The wound in his leg finally begins to sting, and Wictor feels the meat of his thigh. Blood. Too much blood for his liking. He begins to feel frantic, and doubting in Esdras' claims, he tries to flit back towards the light. He finds the task harder than he thought it should be.
"I'm bleeding profusely. I don't know if I can go forward, lads... I could use a bandage... and some ether."
His tone is not one of hysterics, but rather one of calculation and muted worry.
Noting with quiet alarm the blood soaking through Wictor's pants leg, Alec keeps his focus on the remaining vermin, noting its twitching movements and unsettling pincers, slick with blood.
Darting forward to keep the fill the vacuum left by the older trapper and keep pressure on the creature, he jabs a quick thrust at what passed for its face, grinning with grim satisfaction as he felt chitin give way to steel, though the wound was not deep.
The flurry of activity and blood in the past few seconds makes Magdalen's head spin. But, her determination to be an adventurer and to help her fellow travelers - however unexpected the grouping might be - moves her forward. She Charges at the disgusting beast with her hammer held high, trying not to trip on anyone ...
...
Almost by accident, the party falls into a strategic synchronicity. Alec’s attack, while not mortal, serves to hold the centipede in place while Magdalen quite unexpectedly crushes the beast’s head with her hammer. Then she slumps against Alec’s shoulder, gasping in alarm.
The final creature succumbs to fewer death throes than its mates. Within a few seconds, all is still within the crypt.
Surprised by the sudden weight of Magdalen, for a split second Alec thinks she might be fainting and drops his sword to catch her, the ichor-stained steel clattering painfully loudly in the confined stone tunnel. As she didn't faint, he somewhat awkwardly covers the motion by giving her a pat on the shoulder instead. "You did well, Magdalen. Deep breaths, you're alright...and the ruffians of Caliphas' alleyways had best steer clear of you!"
Raising his candle to better see Wictor, he softly calls over "Is it bad?"
As the last centipede falls, Esdras lowers his sword just slightly before looking around, interested in knowing if there were more of them hiding somewhere, or at least discover how such creatures entered the crypt. After all, even if the it wasn't completely locked, the crypt's door was closed.
Noticing his hammer abandoned a couple feet away from him, he reaches for it and secures it in his belt. He does the same with the candle stump, holding his big sword with just one hand, and approaches the others so it can be lit once more. It was imperative that the others do not notice that he is able to see almost perfectly in the dark, otherwise many questions would be raised.
With the flickering light of the candle and his head slightly tipped down to avoid the light to reflect and reveal his slightly orange eyes with vertical pupils, Esdras addressed the others in a calm tone. "Very well... besides Mr. Lugaulle, is everyone in one piece? If so, I'd advise us to continue as quickly as possible. These were dangerous enemy, and this fight could have gone far, far worse. Considering that a couple of you are not experienced combatants, I'd dare to say that it was better than we should have expected."
Fearing that his speech could be seen as insensible, he cared to explain himself before another of Magdalen's outbursts. "Despite Mr. Lugaulle being wounded, there is no way for us to know if this confrontation was enough to draw attention from the grave keepers, so each minute we remain here we risk to be discovered and incarcerated. We must hurry." Saying this, the big warrior turns to towards the other room, awaiting for Dmitry to, once more, take the lead.
Magdalen straightens up and shies away from Alec's touch, suddenly taken with the impropriety of it all (while secretly pleased with herself, and with Alec's response). Smoothing out her skirts with shaking fingers, she follows Alec's eyes to Wictor... and is suddenly concerned.
"...sir? Are you in need of aid?" She takes a few tentative steps towards the older man, intending to help him rise.
Dmitry winces as the centipede's ravenous mandibles mangle his arm, painfully invading his flesh. Pulling his arm away, he brings it in close to his torso to cradle it as a reflex. Despite the clamor of battle, he can keenly hear the soft patter of his blood splattering against the stone, and feels the wetness of it on his skin along with the sting of the rupture. Further, he begins to feel a bit of atrophy seizing the appendage and shakes his arm to regain mobility. Fortunately, he is able to shake the sensation.
Envenomed beasts, I think... he muses internally.
His fingers tighten on his cane, and he sizes up his adversary for another strike. He shifts his footing, marked by the lightest swipe of his boot across the stone, and balances his weight for the coming blow. As he prepares himself for another attack, he sees a flash of movement and suddenly the centipede is lifeless under the weight of Magdalen's hammer. Dmitry blinks and breathes a sigh of relief at the dispatching of not only the beast he was just confronting, but the others as well.
"Well struck," Dmitry murmurs to the woman near him. He straightens himself and cuts a bit of fabric from the hem of his coat and does his best to wrap it around his injured arm.
