Tyrgrim gets the feeling that Kendra would have smiled were she not so despondent. "You'll find that easy Sir. His life was stolen by a gargoyle statue." She points at the prison once more. "He was investigating the prison... looking around as he was prone to do... and one of the gargoyles came unmoored. They say it took off the whole of his jaw, and crushed his neck." She begins crying silently, tears rolling down her face as she looks. "My dad was always obsessed with that place. He thought it odd that it was both the lifeblood of the town and the one place we won't go since the fire."
The knowledge that a freak accident took the life of his friend completely takes Tyrgrim off guard. "A... statue? A statue fell? Gorum, what manner of mockery is this?!" he snarls in disbelief and turns to the prison. "I cannot abide this fate. A man so great cannot be undone such a twisted fate!" he growls at the structure, as if promising to tear it asunder with his anger. "There must be something more to this, if Petros was that invested in the place..." he reasons, both in denial of his friend's fate, and as a conclusion of common sense.
-----
Tyrgrim shows a flicker of surprise that the small-spoken half-orc offers praise for his words, which is shown clearly in his smile "Thank you for your kind words. I feared my kvad was lost on lacking southern sensibilities. I am Tyrgrim Steinkløyve, which means stone-cleave in the common tongue. I was a student of war throughout my teens, beaten into simplicity by my elders to understand only wrath and blood, so I would not show weakness in the face of death, but deal it mercilessly to the enemies of the clan." he recounts with a tangible sense of gloom and disapproval "A life so simple and brutal not even Gorum approves." he states and clasps his iron holy symbol.
"That was the way of Rovagug, the brutal god of slaughter, whom my clan embraced as Gorum started to turn his favor away from us, as my brothers slew even the defenseless in murderous glee." he gnashes his teeth and looks to Kendra with a somewhat apologetic mask "I felt the influence of Gorum vane as I blessed my bloodthirsty brothers as we set to assail a caravan of southerners. Among their numbers, were Petros Lorrimor, and the path of my redemption in the eyes of the god of battle." he pauses and takes a deep breath "I will tell the remainder of the tale when we have been able to toast his memory, and are in a setting worthy of our tale."
(At the temple) Untrained Knowledge (local):
Zax studies the mural and to no one in particular says: He wasn't a positive influence on the area, I take it? I wonder if anyone predicted that?
(At the news pole)
Zax takes a quick moment to look over the tacked up parchment for interesting pieces of news.
(After Fasir notes appreciation of Tyrgrim's speech)
I agree, your eulogy was quite moving. Sorry, I didn't properly introduce myself before, I'm Zaxarii Beloi of Vigil. Shaking the hands of both men.
(At Harrowstone after Kendra provides details of the professor's death)
Zax gets a concerned look on his face. Statues don't just fall on people, there is something more to this...
When Tyrgrim speaks, Zax nods his head I agree, it doesn't make sense. Perhaps we should have a look around tomorrow. With your blessing, of course, Kendra.
"I suppose. I wouldn't stop you, and have no arguments, but it seems to just be, as Tyrgrim said, simply a freak accident." Kendra calms a bit and visibly pulls herself together. "Would you like to hear the tale of the place? It's a sad one."
"Perhaps when we have sequestered ourselves," Anca suggests, casting a wary glance about for any locals. "If there is a pervasive fear of the site amongst our hosts, is it particularly wise to be stirring their enmity by speaking of it in plain view?" Have we not already caused enough this afternoon?
"Over a drink and before a fire, where tales belong." Tyrgrim replies to Kendra, thirsty from all the graveness of late.
"A host does not strike at guests when they are honoring their departed." Tyrgrim frowns as the previously combative bard suddenly seem rather toothless "Why would a dragon fear the bleating of sheep? When you talked them down earlier, you saved THEM from US. Not the other way around." he insists and leans in to look her in the eyes "Let some of that fire you showed me earlier out, and no peasant will dare stand up to you. They will fault you for their weakness and cowardice, like a child throwing a tantrum, but we both know they hate us for that already."
Yes, I suppose you're right. Let's continue this discussion at the Lorrimir manner. The locals have caused Kendra enough trouble today, we shouldn't go kicking at hornet nests in her back yard.
"I acted to prevent you from causing a scene that would shame the tradition of maintaining silence in respect of the residents honored dead," Anca answers Tyrgrim. "It is true that we are not as they are, but the lives of peasants here are no less of a struggle than of exalted warriors who stand in defense of their tribe or village. That you dismiss the contribution of the farmer, the miller and the smith to fill your belly, mend your arms and drive society provides further evidence that you are barbarous and unfit to enjoy the benefits ordered civilization provides."
Anca raises her chin and meets the savage's eyes with the stirrings of a passionate enmity. "The blood that flows through mine veins is that which has stood in defiance of barbarian hordes for centuries. We do not belittle our small folk their occupations, but rather promote and maintain the security that they require for each of us to live."
Anca remains looking at Tyrgrim when she acknowledges Zaxirii's wisdom. "My desire succinctly affirmed, Sir. I applaud you."
