Alahazra nods and places her hands on Honus' shoulder, closing her eyes as she channels her divine healing into his battered body.
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"Honus, while you are looking a bit better than before, you still look like a man who has been chewed up and spit out by one of the sand golems of Widow's Pass. If its all right with you, I'd like to take the lead for the next part of our exploration. I may not have any bombs left, but my knives are still effective against the living."
Fahim pauses awkwardly at the thought that there may be even more undead waiting for them in the caverns.
"Now, let's go and see if Beecher is still amongst the living, though I have no intention of using my knives upon him!"
Fahim chuckles at his macabre joke, his long absent smile a familiar comfort on his face. He moves down the cavern with his mutagen in hand and at the ready.
A sour smell of death leaks through a large, murky limestone cave. Thick shadows splay from the rough, natural columns bracing its low, curved ceiling. Dark waters flood the caves and everywhere rotten casks bob slowly, as slow drips from the ceiling smack the surface with eerie dissonance. The quagmire is waist deep, possible deeper. Deeper in, a cagelike fence of iron divides the caves. In the center of the fence, a barred door hangs bent, partially torn from its hinges.
Passing through the ruined door, the group finds a tunnel rising from the waters to their left and which ends in a barricade of barrels and crates. Clearly somebody erected this in the hopes of staving off the undead, and the barricade seems to have held.
Pulling down the barrels reveals that the tunnel continues to a small, dry alcove.
There is nobody here.
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"If its all right with you, I'd like to take the lead..."
"After Alahazra's healing, I am actually feeling much better than before, but you are right, Fahim. I am still not 100%. I am happy to see that everyone else appears to be in good health, though. Lead on, my friend. I will be right behind you, sword and shield at the ready."
In the center of the fence, a barred door hangs bent, partially torn from its hinges.
"Do the undead typically possess a mighty strength? Could they have done this?"
Honus inspects the hinges, bars, and surrounding area while posing his question to the group. After a minute of search and discussion, he continues through to the tunnel beyond. Once the stacked barrels of the barricade have been pulled aside to reveal the empty alcove, he crosses his arms and stares at the back wall.
"Odd. Did anyone notice if a gap existed before we moved the barrels? Any kind of space large enough for a man to crawl through? I don't recall seeing one, which means that someone should be here unless they stacked the barrels from the outside, but why go to the trouble?"
Honus continues to ponder, and carefully scans the edges of the alcove for anything that may not be readily apparent. Fearing the possibility of traps, he does not move any closer or touch anything.
The bars of the metal door seem to have been wrenched by some creature with great strength, or barring that, great persistence.
Honus scans the interior of the alcove, and detects a faint outline of a metal trapdoor on the ground, cunningly painted the same color as the rock.
Lifting the trapdoor reveals a short wooden ladder descending to another small room, which apparently served as a rough office of sorts. A broad shelf is covered in dust and bric-a-brac, except where somebody recently removed a small chest. The shelf contains dozens of crates of rotting wine corks and moldering labels. One crate, sealed slightly better than the others, contains some old adventuring gear, a molded set of clothes and rotten cloak, and two once fine daggers now badly rusted and worthless.
Finally, lying at the bottom of the crate with the gear, is a pair of bracers of armor +1 and a fat pouch of old gold coins totaling 1744 gold pieces.
A tunnel extends away to the north, cramped and dark.
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Mexus's eyes glitter at the cache that Honus found. "Good eye, Sir Gisborne. I dare say that I'm going to invest some of this jink in a potion or two when we get back to the lodge so that next time we run afoul of some mercenaries, walking dead, or a dead fall, we won't have to worry so much about one of us shuffling off this mortal coil. In the mean time, one of us should don the bracers. There's no sense in not putting them to use."
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"You're right, Mexus. I hadn't given reasonable thought to the idea. I was going to leave it all here being that it doesn't belong to us, but it does make more sense for one of us to wear them. We can always return them to the town after use."
Honus nods at Mexus to show his approval, and catches the gleam in the Tiefling's beady eyes.
Is he planning on taking the gold pieces as well? Not only does it not belong to us, but it may have been left here as a safe guard against Kretchmoor; He cannot take what he cannot find.
Honus carefully observes anyone who rummages through the belongings.
