After watching his old master's face for a minute, Ivan understands what Magdalen is talking about.
"No. A surprising burst from the fireplace would certainly be frightening, but not lead to this distress. Something is definitely wrong here."
Ivan motions with his hand backwards without looking at Alec and Esdras.
"Please keep your cynicism away. You may keep indulging in your alcohol until we get this sorted out."
Ivan closes his eyes, trying to make sense of the event in his mind. Too clouded by endless thoughts, darting from a raving Victor to an inquisitive Dmitry to a dead Petros, he sighs and looks once again at Wictor's face, pale in horror.
Something's telling me this'll be a night to remember, and not necessarily for good.
With relief, Magdalen sees an Ally in Ivan.
"Please, help me get him into a chair! He needs to calm down."
As the mixture of harsh and comforting words unfold before him, Wictor breaks in a feverish sweat.
There's been too much pressure today. In all his years he had not gone through one day so surreal, so dreadful. He was usually the one to comfort those quavering. Wictor couldn't bear the fact of his weakness any longer.
He reaches out to him he knows most familiar and kind.
"Ivan, my boy... C-can you rescue me?"
While Wictor was usually known to hand out bear hugs most generously, the embrace he sought from his past student was out of nothing but his mortal insecurity.
The image of the burning hare was seared forever, beckoning to him in his mind.
Before Ivan can respond to Wictor's plea, A series of thuds shake the front door. Kendra goes to answer it, while Magdalen manages to get Wictor back into his chair. She studies his eyes for signs of a malign presence, but can detect nothing but natural fear and bewilderment.
The common room is open to the foyer, so everyone can see as Kendra opens the door to receive Councilman Hearthmount. He is joined by two other gentlemen, one of whom you recognize as Father Grimburrow; the other wears a wide-brimmed hat and long leather duster, upon the breast of which is affixed a badge. A sword sheath trails beneath the hem of his coat.
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss Lorrimor,” says Hearthmount, removing his plumed hat as he enters, “I am sure that you are keen to proceed directly to the matter of your late father’s will, and I have brought with me all the necessary tools of trade to perform that office. But first...” he gestures apologetically to the men behind him, “Sheriff Caellar here would like a word with your guests.”
Sheriff Caellar also removes his hat, but only to smooth the brim swiftly before sliding it back upon his head. His movements carry a sinister precision, and the entire ritual takes less than six seconds.
“It appears as if we might be interrupting a rather rowdy wake," Says the sheriff, glancing down at the shards that still litter the floor. Then he moves his eyes across the assembly, meeting each gaze in turn.
"I sincerely hope you're not all so far-gone that you can't answer a few questions about that ruckus in the Restlands some hours back. Let's begin with an easy one. Which one of you mourners would be the gent who carved a channel into old Riff Trestleman’s chest a few hours back?”
Alec does not rise from his seat in the corner of the room, though his eyes narrow at the Councilman and then the Sheriff in turn. He carefully abstains from glancing in Dmitry's direction. Damnation, I should have known those louts wouldn't leave well enough alone.
Dmitry is still knelt by the shards when he Sheriff offers his question. He closes his eyes and fumbles with the dagger in his hand, a calm collection painting itself upon his face. He clears his throat and stands, deftly maneuvering the blade into the sleeve of his overcoat, ready to produce at a moment's notice if need be.
"That would be have been me, good Sheriff." Dmitry turns and adjusts his cravat as he strides past the other denizens of the room to stand before its most recent occupants. His mind had been aflutter this day with fear and paranoia, terror and despair, with images of Venja and shadows plaguing his every thought. The arrival of this Sheriff, however, unsheathes the sharper side of Dmitry. The calculating side. The dangerous side.
"This man you name, Riff? I cut him, I'll not deny it. The act was of my own volition, own doing. He drew on me with malicious intent, and I answered his challenge in kind. I was unaware that defending oneself against attempted murder was an act of illegality in Ravengro, unless perhaps poor Riff was only meaning to snip of a loose thread in my vest, or maybe he is an overzealous barber and wished to offer me a shave? I host no remorse for my actions, sir, and would do the same again would he or any other man advance on me with weapon and rage. I also do hope you have extended the same legal courtesy upon this Mr. Trestleman and his associates. I'm sure an upstanding official such as yourself would have investigated the fact that a gang of fellows plotted an assault on a funeral procession for a grieving daughter and mourning pallbearers, on holy ground no less."
Dmitry eyes the Sheriff, attempting to gauge his body language, his response, to best plan his next words or course of action. Unfortunately, the weight of the day still hangs upon his mind and distorts his perception of the matter.
Unable to discern the Sheriff's state of mind, Dmitry simply resorts to a lie.
"Surely I could send word to Master Aleksander Grigori, who I am certain would be quite relieved to hear that one of his financial bookkeepers is safe and sound?"
Esdras frowns slightly at Dmitry's behavior but tries not to show the sheriff his support to his inquiry. So you still can't see that you acted poorly? Is this a sign of an inflated hubris or simply a mourning man, incapable of thinking straightly?
He closes his fists in frustration as Dmitry defends himself, insinuating that he 'answered the challenge in kind'. For sure, as much as a fully grown man's punch could be compared to that of a toddler... both are still punches, right? They were farmers fighting with improvised weapons for gods sake, not seasoned combatants...
