravengro men, armed with hammers, spend a weak pulverizing what remains into stones. Finally, Father Grimburrow performs a rite of blessing, removing any last vestiges of the site's unholy power.
Brogol's body is preserved with magic until his friends and relatives could be contacted and his funeral be held. Today is that day.
Like the day of Professor Lorrimor's funeral, the skies of Ustalav are an unrelenting grey. Rain comes down in a fine mist, wind rattling through trees bearing half their summer leaves. An oak coffin lies in the grass nearby.
Father Grimburrow looks over the meager procession: Aduard, Radag, Dashil, Esta, Kendra, and a man that nobody has met. The aged cleric grimaces and gestures towards the casket.
"When you are ready," he announces.
"Is anyone ever ready to bury a man like Brogol Stockl?" Aduard proclaims. "He gave his life fighting for this place - and we've only just enough people to bear his coffin."
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The man is large, physically imposing, though his body has softened with middle age. He keeps a beard, perhaps once trimmed neatly, now approaching overgrown, which falls well below his jawline. Black eyes, bloodshoot red this morning, peer out from below a wide-brimmed rust-red hat, adorned with a brilliant blue feather. The feather is the most ostentatious thing about the man; the rest of his clothes are decidedly utilitarian, if well made. A long brown leather duster covers a fine chain shirt and leather breeches. Hiding under the duster, two bandoleers, stuffed with small iron vials, criss-crossing the chain shirt. As he walks towards Brogol's coffin, a gust of wind blows his duster aside, and you spy an antique pepperbox strapped to the man's hip.
Doctor Arruk Karras reaches underneath his duster and clearing his throat, brings forth a small folded sheet of paper. Clearing it again, he unfolds it, hands trembling.
"We come into this world, naked and mewling. Surely Mr. Brogol Stockl was no different. Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure..."
The boy gave his life for this town, and this? This is the turnout?
A rigidity comes over the man, and he pauses for a long beat, before crumpling up the paper, and tossing it into Brogol's grave. "Words. It is all we have to go on. And I can craft them alright, given the time. But I have no inclination for flowery speech this morning. Here's the truth, those of you here today, for you must have been friends of the boy: the Lady of Graves is a right bastard. Fate itself conspired to keep me from Ravengro! Every decision I made, every one the boy made, every unlucky obstacle, all designed to keep me from finding Mr. Stockl in time, delaying my arrival here until the morning of the boy's death."
Punching his index finger down on his hand, for emphasis, the Doctor continues.
"I. Don't. Accept. The Lady of Graves doesn't get a say in this. I am going to bring Mr. Brogol Stockl back."
The man grabs his hat and with a grandiloquent gesture, doffs it to Father Grimburrow. "Provided your goddess gives me enough time, I suppose. Father..."
Aduard's emotions are chaotic. First; puzzlement at who this man is. Second; shock at the blasphemy. Third; amusement. Fourth; fury, as he realises this man is Brogol's worshipped "Doctor", who left the boy to die in a prison. Fifth, and finally, a fierce kinship as the man shows himself unwilling to let Lady Fate dictate Brogol's Fate, flavoured with overtones of embarrassment at his early misjudgement.
'Perhaps he is worthy of Brogol's trust - but this is hardly the place or time to state such a sentiment.'
By the time Aduard has processed his emotions he has - uncharacteristically - left room for another to talk first.
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The past few weeks found Esta moving through the town, offering her services where they were needed, though not even she could tell if the compulsion to heal and mend what she could was because of her patron’s calling or her overwhelming guilt in failing to save Brogol. All she knew was that she needed to keep busy. Regardless, she plied her trade all around town until she couldn’t find anyone that needed her assistance.
With nothing left to do, she made her way back to her companions, finding that their company was even more welcome than usual with the funeral looming in the near future.
"Is anyone ever ready to bury a man like Brogol Stockl?" Aduard proclaims. "He gave his life fighting for this place - and we've only just enough people to bear his coffin."
