Brogol stands and throwing the book to the table, begins moving towards the door. "Aye'll go around the other way around the house. We'll catch the old man inna pinch." Pulling his cloak aside, the young man draws a large, wickedly curved blade, that gleams a little in the candlelight. "The Doctor taught me ta use this. Aye taught myself ta use the shadows ta remain unseen."
Pausing before heading out the door, Brogol adds, "Though Aye hope no violence comes of this." The tone of Brogol's voice wavers a little as he speaks, a tinge of fear driving it tp crack at the end.
Dmitri frowns again, but gets up and follows after the others. The rapier at his waist remains sheathed, but his left hand rests uneasily on the pommel.
You sneak out to where the old man was seen, but can find no trace of him. The pouring rain and cloudy night sky make for terrible visibility. Perhaps tracks can be found the following morning. As the group heads back inside the Lorrimor manor, they cannot help but feel like they are being watched.
Kendra looks up when you return, dripping from the rain. "Did you find him?"
"No, m'lady. No one out there." Sighing, Brogol takes his seat by the fire, and fills his mug with hot water and some more tea leaves. Wiping his hands on a napkin, the apprentice picks up a book and begins reading, looking for clues on as to the Professor's investigation.
Radag hangs his cloak again by the door. Oh he's out there, but we couldn't find him in this weather. We should take turns on watches tonight. What are our plans for tomorrow?
Dmitri looks on curiously when the others return. "We should definitely go see th' Pharasmans," he suggests. "But for now, I need t' sleep. This has takin' more outta me than I expected."
"Watches? A capital idea Mr Irefist. We were just discussing that very thing. I'll leave the organisation in your capable hands."
Makes sense that he's capable; otherwise why would Petros have put up with him!
"Kendra, I realise this is abysmal timing, but might I have a private word with you?"
"I am so sorry to bring this up - gods know today must have been terrible for you. A few weeks ago I sent your father a manuscript. I'm afraid I rather need it back. Again, I'm sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know if you've received a parcel from me in the last few weeks?"
Discussion completed (or avoided) Bookman will grab the strongest tea he can and settle down for the night with disturbing and eldritch tomes. His goal: to illuminate and explicate the Whispering Way.
If possible he'd like to read the Urgathoan book as well. You mentioned spells?
He's going to work through the night if necessary - he's already tired, but the idea of going to bed with no knowledge of the necromancers who might come for him is not one that leads to a comfortable night in.
While he is perusing the bookshelves he'll keep an eye out for his manuscript, just in case.
Dashil curses loudly as she realises that their quarry has escaped, again. Returning to the house, she again wrings out her rain-sodden hair and ties it back out of the way.
She turns to Aduard. "I'll stay up and help you, if you like. I used to help Professor Lorrimor. I know what's involved."
Dashil looks relieved as she realises that this will keep her awake and distracted for a few more hours. Sleep (or rather the dreaming that comes with it) is her enemy, while she's here. She shudders. 29 more nights after this one.
Either the night prior or the next morning...
Why are we seeing the Pharasmans?
The next morning, Wakati will fill Radag in on the discussion from last night. After a long and drawn out replay, he winds up with:
Well, the bottom line is that the Professor was investigating something at Harrowstone when he died. The Pharasman church has the best records on the history of the prison, so we figured that was the best place to start our research. Did I leave anything out?
He looks around to the others for confirmation.
Why not go ahead and retrace his steps entirely? Get the information about Harrowstone from the church, head over to the Restlands and look into the crypt, and then head to Harrowstone. If we run into any of this 'Way,' we bury them. Oh and I'd like to take a stab at picking up the tracks of Ol' Rag Man from last night too.
The Whispering Way is a sinister organization of necromancers that has been active in the Inner Sea region for thousands of years. Their agents often seek alliances with undead creatures, or are themselves undead. The Whispering Way’s most notorious member was Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant, although the society itself has existed much longer than even that mighty necromancer.
You do not sleep well. In a particularly disturbing nightmare, you are caught in a torrential downpour. Rushing to find shelter, you see a covered wagon on the side of the road, a travelling merchant's shop. With a gleaming smile, the portly man running the shop offers to show you his wares: countless finely-crafted holy symbols. You search and search until you find the perfect one: a silver effigy of the Dawnflower, her wings spread against a sunburst. When you turn back to the merchant, however, his kindly face has turned to a demonic leer and searing pain runs down your wrists. You look down to see that both of your wrists have been slit and your lifeblood is leaking away.