Taking stock of the aftermath of the battle, it appears that other than himself only Wictor is injured, albeit badly. Dmitry takes a step towards the man and shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, old friend. Had I the foresight, I would have prepared a tonic that could have eased your pain, but I used my resources to concoct other droughts I'm afraid. If you can still walk, I think it best we continue on...too dangerous for you to turn back alone."
Dmitry glances back over his shoulder to the path before them and reclaims his lead position, and once everyone is ready, continues on.
Ivan's eyes flash in horror as blurred images of men and insects move through his field of vision with splashes of crimson blood. He gasps loudly and stumbles against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.
"Enough... I have had enough ambushes in the dark for a lifetime."
The storyteller leans towards the wounded Wictor, but before beginning to assess his wounds, a certain madness catches him.
"Who was it this time," he cries hoarsely, "what did they make me do?"
With shaking hands and hard-set jaws, Dmitry and Esdras peer around the corner of the open door, half-expecting more of the giant vermin – or worse – to emerge from the cracks in the crypt walls. But nothing moves within the second chamber; instead, your candles cast their glow across several small wooden crates, stacked on the tiled floor beside a sarcophagus.
Atop the same sarcophagus, you see another collection of boxes – six altogether, and mismatched in shape and size. Even in the faint light, you can discern that each box has writing on the surface, and you recognize the hasty scrawl as belonging to Professor Lorrimor.
Each of these six boxes has one of your names written on it. You realize that here, hidden within this ancient crypt, is your true inheritance from the Professor – sequestered from the prying eyes and ears of Ravengro.
Alec du Chevrou: This long, heavy teak box is stuffed with oilcloth. Unwrapping the cloth, you find a row of six cartridges, a drawstring sack with six doses of black powder, and a battered iron pistol. The gun has Galtan insignia embossed upon the barrel, and on the base of the handle, you find the following motto inscribed: “Fear of Death Enslaves the Living.”
Dmitry Pavlovich: Your box is actually a tube of lightweight balsamwood. When you pop off the lid, you see a glimmer of silver fabric within. The contents unfold to reveal a long tapestry sewn from incredibly fine thread, and presenting a parade of figures – kings, soldiers, bandits, and a great many wolves – moving through a forest. Some of the royal figures, and a few of the wolves, are sewn with silver thread which you recognize to be mercuria.
Ivan Fabulanov: This box is almost flat. The contents slide out onto the sarcophagus lid: a thin wooden board printed with numerous letters, numbers, and inscrutable sigils. The Varisian words for “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe” are emblazoned across the top of the planchette, and the entire board is framed in brass.
Esdras Martalen: Your box is the largest and heaviest. It contains a broad array of alembics, filters, retorts, and labelled vials filled with alchemical powders. The box is compartmentalized in order to store all the items separately and safely.
Wictor Lugaulle: This is a mahogany box treated with a waterproof laquer. It is large enough to snugly fit two books, although it currently only contains one tome: an illuminated history of Ustalav entitled “The Undying Tree.”
Magdalen North: Your box is small and long, with a hinged lid that folds up ingeniously to elevate and showcase its contents: eight crystalline stones, each about the size of your palm, each carved and painted with intricate runes that mark their origins as primordial. The talismans each have a tiny hole bored through, and a leather thong attached, to make them wearable.
Bending to retrieve his sword, Alec's hand freezes for a moment at the sound of Ivan's hoarse cry before firmly gripping the hilt. Setting down the candle, he fishes a old scrap of cloth from the pocket and cleans off the blade, quietly observing the other man while his hands moved through motions born of long habit. His distress seems genuine enough, though Arqueros knows I've no eye for good actors.
Taking a step closer to the storyteller, some impulse leads him to offer Ivan cover. Not unkindly, he offers, "Everyone responds to battle a little differently, you might be in shock. Take a moment, it'll pass." After a moment's hesitation, he adds significantly "We can speak of it later, when we have left this dark place."
. . .
Upon opening the dark teakwood box his breath catches--he recognizes the pistol for what it is, as merchants from Alkenstar had been trying (with great fanfare and considerably less success) to win a major contract with the armies of Lastwall--their public demonstrations in Vigil were quite popular. Running his fingers over the dark steel and wood, he mouths the words of the inscription. Shrugging off his long leather coat, he buckles on the cartridge belt and holster arranged so that the pistol rests beneath his right arm. "It is a fine gift, Professor. Thank you," he whispers, in case the man's ghost were listening. Now I just have to learn how to use the thing. Shrugging on his coat once more, he turns to observe what wonders may have been granted the others.
Ivan is surprised by Alec's kind reply. Their paths have clashed multiple times now, always leaving a bad mark on their relationship. Nevertheless, and despite all the horror, the pain and the stress, Ivan can't help but grin as he slides open his box and takes out the decorated board. He examines it, turning it around in his hands and peering through the various holes in it.