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Mexus looks up, wide-eyed in surprise. "Er ... do I look like I'm trying to skulk into the shadows with a large bag of coins?" His tone shifts from surprise to mild indignation, "What have I done that makes you think I have any interest in robbing you? I planned on dividing this up just as I did the last box of coins that I found." He rights himself, hefting the sizable stash. "What makes this any different from the last cache we found in the bog? This could have belonged to the vile necromancer that created the shambling dead. Or it could have belonged to the poor souls that were turned. If we find someone down here that knows about this stash, they can have it. If not, we've earned it with our sweat and blood by coming down here to rescue any that are left alive. As I alluded to before, this much gold could mean the difference between having a life-saving potion and not on our next outing. Unless we rescue someone that knows about these coins and wants them to remain here, they're leaving this cavern with us."
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He brings up a good point. He did divide the other coins without even bringing up any discussion over it. This pouch of gold IS different from the last, though! The last one definitely came from a man who lost his life, so there were no other claims.
"But the last one couldn't be claimed! This one might belong to Becher, or... or..."
Honus unfurrows his brow after his initial protest. His jaw slowly tightens and he quietly considers the argument.
Or a necromancer? These undead had to come from somewhere. Evil magic is always the reason. No, that makes no sense! There are corks and labels down here, and clearly this is an office of some kind. It could only belong to Becher. These zombies are so old and withered, though. No one has been in these caves for years, so how could he have stashed anything down here? What about his father?! Certainly the gold could have been from Iadon Railford, and would therefore pass to his heir. But with all that we have been through, we deserve recompense from Railford. Maybe we take the coins for now, and wait until we find someone who can tell us more about this place.
He raises and lowers his finger twice, opens and closes his mouth a few times, but fails in rebuttal.
"Or... If... Um."
Honus stands with his hands on his hips, waiting for the words to come.
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The smallest hint of a smile creeps onto Mexus's face, and his tail flicks slowly from side to side as he awaits a counter argument.
Another disagreement quickly settled with the right words. As much as I detest her motives, mother's advice has always been true: in order to convince the mortals to do as you wish, you merely need to show them that it's what they really wanted to do anyhow. He may put up a show of resistance, but it's hard to argue against a clear benefit to everyone present ...
The tunnel extends for what seems like forever. Occasionally it forks, only for one side to dead-end, and the other to continue, as if whomever dug it would realize they had gone off track and had doubled back to correct their course.
Gradually sloping up, it continues on its way, on and on until at the very last it begins to rise more sharply.
From ahead, a voice calls out weakly as you approach, clearly seeing your torch light before it has a chance to illuminate the person.
"Stop. Who goes there? What... is your business in... these tunnels?"
The voice is that of a man, and sounds labored, almost weak.
The speaker is either well hidden, or beyond the range of your sight.
"Praise be," wheezes the voice. "Approach, good friends. Jessup, does he live? I am so close. But I find... I find that I cannot open this door..."
Moving further up the tunnel, the light of the torch and your darkvision both soon illuminate a man lying at the end of the tunnel, above which is a metal trapdoor.
The large man is badly injured, gashes and bite marks on his shoulder and leg, and his swarthy features are bathed with a film of sweat. His palor is ashen, and his eyes sunken and rimmed with red. He clearly breathes, his broad chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and under one arm he clutches a small chest as if it were more precious than his own life.
"I am Becher Railford. Well met. Friends." Each word comes as a pant.
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Upon reaching Becher, Mexus looks him over to assess his condition. As he does so, he replies in an even and courteous tone, ”Lord Railford, I am pleased to have found you. I am Lord Mexus Navarion, and these are my companions, Sir Honus Gisborn, Sir Fahim Al-Khabyyr, and this is the Prophetess, Alahazra.” Mexus indicates each in turn, as he names them. ”We are members of the Pathfinder Society, originally dispatched from Absalom to negotiate rights to use part of your distillery as a lodge for the Society. However, once we made it through the mercenaries of Kretchmoor, we arrived to find your distillery besieged, and Jessup on his deathbed. You have my deepest condolences on the loss of your dear friend, and I can only hope that his spirit has migrated to whatever Outer … heaven he would find most appealing. Prior to his passing, Jessup was able to convey to us the details of your situation, and we made for this cave as quickly as we were able, again through Kretchmerian forces, and then through the collapsed entrance to this cave system, where we then dispatched a horde of the shambling dead. I assume that from the way you are clutching that chest, it contains the written title to Railford, and likely some other form of monetary wealth. Now that we have located you and reopened this system, is it necessary that we continue forward from this point, or can we merely tend to your condition and retrace our path back to the cave entrance, and then make haste to Railford?”
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Honus remains quiet since being put in his place during the argument with Mexus, but now, confronted with their charge, his courage is recharged. He considers his words, but Mexus steps up before Honus has the chance.
A welcome change. Ah, and Mexus has entered into another of his long winded and forth-coming explanations. A perfect situation for it, and he has covered every detail, I believe.