You wake with a gasp as the pain slowly dissipates. In the light, your arms are fine, but that does nothing to help you forget the bizarre dream.
So, a night working together? Seems like maybe there is a chance of seeing Dashil doesn't want to sleep and perhaps a clue as to why?
Dashil finally tires of Aduard's furtive/speculative glances. Taking a sip from her flask of whisky, she decides on the direct approach. "Either you're admiring my looks - in which case I have to tell you you're wasting your time - or you're trying to suss me out. Yes, I have secrets, but I'm better with questions: like why you were so keen to look at Lorrimor's journal without anyone else seeing it. Answer that, maybe I'll answer one of yours."
"Wasting my time? Am I then so hideous myself or is it that your heart belongs to another?"
"You seem to know a lot about the undead, Urgathoa and the Way and have said you were posted here. Bad memories, I believe you said. Very mysterious."
"One must be careful of being mysterious around an author madam, for we chase forever inspiration and models - and few muses are as attractive as yourself."
"I could write a book about you - mysterious exotic adventuress with a tough as nails exterior fighting the hordes of the undead - and sell a thousand copies. No - I could write a series."
"The professor has a book of mine. I lent it to him. I need it back. I trusted him with it, but it honestly never crossed my mind the man might die. I do not trust anyone else with it."
"It seemed reasonable that he might have mentioned it in his journal."
He sighs
"I should be looking for it now... But I have very few friends and it seems I take their murder badly. Very badly indeed."
----------------------------
When opening Serving Hunger, your finger slips and slices open against the jagged edge of the book's cover. Although painful, it appears to be little more than a flesh wound.
Inside the book, among blasphemous psalms and several recipes for something called 'long pork', you find a couple of blasphemous curses: Eternal Hunger (treat it as wizard spell of equivalent level) and Urgathoa's Blessing.
Your research, aided by Professor Lorrimor's detailed notes in the margins of Serving Hunger turns up a great deal on the Whispering Way:
The Whispering Way is a sinister organization of necromancers that has been active in the Inner Sea region for thousands of years. Their agents often seek alliances with undead creatures, or are themselves undead. The Whispering Way’s most notorious member was Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant, although the society itself has existed much longer than even that mighty necromancer.
The Whispering Way itself is a series of philosophies that can only be transferred via whispers — the philosophies are never written or spoken of loudly, making the exact goals and nature of the secretive philosophy difficult for outsiders to learn much about.
Exact details on the society are difficult to discern, but chief among the Whispering Way’s goals are discovering formulae for creating liches and engineering the release of the Whispering Tyrant. Agents often travel to remote sites or areas plagued by notorious haunts or undead menaces to perform field research or even to capture unique monsters. Their symbol is a gagged skull, and those who learn too many of the Way’s secrets are often murdered, and their mouths mutilated to prevent their bodies from divulging secrets via speak with dead.
Despite the late night of research, you are largely unaffected the following morning.
Harrowstone was built in 4594. Ravengro grew up nearby, serving as a place where guards and their families could live and producing food and other supplies used by the prison. Most of the hardened criminals sent to Harrowstone spent only a few months imprisoned, for it was here that most of Ustalav’s executions during that era were carried out.
In 4661, the prisoners launched a riot, sucessfully gaining control of most of the dungeons beneath the actual structure. In the chaos, a fire broke out, causing the entire underground eastern wing to collapse. The prison's warden, Lycar Hawkren, twenty-three guards, and all prisoners were killed by the conflagration. Included in the deceased was the warden's wife, Vesorianna, although why she was in the prison during the riot is unknown.
The prison building has stood vacant ever since. The locals spread tales of its haunting, claiming to catch glimpses of Vesorianna's wandering specter, calling for blood.
A statue commemorating the warden and the guards who lost their lives was built in the months after the tragedy — that statue still stands on the riverbank just outside of town.
That night, you are disturbed by a troubling dream. You sit alone at a dinner table in a modest cottage. An imposing structure of brick and stone looms atop a hill in the distance. You can see it from the window. The sun is setting and you're beginning to worry. He isn't home yet. Where could he be? He was never late for dinner. You look out the window again, your gaze drawn back to the large building on the hill. You awake with a start, the anxiety from the dream heavy in your chest.
Radag chuckles. You can't make this stuff up.
"Shut up you two!" Radag interrupts mid-laugh, "Neither one of you are worth writing home about, so let's focus on what we're setting out to do first before you two and Brogol discuss the strange physically frustrated love triangle that's going on." Radag finishes by moving to fetch himself his morning ration of mead.
