The wizard (apparently named Caizarlu) is slapped awake by Kyra easily enough. He lays on the floor, held by Pick by his collar. He coughs, a fleck of blood coming out. "What the f%&*. You come into a man's home, you assault him. I'm an old man! You don't have mercy for an old man?"
He tries to wipe his hands on his robe but realizes that he's bound. He sighs. "What do you want?"
Pick leans over the old man (face essentially upside down, in Caizarlu's vision) as he does so, and bares his teeth (crooked, a little yellowed) in dead-maker's face with a growl.
"Mercy? You live. You wake," he says in his raspy voice. "Hammer says this. Hammer is... much mercy. Below, no mercy. Below, you wake with no fingers." The deformed dwarf makes a chopping motion with one hand, to illustrate.
After he does this, he starts to... grow. Beneath his robes, there's the sense of his muscles and skin stretching and re-forming, becoming larger. A dwarf usually looks bulky, but compact-- humans have the comfort of knowing they're a foot or two higher than 'the stout folk', and as such, the sheer physicality of the natural dwarven physique is often easy to overlook...
...but when that dwarf is now eight feet tall, with powerful limbs and a barrel chest that truly deserves the name, the visual impact of it is disconcerting. Proportions that seemed natural on a shorter body now look hulking and grotesque, and the room seems crowded.
Twice his previous size, Pick can cradle the necromancer's skull in one hand, as if it were a baby's head. He does so.
Kyra lets out a rather unladylike snort when Flibble speaks of Pick having found religion. 'Ridiculous.' She mutters, but before she can go further into it, the Necromancer at her feet begins to stir.
As Pick takes over the interrogation, she steps back, watching him work. Her eyes widen without her realisation to see him grow to such a size. Something she had never seen him do, nor that he was capable of. 'God-posioned or not, he is a great lieutenant.' She tells herself, but what Fibble said lingered on in her mind.
She thinks back to something her father said when she was a young girl. Many other families had practised some kind of religion, but not theirs. When she asked about it, her father had told her that it was a matter of distraction. Being focused on the desires of a god meant that you were not focused on your own. Kyra filed a note in her mind to speak to Pick about this before long. It could be detrimental to her if he suddenly became more concerned with his gods desire than her own.
'I should be the only god he ever needs.' She thinks firmly, watching him loom over the Necromancer.
Caizarlu's eyes widen as Pick grows to a new, greater size and the duergar grabs his head. "I'd heard tales..." he murmurs, "But..."
"Oh! The ghouls!" he exclaims, snapping a couple of his available fingers. "There's no way that was me. I can't create ghouls! I just wanted to study the man upstairs that was turning into one. I've been taking notes on the ghoul appearances, and it seems like they're coming from somewhere in the Hinterlands."
He talks quickly, trying to save his own skin. "I've heard tell of farms getting attacked. Farmers killed, raised as more ghouls with the fever, and then the whole Pack just disappears. It kind of seems like somebody's building an army."
He whispers, "Please don't chop my fingers off."
"Tell us everything you know about the ghouls - how they are made, their strengths and weaknesses, where they have appeared and when. And what do you mean by 'the whole Pack'?" Rhanloi peppers the necromancer with his questions. There are other ones, dealing in the intricacies of the art, but the strange words hold little meaning to the rest of the group...
The necromancer gladly nods to Rhanloi's questions, answering them nearly as fast as they're posed to him.
"Ghouls are made via ghoul fever. When you're bit by a ghoul, you get the disease. When you die of the disease, you become a ghoul. They're weak, I guess, to elves - their paralysis doesn't function against elves, for whatever reason. They're also weak to necromancy, being undead. A ghoul that's been commanded won't do anything to you."
He tries to scratch his chin. "I've already told you where they appeared, but I guess I started noting their appearances about...two weeks ago?"
"What do you mean what do I mean? They're a pack. They move together. They move into a farm, turn the farmers, and then the group moves away together. And excuse me," he says, looking at Flibble. "Treason? Where are we, Cheliax?"
Khalbar nods approvingly as Pick grows in size, and threatens the elderly necromancer. He listens intently to the stories about ghoul fever spreading in the farms, making sure they aren't talking about vampirism.