Honus nods as he is presented and waits for Railford to respond.
Becher tries to sit up a little higher as introductions are made, his eyes narrowed against the light of the torch. He nods curtly to each member of the group, and then slouches once more as a wave of pain seems to course through his body.
"Kretchmoor... damn his eyes. Thieving bastard. He thinks he can take... with might... as if the point of a sword is all..."
He trails off and passes his hand before his brow. His eyes are unfocused, and he struggles to gather his wits. "Above I believe is a basement in Railford proper. My father dug this tunnel. I never could find it before. Now. Another tunnel must link to the distillery. We must... we must..." He closes his eyes and grimaces.
Alahazra pushes to the fore of the group and crouches before him, her blind eyes flicking over his wounds and pallor. Then she stands and steps back to the group, whispering quietly so that only her companions may hear, "He has ghoul fever, and not long to live."
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Mexus acknowledges Alahazra's diagnosis with a nod. "I thought as much. It is good that we were given the scroll to treat him. Lady Alahazra, will the scroll along with your talents be sufficient to save Lord Railford, and if so, how long do you think it will be before he is able to hike and climb under his own power for a few hours?"
Alahazra draws forth the scroll, and unfurls it carefully. She scans the arcane sigils on its surface with care, tracing a few of them with the tip of her finger, and then once more crouches before the man who seems to have fallen asleep.
"May the glory of the sun bless this man," she whispers, and then begins to read from the scroll. Her words echo with power, and seem to fill the tunnel as if a second voice spoke along with her, a deep, majestic voice that is felt more in the cavity of the chest than heard with her ears.
When she finally reaches the end of the scroll, a number of the words traced in gold fade away, and she rolls it back up and looks intently at Becher.
While his wounds do not heal, the deathly pallor has already faded, the green beneath his eyes disappeared, and his breath comes much more naturally.
His eyes flutter open, and then he frowns as he looks down at himself. "I - thank you, my lady. I feel - much refreshed. Thank you."
He struggles to his feet, limping slightly from his wounds, and considers the group with renewed interest. "Truly, I am fortunate beyond measure for your intervention. After we have dealt with Kretchmoor we can talk of adequate compensation. For now, come!"
And with his chest still tucked under his arm, he pushes open the cellar door, and climbs up into the dark.
The cellar is filled with rotting junk and old furniture, and after a few fumblings, Becher finds the entrance to a new tunnel which leads a short way before ending in a circular wooden door. Becher wrestles this open, and reveals the inside of a large barrel, which he crawls through to emerge into an old wine cellar.
"Ha!" he says, clearly amused. "The one place I never searched. My father's Black Pig Brew barrel. Well. Wait. What is that?"
He pauses, suddenly alert, and then turns and dashes up the stairs into the distillery above. Then you all hear it: the sound of cries and shouts filtering down from above, as of a battle joined.
Mexus can vaguely hear what might be yells - but then again - maybe they're the sound of groaning barrels? Something is happening upstairs, but he doesn't understand Becher's sudden alarm. Does it really sound that dire?
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Mexus shrugs and sighs at Becher's sudden alarm, and while Becher dashes up the stairs, he quickly whispers his incantation, ”Da mihi auteum arma de daemoni …”, and, much as before, he makes a series of warding gestures before him, while exerting a sizable effort of will. Again, for a brief moment, the air shimmers around him in an encompassing indigo nimbus a few inches from his body, and a translucent suit a demonic platemail manifests. Then, as quickly as the image appears, it simply vanishes.
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Soldiers, monsters, undead, and now soldiers once more?! Has this really come full circle already? I was hoping for more rest...
Honus grumbles and readies his sword and shield as Mexus casts his protective spell. He looks everyone in the eyes one by one, nods at each to verify their preparedness, and takes the stairs two at a time.
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Honus stutter-steps at the base of the stairs, considers the option and looks over his shoulder.
It's true. I am still hurting, but it's my duty to protect them.
"Very gallant, my friend, but I'll lead from here. My shield is the best defense against higher ground. Once in the distillery, we can alter our plans if necessary."
Two stairs at a time, he ascends.
Coming up the stairs, you enter the distillery proper and see Becher running from boarded window to boarded window. From outside come yells of defiance as well as harsh threats, though actual battle seems not to have yet been joined.
Becher grimaces as he cranes for a better view of what's happening through the shutters, and then a voice calls from outside, loud and powerful and cut through with impatience.
"Becher! I know you are in there! I'm giving you two minutes to realize the hopelessness of your situation and come out! If you emerge of your own free well, I will allow you to leave Railford unharmed, with any that wish to depart. Oppose me, and all shall be put to the sword!"