"This looks like a Talking Board of sorts," he says in some strange hope that someone might be listening. "I've seen Varisian mediums use them to communicate with the spirits of gone beloved ones. Of course," he chuckles, realizing his head is not actually physically wounded like he thought it to be, "these mediums are naught but fraud. Outrageous claimants to psychic power, they prey on the weak of mind to make their living."
Ivan takes one final look at the curious group around him, this time whispering to himself.
"But if this strange device could actually work... if I could call my allies at this dire time..."
Ivan trails off as his focus wanders to the inheritance the others have received, all clearly much more practical than his.
Esdras eyes all the boxes with incredulity, once more impressed with the dear professor's foreknowledge. I he was to find a cure for his mysterious disease through alchemy, he would for sure need a complete alchemy lad. Esdras moved his hands around the box, opening a couple drawers and quickly examining its contents. It was not a brand new kit: the box had numerous scratches, bumps, and stains, a couple vials were chipped and the glass darkened, and looking over the assorted reagents it was clear that some of them would need to be replaced soon enough, but Esdras could not be more happy. This was his... I'm utterly honored...
Esdras could remember who many times he have secretly cursed the professor for having to travel with such a heavy box, and he also recognized a couple bumps and scratches that were actually caused by his own careless maneuvers. After this short moment of nostalgia, Esdras comes back to his sense.
"Very well... we must leave now. Grab your gifts and let's get out of here. If any of you need help with your belongings, let me know and I'll carry for you." Saying this, the big man moves the heavy box over his shoulder, slowly breathing until he seems to be already used to the new weight. A close examination, something almost impossible in this dim light, would reveal that a couple of his muscles had contracted and slightly enlarged.
What interesting lengths Petros went to to secret these gifts away, Dmitry thinks as he inspects the containers with the rest of the gathered group. He lifts the tube with his name on it and turns it over in his hand multiple times, as if looking for even more secrets to be etched upon it. He takes the time to run his thumb and fingers along the wood, making note of the texture and otherwise taking in the feeling of the object.
He watches out of the corner of his eye as the others open their boxes, noting that his container in particular is different than all the others. He wonders just what that means. Seeing no further reason to delay, he uncaps the end of the tube and looks within, grabbing the edge of something soft; a fabric of some kind. He gives it a tug and begins pulling the cloth out of the tube and swiftly feels something like a street magician as the folds just keep coming.
Eventually, the tapestry is fully removed, much of it bunched at his feet in a silky cascade. He begins drawing it up, noting the silvery glow of the fabric in the soft light. He sees figures campaigning across it, through thick forest among a great many wolves. His eyes freeze fast and hard when he sees some of the stitching, however. He pulls in the fabric closer to his face for a better look, and he can feel his heart throbbing in his throat. He needs to experiment or research to know that the thread in the tapestry is the same thread tied around his wrist. The same thread that ties echoes and nightmares to his consciousness.
"Mercuria..." he whispers to the darkness, as if some specter there would offer insight. He swallows hard, forcing his heart back down into his chest and begins swiftly stuffing the fabric back into the tube. This can be no mere coincidence, his mind surmises as he moves. None of this is happenstance. You seek out the professor, end up at his funeral, named in his will, meet a man who knows about the thread, and now...now Petros has left me this. What does it all mean?
Dmitry's eyes find Ivan. He would need to speak with that man again, and soon.
At Alec and Esdras’s urging, you hastily collect your inheritances and prepare to leave the crypt. But Wictor’s lame leg catches against one of the three small wooden crates, and you realize the professor may have more in store. The three of you with lighter burdens – Dmitry, Alec, and Magdalen – can each carry one of the crates, for inspection back at Kendra’s house.
As you emerge from the crypt, Alec’s ears pick up a strange, hollow sound that trickles through the cacophony of wind in branches. When you concentrate, you can all make out a strange, melancholy melody, played upon a thin, reedy flute. Esdras nods towards the southwest, his best guess for the eerie tune’s point of origin. You recall that the twin gravediggers reside in a hut in the southwestern corner of the cemetery.
With a small motion to the others to remain quiet, Alec carefully sets down his crate and slips off between the tombstones towards the source of the music.
Dmitry raises an inquisitive brow as Alec shifts away all surreptitiously. He eases off his load as well, crouches down, and follows.
"Come now, lads. Haven't we discovered enough this eve? We don't want to get caught by peering eyes needlessly..."
Wictor grumpily snaps to the spelunkers in a hush. It was more of a combination of the panacea wearing off mixed with his age's encumbrances making him a bit cranky. That aside, Wictor is more concerned with the safety of his new heirlooms staying in tact as they whisk off back to the house.