"Where, old man? Where do the undead run free, killing farmers?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know anything more!" pleads the necromancer. "I've just been studying them for a little while, and I haven't bothered to try and get close at all. Ghouls are still dangerous. I'd ask some of your farmers or guards about it. The patient upstairs, too - he knows something."
"It's too late for that...What can you tell me about these symbols?" he asks the necromancer, drawing the symbol carved into the victims they found. "And is this writing in your journal Thassalonian? I need a bit more proof that you were not involved in these crimes...perhaps you can help us solve the murders."
"No, it's Necril - the language of the dead. I write it to keep my journal more secret. And no, I won't be translating it for you. It's private."
"That symbol is Thassilonian - the Seven-Pointed Star is on every Thassilonian relic I've ever visited. I'm not sure what it symbolizes, though."
"Solve the murders? What could I possibly do?"
"Can ghouls be controlled, like your zombies? I will describe the murders, you will tell us if and how they might be connected to your arts so we can figure out who is behind them and what they are trying to achieve." Rhanloi goes on and describes all of the murders, including the ones that started their adventures together in Sandpoint.
The necromancer rolls his eyes at Rhanloi. "Young half-elf, we're going to get nowhere if you don't listen to me. I've already answered your questions, I've already heard of the murders, I've already explained that I don't have anything to do with them."
"For a necromancer to create a ghoul, he must be capable of sixth-circle magic. If you're dealing with such a necromancer, I suggest you surrender now. I promise you that I am not capable of such magic, nor do I know of any wizards that might be capable of it in the area."
"I'm gonna let you think about that question, and whether I've already answered it." He says, smirking. "If you're a spellcaster worth his salt, you'll already know. If not, it's no use telling you again."
Pick is silent, letting all the other questions come like raindrops, many noises, many words. He inevitably shrinks back down to his own size again. When there is a little lull in the conversation, he squints down into Caizarlu's face once more.
"Why you... make dead walk?" he says with a jerk of his head at the remains of the zombies that had spilled out of the necromancer's storage closet. "What... reason?"
"Who else am I gonna get to carry my things, guard my room, kill my enemies?" scoffs the necromancer. "Do I look like a strong man to you? Zombies never get tired. Never have to sleep. They're strong enough to carry a couple of backpacks and they can do it forever."
"Plus, necromancy is cool."
Pick does not look terribly pleased with this explanation. He wishes he could become large again and make the man scared once more. He liked him better like that, scared, as opposed to smirking.
"Where you get dead? You kill the... the broke-heads?" he asks with a growl.
To the others, he says not bothering to speak quietly, "People in town... not like walking dead. Let them judge... fate."
"Despite my distaste for his craft, we have more important matters to attend to. I will still examine his journal and return it if he is indeed telling us the truth. But lock him up or let him free, we must move forward to discover where these ghouls are coming from. And I, for one, need a strong drink, a good meal, and some time to think.."
Khalbar is still worried about armies of ghouls running wild in the hinterlands. "Going to look for ghouls in the farmlands? It sounds like they run free and grow."
"Yeah, when the mentally ill folk from upstairs die, Habe gives them to me. I give him money and protection. He gives me research subjects." prattles the necromancer. "Nobody misses them. I'm not even the one that kills them - they just die."
Pick rocks back on his heels, grunting, mulling over everything the man has said.
"...said man upstairs turning into un-dead," he repeats. "Man upstairs attacked. Hammer killed. Will he still become un-dead? How stop?"
To the others, he says, "Man upstairs... say a lord... makes him ghooool." Pick draws out the unfamiliar word. "Lord Ship wants Hammer to be a ghool. Said come to..." he looks at Flibble for confirmation, as Flibble was the one to know the name, "Fox Glove Manner?"
As the others discuss the sources and merits of Necromancy, Kyra stays quiet, her gaze flicking between them as they speak. While she's still never seen a ghoul, and remains unconvinced of their existence, that everyone else seems to believe in them is enough to keep her silent. The last thing she'd like to do is look wrong in front of them, believing that the leader is supposed to know everything - or at least appear to.