Tyrgrim stifles an outburst of laughter "What god mandates that the ones who provide services need to be weak? To be a warrior is not a profession in my land, it is a way of life! I am a healer, and I fight. Our hunters that provide food fight. Our blacksmiths that forge our blades fight. Even our children are more adept at dealing with the harshness of life than these spineless cowards. The strong should not follow the weak!" he turns and gestures toward the rich district "Civilization as you claim to champion, seems nothing more than a construct devised to chain those with strength into servitude for those who has none. Fat and useless men and women sitting in positions of power because their ancestor did something of merit, hobbling everyone who would dare reach for the same life out of mad jealousy, knowing deep down that they are filth, and not deserving, and that the illusion of 'order' is all that protects their ill gotten gain." he retorts with a scoff, crossing his arms across his wide chest.
"If all people were offered a true chance to grow into what they COULD be, rather than live like sheltered children, with laws rammed down their throat, and relying on others to fight their fights, they would not be so prone to ignorance and cowardice."
He turns to Zaxarii "Should the locals get riled up, we would defend her until the last, obviously. But I see your point. Imposing my ways on her is not how I honor Petros' memory." he looks to Kendra and feels a certain pang of worry, as he considers that even if she is the daughter of a sagacious man who knew his ways around a spell, SHE might be as powerless as any other civilized commoner.
Kendra nods, appearing to attempt to ignore the philosophical arguments of her guests. "Then we shall head to my home, there." She points as you round the bend toward it.
[url=http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4047/4218657045_c6de3a627a.jpgThe Lorrimor home[/url] is of medium size for the village, and of an older style than many of the older buildings, though you get the feeling it is an imitation of this older style instead of an original. Kendra leads you past the front door and into the home. Soon after entering you find that all of the walls seem to have been filled with shelves, upon which rest curios, figurines, wonders and most prolific of all, a huge assortment of books. Near every wall is a near unbroken shelf of books. There are several piles that must be navigated within. The only room on the ground floor devoid of such is the dining room, where Kendra leads you all. She sits you all at a large, oaken table with dragon designs carved into it's edges. "Would anyone like anything to eat or drink? I'm afraid my father left the larder not very well stocked, but the wine cellar has survived, and I think we still have some of your favorite Fasir." Her voice is slightly hoarse but she makes every attempt to be the perfect hostess. "I'm afraid Councilman Hearthmount will not be joining us for the reading for at least another half-mark."
Indeed, let's not forget we're here to honor the memory of the professor. We get to leave and go back to our lives once we see things through in Ravengro. Kendra stays here and any trouble we cause with the locals is likely to cause problems for her. Zax says motioning at Kendra.
For now, let's all try to keep it friendly for Kendra's sake, okay? He holds out his hand to shake with the others as if to bind the agreement.
"I would gladly stay to defend her indefinitely if needed, and hope anyone here would as well, but I see your point. My way is mine, not hers." Tyrgrim gives a grim nod to Zaxarii.
-------------
Tyrgrim looks in amazement at the sheer amount of books in the house "Gorum's blood! There must be a copy of every book ever penned in this house!" he comments as they pass through to the dining room.
He offers the woman a sympathetic look as she offers condiments "Do not worry about feeding us, Kendra, but I would like a strong drink to toast in your father's honor, and take some of the edge off the moods."
As Tyrgrim speaks Fasir’s innate curiosity is roused. “This man has so much faith. Its inspiring really, If I am to spend the evening here then I will endeavour to hear this man’s story.” Yes later then."
Regarding the Harrowstone and hearing of Petros’s fate Fasir thinks. It seems logical; the place is very old and hardly well maintained. I don’t think this is anything more than a tragic accident. The Prim woman and Tyrgrim were arguing once again and Fasir switched off not wishing to get involved.
Upon returning to the house Fasir walked in very slowly remembering the last time he had been here:
“I’m sorry I must go.” Fasir said to Petros. “Why because of what happened? I told you I forgive you. You were correct, I merely had read about Striggori you showed me the true terror that monster inflicted.” Petros Shivered recalling the vision. ”Where will you go? You have no wilderness experience and you will not accept any money.” Pertos’s tone became more irate as he continued to speak. “Fasir you have only just begun to explore your potential you could be a truly great wizard, really make an influence on the world, too many people either fixate on the past or ignore it entirely you have an eye to scrutinise decisions you have made and learn from them, that is a skill you have not learned from me. If you won’t stay at least wait till Kendra returns she would like to say goodbye to you.” Fasir sighed ”It must be now, a caravan is leaving for Mendev via the northern road I can join it and reach the border of Belkzen in two days. I intend to live as a hermit there until I can decide what my purpose is. Goodbye master.” Petros almost explodes with rage but seeing Fasir’s smile realises the joke for what it is. He calms and says in a resigned voice“Goodbye Fasir, remember you always have a place to stay here.”
Fasir says to Kendra “I will go collect a bottle if you would like? I still know where they are kept.”
Anca remains silent for the duration of the walk to the Lorrimor residence, keeping an appropriate distance from the barbarian. She considers the cruel twist of coincidences that delivered her to this backwards hamlet. In terms of composition, there was little difference between Ravengro and any one of the villages the Ravarath family held and defended, save for this council.