Sheriff Caellar smiles superciliously as he looks Dmitry up and down. “Well, I must declare, your statement does stir up a conundrum. It’s not that I’m inclined to disbelieve your version of events. I don’t know you, sir, and I sure as sin don’t know who Master Aleksander Grigori might be. But, as I am an honest man, I’m generally inclined to believe likewise of strangers.
“But here’s the crux: I’ve known Riff Trestleman my whole life. And the other fellows in that ‘gang’ as you describe it. I know them, one and all, to be peace-loving and respectful souls, not prone to wrath, and certainly not partial to blasphemy.
“So when I learned that my kind friend, Riff Trestleman, is lying on his bed, cut deep and close to death – and no mistake be made, sirs, for whether he survives the night or not is in the hands of the Lady, and none other – when I hear of such an act, committed by outsiders? Well, that’s when my general optimism about human kindness starts to falter.”
Before anyone can respond, Caellar turns swiftly towards Hearthmount, and with a deferential tip of his hand, says, “But the Councilman has business here with the bereaved, and I’m a patient man. I’ll be pleased to take the statements of each one of you, after the reading of the late Professor’s will has been wrapped up.” He glances back around the room once more. “I’ll just seat myself in the corner, and make no interruption. I trust no one objects?”
Alec's gaze follows Sheriff Caellar relentlessly, striving to capture every detail of his movements, inflection, dart of his eyes. Dmitry certainly acted rashly, yet I find it unlikely that a dozen men could have talked themselves into marching upon the graveyard without the knowledge of others. The good Sheriff may be jumping to conclusions about outsiders, but I'm sure I can find the locals who declined to fight us, they can explain to him that it was Hephanus who sought out conflict with us.
Decision reached, Alec tracks the sheriff to his seat, then turns to the Councillor, feeling to his own surprise a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension.
After helping the hapless Wictor into his chair, Magdalen shrinks back to the wall; her natural reticence keeps her quiet during the sherrif's exchange with her comrades.
Magdalen wonders if the Sheriff realizes how out-of-control the townsfolk were; she peers at him closely to try and
"read" his mood.
You reap what you sow...
Esdras thinks to himself as the sheriff seems unmoved by Dmitry's words and hidden threat. Even if had knew Dmitry before, he could not deny that the sheriff was correct about this situation.
He also turned to the councilor, eager to hear about the testament when something occurred to him. Esdras then turns once more to the sheriff. "Sheriff Caellar, isn't the general custom of only those mentioned in the will to be present during its reading? I don't mean to be disrespectful but the will might contain some private information not to be heard by outsiders... unless you are mentioned in the will." Esdras isn't able to hold himself, thinking about how funny the concepts of who is an outsider in a given situation have been torn around.
"I'm not saying that, as an outsider, you should not be trusted, for I share much of your beliefs, but perhaps it should be more appropriate for you to wait outside. If you are worried about any hidden action we might eventually do in your absence, I believe the councilor is an appropriate witness." He then awaits for the councilor's confirmation of this general custom and for the sheriff's reaction.
Wictor clings to the wall as a fly. Partly because his legs are weaker than usual, partly for his previous nervous break, and mainly because he absolutely did not want to make any more waves than he already did. Resuming his rational mind, and gingerly trying to resume his lost dignity, Wictor thought it best to just let the night proceed and bite his tongue if anything else strange happened.
He considered the fact that this might make the sheriff mildly suspicious of him, which he regretted, because he never had a mistrust for policemen or their work. Indeed, his paltry rogue youth aside, he always trusted the earnest workers of the law.
Wictor began silently brainstorming the right words to speak for when the officer would ask for his statement. Tipsy anxiety ensued.
The Sheriff exchanges glances with the councilman and the priest. "I wouldn't say as I'm the outsider here, sir. But I'll concede that Father Grimburrow and I are not cited in the will per se..." He looks around at the others in the room, trying to read the general mood.
Alec rises from his seat to stand by Esdras in an effort to lend stature to the white-haired warrior.
Esdras frowns at the Sheriff unwillingness to leave, looking around for the support of the others, as well as Kendra and the Councilor.
Wictor thinks on the sheriff and the conversation unfolding, trying to become as invisible as possible.
Magdalen offers a straightened back and a grim face in support of the skittish, clearly unwelcome sheriff leaving the room.
Nobody notices Magdalen.
Ivan nods absentmindedly as he watches over the poor Wictor.
Smugly, the Sheriff settles himself into a high-backed chair in the corner of the common room, adjusting his hat as he sits. Father Grimburrow apologetically claims another seat, and Councilman Hearthmount requests a chair and secretary’s desk from Kendra, so he can lay out his documents appropriately. As a result, the majority of you are forced to remain standing as the councillor cracks Professor Lorrimor’s seal off the heavy beige envelope that contains his will.
Once the envelope is opened, a small iron key slips out, clattering upon the desk. Undaunted, the councillor unfolds the parchment contained in the envelope, and reads aloud:
“I, Petros Lorrimor, being of sound mind, do hereby commit to this parchment my last will and testament. Let it be known that, with the exception of the specific details below, I leave my home and personal belongings entire to my daughter Kendra. Use them or sell them as you see fit, my child.
“Yet beyond the bequeathing of my personal effects, this document must serve other needs. I have arranged for the reading of this document to be delayed until all principals can be in attendance – ” And here, the will lists off each of your names in turn, “--for I have more than mere inheritance to apportion. I have two final favors to ask.