His back was certainly straining the issue, no less.
Alec creeps between the headstones, with Dmitry close behind, shadowing his movements. The two men are about equal in stealth, and Alec’s wary ears unerringly lead them undetected towards the gravediggers’ shack.
From the vantage of a crumbling monument , the two of you behold a disquieting sight. Both of the brutish twins stand outside their shack, barefoot and clad in only threadbare sleeping shifts. One man plays the music on a copper-whistle: a slow, haunting tune with no beginning or end. His eyes hang heavy, as though he were only half-awake.
His brother stands a few feet away, partly shadowed by the eaves of the shack. You can’t see his face clearly, but you can make out two creatures attached to his neck or shoulders. Tangles of insectoid legs move about probingly, while batlike wings flutter slowly, as do the wings of butterflies when they perch upon a flower to suck its nectar.
It is a dreadful scene, made more horrific and uncanny by the seeming obliviousness of the two human participants.
Ivan hides a sneer when he sees Alec crouch and start sneaking towards the source of the mysterious music, but his expression grows bewildered when Dmitry follows suit. He opens his mouth to speak, realizing any voice loud enough to be heard by his sneaking comrades may also be heard by unwanted listeners. He turns around to the others, making a confused and annoyed gesture with his eyebrows.
"Are we letting these madmen go?"
He disapprovingly watches the two stealthily move ahead.
They could get caught... but they could also find out some interesting secret. Let's wait and see.
Esdras doesn't follow the others, agreeing with Wictor for the first time and shrugging at Ivan's question. "They have a light feet, different from myself... trying to stop them would only assure their failure and capture. We can wait them or return to Miss Lorrimore's home."
Esdras was torn between the importance of discovering some new clue about what was going on around the town, and the necessity of returning safely to the house without raising suspicion.
"Come..." He urged the others. "... we need to leave the Restlands. I imagine no one knows what the Professor hide inside the crypt for us, but since we are trespassing, the conclusion that we stole from the dead will not be far-fetched. As soon as we leave these grounds, we are safe, even if spotted thereafter..."
Magdalen agrees with Esdras - she often defers to him in matters in which she feels uncomfortable. Grasping her cherished set of talismans tightly, she stands with Esdras, nervously watching the other men disappear.
With nary a signal from Alec and Dmitry, the remaining four infiltrators make their way back out of the cemetery and return to House Lorrimor. Kendra awaits, quite safe and eager to hear a detailed report of your findings. She is also able to offer Wictor an herbal poultice -- one of several that her father prepared for emergencies -- to stave off infection and curtail the worst of his pain.
Inspecting the extra crates you recovered from the crypt, you find that Lorrimor had carefully packed and labelled the following items:
- four alchemical sunrods
- six flasks of holy water
- one dozen silver-tipped arrows
- five healing poultices
- four mysterious iron-banded glass jars containing tiny, churning clouds of vapour.
When Kendra sees the vapour-filled jars, she sucks in her breath. In a quiet, careful voice, she says, "I have seen those before. My father packed several prior to his final excursion to Harrowstone."
Magdalen follows Kendra's gaze at her sharp intake of breath.
"Siphons! But I thought - those are supposed to be a myth! How - where! - did he find them??"
She picks up one almost reverently, examining the bottle and carefully wiping the dust from its outside, the better to see its contents.
Looking up at the group and internally questioning everything she thought was true, Magdalen tries to determine if the others in the room were as surprised as she was to see this clear evidence of an arcane revelation.
Crossing his face like an ugly parade, Alec's expression turns from confusion, to horror and disgust. For a moment, he places a hand on his crossbow--but no, these men had done nothing to warrant such violence, though their disturbing little ritual raised more than a few questions. Giving Dmitry a small shrug and shake of his head, the young man slips back through the cemetery. Unconcerned by the departure of the others, he winds his way cautiously back to the Lorrimor residence, giving the door a soft, polite knock.
Dmitry pulls his dagger as he and Alec creep through the cemetery, cautiously running the inside of his thumb along its edge in a arbitrary test of sharpness. As he and the other man round about on the scene of the gravediggers, Dmitry stops in his tracks and goes to one knee to keep out of sight and look on. A look of bewilderment splashes across his face, and his gaze slowly shifts over to Alec, his expression certainly conveying a look of confusion and question.
He does not dare to speak, afraid to break whatever sort of bizarre enchantment was at work here, but listens intently to the tune to commit it to memory for the few moments they stand there. After Alec shrugs and skulks away, Dmitry thinks it a wise decision and follows after him, straightening his posture as he moves away from the strange scene.
I've enough madness to deal with, he muses.
Once he has returned to the residence, Dmitry stalks around the recovered cargo and looks at the supplies inquisitively, then looks to Magdalen.