Anca pauses for a long while and studies the house her former employer inhabited. When she was called to his offices at the university, she never imagined that she might some day be in a position to intrude upon his private life. Petros Lorrimor's patronage allowed her to move in academic and social circles her less able peers would never consider their advantage to learn. The improvement of her contacts of course was of course a desirable result, even if it were unintended. Anca wished that she had been able to express her gratitude to the Professor for the opportunities he had provided her, but that obligation had perished with him.
Rather than continue hostilities with the savage in Kendra's home, Anca instead drifted to the bookcases. When alcohol is mentioned, her cool blue eyes narrow, but she says nothing. I will not allow that creature to engage me in another pointless debate.
Anca's fingertips play across the spines of the books and she finds herself wondering how often each have been opened. Such a wealth of information gathered in one home...
Urgma had never been to the Professor's house before, always having met him in taverns or out in the field.
Surely a statue would not just become unmoored and hit someone. Something doesn't seem right here... Urgma mused, on the journey to the house.
Looking around at everyone:
Such a varied group of people there are to give their respects to the Professor. He had many different types of friends
The one sticking out the most to Urgma was the half orc, who she had overheard been called Fasir, a semi - emancipated, old, lanky looking grey skinned half orc, garbed in dark ornate looking robes, with strange looking, arcane symbols all over them.
Why was he dressed like this? Could he be a wizard or a scholar, or from the university? Half orcs are not normally known to circulate in such professions.
Approaching Fasir, Urgma enquires "I noticed you remained stoic and silent at the funeral. Were you close to the Professor?"
Fasir turns to face the dwarf and says ”He was my teacher, and he took me in when I should have been left for dead.”
Fasir returned with a bottle of Irrisen ice wine, a particularly fine vintage for drinking, and Poured a glass for all the assembled guests. Fasir speaks in a small voice “I remember Petros telling me he hated this stuff, I always found it quite pleasant. I’m sure if he were here Petros would not mind us consuming this wine, although I’m told that private collectors in Nex will pay sums of money that could establish small kingdoms for this particular bottle.”Fasir sips the wine ”And so that in mind I’m sure we can all rest well knowing that we are depriving some evil wizard of another ornament for his shelf." he raises his glass ”To Petros. Friend, teacher, employer and most important of all father.”
Anca simply reciprocates the gesture, touching the glass to her lips and wetting them, but scarcely tasting the liquor. She has not the way with alcohol, preferring to avoid it altogether, to maintain the sharpness of her mind and the quality of her voice without slurring her speech. When the moment has passed she sets the glass down on a table and returns to the book cases. She skims the titles with a fingertip, looking for any concerning the history of the town and perhaps its unique form of governance when she recalls a thought she had had at the cemetery.
"Mistress Lorrimor, was your father's profession very well known among the residents?" she inquires. "The leader called the Professor a necromancer. I had the thought that to a common peasant wyvern might be mistaken for a drake, but mistaking the primary subject of study for a wizard? How might that be done unless they were informed by a third party?"
Tyrgrim raises the glass at Fasir's call "To Petros! The greatest man to walk Ustalav! May his wisdom never leave our hearts, nor his blessed soul ever be forgotten!" he says loudly, as if to make sure the professor can hear him beyond the veil that separates this life and the next.
As Anca speaks, he gives a chuckle "Likely in the same manner as fishes, giants and ancient kingdoms grow by every recounting of a tale. One of these scared sheep learned he knew magic, and twenty daft peasants down the line, he commanded an underground citadel of the walking dead." he shrugs "And every proper spellcasting discipline knows a necromantic spell or two. Even I can cast a few if thus prepared. Though I prefer wards, healing and boons, and use my blade for combat." he reassures everyone, as to not paint himself as something fouler than a 'savage'.
"Aye, but who caught the fish, sir?" Anca asks, painted eyebrow raised in an expression of amusement. "Determine the origin of the tale, we may silence the hostility towards us before it has a chance to spread further," she suggests coolly.
"Hooh? And you would spend hours, if not days, asking the peasants this, the same peasants who likely right now are gossiping and turning the story on how I asked a disruptive little arse to shut his yap, into a tale wherein 'The 8 foot half-ogre savage had his fiery 10 foot blade blade to my throat whilst raping my daughter over a grave with his massive bear-cock!'" he dismisses crudely "The professor knew magic, and he studied things to learn the truth rather than be a superstitious fool. And if there is anything simple folk dread, it is things they cannot understand, and when you also challenge their outlook on life, well then you might as well be fornicating with devils as healing their sick for all the faith they will have in you." he sighs and drains his glass, then looks to Kendra "Forgive my crude language, I am not yet calmed from the mockery that the unwashed scum committed earlier. I cared a great deal for your father, and it bothers me that I could not avenge such slander."
Zax is amazed by the collection of books as they move through the house. This is really quite something. He says as they make their way to the kitchen.
He runs his finger along the decorative carvings on the table. When Tyrgrim raises his toast Zax raises his and glass too and says here, here! To the Professor! He takes a gulp of his wine.