“To my old friends, I am loath to impose upon you all, but there are few others who are capable of appreciating the true significance of what it is I have to ask. As some of you know, I have devoted many of my studies to all manner of evil, that I might know the enemy and inform those better positioned to stand against it. For knowledge of one’s enemy is the surest path to victory over its plans.
“And so, over the course of my lifetime, I have seen fit to acquire a significant collection of valuable but dangerous tomes, any one of which in the wrong circumstances could have led to an awkward legal situation. They dwell now within a chest, in my Ravengro office. While invaluable or my work in life, in death, I would prefer not to burden my daughter with the darker side of my profession, or worse still, the danger of possessing these tomes herself. As such, I am entrusting my chest of tomes to you, posthumously. I ask that you please deliver the collection to my trusted colleague Embreth Daravid, at the University of Lepisdtadt. I urge you not to read too deeply into these accursed tomes in the meantime, for the sake of your own souls and sanities.
“Yet before you leave for Lepidstadt, there is the matter of another favor—please delay your journey by two weeks and spend that period of time here in Ravengro to ensure that my daughter is safe and sound. She has no one to count on now that I am gone, and if you would aid her in setting things in order for whatever she desires over the course of this month, you would have my eternal gratitude. From my savings, I have also willed to each of you a sum of one hundred platinum coins. For safekeeping, I have left these funds with Professor Daramid, one of my most trusted friends in Lepidstadt—she has been instructed to issue this payment upon the safe delivery of the borrowed tomes no sooner than two weeks after the date of the reading of this will.
“I, Petros Lorrimor, hereby sign this will in Ravengro on this first day of Calistril, in the year 4716 AR.”
Dmitry smirks, shaking his head to himself. "One would hope a lawman would show an objective view of the law, rather than accommodating his friends to his stance on the issue, but alas, I suppose it's neither here nor there, eh?"
Dmitry doesn't much care if the Sheriff stays or goes, not planning on letting the man vex him further. He could slip out of this town easily enough and be on his way should the need arise. Though he does feel a shadow of doubt and fear cross the back of his mind, wondering if that would just be another hungry set of eyes tailing him everywhere.
Upon hearing the contents of the will, his eyebrows arch inquisitively. Her is immediately interested in these tomes of which it speaks, specifically if they truly are to contain dark and nefarious details of evil. He now has a starting point to begin his search anew, and tales or information on dark fey could easily be found within. His mind is already in full machination, disregarding whatever warnings the Professor had enclosed.
Condemn my soul to hell for her, his own voice echoes within his mind, lost and alone.
The notion of remaining in Ravengro does conjure a cloud over his plans, however, and that stipulation forces his eyes all too conspicuously to dart to the seated Sheriff, studying the smug man with an annoyed eye.
Alec arches an eyebrow, glancing from the key to the Councilman to Kendra herself. "Is that all?" he asks aloud, but his mind is already churning.
Tomes of dark knowledge? Well, that explains the fuss Hephanus was making. I suppose a delivery is a simple enough task, and once in Lepidstadt I may be able to avail myself of the knowledge of Lorrimor's colleague. As he contemplates the second favor, his eyes return to Kendra, brow furrowed in a speculative frown. Was Kendra informed about her father requesting our presence here? Half a dozen near-total strangers lurking about may not be her wish... I shall speak to her of this after the Sheriff has departed. Perhaps the Professor was aware of his unpopularity in Ravengro, and sought to surround his daughter with allies.
Hearthmount hems and fumbles with the pages. “There is a space for the six of you to sign, as promissory testament to your intent to stay in Ravengro for the fortnight.” He produces a quill and ink from his portmanteau and waits for all of you to sign.
Sheriff Caellar rolls a cigarette. “Sticking around, then, are you? You might find it hard to find accommodations at the local inn. The owners are friends of Riff’s. Come to think of it, nearly everyone in town’s a friend of Riff.
“But I’m sure you’ll all work something out. And two weeks will give me more than enough time to take everyone’s statements, and arrange a hearing to sort out the matter between Trestleman and...” He peers over Hearthmount’s shoulder to read the name – “Dmitry Pavlovich. A hearing, if he lives, that is.” His dark eyes sparkle as he adjusts his hat a second time. “If he dies, of course, then we just as well might call it a trial.”
Kendra speaks up for the first time since the will reading. “Sheriff, Father, Councilman, good night. These inheritors were all beloved by father, and so you even if your concern for their accommodations were authentic, they are quite misplaced. They can all stay with me.”
Then, in a moment of bravado, she confronts the sheriff. “And the ones on trial should truly be for those brutes who sought to stop Professor Lorrimor’s last rites.”
Sheriff Caellar is undaunted as he steps out onto the porch. “Ah, yes, Professor Lorrimor. There’s definitely a reckoning to be had there. And knowing now what we all know, having heard what we’ve heard, I promise you: the law will be sure to give the late Professor his due.”
With this cryptic and sinister farewell, the interlopers set off into the night.
After bolting the door and sighing heavily, Kendra indicates the iron key, left behind by Councilman Hearthmount. It is a key to the Professor’s office, wherein supposedly is stored the collection of “dangerous tomes.” “You may verify their presence tonight, or tomorrow morning, as you wish. I’ll clean up here, then prepare the beds presently. Mister Lugaulle, would it be easier on your constitution if I were to set you up a cot down here, beside the hearth?