That image is shattered anyway when she years Pick and Flibble mention Foxglove Manor. Her eyes narrow and she whirls around towards them. "Did you say Foxglove Manor? Why didn't you mention this before!" She thinks back to the letter and curses. "Of course it's him, why didn't I see it earlier?"
"If you think these flesh-eaters spawn at this Manor. I will go with and end them." says Khalbar solemnly. He begins making preparations to head out.
Khalbar scratches his head. "These men are ill, yes? Could the healers of the temple look after them until a new doctor is found. Or this one is returned?"
Yes, let's bring these men to town, rest tonight and leave first thing in the morning. My arcane energy is all but expended and I need a night's rest and some time to prepare before we head off again..." the half-elf opines.
Kyra cracks a crooked smile at Khalbar's simple approach to a problem, agreeing with him despite thinking that it may end up more complicated than that. His confident and no-nonsense demeanour was one of the things that she had missed about him during his months away. She still found herself wondering what had happened in that time. Frowning without realising, she turns to Rhanloi, the look fading as she nods. "Agreed." She wants to say more about her theories, about what they might face at the manor, but she's still working out the pieces in her head, thinking back to everything she experienced in the last days, but in a new light.
Noticing the look of confusion on Flibble's face, she sighs. "Let's just say that... we've met the namesake of Foxglove Manor before. He's one unfortunately not easily forgotten." With a look and tone that makes it clear that she is not interested in elaborating, she turns back to Rhanloi.
"It would be cleaner," she explains, "if we were to deal with these men here." Before he can interrupt, she continues, "However, it occurs to me that we may have more uses for them." Ordinarily she would consider his moral standing a weakness, but in this case it occurs to her otherwise. His limitation opened up another option that she may not have otherwise thought of.
'Arresting them will only cause delays.' She thinks to herself, looking down at the supposed Necromancer, and finding her status once again exhausting. She crouches down in front of the man. "We need to attend to the source of these ghouls, and I simply do not have time for you. But perhaps we can come to an agreement. You will remain here, and will continue your research. I will send someone from the town proper to assist in aiding the sick as much as possible. You will only conduct experiments on those who cannot be otherwise saved, and only after they have turned. There will be no aiding them in that journey. And I want routine updates on anything that you find. Do we have an agreement?"
She casts a sidelong look at Rhanloi, "Does that suit you, as well?"
Caizarlu raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I won't leave or do nothin' that you don't want me doing - as long as you send me food. And I can kinda take care of the mentally ill, but I'm no professional. You'll want to send someone else if you want them properly cared for."
"But you're going to let me live? Weird. Well, thank you, I guess. And I'll let you know if I get any more people infected with ghoul fever - the man upstairs was the only one we had. Do you have any more?"
When Kyra's orders are given, Pick grunts, then releases the man. If he is to be useful to Hammer, so be it. His is only to follow the instructions given.
"Habe?" he asks Hammer, a one-word question that could mean [i]'Should I go wake him for your judgment also?'
To Hammer, Pick also says, "If we all go tomorrow to Fox Glove, I go tonight? See, unseen?"
Rhanloi nods as Kyra pronounces judgement. Since he was cleared of the ghouls, in Rhanloi's mind he was just another practitioner of the arts, finding knowledge in a unique way. Yes - he would learn what he could from this man. Starting with this unique language and writing style!
Pick sidles closer to Hammer, speaking in a low tone.
"Hammer. Town-people not like making dead walk. They think bad. And worse if dead not... agree. When alive."
Pick struggles with how to try an express a complex cause and effect in his particular horrible communicative habits. "Useful to you, yes. But need... keep his work... secret. From town."
|
Hearing Picks comments to Kyra, Flibble pipes up,
"and how do ye plan to do that, laddie, with the priests traipsing all over the asylum? Assuming they do not execute him on the spot, or arrest him, for necromancy. Och, I'd have him taken into protective custody. None but us need know about his necromantic habits fer now, d'ye ken. Just say he's assisting with oor enquiries, d'ye ken?"
Pick squints in his usual confusion at Flibble. He opens his mouth to reply, then switches to the silent tongue, easier to speak with.