I never knew the Professor to cast a spell but I can see how his studies might be misunderstood. Given the highly superstitious nature of the people here it wouldn't take much for a whispered accusation to become mistaken for truth. He sets his glass on the table and turns it with his thumb and forefinger.
I dunno, it seems like finding the source of rumor would be pretty darn difficult but if we did that we might help to clear up the confusion. He shrugs. Any ideas where we might start with something like that, Kendra? I'd feel much better returning home if I knew the family name was in seen in better light.
Zax takes another sip of wine. And of course, the story of the accident doesn't sit well with me, there has to be more to it.
"Hooh? And you would spend hours, if not days, asking the peasants this, the same peasants who likely right now are gossiping and turning the story on how I asked a disruptive little arse to shut his yap, into a tale wherein 'The 8 foot half-ogre savage had his fiery 10 foot blade blade to my throat whilst raping my daughter over a grave with his massive bear-cock!'" he dismisses crudely
"Words have meaning," Anca just as easily dismisses the savage. "Mine - if I may, oh ogre lord in possession of a bear-cock - meant to emphasize that this peasant used the word Necromancer; not warlock, witch, or zombie-lord which are far more accessible to the ignorant."
Anca's eyes almost seem to glitter as she is rebuking the savage, "Perhaps it is your people's incredible level of sophistication that your children speak of conjurers, evokers and diviners specifically when they speak of spellcasters, but ours simply say wizard.
"This rumor did not originate with the residents, it is far more likely that an educated third party filled their ears with hate. If we limit our search to the educated in this hamlet... well then, I believe that even amongst our party there is at least one who might be excluded from suspicion."
Conversation continues, albeit slightly hostile, until the front door is suddenly knocked at. Kendra stands and excuses herself, before heading out. A moment later a muffled conversation comes from the hall. "But is it truly wise to involve all these... outsiders in this matter? Your father may have associated with all manner of miscreant but you should be more discerning." Kendra's slightly louder voice is firm. "It was my father's wish that each of them be here, and I will not violate such a wish from a now-dead man. Read the will sir, as I paid for." She enters a few moments later followed by a solemn looking fat man with his nose in the air holding a large, rolled scroll. Kendra introduces him "Vashian Hearthmount, Ravengro's only... what was the word you use Councilman?" The fat man's eyes narrow and he replies "Solicitor, milady. Shall I begin?"
Councilman Hearthmount first shows the scroll case around the table, making sure the Professor's unbroken seal is quite visible to each person present, then breaks the seal and opens the case. As he does so, a large iron key thunks down to the table, though the Councilman shows no notice and begins the reading.
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, for I have more than mere inheritance to apportion. Tyrgrim, forgive me for calling you from battle, but I have need of you again. Zerines Beloi, I need a fair damsel protected for once instead of my own old bones. Fasir, I'm afraid your hermitship must end for the moment. Urgma, I shall ask that you risk your hat for me once more. And Ms. Ravarath, I am sorry to call you from your family.
My old friends, 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. While the majority of these tomes remain safe under lock and key at the Lepidstadt University, I fear that a few I have borrowed remain in a trunk in my Ravengro home. While invaluable for 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 colleagues at the University of Lepidstadt, who will put them to good use for the betterment of the cause.
Yet before you leave for Lepidstadt, there is the matter of another favor—please delay your journey one month 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 Embreth 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 one month 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 4711 A.R.
The Councilman rolls the will and hands it to Kendra. "Remember my words milady, they are meant as a warning, and not as scorn." He reminds her, before stiffly bowing and turning to leave the house.
Tyrgrim scowls as the man leaves "Fat, aloof and devoid of empathy. It irks me to hear my friend's last word spoken from such a cretin." he clenches his fist so his knuckles whiten until he hears the door close, to keep him from rising to throttle the man.
He reaches for the key, and picks it up "I assume this is the key to the trunk." he closes his hand over it firmly and rises to hold it over the center of the table, looking sternly at all seated "I have had as much of halfhearted mewling weak-stomached filth as I can stomach. I could never call such people friends, much less brethren-in-arms, and as such, I ask, no I DEMAND that you all swear to see this through with honor, as a sign of respect for a man better than any of us. In return, I give my oath that I will defend, care for and champion not only Kendra, but each and every one of you, to the pain of death." he lets the weight of his words hang a while.
Then before answers are given, he gives a frustrated sigh "I am not saying this out of anger, nor disrespect. As we all have sensed by now, there is more to this, and once we turn the lock, we are fated to be part of this. I am not used to asking for aid, but truth is that I need to see this through, for the sake of my friend, and am not able to do so alone. " he looks to Fasir first "My childhood was full of strife in a land harsher than any here could know, so I am not schooled well in academia nor magical theory..." then shifts his eyes to Anca "and I am, as you say, not versed in dealing with civilized people or their ways..." then he looks to Zaxarii "I am a priest and healer as much as I am a warrior, so my sword alone will likely not suffice in the task of protecting us all. Gorum teaches us to have courage, but does not require his followers to be fools..." then finally to Urgma "and without one who seem to share and understand my sense of honor, I would go mad." he smiles, feeling a certain kinship in spirit with the no-nonsense dwarven woman.