"Friends are far and few between as we get older. The most we can hope to accomplish is making sure we carry them in our hearts and minds while serving out some proper arse-kicking to the ones that have it coming. Now look, do we want to split up into groups to get the Church and Restlands a once over before heading to the Prison together? Radag takes a large drink from his mead, and sighs satisfyingly with a belch.
Brogol awakes with a start, and places his hand over his hammering heart. Laying quiet, Brogol tries to pin down as much of his dream as possible, committing the dark structure on the hill, the cottage, and his (her?) sense of dread to memory. Sighing, Brogol gets out of bed and donning his purple cloak, makes his way downstairs for a cup of tea and breakfast.
----------
As Radag makes his jibe at Brogol's expense, the half-human blushes and pulls his cloak down around his face. Knew plenty of boys like this Irefist in the Stanglers. Loud mouth, lots of bluster. Be interested to see how he backs it up. Tipping some tea leaves into the clay mug sitting by his place at the table - his place, his mug - the apprentice's voice came out low, almost a snarl. "Let's talk 'bout this Harrowstone, yes? Aye found sum things out last night. T'was a fire there, killed tha warden and tha warden's wife, a woman named Vesorianna Hawkren. Nobody knows why tha lady was there tha night. Warden's name was Lycar. All tha prisoners on tha wing died tha night, an twenty-three guards as well. There's a statue ta commemorate tha fire on tha outskirts o' town."
Brogol takes a long sip of tea and covers his mouth, a large toothy yawn escaping. Turning to Kendra , the apprentice says, "Lady, tha Harrowstone - tis a large brick and stone structure, tha sits looming atop a hill?"
Once Dmitri wakes and performs his morning ritual, he heads downstairs to find the others talking. "Mornin'," he yawns at them, but he looks significantly less harrowed today than the previous day. At Radag's question, he bristles a little. "I insist that we stick together. There ain't any rush, and th' chances of something unt'ward happenin' are much higher if we split up," the evangelist of the Drunken Hero states, arms crossed.
Aduard habitually wears gloves, and is all too aware of the methods sometimes used to protect books.
All too believable that a book containing those spells might harbour some disease or poison.
If the edge has cut his finger, it needs to be treated immediately... which finger, and where on the finger was it, please?
Aduard jumps when Radag suddenly speaks up
"Strength in numbers. I suggest we use the daylight to check out the church, then the Restlands, then regroup for lunch and consider the prison."
As Aduard talks about writing, Dashil looks bitterly at the wizard. "Most books need a hero; whatever I am, I'm not that. I'm the thing that makes monsters afraid of the dark. As those who killed the Professor are going to find out." She shoots Aduard a cold look.
"Besides, heroes don't do what I did. Now, you've had your question; let's get back to reading these and finding out who killed the Professor."
When Aduard cuts himself on the book, Dashil shakes her head in exasperation and heals him.
Dashil wakes in a panic, frantically checking that she hasn't - somehow - cut her wrists. No. The blood was just in her dream. She shudders. Holy symbols, her own blood - it's a change from her usual nightmares; but not an improvement on them.
She feels terrible. Rising early for breakfast, she laces her morning coffee with a liberal dash of whisky from her flask, in an effort to calm herself down. When Brogol speaks about what he found, she listens.
"You look pretty drawn, kid. Come here a second." Stretching out her arm, there's a faint nimbus of light - but nothing obvious happens. Brogol feels a lot better, though.
"Right, what did I find that's important? Oh yeah. Some information on the Whispering Way. They're a bunch of necromancers that has been active in the Inner Sea region for thousands of years. Their agents often seek alliances with undead creatures, or are themselves undead. Most notorious member was Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant, although the society itself has existed much longer than even him."
"Let's wander through town first, see what we can see."
Brogol smiles and wonders about just what the blue-haired woman did. Gone is his low-grade headache, as is the dryness in his mouth and eyes. Indeed, even the knot in his back, created last night by scrunching to read by the manor's firelight - gone into the ether like the darkness of the night before.
Rolling his shoulders, the apprentice stands to his full - still short - height, and lets a long, appreciative sigh forth from under his hood. "Aye thank ya, Miss Mas--, Dashil. Aye thank ya, Dashil. An' Aye agree wit ya as well. Aye'd like ta get tha lay o' tha town."
"They're an unpleasant bunch of what sounds like low league losers trying to reclaim their glory days." Aduard announces
"The Way, I mean, not the townsfolk."