She looks at the others. “For the rest of you, I believe I can fit Dmitry and Esdras in the north room, and Alec and Ivan in the western chamber. You’ll have to share beds, but they’re wide enough.” Then, demurely, she glances at Magadelen. “Miss North and I can fend for ourselves in the eastern room.”
Esdras listens to the will in silence, casually observing the sheriff and the cleric. When the councilman finishes to read it, Esdras as practically forget about the current conundrum between Dmitry and the Sheriff.
What have I done to deserve such good will from the old professor? All I wished for was a chance to peruse through his extensive library about a cure for my condition... By accepting his terms I should stay here for the next couple weeks, which completely suits my primary objective and, when I'm done, I'll receive this small fortune for bringing these books back to my town, where I'd inevitably return!
Esdras moved his hands towards a small holy symbol of Desna that he carried around his neck, a gift from his beloved Arianna. My love, I've doubted not only your Goddess but the whole divine court for all my life... what have I done to deserve such gift?
He kissed the holy symbol and for a fraction of second he could smell Arianna's perfume, feel the soft touch of her skin, and the divine sensation of her long hair sliding across his face... the whole scene was interrupted by the Alec as he touched his arm, passing the quill to sign the will and Esdras was unwillingly brought back to the dark and dampened room.
Esdras watches the exchange between Kendra and the Sheriff in silence, even if he wanted to intervene. What a clown... using the excuse of taking our statements to eavesdrop a will which doesn't mentions his name... then bending his so called 'law' to patronize his friends... and finally threatening to cause harm to the professor...
Esdras was on the sheriff's side when the man first entered the room but now his opinion has changed dramatically. The man should probably need to hear a couple words and perhaps a couple 'knocks' in his head to make his brain work properly as his position demands. It looks like our time in the town will not be pleasing at all...
Esdras reaches for the iron key and pockets the object. "I'd prefer to take a look at the mentioned tomes in the morning... we have seen and heard a lot today and I believe adding dangerous tomes to our thoughts will not help at all in our attempt to have a good night of rest... if it is even possible." Turning to Kendra, he continues, "I believe it will not be necessary for you to prepare our beds... I can handle such errand and I believe the same applies to the others, perhaps with the exception of Mr. Lugaulle... take some time to rest miss Kendra, you deserve to rest properly, perhaps taking a hot bath."
Alec's wary demeanor turns coldly hostile at Sheriff Caellar's thinly veiled threat; his icy stare never leaves the lawman's back as he exits, calling after him, "You do your office poor credit, Sheriff." And you would do well to be more cautious. Dmitry is not the most dangerous warrior amongst this motley assembly.
Stepping forward, he accepts the quill when his turn arrives and hesitates but a moment before signing. Such a generous pay for an easy job. I suspect the good professor knew well what sort of response his death would draw from the folk of Ravengro. There is story there, no doubt.
Passing the quill to a somewhat distracted Esdras, Alec rolls his shoulders and strides to the window, peeking out into the darkness in the direction the three men took. "If it's all the same to the rest of you, I'm going to take a quick look around. The Sheriff was certainly less than subtle, and while I don't think he'd be so brazen or vicious as to attack the house I'd like to get a better feel for the place." For a moment, he considers retrieving his crossbow from his pack, but decides against it, and opens the door and steps out onto the porch.
Ivan finds it hard to make up his mind while the will is being read. He devotes as much of his attention as possible to his late patron's final wishes, but his worry for Lugaulle and dissatisfaction with the townsfolk betray his ears. He repeats every sentence being read in his mind, trying to seal the words in his memory, to questionable success.
Ivan doesn't reply to the Professor's outrageous requests, nor to the Sheriff's snide comments. The day has taken its toll on the storyteller, and his mind wanders off to daydream of a bed, a warm blanket... and monsters. Fey lurking in the shadows, ghouls and zombies scratching the bolted door. I have devoted many of my studies to all manner of evil, that I might know the enemy and inform those better positioned to stand against it... the words from Lorrimor's will echo on his head. What could his close friend hide from him all these years, what dark and terrible secrets did the scholar take with him to the grave - yet leave in a chest in this very house? Ivan shudders, and regains focus to hear Kendra sending each guest to a room.
Alec. Ivan's previous encounter with the man was full of deceit, lies and selfish pride - both on Alec's side, and on Ivan's. The impression Torin's outburst has left on him must have been less than ideal as well. And his reaction to Master Lugaulle's crisis; how could Ivan spend two weeks living in the same room as this man?
None of these thoughts materialize, however, and Ivan merely nods at each of the guests present and starts to wander towards the western chamber, each step heavy and tired. Ivan arrives at what his presumably his bed, sits down and takes out the Fabulous Tome. He runs his hand through the pages, stopping at a tiny fold in the upper edge of the book. He takes out an inkwell from his backpack and adds a note next to the title:
-- the key to decipher the fairy tales' mystery
Alec: Your reconnoiter of House Lorrimor reveals the following: the house is on a low hill on the southwest edge of town. To the west, a small but dense copse of trees would provide cover to anyone who took the time to circle around through it. But the nearest trees are sixty feet from the house.
To the east (which is the side with broken windows), a path winds down past two small farmsteads, then into the centre of town. There are a few sickly trees growing here and there, but nothing substantial until the nearest barn, about 200 feet away from the house.