Feeling his intent adequately portrayed, he slams his hand down on the table, within the reach of everyone.
"I am no chattel, to be commanded thus," Anca seethes, rising. "The Professor's will is a contract, and I, as a party to it, as all of you, are bound to execute the letter of his instructions. Fortunately for me, it makes no mention of being subjected to your company a moment longer than is needed to dispose of our charge," she says with a voice reminiscent of ice cracking.
Anca steps up to Tyrgrim and looks into his eyes. "You speak as though you are the only who has known suffering on account of the environment," she begins. "For all your righteous vim of pride and honor in taming the elements and success in battle, have you once considered that others save them with whom you readily identify have not experienced the same? I am a scion of House Ravarath of Ordanto. My family, my blood stood in defiance of the Whispering Tyrant's undead host, and continues to stand against invasion by hostiles from without. Are our dead less honored than yours because they could speak more than one language, and lay down their lives in defense of civilization?
"Dismiss me at your leisure, savage. I have greater care for my man at arms than for your person. His speech may not be so high as yours, but he has proven his worth to me."
Fasir listened to the reading of the will in silence. It seems you caught me eventually. he thinks to himself as the reading is concluded.
Fasir can’t help but feel inspired by the large human’s words. Moved Fasir begins to show his support, when a voice in the back of his mind casts doubt. ”Ignorant savage what does he know of fear or harshness we should show him. We’ve done it before, make him respect us, touch him, give him clarity.” Fasir at that point became aware he was still wearing the gauntlet or he had slipped it on, he didn’t remember. Now he looked at Tyrgrim and for a moment all his being wanted to show the man his ignorance of fear. The spell surged into his forethoughts willing him to finish it. And as soon as it had come the feeling was gone. Fasir removed the gauntlet carefully from his hand and speaks evenly. "My knowledge and skills are at your disposal, such as they are, on one condition however that this what Kendra wants." Fasir looked at the young woman waiting for her response.
Tyrgrim scowls"BAH! Why should I care a whit about what your KIN have done or not? For all I know, my ancestors battled Rovagug himself at the tearing, and could take on linnorms armed only with snowballs. None of it would make ME any better. I bear the burden of proving my own worth. I find my father, who won countless battles and able to defeat GIANTS in single combat, to be filth, and deserving of nothing but to be picked clean by carrion birds." he snarls "He betrayed Gorum for the way of Rovagug, now more a monster than a man, which I plan to end when I grow sufficiently powerful to return with the full wrath of my god in hand."
He looks to Kendra and then back to Anca "I will honor those who accomplished great things on their own effort, and disregard those who do not. A it should be. The weak should honor and try to emulate the strong, not ride on their deeds and taint the memories of truly honorable ancestors by turning them into mules that fat useless filth to undeserved positions in life." he looks to the document and after the fat aloof councilman with a frown as if he had just tasted something foul.
"THAT is the taint of civilization, and THAT is why I demand a proof of conviction, foolish girl. I can tell there IS fire in you, if you only had the will to transcend the whipped, shameful facade you display:" he gestures to her stature and dress "Barely seem old enough to bear a child, physically weak, dispassionate in the face of death, dolled and dressed up as if proud of never having earned a copper doing honest work." he leans in to meet her eyes dead on, meeting her challenge "You are able to stand up to me, knowing that I am not about to strike a small, defenseless girl. But I am about as nice as things COME in this godforsaken land. How am I to trust that you will not whimper like a child in the closest corner when the evils of the night crawls in to feast upon our blood?" he gestures towards the parchment "Petros wants us here for a REASON. Evil and darkness of which HE speaks claws at our will, conviction and our resolve as much as our flesh. With no strength in our convictions, we are weak. And we will not be able to protect Kendra, nor the tomes, from whatever the professor is sufficiently worried about to call all of us here."
----------------
He turns to Fasir and follows his eyes to Kendra, as she is the hostess after all, and this is all concerning her. If she did not wish to have this crammed down her throat, she would be free to refuse.
"Of course you may all stay in my home. I'd hate to dishonor my father's last wish." Kendra colors at all the fighting around her. "I know the trunk of which my father speaks, but it is quite heavy, could one of you help me get it down?" Kendra moves towards the stairs, looking back over her shoulder. "Perhaps we shall see what you are charged with before you decide for certain."
"Do it!" Anca hisses, challenging. "Hit me and show that you are no better than your father. Hit me and prove that you are the greater man."
When Tyrgrim dismisses her Anca shores up her resolve and gathers her things. "As the Councilman said, you've no need of our persons drawing negative attention to you, Mistress. I will take residence at the tavern, where the paltry talents recognized by the Professor will have the greatest return for my efforts," she says pointedly, and lifts and secures her pack on her shoulders.
"Like as not, you will find no amusement in my employment, Sir. As you so clearly do not believe that I have any worth to you I will thank you not to observe and disquiet those who I seek to interview."