Aduard continues in an irascible and irritated mood, apparently annoyed by lecturing.
"They - or their agents - often perform field research in desolate, remote sites plagued by notorious haunts or undead menaces. They also take specimens for further study. While I'm sure many of you feel the removal of such specimens is beneficial to society, if they ever complete their research and find an easier way to raise liches or release Tar-Baphon I'm sure you will change your mind."
"Their symbol is a gagged skull - which is indicative of their processes as those who learn too many of the Way’s secrets are often murdered, and their mouths mutilated to prevent their bodies from divulging secrets through necromantic means."
"This means that the church, where poor Petros was prepared for burial, can confirm if his murder is concordant with this modus operandi."
"Also, we now know enough of their secrets that I think there is a reasonable chance we will all be targets, so, for the good gods sake shut up about it"
This last point seems to have brought his frustration to a head.
He's worried some idiot - probably Irefist - is going to talk and get him murdered
Wakati joins the group downstairs after a peaceful night. He listens intently as the others explain what they discovered through their evening activities.
I am inclined to agree with Dmitri, here. We are, after all, strangers in this town. And we have evidence that not all of the townsfolk are as friendly as Ms. Lorrimor. Splitting up could potentially expose us to undue risk, yes? Especially as some of us tend to stick out a bit more than the others. He glances at Dashil and Brogol as he makes this last statement.
Plus, I tend to have trouble navigating in unfamiliar places.
As for a plan for the day, I agree we should start with the Pharasman church. That may take some time. We may want to wait to visit the Restlands until later this evening. After all, a group of strangers poking around in the cemetery is bound to draw suspicion. We best leave that activity until there are fewer eyes around to question our actions.
Radag picks up the diary as he continues gruffly, "I don't think I need to ask the church to confirm that this "Way" didn't have a hand in Petros's death. Kendra already mentioned she couldn't have the spells cast to say her final goodbyes because of what I suspect is the Way's "modus operandi." Radag ends his sentence impersonating Aduard's tone. "Petros wouldn't even have been at this Harrowstone where his "accident" occurred if it were not for the "Way" mucking about."
"I hope the Way comes targeting me. It'll save me the time of seeking vengeance on them for all the gagged murdering and I hope they bring Tar-baphon and all the liches with them so I can bury them too. I'd be cursed to eternal suffering before I'd submit to anyone out of fear and cowardice." Radag laughs at the idea and takes another swig from his mead, before opening the diary in one hand and taking a cursory review of what was already noted.
Whatever, the infinite hells, a Tar-baphon and a Liches is.
"Alright, so we'll do a walk about the town on the way to the church then? I can think of a few supplies I might be needing too. Graveyards at night is a brave suggestion, Late One (Wakati). I agree the graveyard at night."
Brogol shrugs. I'll wager I've spent many more hours in graveyards at night than everyone else here, digging up corpses with the Doctor and the Stranglers. "Today, town. Temple. Tonight. Graveyard. Sounds good ta me."
When his finger was injured I figure Aduard would have taken it very seriously; he wears gloves and this cut through them. He's in the book trade, and a lot of magical books are protected with spells, poisons or other.
Given this is a holy book to Urgathoa
should be enough to clue him in to the fact she is the goddess of disease. That means there's a decent chance the defences might be disease based. A cut on the finger should, at the least, get tetanus.
The questions for GM Olmek were to decide whether he should remove that part of the finger. Obviously as a spellcaster he's a bit worried about losing the ability to do S components.
Perhaps this is just a reason to see the Pharasman church.
I think he'd have run this past Dashil, because it COULD be ghoul fever or something.
Given the game has definitely moved on, how about he did so with a "it might be nothing, don't panic people, let's make sure no-one else gets infected".
I'd like to roleplay it, but we'd need to do it in a lot of spoilers...
You each awake to the smell of coffee and toast being prepared. It would seem that Kendra rose early. Breakfast is a poached egg served on top of a piece of crusty bread. She smiles as she serves it each of you. "I'm afraid my father's habit of breaking his fast with something light rubbed off on me. I'm sorry I didn't fix something heartier."
She turns to Brogol after he asks his question. "Why, yes. You can see it from the second floor. Why?"
A simple wooden gazebo at the center of a grassy circular plaza serves as the hub for Ravengro’s major festivals and gatherings. The town council also uses the gazebo as a platform for major announcements. When their labor allows it, farmers who have musical talent often converge here, forming impromptu bands. The town square is also where the local farmer’s market gathers every Wealday.