Another voice answers angrily. You recognize it as Dalard. "He's not here! He's three days gone! You're wasting your time!"
"Lies," says Kretchmoor loudly. "Becher, do you hear me! Two minutes!"
Becher hisses and looks over his shoulder at the group. "Damn that Kretchmoor! He's out there with all his men!"
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I doubt this Kretchmoor can be reasoned with. Even if Becher did find his father's title to the land, Kretchmoor will probably claim it's a fake. While diplomacy should be given a try, I would do well to prepare for a direct confrontation too.
"Becher, were you able to find your father's title in the caves? If so, how likely is proof of title to persuade Kretchmoor to back down? Assuming the worst, are there bottles of grain alcohol, or other cheap flammable liquids, that I can use to make makeshift fire bombs?"
Assuming Becher lets Fahim use some alcohol to make bombs, Fahim will craft several of them.
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Mexus considers his extensive knowledge of Taldan law and nobility, as he tries to think of anything that might cause Kretchmoor to reconsider this course of action, or at least delay his threatened offensive.
As Mexus considers his options, he also contemplates that there might be additional information specific to this situation of which he might not be aware. So, he walks to Becher, careful to keep his voice low enough that a Kretchmerian spy lurking outside couldn't hear him, and asks, "Becher, do you know of anything that we could say to Kretchmoor that might give him pause before ordering an assault on Railford?"
Becher seems at the point of losing himself to a combination of panic and fury, but Fahim's words catch at his mind and he blinks and then nods emphatically.
"Yes. In here. In this chest. The paper but needs my signature, and Railford is legally mine. Not that Kretchmoor would care!"
He darts a look out through a crack in the shutters again and scowls.
"What? Grain alcohol? You might find some left in the distillery at the very north. Last room. Small casks, white oak."
Becher wipes at his sweating brow once more, and then casts a wild eye upon Mexus. "Perhaps if he - no. Maybe if we tell him I have the legal deed - but he won't listen to me. You. Are you nobility? Perhaps you could step outside and negotiate for me. He might listen to you if you support my claim."
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Mexus simply nods at Becher’s response, his eyes moving rapidly from side to side as he’s clearly processesing the situation at hand. After a few short seconds, Mexus looks about at each of his companions and Becher. ”Alright, everyone, I think I may have a plan. If nothing else, it may buy us a little more time for Sir Al-Khabyyr to increase his ammunition stores. However, I think it has a better chance of success with a couple of secessions from you all. I propose that I attempt to use my title to force a meeting between myself and Kretchmoor, during which I convince him that Sir Railford has already signed the property over to Dominicus Blelor, an old friend of Iodan Railford, and that the new deeds has already been registered in Oppara. Thus, if Kretchmoor continues to press this offensive, he will be doing so in direct violation of Taldan law, which will eventually result in the government restoring the land to Blelor’s control, and Kretchmoor being stripped of his title, being heavily fined, and potentially being imprisoned. Thus, we remove the benefit that Kretchmoor is trying to gain through this aggressive course of action. However, I believe that this plan will have a far better chance of succeeding if Sir Railford actually signs over the deed to the vineyard to Blelor. Hopefully the deed and change of ownership can actually be filed before Kretchmoor is the wiser, and, thus, when he tries to verify the veracity of our vile version of events, he will find verity in every detail. But before I boldly barrel forward, I require the conscious consent of my competent companions to willfully deviate from our intended objective. However, I might add that Blelor is also on exceedingly good terms with the Pathfinder Society, and truly believe that he would also grant our request to set up a lodge here in the vineyard.” Here Mexus turns to specifically address Becher, ”And, of course, good Sir, it also requires that you cede your inheritance to dear a family friend, which, while unlikely to affect you greatly on a daily basis, has obvious implications regarding your ability to potentially pass the property on to your heirs, and forces you to come to grips with the fact that your father’s land is no longer in your family’s control.”
Mexus ultimately spreads his hands before him with a shrug. ”It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s the best that I can come up with on such short notice, and given the speed with which Kretchmoor is threatening assault.
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"If you're going to lie, then lie. However, I'm pretty sure Becher does not need to sign away his inheritance, under duress no less, for you to do so. Buy me whatever time you can, but either Kretchmoor is going to respect Becher's claim, or respect no one's claim. Good luck and stay safe."
Fahim dashes off to the distillery to make some fire bombs.
Becher stares in incredulity at Mexus, and then gives a disdainful bark of laughter.
"Sign over my father's distillery? To a stranger? Boy, my friends have died - I nearly died - to keep this town in my name. I'll sign it away over my dead body. Never!"