Yes. That is why I am saying we cannot have others here. I am saying what you are: to keep it quiet.
Khalbar pulls Rhanloi to the side and speaks to him softly.
After some back-and-forthing during which Pick explains his concerns that it might be dangerous to Kyra's rule if the townspeople discovered animation of the dead was happening at the asylum, and the fact that Flibble, at least, isn't happy with the dead being animated either, it's decided after some discussion to tell Caizarlu he cannot continue to animate bodies unless told otherwise by Kyra, but that he can continue his studies. He's also told that it is possible priest from the town might come to see to the madmen, and that they will surely be able to tell if he tries to 'cheat'.
Pick drags Erin Habe back to town and sees him thrown into a jail cell on the orders of Hammer, for obstruction of an investigation. Pick privately plans to punish the man later for his disrespect to Hammer, in a final, quiet sort of fashion, but for now, they have bigger problems.
The defenders of Sandpoint part for the night, agreeing that come the chill of dawn, they will meet, rested and prepared for further battle-- and proceed together towards the old manor.
Pick curls up in his rooftop lair, restless as he usually is during the night, but he tries to get a little sleep in order to be at his best for the morning. His dreams, however, are strange and fitful: the woman's voice, again, urging him forward, speaking of duty forged in iron, and vengeance to be taken on those who transgress against the clan.
It's the closest he has felt to having purpose in a long time.
In the grey of pre-dawn, he slinks down to the tavern's common room, glancing around for the others.
Khalbar silently approves of the jailing of the doctor, and the dressing down of the necromancer. He follows the group back to town, seeking the services of the healers at the Cathedral. He asks the priests to see to his several wounds, and heal him.
The Goblinslayers' return to Sandpoint is quiet and at night - nobody is there to greet them, though Zantus sends a pair of acolytes posthaste as soon as it's clear to him what Kyra needs him for.
Khalbar is accepted into the cathedral and cleaned off with soft, hot rags before his wounds are sealed shut with positive energy curatives - they ask for a donation of 25gp for their services, to ensure that they can feed and clothe the acolytes.
Sheriff Peguson silently takes in the manacled doctor, and ensures that he will see a trial and likely be sent to Magnimar to rest in one of their expansive prisons - Sandpoint, after all, only has a small jail, not really built for long-term care.
Rhanloi contemplates their discussions on the way back to Sandpoint, debating the goodness and evilness of different schools of magic. What he found most disconcerting was the difference in his attitude from their foray to Geb - a land filled with undead and necromancers who used them as personal servants - and here. The circumstance was the same, but his attitude differed because of his own desires.
This brought on thoughts of the Thassalonian magic base system, and how everything was related - good and evil, virtue and vice. He slept but dreamt of logic debates between golems and zombies, with a skeleton as judge.
The dawn came too early, but he was able to study his spellbook and prepare the magic he thought would be most beneficial on this day. Afterwards he headed down tot he common room of the inn for a light breakfast and kafe.
When she emerges, he salutes her and says, "Mayor Arkona, I have a report of a crime." Kyra says, "Okay, go ahead." and the Sheriff gives his report. "Earlier this morning, a farmer from the cinterlands came running into town, spouting nonsense about strange creatures in his farm in the night. He cried and babbled and said a lot of incomprehensible things - it did take awhile for us to get what he wanted out of us, but apparently something is attacking the outlying farms in Sandpoint, and apparently a lot of people have been killed. Do you want us to send guards or do you and your friends want to take care of it?"
She's made him a delicious rabbit stew, which is nice - Khalbar gets to enjoy a meal with his wife and child and...other half-child... (who is also pale and cold and red-eyed like his mother) and everything is relaxed and okay for the night.
Khalbar is pleased with his domestic bliss, even if a little put off by his wife's condition and his son's appearance. He considers the necromancer from that day and his use of the undead, and correlates that this family of unliving. His head hurts if he thinks too much about it, so he drinks a flagon of mead, and goes to bed, ready for whatever adventure the next day at Foxglove Manor might bring.
Rhanloi gathers his 'adventuring' gear and sets off with the others to find Kyra and begin their hunt for the ghoul king...