A massive pole rises out of the ground here with dozens upon dozens of notices, advertisements, and other announcements tacked to it. Multiple businesses ring the square: a tavern with a sign portraying a fat, chuckling demon, a forge manned by a sullen looking dwarf, a modest-looking town hall, etc.
While you take in the surroundings, an old, shaggy dog saunters up to Wakati and sniffs him curiously.
Wakati extends a hand to the dog, letting it catch his scent, before attempting to pat its head.
Hullo there pup. Out to greet the visitors?
He will spend some time looking over the posted notices, looking for anything that seems unusual, given what he knows of the area.
Dashil looks around her, taking in the details through long experience of observation. Her lip curls in contempt at the sign of the tavern: demons only laugh at suffering. What sort of idiot would think that worthy of celebrating?
The sight of the dwarf stirs her curiosity - the idea of a village this far from anywhere having a dwarven blacksmith is an oddity. Or a cliche. Take your pick.
Taking a sip of whisky from her flask, Dashil lets out a sigh. "So, where to?"
"A dwarf!" Radag says gruffly surprised, "Hang on a second, Im going to see if he has a crowbar." Radag heads over to the dwarf and purchases a crowbar from the smith. He doesn't stop to engage in idle chatter- just doing business.
The dwarf is a middle-aged woman of few words named Jorfa. She does have a crowbar among other mundane metal items, but you notice a number of fine quality weapons and armor hanging in the back.
Eerily, the sight of Harrowstone from the Lorrimor residence window matches exactly that of your dream.
The dog wags his tail happily for the attention, but eventually makes his way back to the gazebo.
On the pole, you find a number of notices and bits of news:
The corpses of a three sheep belonging to Councilman Gharen Muricar were discovered over the last few months by ranch hands the following mornings. The sheep’s bodies were left on the farm, mostly intact except the skin was peeled off and removed sometime during each night. Attempts to find what was causing these slayings have turned up no luck. – Benjar Caellar (This news is over a month old)
The body of Professor Lorrimir was found at the Harrowstone site, being crushed by fallen debris from the roof. A funeral to follow in two weeks time. (This news is 14 Days old)
"THE BEAST STRIKES AGAIN" Something called "The Beast of Lepidstadt was sighted during the burning of the Sanctuary asylum on Karb Island, less than a days ride from the provincial seat. Only one man, an assistant to the chief physician, survived the inferno. Judge Kasp Aldaar, infamous for his hard-line justice has promised a swift trial if the beast is captured, with the bounty for the creature being raised to 4,000 gold.
Dmitri follows after Radag when he goes to see the dwarf manning the forge, curious at the various wares she has for sale. When his friendly small talk is rebuffed by the quiet woman, he busies himself with inspecting the various armors.
Taking a sip of whisky from her flask, Dashil lets out a sigh. "So, where to?"
Aduard rolls his eyes as Irefist starts running errands. Carefully he keeps his opinions to himself. Wandering over to the pole he idly looks at the pastoral notices, his attention caught by the skinned sheep.
What could - or would - do such a thing?
As the group gathers its things, Brogol turns to Kendra, and asks, not really convinced that she'll know the answer, and if she does that he wants to hear it, "Ms. Lorrimer, do you know wha' stood on this spot before tha manor was built? Any stories of loss, tragedy, or horror connected ta tha people wha lived here before yer family?"
Standing next to Aduard, Brogol reads the notices with interest. "If something of a conspiracy's afoot, there may be a clue on this pole. Perhaps we should find this Benjar and ask about the sheep?"
"Aye'd also like ta find a library, and we should see tha Parasmans."
Aye, let's make our way to the church and hope none of those secret keeping gaggers is among their number. Radag grumbles, as he returns to the group while stuffing the crowbar into his pack.
Radag pulls a portion of jerky from his rations out of his backpack and tests the stray dog´s training with a come or follow, command whistle.
Elspeth. Dashil has just remembered the name of the red-head she walked out on. Funny, the way memory works in idle moments.
Lost briefly in thought, she misses Aduard's comments and wanders over to see what messages have caught his attention. "Hm? Oh. Sheep mutilation. Sorry. Thought you might have seen something weird. This is Ustalav," she emphasises. "Corpses crushed by statues, livestock ritually killed, weird dreams..." She takes another sip of whisky. "You know: Tuesday."
She curses to herself. She didn't mean to mention the dream.