"Indeed...I've read on them in my, ahem, studies. The life of your father, Miss Kendra, continues to perplex and astound. Look at all of these items...it looks as though he was preparing to foray into a tall tale or a ghost story. If only he were here to illuminate all of these shadows..." Dmitry's voice trails off as his mind is suddenly jaunted to a particular tome that he so desires to inspect.
Hefting one of the strange little devices, Alec gives Dmitry and Magdalen a quizzical look. "What exactly are these mythical trinkets supposed to do? I don't recognize them at all, and what interest did the Professor have in a burnt-out husk of a prison?"
Carefully returning the 'siphon' to its box, he does a quick check of the other contents, tallying the inventory in his head. Sunrods, healing paultices, arrows...the professor was preparing for a small expedition all right. But why risk concealing such items in the cemetery? Why not here, or indeed anywhere else that couldn't be construed as grave robbing? You continue to puzzle, Petros.
As he counts the supplies, Alec also recounts the strange scene in the cemetery to the others, as well as what he had learned from the apothecary Jominda. "She made vague intimations about how the folk of Ravengro have been acting strangely, even violently, in recent weeks. She also seemed quite taken with Sheriff Caelar and claimed he was the only one holding things together here. This whole situation feels off to me."
Kendra takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales slowly through her nose. “They are connected,” She says at last. “And though I don’t know how exactly, these strange behaviours caused my father’s death.”
She continues: “My father was deeply troubled by the changes in Ravengro. He claimed to have encountered incidents of mass hysteria before, but he refused to elaborate. He only said that the cause was ‘ancient’ – something about ‘long-buried evils’ becoming disinterred. He gave up all his habitual studies in order to find the source of Ravengro’s disruptions.”
“Yet he would not examine the villagers themselves. Instead, his investigations took him to various abandoned sites outside the village, starting with the Restlands, then someplace in the forest, and finally Harrowstone.” She stares at the haunt siphon in her hands, and you can see the swirling vapours reflected in her dark eyes.
“Harrowstone Prison. For years, it housed Ustalav’s most dangerous lunatics and criminals. Fifty years ago, a fire inside the jail killed everyone – the inmates, the guards, even the warden’s family – and since that day the site has been abandoned. Ravengrans believe it is cursed. Now I believe them.”
She sets down the siphon and completes her tale. “The Professor made three sorties to Harrowstone. He insisted on traveling at night. Before the last trip, I saw him packing several of these siphons, along with some of the other materials you found in the crypt. Obviously, it was his intention to make further expeditions, since he didn’t take everything. But...” Her voice is cut off by a choking grief.
Finally, she finds the conviction to continue. “When they found his body, his skull had been crushed. The Sheriff determined he’d been standing underneath some unstable statuary, and it had fallen or crumbled, killing him instantly. I suppose that may be true. But they did not recover any of these siphons from his corpse. Someone had taken them.”
Esdras holds one of the siphons, mesmerized by its whirling mists even if he is unable to identify what they are or what is their purpose. As Magdalen exclaims, Esdras returns the jars to the box, while taking one of the flasks of holy water. "Holy water... I don't recall the professor being a superstitious man or a specially religious one." He then takes one of the silver-tipped arrows, and soon returns both itens to the box, crossing his arms afterwards. "I've heard rumors and tales about dark creatures susceptible to holy water, even if most disregard them as nothing but myth. I believe it would be wise for us to discard all preconceptions we had, and embrace the impossible..."
At Kendra's report, Esdras became more thoughtful. "What you say makes a lot of sense if we consider that what is affecting the townspeople is some malady of the mind, and not of the body, since the professor went for its source, instead of focusing on the cure."
"It also gives us many clues, even if I'm not yet capable of understanding what is going on... you mentioned the prison, which you say is abandoned for about fifty years, might be the source of this, yet you implied the changes on the Ravengrans are recent... the Ravengrans believe the place to be cursed, thus I assume they'd avoid it, yet the professor was found without the itens he left with..."
On the issue of the supernal baubles, Wictor speaks up at a proper turn.
"Esdras speaks wisdom. If the professor put trust in these mysterious things, I'd imagine them to have some merit... And of late, more than enough circumstances have led me to see that there is indeed more than what I once thought..."
Eyes drifting from momentary gazes and looking downwards, the fur man speaks gravely;
"But if we intend to dance with that unknown, for vengeance or for curiosity, we must go prepared for worse than what would be considered 'realistic'."
Wictor's eyes drift back to his companions, to gauge their response to his words.
For the sake of lightheartedness and merrymaking, he adds a joking end to his statement.
"That is of course, assuming we even survive our appointment at high noon on the morrow."