Tyrgrim strides past her and stops her from leaving by putting a hand on the doorknob "Before you leave, girl, what is your full name? So I know what to put on your headstone when you are picked off by the professor's enemies, or maybe the angry mob once they see that the weakest, yet seemingly wealthiest, member of 'the necromancer's wake' is alone and vulnerable." he sighs "After all, it is partially my fault you are likely to die, as I brought my savage poetry, honor and art into these civilized lands of hatred, bigotry and fear, and caused them to get agitated." he goads and lets go of the doorknob, and steps back. "Forget the vows, I did not know asking for a sign of conviction and honor was cause for such grave offense in these lands. Apparently, I have much to learn still."
------
Tyrgrim seems the enjoy the fire in her eyes more than be rebuked "Good. Maintain that fire, and you might be able to stop angry locals at least. As for filling my belly, I think I might have a feast for all of us here, with the money I save on not staying at an inn." he comments as he watches her leave, then turn to help Kendra "Where is the trunk, it can't be heavier than that brat's ego."
"You are no greater than me, Sir," Anca hisses, her eyes flashing burning hatred. "Never again presume to condescend to me of speaking of bigotry and fear. I have my employment, and you have your honor. Which do you believe is more likely to fill your belly this evening?"
When Tyrgrim lets go the door, Anca leaves, and makes her way to the local tavern.
Kendra leads Tyrgrim though book choked hallways and past several rooms into a small area that looks like a laboratory. The books are absent here, but the clutter is instead in the form of papers, beakers, flasks and clamps. As she searches though it she finds the chest, and after pushing a small stack of papers off of it and arranging them on the floor nearby, helps you to lift it.
As you approach the group downstairs you set the huge oaken chest on the table. It is obviously very old and covered in dust, though there are some areas around the lock where the dust seems to have been wiped away, as if someone opened it recently.
After Tyrgrim opens the chest, you find only five tomes inside it's large interior. Four large tomes, spine up and atop them a small, leatherbound journal. The journal has been scratched, perhaps with a blade of some sort. The message upon it only three words Read This First.
The books beneath are all neatly bound, and sport small parchment labels in the professor's small, cramped hand. The first tome is titled To Serve Your Hunger and is bound by two rusted silver plates, held by silver wire at the spine. The professor's note reads: Dangerous. Deliver to Montagnie Cowl
The second doesn't have a title on the outside, covered instead by a skin. The skin has been dried and stretched, some form of tattoo that is difficult to make out spreads over the book. The professor's note here reads:Umbral Leaves. Dangerous. Deliver to Montagnie Cowl.
The next book is bound is pure black leather. The title, embossed in a silvery metal that caps the corners as well, is On Verified Madness. Once more the professor's note reads:Dangerous. Deliver to Montagnie Cowl
The last book has a rich purple cover, set with a brass scarab marked by a single eye in the center. The books cover is rimmed in polished steel, and is clasped by a small but intricate lock. The keyhole is oddly triangular, and no such key is found. The professor's note is different here, more of a message, reading: Deliver to Judge Embreth Daramid, discreetly, at her home. The address is scribbled afterward. Do not open.
My father has asked me to stand in his place for the funeral. I am certain he would have me see through any requests made by the Lorrimor family in his absence and so I agree to do so. I pledge my allegiance to the Lorrimor family. Zax looks Tyrgrim in the eyes as he puts his own hand on the table.
But sir, I will state clearly your quick temper and harsh judgement of others has not impressed me. Your heart seems to be in the right place but your aggression is ill-focused. If we will be working together for any length of time you should know I'll not stand by if you continue to berate others without considerable provocation. Save your fire for whatever task the Professor may lay before us.
Zax stands up and offers Kendra his assistance with the trunk.
Ms. Lorrimor, is there suitable stable here for my horse? I've left him in the stables near the inn as I was planning on staying there this evening. I also have a few items in a room there that I should collect.
The directions seem clear enough, let's see what the first journal has to say. At the professor's request I think the others should remain unopened by our hands. Zax looks around the table.
Fasir, you seemed to have a close relationship with the Professor, would you mind reading this? Glancing to Kendra he continues Perhaps Ms. Lorrimor shouldn't be present? Your father seemed to think the contents of this trunk may hold information that could be dangerous if misinterpreted so the less you know, the better for you.
Book 1 Know Religion:
Book 2 Know Religion:
Fasir looks at the first book carefully lifting it and rotating it in his hands. "This is a book of the Pallid Princess" he says quietly to himself. Striggori worshiped her, communed with her, and encouraged me to seek her council. I have felt her power her given magic." “This book is evil. Very evil in a past existence I have seen its ilk before. It belongs to worshipers of Urgathoa."
Placing the book carefully down on the table Fasir reaches for the second not picking it up but closing his eyes and laying a hand on the front cover. This book has a pulse that can only mean: ”This is the litany of the midnight lord, Zon-Kuthon. I have heard stories of his malice. These books I can identify the other 2 are a mystery. But if they are anything like these texts I would advice caution.”
Fasir now gathers up the Journal and opens it reading aloud the entries.
After taking 10 on Kn. Local to find the Laughing Demon mentioned by Kendra Lorrimor, Anca will speak to the barkeep, pay for her room and a meal and secure permission to perform in the common room in the evening.