The misty rain settles over her, seeping slowly into her hair and clothes. She shivers, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head in an attempt to thwart some of the wetness as Oolong huddles underneath her skirt, peeking out as he chirps in irritation. “He didn’ mean anythin’ by it, Aduard, he’s jus’ doin’ his job,” Esta says softly as she puts a hand on the wizard’s arm in an attempt to calm him. “Don’ bite his head off.”
She looks forlornly at the coffin, then carefully, guarded as always, at the new man that had recently joined them. A doctor of some sort, and apparently an old acquaintance of Brogol’s. She knew nothing else of him, but sensed that the others’ feelings towards him weren’t wholly positive.
But now was not the time for that. She stands, half listening as the man talks, and stares at the ground until her attention is drawn back to him. She wasn't sure if it was the easy sacrilege or the declaration of undoing Brogol's death that caught her attention, but either way, this man was clearly not someone to be crossed.
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With the benefit of hindsight, it can be seen that the restoration of Dashil's cloak was too much, too soon. The meeting over, she stalks out without a word to her companions. Her golden cloak leaves a trail of light in her wake as she heads for the tavern and spends the rest of the day drinking, trying to blot out the intrusive memories and emotions that Aduard triggered (with the best of intentions). Shame, grief, and guilt; and the greatest of these is guilt.
On her return to the house, the cloak is hastily rolled up and stuffed in the bottom of her backpack. She spends the rest of her month in the village actively avoiding company - her darkvision means that it's easy for her to adopt antisocial hours. It does nothing for her reputation within the village, but this fact only serves as a further reminder of past times.
She does not attend Brogol's funeral. Instead, with the others away, she walks into the bathroom and bares her arm, knife in hand. It is some time before she decides what to carve. Not his name: names get lost in time and she never used his much, anyway. Her fallen companions are etched into her body with symbols, scars which commemorate deeds, passions, nicknames...
She has it. The first incision cuts to the bone, a downward stroke which curves off to the left. Her breath hisses between her clenched teeth, and her knuckles whiten, but she's not done. Four more diagonal strokes follow, swift slashes into her icy flesh; blood runs from her forearm in rivulets, pooling in the bath. Her eyesight dims and the world around her starts to fade, but she isn't finished; she retains consciousness through sheer effort of will. The final three cuts are brutally simple: two vertical incisions joined by a horizontal slash.
Cursing, blaspheming with agony and anguish, Dashil releases her magic: the wounds close over instantly, the blood stops flowing, scar tissue forms in the shape of three letters: As she looks at her handiwork, a face swims into Dashil's memory: frightened but determined, marked for death but not flinching from it, a junior monster hunter who understood that what they faced was worth dying to defeat...
"Dammit, kid! Why did you have to die on my watch...?!"
It has not happened for a long time, and indeed she had wondered if she had somehow lost the ability altogether. But it seems not. Here, in this room, in this place, at this time, Dashil is crying.
After the funeral, Doctor Karras removes his hat and, his face pinched, approaches Kendra. "Ms. Lorrimor. Words cannot express my gratitude for your letter. It was a fine thing, to watch after Mr. Stockl, and to send me your missive as soon as he arrived, stating your concern at the boy's involvement in your father's investigation. I also cannot express my most sincere apologies, for not having said hello sooner. I arrived in town the morning of Mr. Stockl's death, delayed, as I said, by circumstances beyond my control, and immediately fell into a deep state of melancholy at the news. I'm afraid I've been holed up in my hotel since. A lady doesn't need to be bothered with the details. I would invite you to the hotel for a cup of tea, but I'm afraid it is rather... rustic. May I impose upon you instead?"