As the words exit his mouth he immediately realizes that that same prospect may be more dire than he remembered. He always thought of Dmitry as a man above reproach, and never for a moment thought he would be declared anything but innocent.
Ivan nods as Wictor speaks, unable to take his eyes off the flasks of holy water. His thoughts wander off towards his backpack, from which he recovers a small ornate bottle. Tattered leather strips wrap this glass vial, elaborately decorated with images of the sun and stopped by an Angelic Ankh-shaped cork. Ivan frowns and shakes the flask around, the pure water inside it sloshing lazily. One of his last physical memoirs of his previous party, Ivan never thought of his phials of holy water as more than fruits of superstition and belief; but the professor was not a man to carry around tokens of good luck, let alone pass them in his will. Combined with the silver arrows, these were more than simple clues - this was a message, and one that Ivan was not easily willing to receive.
"Most of us should leave the meeting unharmed", he finds himself saying to Dmitry with a sorry smile.
"I might know you to be innocent as in the day you were born, but I can't say the same for the rumour-mongering citizens of Ravengro. We can only hope the sheriff allows justice and truth to prevail above mundane emotions, though I doubt that."
Dmitry raises an eyebrow to Alec in response to his question. "If i recall, they have something to do with spirits, perhaps protecting against them or being rid of them." He returns his gaze to the swirling mist, staring at it intently as Kendra speaks. At times he feels pulled into the nebulous vapors, the woman's voice drifting to the distant edge of his hearing as the gasses make shapes within their containers. He blinks and shakes his head, forcing his eyes away.
"Everything about this town reeks of foul intrigue and disturbing confusion. As backwoods and belligerent as these rubes are, it would not surprise me at this point if some malign force was at work behind the scenes. The acts of this play are slowly coming together to frame at least somewhat of a coherent story...even in death does Petros find a way to make sense of things." Dmitry looks to Kendra with a half-smile. "An illustrious man indeed."
When Ivan speaks, Dmitry rubs his own jaw and pushes a lock of errant hair back. "The sheriff does not frighten me. I fully expect this testimonial business to be a charade of formality, no doubt my "guilt" is already decided in the eyes of these folk, but..." looking intently at Ivan, Dmitry traces a finger on the mercuria wrapped around his wrist. "There is no blockade on my path that I will not push through."
Dmitry's grim vow hangs heavily in the air, but no one has a reply. Gradually, the gathering breaks apart, and the guests retire to sleep, or to attend to private business.
As he prepares to go to sleep, Ivan lays the cloth bag containing his beloved journal on a desk with a wooden thud.
Of course.
Ivan takes out the strange wooden board he has found in the crypt and quietly enters the library, looking for a book on the subject of Varisian mediums and occultists. Should one be found, Ivan will mark the pages that seem appropriate and go to sleep.
An important day stands before us.
Alec fishes out a healing poultice, a sunrod, & and flask of the alleged "holy water". He leaves the siphons alone, still skeptical despite the oohs and aahs of some of the others. Tucking these items into the pocket of his long coat, he bids the others a good night and wanders upstairs.
When Ivan returns from the library, Alec is standing by the window looking out into the darkness. As he hears the door click shut, he runs his fingertips along the wooden paneling of the wall, unmarred by last night's ghostly flames. "Will we be receiving another visit from your demons, Fabulanov?" he asks softly.
Turning to face the scholar, the young man swallows and tries to ignore the icy pit in his stomach. "First at the funeral, then tonight at the Restlands you've been...acting rather oddly. That, Hells I don't even know what to call it, APPARITION from last night? All those flames and yet look around the room: no scent of smoke, no marring of the fixtures. You called it "Gamorak," Ivan...why?"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Once we've run through all the questions (3 or 4), I'll provide the conclusion of each interview, and then we'll skip to another group scene. Picture it like a montage of intercut questions and replies. It's okay if don't end up getting every PC's response to every question.
Sheriff Caellar toys with the wide brim of his hat while he sits across from you in the dusty clerk's chambers of the Ravengro town hall. The only other person in the room is a fresh-faced secretary who diligently records the conversation in a heavy ledger.
"Now then," Drawls the Sheriff, "Our business is an inquest into the death of Riff Trestleman. But as the details of the crime itself are well-established and reported on by numerous witnesses, I'd prefer to establish a measure of context, instead of dwelling on minutiae. To begin with, maybe you can tell me about your relationship with the dear, departed Professor Lorrimor?"
Before retreating to his room, Esdras grabs a couple of the items in the professor's cache: a vial of holy water, one of the healing poultice jars, and one of the haunt siphons, securing each one of them in his bandolier. An attentive observer would be able to see that Esdras already had one vial extremely similar to a holy water already on one of the loops of his bandolier.