Likely succeeding to put the patrons at ease with her song, Anca will spend the remainder of her evening interviewing them about several topics which she gathers might be of importance to them, and likely to the team as well. Specifically, she would like to know the following:
1. Their attitude towards their Council members, and their governance.
2. Any particular outstanding issues of concern that they do not believe are being addressed by the authorities.
3. Any juicy rumors that they are willing to share.
As Fasir touches the first book and moves it about, checking the covers, one corner of it nicks his hand. The cut burns slightly and he finds himself quite annoyed. The cut burns for a moment but is too small to even bleed and he continues.
Very quickly after his words for the second book he feels a sharp pain in his hand that is on the cover. Suddenly he feels sapped of strength, and as he removes his hand he leaves a large bloodstain. The book's cover suddenly plumps, revealing the tattoo of an open doorway into darkness, obscured by Fasir's blood.
Anca is able to learn much at the tavern, especially as everyone seems to love her performance. Several of the men and women stand and clap for her as she leaves the stage. The people seem content with their Councilmen, and have no strong opinions on the subject, and none of them seem to have concerns beyond the general sense that 'that building up yonder on te hillside? Te ole prison, should be torn down it should.' Rumors vary wildly, though some seem to be of importance.
"The food at the Laughing Demon isn’t all fun and games—and it’s no coincidence that Zokar serves more corpse chowder after unpopular merchants “leave town,” never to be seen again. If Zokar invites you into the Demon’s back room for a complimentary taste of that evening’s chowder, watch out!" Claims a man with a snaggletooth sagely.
"Jominda Fallenbridge, she's the town alchemist she is, does more than brew potions—she brews drugs and poisons as well and sells them through agents in other towns. Why else would the sheriff be so interested in her business?" A woman says confidently with a sneer.
"Stories that Harrowstone is haunted are just that—stories. The ruins are still dangerous, but what folks think are ghosts are only the nasty vermin that live there." A farmer claims from a Tower's game upon hearing a few ghost stories being passed around.
"Zaxarii, you seem able to handle your blade, so here is my offer: Meet me on the field outside, and we fight until first blood. Prove yourself my superior at arms, and I shall defer to your request." he clasps his holy symbol and looks to him with a measure of respect "I have been in violation of the faith, not being able to seek as much as a fist-fight since I came to this land, and I am growing weary of it. Grant me a duel, so I might beat the rust off my skills and end this blasphemy, and I shall try to remain... 'civil'."
----
When the unholy book harms Fasir, Tyrgrim curses and knocks the foul tome out of his bloody hands. "Foul magics, and fouler gods. I would cleave this blasphemous work in half, were it not for Petros wishes. Let me see that." he requests and looks to Fasir's hands, nodding before he touches his holy symbol and invokes a flash of steel-gray and blood red light, healing the damage and invigorating everyone around as any aches or pains they might have felt are gone, and adrenaline rushes through their blood, like what is felt in a dangerous fight.
"There. I shall not let a good man suffer injury at the hand of the heinous and cowardly for long."
A duel? This hasn't happened since before I signed on with the Cavalry. I suppose all he knows is war so it makes sense.
Very well, I accept. Once we've examined the contents of Professor Lorrimor's box we'll meet outside for our friendly duel.
As the book is knocked form Fasir’s grasp he becomes aware of the lesions on his hand. The wound suppurates and begins to show signs of infection. To all around Fasir looks curiously at his wounded hand allowing the blood to pool and run down his wrist. Knocked back into the real world by Tyrgrim asking to see his wounds Fasir politely declines. “Thank you sir, your willingness to help a total stranger is commendable, however If I may I will show you a measure of my own inner strength. Besides I’m sure the glorious god of battle looks poorly on healing the paper cuts of one who does not follow his creed.”
Godless Healing
Fasir holds his hand up and concentrates on the wound; he grits his teeth and begins to feel the energy flow in the room surprisingly there is quite a large quantity presumably emanating from the battle healer. Focusing hard he wills the wound to close the skin re-knitting together. Once the wound is fully closed Fasir shows his hand back to Tyrgrim and exhales slowly ”And that is the true power of necromancy, the subtle balance between life and death, not the summoning of undead hoards.”
Upon entering the Professor's house, Urgma sits and takes a drink of the profferred alcohol from Fasir. Raising a glass, she says:
"To Petros, may he enjoy the well earned rest."
Listening to the will being read, Urgma has a wry smile on her face at the mention of risking her hat again. She tips her hat without being conscious of it.
For my friend, I will gladly fulfil his final request. Urgma thinks to herself.
Urgma's thoughts drift further away from the present thinking of her adventures with the Professor, and how many times they told the tale of their first meeting at various taverns.
The last time I saw the Professor, he was telling the tale of Kendra as a young child, always running around the house, picking up books, and wanting her father to read them to her. He loved her exuberance, but it drove him crazy having to replace the books in their correct place every time...
Jolted out of her reverie by Tyrgrim knocking the book out of Fasir's hand, Urgma looks curiously down at the book on the floor.