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Lorrimor Manor
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The Doctor sips his tea. In normal times, a teetotaler like his apprentice, Karras enjoys the warmth of the mug, the room. A pang of remorse, for the manor he's left behind, for the life that now must lie abandoned, crosses the man's face. It was not such a warm and cozy place as this, but his manse in Caliphas had its charms. Brogol, especially, had made so.
"I have been a fool. Consumed by my work, I have long relished an almost joyless approach to life, figuring that that was my burden. All the while, I have forgotten what a real burden was."
Karras' eyes tear up, then man pinches his nose and looks to the fire before continuing. "I isolated myself from the world, even as I moved about its shadows. It wasn't until I needed an assistant that my recovery began, slow going as it was. Mr. Stockl - Brogol, was of course the impetus. And, as the years went on, he was for all intents and purposes my son. And... I never let him know that."
"That is a real burden."
"Thank you, all of you, for the kindness that you showed Brogol in his last days. I meant it when I said it - I intend fully to cheat Pharasma of her prize. Tell me, what will you all do now?"
Placing his tea on the fireplace mantel, the Doctor stands straight and pulls on his beard, suddenly conscious of how unkempt he must appear; wild-haired, overgrown, red-eyed.
"By way of proper introduction, I am Doctor Arruk Karras, of Caliphas."
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Lorrimor Manor
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Aduard, pacing the floor with a mug clenched in his hand, moves to the doctor and places a briefly hand on the shoulder.
"Brogol... had a gift. A gift for softening the hard hearts of old curmudgeons like ourselves. I knew him only a week but he had started."
Aduard removes his hand. "Have no fear as to our reaction to your objective. I also had planned to offer Mr Stockl a way back. I caution you that our colleagues here." he looks over at Dashil and Radag "Accept our desires so long as we do not force him to return. We may open the gate, but should young Brogol refuse to return from Elysium we will accept his decision."
Aduard pauses and holds out a gloveless hand in greeting.
"As for introductions, it is good to meet in the flesh. I am Aduard Bookman, of Caliphas. Strange that we should never have met when we lived so near, yet now - on the other side of Ustalav - we finally meet in person. While I know your work through your correspondence, I feel I know you better through Brogol's words."
Aduard sighs.
"He spoke of you often. He was a tribute to your education. He spooked at nothing, he was well learned, and his intuition was all but psychic. I realise that is small consolation. He did leave this..." Aduard says, handing over a small book. "I hope it brings you some small measure of comfort."
The book is one the doctor bought from Aduard about a year or so back. A quarto-sized tome, bound in a bleached white leather, the book's page edges are gilted with gold. It carries no title or other distinctive markings.
The Doctor nods, his face solemn. "Of course, of course. It would be Brogol's decision to return. I am a hunter of restless dead, not their creator."
Karras' eyes twinkle as Aduard introduces himself. "Of course! Bookman! Your facility for finding the perfect book for a someone - without ever even meeting them - is without peer. Were the circumstances of our meeting a happier one! I would love to know how you do it. I --"
Stopped dead in his though, Karras stares at the book, his eyes briefly tearing up. Blinking twice, the Doctor takes the quarto. "It was a fine book when I bought it, and even finer now, knowing that Brogol made use of it. With all sincerity, thank you, sir. It is my finest treasure."
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==================
The Funeral
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Radag is stoic, in his broad slouched posture, for the funeral. He mutters quietly to himself something like, How insignificant this moment must seem when compared to the rest of eternity. Lady of Judgement, see Brogol safely to the beginning of his forever. May the guardians ward the witches and demons that would take his soul. Praise his spirit but please see his body stays in the hole.
As Karras makes his entrance and speech, Radag's mouth crooks open in disbelief, Who's this guy anyway?
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Lorrimor Manor
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Radag scoffs at mention of Pharasma's defiance, but otherwise is at ease with crossing his arms and watching the new guy and Aduard converse. With heavy sarcasm Radag thinks to himself, Great... two of them.