More farmland to the southeast and south. It's too dark to see very far in this direction now, but when you arrived in the daytime -- before the rain grew so onerous -- you thought you saw a large, stone building quite some distance away to the south.
A thin river runs past the house on the north side. About 500 feet away, there is a covered bridge leading to another clutch of farms, along with the Restlands and the Temple of Pharasma.
A quick inspection of the broken kitchen windows confirms what Kendra said: they look like they were shattered by rocks thrown from the foot of the hill. Jagged shards still cling to the windowsills.
At one point you spot an owl diving across the southern fields, in search of mice. Otherwise, the night seems still and bereft of life.
"No, m'dear, I think I'm beginning to steel. A normal bed should be fine. Stairs won't be an issue. Thank you for your concern."
He leans forward to her as he speaks, almost as a menial bow, and pats her arm as an extension of his caring gratitude.
As she passes him however, one could witness his eye giving way to glare at the fireplace in secret terror.
"...promissory testament to your intent to stay in Ravengro for the fortnight."
The words ring out as a funereal bell, tolling over the incisive gaze that Dmitry casts over the Sheriff. The clerk's eyes shiver in thought, abuzz as oh so many builders erecting a grand structure. His mind for once forsakes the details of the days events, pushes out thoughts of the weight of the coffin, the weight of the sadness, the weight of his quest, the weight of his own eyelids. The phantom image of Venja barely even appears as the sectors of his brain work in unison to scheme, to machinate, to plot.
He signs the document, unafraid of the backwoods Sheriff or any of his misbegotten lackeys. As he pens his name with flourish, he glances at the seated lawman with a smirk, nearly an issue of challenge. After signing, he moves over to stand to the side of the room, still fingering the pommel of his concealed dagger with a sharp gleam in his eye. The Sheriff sought to toy with him, but he did not quite know what he would be dealing with.
Dmitry's smirk reappears when his own name plays upon the Sheriff's lips. How formal now, their altercation. His mind swiftly builds a shield to deflect the lawman's idle threats, dismissing them in a whiff of air, just as the blown dust did off of the heavy tome in the study upstairs.
“If he dies, of course, then we just as well might call it a trial.”
"If he dies, of course. I trust there will be a funeral in that event? Fortunate that I am now familiar with the local burial customs, and how to pay respect to a procession here in Ravengro." Dmitry's eyes catch the fire of the hearth as he watches the Sheriff depart, and for a brief moment an onlooker might spot the visage of a young girl in a trick of the light there.
Oh, poor Sheriff. Here you have gone and put yourself up as an obstacle between myself and my beloved Venja. I've learned deftly how to remove such obstacles. It is you who should feel threatened.
When the men depart, Dmitry drops the dagger out of his cuff and back into his hand. He wipes the bit of spirits left on it upon his coat sleeve and nestles back into its home before pushing a few locks of errant hair from his eyes, where sweat from the heat of the nearby fire had plastered them.
"What a charming fellow," Dmitry mutters. He looks around at the others and sighs. "Give your testaments as you see fit. I will not begrudge you for your views. I have gotten myself out of much more calamitous of affairs, so I assure you I will not lose sleep over this trivial matter, whether or not the man lives or dies."
He turns to Kendra and gives her a stiff nod. "It is your domicile, my lady. I'll not argue your directions. As Esdras says, please get some rest and try to throw some of the burden of the day off of your shoulders."
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In lieu of the common room, Kendra sends Wictor up to sleep in the library, where the cot is already set up, presumably to accommodate late nights of study.
Dmitry/Esdras: In the narrow guest bed shared by the two former partners in crime, one small movement may be enough to wake both sleepers. However, it is not a motion but a sound that wakes Dmitry from his hectic dreams. Something is moving across the grass beneath your window. You crane your neck to look out, just in time to see the tail of something large and dark moving steadily east. Esdras does not stir at this faint sound.
Magdalen: After an exchange of stiff and awkward condolences and good-nights, you squeeze in alongside Kendra in her bed and pretend to sleep. The fatigue of travel and the day's events have almost overwhelmed you into slumber when you feel Kendra rise from the bed. You crack your eyes open and watch as she crosses the dark room to her window, which overlooks the eastern path. With deliberate slowness, she unhooks the window and throws open the sash.
Ivan/Alec: Despite the tension between these rivals, both men are fast asleep at this hour. Ivan is dreaming yet again of the day his friends fell beneath the talons of the living dead -- in particular, a moment when he stumbled and nearly fell into the campfire. Alec is also dreaming of fire. In his dreams, a beautiful, dark-eyed woman embraces him, and then suddenly bursts aflame, but refuses to release him. Both men toss and turn, feeling the heat spread uncomfortably across their bodies...
Wictor: After the upheavals of the day, Wictor is truly spent. He is deep asleep upon the cot when the yellow hare begins to whisper in his ear. Even when it crawls atop his chest, perched upon him like an incubus, he does not stir. And so the creature slaps one paw across his mouth -- to keep him from screaming -- then with the other forepaw, smacks him across the brow. "Are you resolved," It hisses, inches from his eyes, "to squander the most important night of your life in mere sleep?"
As the exhausted furtrapper finally succumbs to the weight of his eyelids, he finds himself in a whimsical montage of composite scenes of memory. The first dealt with his first catch with his father; a momentous day. Also present were his first love, quarreling in the background with both his cooking mother and his wife-to-be. His mother was the age she was when he was young, alongside his first love, but his wife was the same age as she was today. This scene morphed into one of budding adolescence. Wictor was biting into a ruby red apple, in a wagon stacked with fur, reading his favorite book (at that time) while his father drove the cart into the city...