"This book reeks of evil. The sooner we can get this to the university for scholars to peruse it who have had training in reading such tomes the better."
Turning to Fasir, Urgma says "Necromancy? I always associated it with the undead. Tell me, what other power does it hold?
Tyrgrim raises an eyebrow "Never heard of wizardly healing before. But then again, my people do not have a very long and wide arcane tradition." he slaps Fasir on the back and grins "Impressive nonetheless! If my magic and blade is not working, I will defer to your expertise if we have to deal with necromantic foes!"
Tyrgrim turns his head to regard Urgma "I know that some necromantic spells cause fear, and affect the life-force of oneself or others. Beyond that, I barely know anything about it." then looks back to Fasir, hoping for an elaboration. If Petros thought the best way to defeat evil is to know it, he would not question his friend.
Urgma turns to Tyrgrim "That sheds a bit more light about necromancy - it seems our accquaintance here is the resident expert though..." gesturing to Fasir.
Turning back to the Ulfen, Urgma says " And you my friend are a curiosity. You show uncharacteristic wisdom and keen understanding for an uncivilised barbarian, which I'm sure, if she was here the other lesser tolerant female would describe you as being."
Fasir now gathers up the Journal and opens it reading aloud the entries.
Tyrgrim chuckles "Aye. Thanks to my late friend Petros. Was it not for him, I would likely... well, suffice to say, I am far more agreeable than most of my kin, who would likely see this hamlet as a pig ripe for the slaughter, and looking at the lords, I doubt they would find much resistance." he seems pained as he looks to his holy symbol again "And that is what pains me the most. Everyone should be able to defend themselves. When I see the sheer number of more or less helpless people strolling around here, I only see the bloodshed I witnessed as a younger man, and the outrage of Gorum as there was no fight... only carnage and slaughter."
He looks to Zaxarii "The foolish girl more or less embodies that which I find heinous about 'civilization'; nobles who are deserving nothing, but commands all. Full of pride, devoid of honor. Charged with 'defending' the weak, while bleeding them and trampling their freedom underfoot for this 'service'." he shakes his head "Petros taught me to see the world for what it is, and one of the first lessons was that no one family or order remains in power for centuries if they are decent and generous."
The journal is quite clearly the Professor's own, written upon in clear script, with notes added later in margins. Several entries have been circled, the last circled several times.
Ten Years Ago:
The Whispering Way is more than just a cabal of necromancers. I see that now. Undeath is their fountain of youth. Uncovering their motivation does not place me at ease as I thought it might. Their desire to be eternal simply makes them more dangerous.
Six Years Ago:
I have met a man of similar means as myself. Adivion Adrissant is a nobleman from Caliphas who has helped me significantly with pointing the way and lending me many books from the libraries of the Esoteric Order of The Palantine Eye regarding the Whispering Way. I really must return some of these.
Two Months Ago:
It is as I had feared. The Way is interested in something here in Ravengro. But what could it be?
One Month Ago:
Whatever the Way seeks, I am now convinced their goal is connected to Harrowstone. In retrospect, I suppose it all makes sense—the stories they tell about the ruins in town are ertainly chilling enough. It may be time to investigate the ruins, but with everyone in town already being so worked up about them, I’d rather not let the others know about my curiosity — there’s plenty of folks hereabouts who already think I’m a demonologist or a witch or something. Ignorant fools.
Twenty Days Ago:
It is confirmed. The Way seems quite interested in something—no, strike that—someone who was held in Harrowstone. But who, specifically, is the Way after? I need a list of everyone who died the night of the fire. Everyone. The Temple of Pharasma must have such a list.
Eighteen Days Ago:
I see now just how ill prepared I was when I last set out for the Harrowstone. I am lucky to have returned at all. The ghosts, if indeed they were ghosts (for I did not find it prudent to investigate further) prevented me from transcribing the strange symbols I found etched along the foundation—hopefully on my next visit I will be more prepared. Thankfully, the necessary tools to defend against spirits are already here in Ravengro. I know that the church of Pharasma used to store them in a false crypt in the Restlands at the intersection between Eversleep and the Black Path. I am not certain if the current clergy even know of what their predecessors have hidden down below. If my luck holds, I should be able to slip in and out with a few borrowed items.
Seventeen Days Ago:
Tomorrow evening I return to the prison. It is imperative the Way does not finish. My caution has already cost me too much time. I am not sure what will happen if I am too late, but if my theory is right, the entire town could be at risk. I don’t have time to update my will, so I’ll leave this in the chest where it’ll be sure to be found, should the worst come to pass.
“Necromancy is the subtle balance of life and death controlling it and understanding it. Undeath is a by-product of this. As is trapping of souls and laying bodies to rest permanently.” Fasir looks mournful ”Petros taught me this, it is because of his teaching that I can use my talents without fear or shame”.
Fasir Finishes reading and looks around for reactions and suggestions.
Tyrgrim can't help but smirk a bit at the "Ignorant fools" bit, as he fondly remembers his teacher, these words far more akin to how he spoke and carried himself than the will. As Fasir finishes, he slams his fist into his palm "My enemy has a name. Does anyone know anything of this cabal?"