He then takes the silver tipped arrows and handles it to Magdalen. "I believe you are the only one with a bow of any sort... take these then... it costs us nothing to be careful right now."
After wishing the others a good night, Esdras leaves the others behind, retreating to his room with his heavy alchemist's lab, intending to take a better look at it, now that they are away from the tomb.
---
Before answering the sheriff, Esdras looks around the room to make sure there were, indeed, only the three of them. He them takes mental notes about the windows and doors, making sure to have a sound escape route if something goes poorly. Not that the old warrior expected something to go amiss, but it didn't hurt him to have a plan B.
Then, he watched the sheriff and his assistance, trying to gauge if they had any second intentions, or a predisposition to plot something against them. As the sheriff says 'dear, departed Professor Lorrimor', Esdras tries to figure out if the sheriff indeed considered the Professor in high esteem, or if he was mocking his memory. Once he was satisfied, he started to talk.
"I fail to see the correlation between the two subjects but I'll answer your question as I promised I would. To end this terrible situation, with the least trouble as possible, is indeed my goal. My relation with the professor was a business one, in the form of an employer and its employee. As you might have already reached a conclusion by my clothes and weapons, I'm a combatant and, in this particular case, a bodyguard and guide."
"I won't bother you with the uninteresting circumstances that led me to be employed by the deceased professor, which are unrelated to this matter. It is enough to say that the professor needed someone to escort him to a couple locations within the Palatinate of Vieland. To my luck, I was able to impress him, since this was the first of many more jobs by his side. As the years passed, I escorted and guided him to almost all the counties in Ustalav, as well as a journey or two to Lastwall."
"I always respected him, and, even if I always thought he enjoyed my company, or at least my services, I never knew if he regarded me as a friend. That was it. Do you have any other questions?" Esdras waits, expectantly.
Never the best at hiding his thoughts, Alec's suspicious scowl at Sheriff Caellar's priorities is plain. "Already have a firm grasp of the facts, Sheriff? Have it your way. I grew up in Vigil as a ward of the Church of Arqueros, my mentor was once or twice visited by Professor Lorrimor for consultations. The Professor was patient with my childish exuberance, and we struck up a correspondence. Nothing frequent, but for a child safe & secure in a crusader city his expeditions read like wild adventures.
I'm sorry to say that when I was old enough to join the city watch I lapsed in my end of the correspondence, and I didn't hear anything from him for quite some time--until I received the letter informing me of his untimely passing, and now here I am."
Wictor retires to his room, studying voraciously the books given to him by the hare and the late Professor. He manages to put them away at a responsible time, out of consideration for the undertaking of what may transpire the next day. His leg and his back cried out to him for rest, and their cries were heeded.
"Well sir, in my youth I traveled oft and met with the Professor, getting into his good graces and becoming a favored student of his, for at least a fleeting time."
Wictor is sure to keep his tongue in check, lest he damn away any details to the lawman.
"My relationship with the dear departed professor? Very well then. I met the professor one night, on an expedition with some of my friends. After an incident I shall not elaborate on, I was left without food, without a place to call home, and without people to call my family. The professor was that for me. He raised me from the ashes, found a place for me to stay and helped me financially, paying me to tell stories at inns and arranging for others to be my patrons. He was basically a god to me. That was my relationship with the dear departed professor."
And what was your relationship with the dear departed Riff Trestleman?
The question lingers on Ivan's tongue, like poison coating a hidden blade, ready to strike. The obvious injustice carried out here, the cynicism in the sheriff's description of the event, pushed the storyteller to his limits. He knew asking this question was a death sentence... but he needed to know.
But you know better, Ivan.
It was the voice of reason, of forgiveness and truth. The voice Ivan heard the least; the one of a quite half-elf paladin who was tired of this world's cruel unbalance, but more tired of its cruel residents. When the voices carried out heated arguments in Fabulanov's head, this one would only appear to stop the others from driving poor Ivan mad. Darlann was the voice of good. In life, he protected Ivan's body, and in death, he protects Ivan's mind. This appearance startled Ivan a lot, whose curiosity nearly defeated his common sense once again.
For your own, and your friends', well-being, I suggest you leave the matter alone.
Ivan sighs, internally rather than externally - he doesn't want to confuse the sheriff, or steer him towards more private questions.
"Anything else, more obviously relevant to the case in question?"
The next morning, Dmitry seems a touch less alert than usual. He stoops slightly, and dark circles are evident under his eyes. He stifles a yawn as he takes to the common room, readying himself for the farce of an inquisition. He mixes an extract on the table before venturing out.