These scenes bubbled and brewed into several more twisted and alarming moods, the last of which contained today's unfortunate exposing of Petros' face. In the dream however, it was still there, but contorted; scowling at Wictor and Wictor only. The corpse's mouth began to open and speak to the crippled fur man when his burnscars gave way to flashing again, and he once more the wretched voice of the hearth.
His wild eyebrows jaunt as his pupils witness before him the assailant hare proper.
In this second he realizes that he is not drugged, but sober of mind and body. And he is mortally afraid.
He jerks adrenally, rolling his body to the edge of the bed, meaning to get the rabbit off of his person.
To his surprise the hare bears much more weight than ones he'd caught in the past.
In this moment of observation his mind reminds him of the chance encounter he had in his own wood months prior.
The aurum pelt, the black spot. 'Twas nigh deniable. The servant of Ul Gutha'ur was before him.
The old man gasps.
"Who are you? What do you want of me?"
Wictor shrinks into his bed, his sheets his bulwark, his pillow a shield. The man became smaller than the spirit before him.
Magdalen sleepily watches Kendra opening the window. "What's going on?" she asks quietly.
Dmitry strides with purpose to his appointed room, loosening his cravat as he moves - how tight it had become against him in the passing hours this eve! When he arrives he removes his coat and shrugs out of his armor, placing the protective garb in the corner while he stretches his weary limbs. He sits on the corner of the bed, attempting to allow himself some manner of rest in this most fretful day, and realizes this is perhaps the first time he has been off of his feet in relaxation in a day. His mind, however, will not rest, cannot rest. He pulls forth once more the silver thread, dragging it across his fingertips as he stares at it until the rest of the world around him seems a blurry background image.
"Mercuria... he whispers softly to the darkness, then raises his eyes swiftly to gaze at the shadows, as perhaps his naming the substance would conjure forth some malign entity from the gloom. He sighs, exasperated, and ties the thread around his wrist once more. He too removes the dagger sheathed at his lower back and slides it under his chosen pillow for security.
Whenever Esdras enters the room, Dmitry makes a point of throwing his gaze in the opposite direction and holds his hand up in preemptive dismissal. "Let us sheathe further conversation tonight. We've all spoken our mind quite enough today, and I haven't the mood for another attempt at a lecture.
Without waiting for a reply, Dmitry eases back onto the bed on his side and closes his eyes, attempting to force images away. They do not leave, however; have never left. His eyelids fall as guillotines and all that follows is grim and macabre. An empty bed, a dark room, a bloody hand. The space between the pictures as they ebb and flow is filled with screams - his wife in childbirth, his daughter scraping her knee, his own when she disappeared, those he sought to extract information from, this man Riff. Yet even as these visages, phantoms, and sounds haunt him, a single light burns through the madness. A golden ray that descends in a splendid column upon a young girl, beautiful and innocent. That light brings clarity, though it is surrounded by chaos. That light brings purpose, and focus. That light brings sleep.
Unconsciousness claims the body, but Dmitry's mind moves swiftly even in slumber. It attacks and processes the events of the day in a rush of new pictures and memories. The coffin breaks, the disfigurement of Petros, the ghostly pale of Kendra's face, the blade etching a line in the farmer, the priest's crestfallen and disinterested face, the smug Sheriff and his cigarette, the man Ivan mouthing the word mercuria. And that word in his dream is followed by the sound a heavy door opening in the darkness, to which Dmitry runs. Finally, a path! His bounds take an eternity each and the slow grind of the door taunts him, but he reaches it, and just as he is about to cross the threshold, he hears another sound, behind him. He looks at the door, looks over his shoulder, and sighs, turning around.
His eyes open and he swings his legs over the edge of the bed to rise, pulling the dagger from beneath the pillow as he does. He steps surreptitiously to the window and puts his back against the wall, peering out through the pane in time to see a large, dark tail slip beneath the window and around the house.
No mere animal, Dmitry thinks. Something dark and dangerous pulled me from my slumber...
He puts his foot onto the edge of the bed and gives it a firm shake.
"Wake up, Esdras. We have uninvited guests."
Dmitry: The animal is gone in an instant. You never got a clear look at it. But then you glance down at your bedmate, lying head-to-toe with you, and as a shaft of moonlight crosses his face, you are aghast to see his sleeping face contort and warp, adopting the bestial features of a bear or a wolf.
Magdalen: Kendra ignores your words, or else does not hear you. She leans out the open window and murmurs, as if speaking to someone upon the lawn. "You should have come before," you hear her say, "No, there's too many people here now. Too many questions."
Ivan/Alec: The dreams of both men grow increasingly consumed by the agony of flames, until they can both fairly smell their own flesh beginning to cook. The tumult of painful sensations jars them both awake at the same moment -- but the scene in waking life is equally dire. Flames coat the walls of your room, and lick about the edges of the bed. In the centre of the room, floating cross-legged, you see a translucent figure, humanoid but composed entirely of flames. He glares fiercely down at the bed and his mouth moves, but no words emerge.