It's clear he'd be happy to wax indignant further if he had the time, but right then Kretchmoor's voice booms from outside.
"Two minutes are up. Men - attack!"
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Mexus heaves open the large double doors of the distillery, with his hands in the air, in an obviously inoffensive stance, and he yells, ”Wait! There is no need for violence!” He takes three short slow steps out into the open air, surveying the situation for the first time as he moves. He moves with great care and deliberation, so that he does not appear to pose significant threat to anyone viewing him. Upon locating someone that looks as if they may be in charge and possibly owning the voice that called out before, Mexus calls out loud enough that all assembled can easily hear him, ”Lord Kretchmoor. I am Lord Mexus Navarion, of the House Navarion, uncle of Galadon Navarion, Exarch of Riddonport and advisor to the Vice Chancellor of the Imperial Navy. I have no interest in fighting you or any of your vassals. However, I respectfully request that you allow me to speak with you about this situation, as I believe that I am aware of certain specific details that may influence your desires to continue your siege of this particular estate.”
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"Alright, everyone, I think I may have a plan..."
And a lengthy one at that... Sign over the deed?! That's his plan? Great, now he's offending the man we came to court.
Honus raises a finger and breathes in deep to voice his concerns, but Fahim and Railford provide their takes on the situation first. Before any further discussion can occur, the attack is on and Mexus steps out into the open.
"I am Lord Mexus Navarion, of the House Navarion..."
Honus whispers to himself as he moves to the edge of the open doorway, back against the adjacent wall and ear to the wind.
"There he goes again, listing off his relations and acquaintances. It's worth a try, I suppose, but I can't imagine Kretchmoor cares any more than his men blocking the road. I doubt this will end well."
Mexus unbars the front doors and steps out into the sunlight. Weak and watery though it is, it's bright compared to the tunnels, caves, and the gloomy interior of the shuttered brewery. It takes his eyes but a moment to adjust, and when they do he sees two phalanx soldiers rushing toward him, their eyes going wide in surprise as he opens the doors they meant to attack.
Behind them stands a few more guards and a tall man in a mud splattered uniform that can only be Kretchmoor. With thinning golden hair and a noble chin, he could almost play the part of a dashing commander were it not for his watery blue eyes and hook nose. Still, he holds himself with an air of command and disdain, as Mexus emerges, raises one supercilious eyebrow.
"Wait, there's no need for violence!" begins Mexus, his voice pitched high due to fear. "”Lord Kretchmoor. I am Lord Mexus Navarion, of the House Navarion, uncle of Galadon Navarion -"
That's when he recognizes the two soldiers, the same two guards he met when first approaching Railford. The tall, lanky Lowen, and the florid Flago.
Flago grins a toothy smile, and says, "Well, if it ain't Lord Shmexus Vavavoom! Ignore him, m'lord, he's but a rogue we met on the trail." And with that, he steps forward to attack.
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Mexus turns and sprints straight back into the distillery, his mind racing as he goes.
Well that went poorly … it’s time to put that Demodand Inn I found in the City of Doors to use …
Mexus concentrates as he runs, trying to remember the details of a sparse room, minimally adorned with functional lacquered wood furniture, ceramic surfaces, and a large porcelain sort of tub set into the floor in place of a bed. The stench, the memory of the fetid, sickly-sweet, chemical odor brings the details screaming back to his mind’s eye. The aroma seemed to claw at his nostrils and force its way into his head, across his tongue, and down into his lungs. The acidic slime the demodand patrons excreted into the sleeping tub must have built up over years or decades. Once it reacted with whatever organic matter happened to drift into it, the slime lost its caustic character, but the reaction seemed to increase its viscosity and somehow make it even more slick. It took a cantrip a solid hour of use to get the stench out of his robes when he left. Of course, the room’s occupant was unforgettable too. Its wide sloping head, amphibious eyes, wickedly sharp claws, and wide oversized maw almost elicited a shiver from Mexus as he reached the base of the stairs.
Too bad I can’t just summon the demodand to fight for us …
Mexus climbs a few steps and then turns at the bend in the staircase, his hands spastically jerking out a series of arcane gestures, and his will focusing to connect an extra-dimensional portal from the slick, slimy, stinking basin-bed surface in the demodand inn to the entrance way of the distillery. As the spell takes hold, indigo motes of light begin to pool between the great double doors, and rapidly expand outward along the floor to form a rough square about ten feet on a side centered at the entrance of the distillery. Within mere moments the retched odor emanates from the thick, greasy, demodand slime that has been magically gated to now coat the distillery floor.