Kendra waits for the discussion to taper off before she broaches the doctor's question. "My father's will requires that this group stays here in Ravengro for one month until they must take some of his books to a colleague in Lepidstadt. In that time, they prevented the destruction of this town, and perhaps more, by a group of murderous apparitions. Your friend, our friend, Brogol, gave his life for that goal. You should be proud"
Dashil feebly wipes at her eyes, and looks around; but she can't possibly hide what she's been up to, even if she had the strength to try. Sometimes, it's better just to give in to the inevitable. "Yes, it's me." Her voice is husky. "You can come in, but I've... made a mess." When all else fails, take refuge in understatement.
Karras' eyes grow large, sincere. "Of course, Ms. Lorrimor. In my ten years of crawling through the darker shadows and alleyways of this forlorn land, I doubt I have saved as many lives as Brogol - and the rest of you - did in a week. I am beyond proud. I am honored that Brogol's legacy will live on through the continued existence of Ravengro. And, as uhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Brogol's guardian of a sort, I would like to accompany you all to Lepidstadt. I wouldn't ask of any remuneration that Brogol would have earned, if any. I just would like to see his legacy seen to its conclusion."
Radag is no inquisitor like Dashil, and his time in the wilds has made him blind to many subtle tells of all but the worst liars. Liars like Karras. Still leaning his broad shoulders against the frame of the entrance when he powers into the conversation. He may have looked like a half-orc, but doesn't make us gullible as that look on your face makes us out to be. Why are you really in such a hurry to move on? What happened in back Caliphas?
"I for one would be delighted if you accompanied us." Aduard announces to the doctor. "Kendra; have you decided what you will do, then?"
On a quieter note he continues "I've little pride in Brogol's death. The boy definitely acquitted himself as a man, though. If he were an apprentice, he's a journeyman now."
The Doctor's face shades red at Radag's verbal assault. Closing his eyes, Karras breathes three times, deeply, and then opening them again, offers Radag a sheepish smile.
"Horror, Master Irefist, horror. A virulent plague of parasites that turned its victims into ravenous, unthinking creatures, with mouths in their chests and sharp claws in their palms. The seamstress was infected, and there was no time to lose. I dug up her body and smuggled her to our manor in the dead of night, and performed my surgery, preventing the infection from taking hold and mutating her into one of them. And, with time of the essence, I left that evening to visit her husband's family in the town of Ulrich's Wake, whence she had recently returned from visiting. I neglected to take Brogol with me, fearing what I might find."
Coughing, the Doctor's eyes grow distant; he stares at the space between himself and Radag. "What I found confirmed my fears, and then buried them among more horrors. Thus delayed, I returned to find Brogol gone and my manor occupied by the authorities, for the seamstress was still in my basement lab, left on my autopsy table in my haste. She was saved from rising again as an infected, but damned me and the boy to the gallows in the process. Polite society does not understand what we do, Mr. Irefist. Truthfully, I cannot return to Caliphas, and remain a free man. And neither can Brogol rest there."
Radag's jaw slacks, in its normal crookedness as he replies, I doubt any understanding would change much. It is what it is now. Any bounties on your head? Anyone still chasing you? Cause the last thing we need is more danger than we stumbled into on our own.
Aduard raises an eyebrow "I dare say I can assist om explaining to the authorities - but that is not a fast thing."
He sighs "Not three months ago I bemoaned the lack of purpose in my life. Now I am all but buried under a surfeit of goals. Fulfil the Professor's request, bring back Brogol, and avenge Petros."
"I doubt anyone will look for you here - but it would be better to go by a pseudonym - or only your title - from now on, I think"
She takes a deep breath, but self control - and a rational explanation - are hard to come by. My cl-cloak..." Seeing Kendra's puzzled face, she tries to explain further: "He fixed my cloak and it - it brought back too many memories... Too many people I care about, dead... Too much guilt, I couldn't..." she trails off, and holds up the cuts in her arm (now healed) by way of explanation.