Wictor: The hare hops down from atop you, bounding across the library, looking for a moment like a perfectly normal animal. Then it speaks, breaking the impression: "The question, Wictor, is of what YOU want. Your power stands to wax, even as Lorrimor's wanes. It is yours to claim, if you are bold enough to clutch it." Then it stops by a stack of heavy books, and indicates the bottommost tome with a tilt of its head. "Will you seize power, or let yourself diminish and decay?"
Magdalen sits up and swings her legs out to the floor. She pitches her voice a little louder. "Kendra? Love? Is everything alright?"
Magadalen tries to peer out the window to see what her erstwhile lover is doing.
Alec murmurs and sweats in his sleep, tossing and turning but not quite waking. In his dream...
the burning woman laughs, a sound that simultaneously repulses and attracts the young ex-guardsman. Alec desperately thrashes in her searing grip, until her eyes catch his and suddenly he's falling, falling into those black pits, screaming.
In the darkness he sees a silhouette before him, and suddenly there is a knife in his hand and he leaps, his blade striking true--and how he holds the Lord Marshal in his arms as the man vainly struggles to gasp out something as he takes his final breaths. The man's face shifts and morphs, becoming Erren, the guard at the estate door whom Alec had murdered on that monstrous woman's silent command. She too tries to say something, but the blood bubbles from her lips as the face shifts once more to Iram--gruff, beloved Iram, who glares at Alec with accusatory eyes whose light is fading...
Esdras enters the room designated for him and Dmitry to find the man sitting on the edge of the bed. He had no intention to talk to Dmitry today, so the man's request was followed. His mind was still clouded by the day's events, the professor's ruined face, his will, and, mostly, the effects of the cheap alcohol he had drunk. Better to sleep quickly before the effects of the drink turn from a blessed numbness to a nightmarish headache...
Esdras removes his armor and shirt and puts them alongside his weapons on a nearby chair. His chest was mared by numerous scars... from cuts of a variety of blades to bites and slashes of beasts. Esdras was never ashamed of them but he thanked the fact that Dmitry was already on the bed, facing the other side.
He wasn't sure how much time he took to sleep ot even how much time he slept... the alcohol taking its toll in the form of a dreamless sleep, a blessing in this particular occasion. With Dmitry's shake, Esdras opened his eyes and just after a couple seconds he could see perfectly in the dark. Esdras jumped out of the bad with Dmitry's words and soon grabbed one of his swords, taking care to keep his eyes in the shadows...
Hum... I bet my eyes had turned yellowish again, and probably with a vertical pupil... I hope he had not seen them though...
"What is it, Dmitry? Have you seen it or just heard or felt its presence?... I've learnt to trust these instincts and it is never wise to ignore them..."
...the dream is interrupted by the smell of smoke, and the crackle of peeling wood as Alec blearily opens his eyes. Above him sits--sitting, yes, though on thin air--a figure of writhing flame, staring balefully at the bed and its occupants. With a wordless shout Alec throws aside the covers and rolls to the side, coming up with his brace of daggers in his hands. Drawing a blade he flings his hand sideways, the knife spinning end over end towards the flame-wreathed figure.
"What in the hells are you?" Alex roars at the figure, all too keenly aware of that he is unarmored and only half-clothed as the flames hungrily nibble at the room. The drumroll of blood pounding in his ears seems to drive out all other sounds, but Alec feels himself strangely unafraid, despite the seeming certainty of his death.
Ivan lays stiff in his bed. Dreams of his close encounter with death were commonplace for him, and he found no reason to try and break out of this one. But deep in his mind, Ivan realized something about this dream was off. The images ran through his head again and again, stepping in the searing fire, feeling the branches crack beneath his feet, the flames licking his bare feet. The sensation felt just like it did on that day, a steady stream of heat and pain.
But that was wrong.
Ivan couldn't have stepped in the fire on that day, nor could he on any other day; his friend, the pyromaniac wizard Gamorak, used to cast mystic charms that preserved the fire and protected it, arcane secrets Ivan could never dream of understanding. Why, then, was this sensation so real, how could the smell of boiling flesh could be so fresh in his nose? In fact, if this indeed was a dream, why would he feel the flames engulfing him, the smoke filling his lungs---
Ivan darts awake, coughing maniacally as he tries to assess the situation. He spots a spectral figure, engulfed in flames, floating in front of him, and makes a small hand gesture - a "charm of good luck" his friend Raham the Righteous taught him. This was in fact a divine spell , but the cleric did not want to overburden Ivan with such esoteric information. Aided by this sacred magic, Ivan manages to see through the smoke.
My eyes deceive me.
The figure, floating cross-legged in the middle of the room, has the arched singed eyebrows, pointed ears and particular crooked nose that could only belong to one elf.
"Gamorak", Ivan croaks, "Gamorak Greensmog! But I have witnessed your demise, your voice has echoed countless times in my head; how could you be here?"
Alec/Ivan: Alec's dagger passes ineffectually through the figure and into the far wall. He realizes that the form is an apparition, lacking substance -- and so, too, are the flames which seem to consume the room. The phantasm, who Ivan named Gamorak, leans close and mouths inaudible words while pointing up in the direction of Lorrimor's office. Then, in the blink of an eye, he is gone, and so are the flames. The room is as it was.
Magdalen: Kendra startles at the sound of Magdalen's voice, and turns to place her body between the window and the bed. But Magdalen's keen eye catches a glimpse of a dark-skinned figure standing below, and hears a strangely accented (and unquestionably male) voice whisper up to Kendra, "I'll return, my heart."