A sharp intake of breath comes from Brogol's hood. Then a pause, and the young man's voice, waving with - doubt? Insecurity? Fear?
She's a kind one, Brogol. Spit it out, you.
Doubt, insecurity, fear, all of the above.
"Aye had a weird dream last night, Dashil. Wer a house, where the Lorrimors' is now, an' a lady, perhaps, filled wit dread, tha' someone wasn't coming home. Felt real as this world, an' when I went ta the second floor ta gaze upon tha Harrowstone - tha view were exactly tha same."
Wakati listens as his companions speak of their dreams from the previous night.
Hmm, yes, dreams are certainly enigmatic. They can interpret the past, enlighten the present, or illuminate the future. They can do all three at one time. Or they can turn out to be utter nonsense. The real trick is figuring out where a particular dream lies, and what its true message is.
He turns back to the postings for a moment, before moving away from the message post. We should talk to the Pharasmans before the morning gets too late. Can any of you spot their chapel?
"Yes, I think we should find them quickly" Aduard agrees with Wakati, then turns to Brogol.
"I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure the... events of last night were just playing on your mind. Caused you to remember seeing Harrowstone earlier"
Brogol looks to the ground, a look of clear discomfort on his face - if anyone could see it. "Aye hate to disagree wit you, Mr. Bookman, but this were something more than imagination. Were as real to me as you an' me standing here now. But, Wakati an' yerself are correct - we've got more pressing matters.
Looking around for someone obviously destitute, preferably an urchin or a beggar, Brogol digs into his beltpouch for some coin. Approaching his mark, the apprentice holds out five silver. "What way ta' tha Pharasmans?"
Dashil nods in agreement, her clear eyes focussing on Aduard and Wakati. "My dream too was more a memory - and not mine, either. Sounds like yours was pretty peaceful, kid; at least no one slit your wrists!"
The blue-haired woman frowns, trying to remember. "There was a shop, I think, to shelter from the rain... I was looking at holy symbols and saw one of the Dawnflower - my goddess. Although it was silver, I knew somehow that it wouldn't ever tarnish; it was..." for a moment she looks almost - wistful? But the expression is gone quickly. "And then he - the shopkeeper I mean - he transformed somehow, into a demon, and my wrists..."
She trails off. "I'm no stranger to bad dreams, believe me, and this was a hell of a lot more than just a bad dream. Believe me or not, as you like." She shrugs, laconically.
"Like the demon on the sign there?" Radag jests as he continues calling the dog. All hunched over Radag looks large, but is unintimidating with his supposedly cute-ish voice- the one many talk to their animals with.
The Pharasman church is an easy trek from the center of town. You head north towards the Restlands, turning west to cross the river via a covered bridge. The only religious building in Ravengro, the church is easily its most elaborate structure. The eastern facade displays an impressive stained glass mural portraying a stern Pharasma towering in judgement over a sour-faced noble.
Inside, the dim chapel holds a few villagers praying quietly while several acolytes go about their business. One approaches when you enter. A middle-aged man with a face scarred by a long since healed pox, he wears robes of black and silver.
"May the Lady of Graves judge you fairly, friends. How may I assist you?
As they approach the chapel, Wakati glances up at the stained glass mural. Intrigued by the image, he pauses for a moment and considers the scene.
Hmm, I believe the noble is Count Andachi. He is widely credited with inviting Kazavon, the blue dragon, into Ustalav, and enabling his rise to power. Not a very popular figure hereabouts, I would guess. Remind me to tell you the story later.
Once they enter the church, Wakati approaches the acolyte.
Good morning. We are friends of the late Professor Lorrimor, and of his daughter Kendra. We are currently staying with her, supporting her in this time of grief. We met Father Grimburrow at the funeral yesterday. Ms. Lorrimor has asked us to stay with her for a period of time, until all of the Professor's affairs are completely settled.
As we were going over the Professor's notes, we discovered he had been researching Harrowstone, the prison on the hill. I understand a great tragedy occurred there in the past, many people died. Some of us are trying to trace the Professor's footsteps prior to his demise, mostly to put our minds at ease about his passing. I understand the Church has extensive records on the town and on the prison, yes? We were wondering if you would allow us to spend some time perusing your archives, look at the information the Professor was reviewing? We would be much obliged if you would allow us this indulgence.
The acolyte shakes his head. "I apologize, but the church archives are reserved for ordained members of the church. I might suggest checking the historical records kept at the town hall."
Dmitri rests a hand on Wakati's shoulder, smiling calmly at the Pharasman acolyte.