Upon meeting with the sheriff, Dmitry does his best to put his wits about him and sharpen his senses. He downs his alchemical concoction just before the meeting, and feels a bit better about himself. When he enters the town hall, he strides purposefully to the appointed room and resists smirking at the sheriff, but sets his sights on him nonetheless. His gaze flickers to the secretary for a mere moment before fixating back on the smug officer. Only one nemesis here.... His fingers twitch, knowing of the dagger beneath his cloak on his back, just in case.
"Yes, yes, why waste life's precious seconds on minutiae," Dmitry says dryly. "We both know you've a verdict in mind already, but if you insist on continuing this charade, so be it." Dmitry paces around the room, reflecting. "In person I met the Professor during my studies at an academy in Caliphas, though I met his work many years ago. I used one of his books to learn how to read as a child. I was fortunate enough to make his acquaintance as an adult, attending a lecture of his and conversing with him on matters afterward. Despite what you may believe, the assassination of Riff Trestleman was not among the topics discussed.
"Assassination!" Says Caellar, in response to Dmitry's answer. "That's a harrowful word. Strong connotations of intent." He inclines his head towards the secretary and mutters, "There's four S's in that word, Leromar."
"In your opinion, would you judge that your strong feelings with the Professor might in any way compromise your objectivity about his character?"
Magdalen answers the sheriff's questions shyly and demurely. "I worked with the professor in the library, in the city."
Trying to keep the indignation out of her voice at the second question, she responds, "I am certain that I am able to stay objective, sir! Are you implying otherwise??"
Certainly not, sir. I don't know how that's relevant in any manner towards what took place during his funeral. In life the man traveled far and spread only sound knowledge and the most astute care for all he met! Stern at times, but only towards ruffians and the students with whom he was most intimate...
Wictor clutches his cane a little tighter, speaking just a little more kurtly as he pieces the inspectors' narrative together in his head.
He is aware of his emotions, and while he knows that he may be more or less a subjective person, Wictor assessed that his judgment in general or specific weren't any more gullible for it.
What an insolent people we've become... All for fear of ghosts.
"Not more than those who had strong feelings against him." Esdras answers dryly. "What you ask is absurd in my humble opinion, Sheriff Caeller. Lets say someone treats you well. Would you have a positive or negative feeling towards him? Positive I suppose... and then, would you think this person would be good or bad?" He raises an eyebrow.
"No one here is impartial, Sheriff, neither me, nor the professor's daughter, nor you who lost a friend, nor those who wrongly attacked us without provocation... I wonder if you'd dismiss your own impartiality in this case, or if you'll take that as an absolute truth, making those who disagree with you automatic wrong..."
With his arms crossed, he simply asked. "Next?"
Alec arches an eyebrow at the question. "My...'strong feelings'? Sheriff I assure you they're anything but, my strongest emotion is probably puzzlement. The Professor and I were not close, and yet I was invited here, evidently by instructions he left behind. Why me, and not my mentor with whom he consulted? You know as much as I on that. I remain because I promised to do so."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Ivan raises his eyebrows at the Sheriff's question.
"Whether my strong feelings could affect my objectivity regarding the professor? Of course. I loved the man more than I had ever loved a woman. His death left me devastated, and your townspeople's objection to his burial amplified this feeling. But this question is redundant, don't you think? When facing death, no one can stay objective. Am I right?"
Ivan brushes some hair away from his eyes and throws a meaningful look towards the sheriff's eyes.
"I know Trestleman was your friend. I know you and your fellow townsfolk had your reasons to protest against Professor Lorrimor's burial. But I implore you; prove that your position as sheriff has been rightfully earned, that you - unlike me - can hold justice above emotions."
Ivan smiles compassionately.
Well then, I have not died in vain.
Ivan sighs.
"Mr. du Chevrou, trust me - I am as confused as you are. Ever since that damned night my adventuring group was murdered in - the same night I met Professor Lorrimor - I've had these sort of... fits. This might sound like madness to you, but really, there is nothing I can doubt anymore. I believe the restless spirits of my allies reside within me - whispering in my head, giving me advice or trying to drive me mad. But the professor's death worsened my conditions; no longer just figments of thought, the spirits have taken to directly affecting my actions, as you've seen during our violent encounters in the Restlands and at the crypt. But last night's events..."
Ivan grasps his head and absent mindedly brushes his sleeves, as if to clean them of the ashes conjured by Gamorak's appearance.
"I have never encountered this before. I haven't imagined this to be possible. Gamorak was one of my fellow adventurers - a gifted arcanist from a remote Elven community, where the esoterica of magic is common knowledge. He had a particular fondness to fire, which might explain the spectral flames that came with him."
The storyteller clenches his fist and closes his eyes.
"I don't know. I can't know. Common logic and rational thought won't solve this enigma. This is it, Alec du Chevrou, this is the world we live in. A world of spirits and magic and monsters. And we have two options... either we delve deeper and go mad, or we stay blissful idiots."