Dmitry/Esdras: As Dmitry begins to explain to Esdras what he thought he saw below, another figure flits past -- this time from east to west, as if retracing the steps of the beast. However, this figure is human, though he moves as quickly as a forest predator. The two warriors have only a moment to note his furred cloak and swarthy features -- both hallmarks of the Sczarni of Ustalav -- before he darts into the woods and disappears.
Wictor: As if drawn by a will greater than his own, Wictor crosses the library and extracts the book which his strange companion indicated. It is a quarto, bound in brained leather, with thin papyrus pages that whisper and crackle as they turn. The unnamed manuscript is filled with dense script in an unfamiliar language, but the first few pages seem somehow easier for Wictor to decipher -- as if prior study gave him the tools he needs to crack the code.
The hare slinks back into the shadows, but its voice lingers: "Tonight you take the first step on a dangerous path. I will guide you, as each new page is turned. But in order to succeed, you must covet the power I promise..."
Magdalen's voice quivers. "Kendra? Who was that?" She rises to go to the window, arms outstretched for an embrace, a questioning look on her face.
"I...it must have been one of the local boys. The ones who broke the windows, before my father..." She shuts the window and then slides down to the floor, seemingly broken and exhausted. "I don't know what's happening. I'm so tired...I just need to sleep..."
Magdalen knows Kendra well enough to see that she is concealing something. But her exhaustion, at least, is genuine, and once you have helped her back to the bed, she succumbs immediately to sleep.
Alec stares dumbfounded at the space where the flame-spirit had occupied, giving a stupefied look around himself at the utterly unharmed room that mere heartbeats ago had been carpeted in dancing flames. The figure's silent warning...Beware the madness...what in the Hells could that mean?
Alec strides across the room to where his dagger still quivers in the wall, pulling it free with a small grunt of effort. Sliding the blade back into its sheathe he half-turns to Ivan, his hand still touching the dagger's hilt. Trying to keep the quaver from his voice--part adrenaline, part fear just now catching up to him, Alec whispers, "You called it Gamorak. You knew it. What are you playing at Fabulanov? What the hell just happened?"
The smell of the book in his hands caused Wictor's brain to glow. He felt the synapses in his head expanding; the blood rushing in joyous, manic riot.
His pupils widened, becoming enamored by the strange words and symbols found within the pages of this orgasmic tome.
The dialects of the scripts, the rhythm of their meters... They all were so unfamiliar, and so known, all at once.
He felt as if his whole life he had been looking into a mirror which had draped over it a sheet with a false portrait scrawled atop its fabric.
In this moment the curtain dissipated, and his true naked self was revealed in nubile bristling glory.
Slowly he retires back to his bed, fully engrossed in the paradoxes and axioms of the volume. How it called him, tempted him...
He read within allegory of youth, power, wisdom unrestrained.
He thought of his withered leg, his worn back, his anxious heart. His hungry family, his given trade...
how he wished he could be unrestrained.
At the end of its' hermetic narrative, he finds the pages upon which are found the keys to the answers to which the stories prior raised question.
For hours he pored over the successive symbols. He even began to mutter the syllables of several of the incantations.
Wictor forgot if he even slept when the morning broke, but he felt the most rested he had been in years.
Ivan stares at where, until mere seconds ago, his old ally's form had floated in the air. As he realizes the fire and smoke were phantasmal illusions, his coughs and pants turn into sobs. Ivan lays in his bed and closes his eyes, his arms resting on his chest.
"That was my friend, a great wizard. But this man has already passed on from this world."
The flames, these words, beware the madness... Ivan's mind loosely links between Gamorak, Lorrimor, Dmitry and the forbidden tomes before his consciousness slips back into the realm of uneasy sleep. But this time Ivan's dreams aren't of that same horrible night; they are surreal theories of the madness Gamorak was referring to - the dark truths of Lorrimor's work.
When Dmitry turns to rouse Esdras from his slumber, he notices the cast moonlight on his face and the warping of features thereupon. Just before he speaks with intent on waking him he does a double take, blinking as if to deny to himself what he saw. Was that a fang? A snout? A swath of fur? He shakes his head, scattering the image in his mind's eye as though tossing a handful of sand.
What trick is this that my mind plays now? Dmitry wonders, his mind a rush of confusion and drowsiness. What madness plagues me now on this wretched eve?
He rouses the man anyway, and when he gathers himself to come to the window, Dmitry pushes thoughts and images of what he saw, or thought he saw, out of his head. For now.
"Some manner of beast. I caught a glimpse of a tail before it vanished, I be-" his voice cuts off as the man swiftly moves past the window. His eyes focus in on a few of the notable features of the agile figure, and for a mere moment he seems to move in slow motion.
Sczarni! Dmitry's eyes go wide and he quickly snatches up his sword cane from the corner of the room, taking up both it and his dagger. His heart drums a a warbeat within his chest, and he feels the perspiration start to seep out of his palms, down his forehead. I knew one of those men would have known a Sczarni...they've found me!
"You saw that?" He says, inclining his head to the woods. "This night grows worse by the second. I fear we are about to be besieged."
Without another word, Dmitry pivots on his heel and dashes to the door, completely forsaking his armor as he takes up a momentary defensive position just outside the room, gazing this way and that in a rapid attempt to perceive anything dangerous.