"There's something odd about that knife," Mireza murmurs but makes no move toward the body while Grigor is still following the wire. "Perhaps this man was traveling with the man who had the letter and was eaten by the spider-woman? Odd that the body's been here several days and hasn't been gnawed by scavengers. Are there no ordinary animals in this forest?"
"That is a very good question, Mireza. Perhaps there is something about the smell that repels animals? We should be able to learn more once Grigor has dealt with the traps." While he talks, Windle continues to watch the surrounding forest for threats.
"So, Crow? What do the wires do?" Tendal asks, feigning disinterest by hopping off the wagon and taking the opportunity to stretch muscles made tight by the long hours in the wagon.
"I can't imagine that they would just trap a body and then wander off."
Curious, Iozef looks to Mireza through narrowed eyes as he turns his attention to the knife. "What do you mean by 'odd', Madam Mireza?"
"I don't know," she answers. "Just something ... odd about the blade. We'd have to pull it out of him to see. The knife is expensive too, like the sword the Crow took out of the Church man's back in Carrion Hill, and yet someone left it behind rather than taking it with them. I have seen none of you leave your blades in what you have killed and purchase a replacement. Why walk away from so many pounds of cloves?" she smiles slyly at Valiard.
"Too true, too true." Valiard responds with a grin. "And sadly enough, with as much insanity as we have plunged headlong into, I think having a fair number of blades available is just the safest thing to do. Never know when you are going to need a good sharp dagger!"
"Of course I might start clinking soon if I keep collecting daggers..."
Rolling his eyes at the back and forth between the two, "Yes, well, anyway, the flowers within the gentleman's mouth is called wolfsbane. Toxic for sure but also used against werewolves and the curse they carry. We would do well to retrieve it and store it for later use, just in case."
Grigor finally gets all the wires and crossbows figured out.
The knife is of great quality and coated with silver. The crossbow tips have been also covered with silversheen.
Looking at the dead man, his pain distorted face, now turning grey, offers no evidence that he could have been a lycanthrope...
"Wolfsbane? Really? If I may see one of the flowers Izoef?"
"Curious. I hadn't actually seen the plant before now. Read plenty about it though."
"The whole plant is poisonous. The concentration is highest in the leaves and root bundle. This makes it relatively easy to grind, boil and generate a paste or gel that concentrates the poison. It is very poisonous to everything that lives, but it is especially dangerous for lycanthropes as it interferes with their regeneration. Well, that is what Hollingbroke wrote about it in "Distillates and Unguents" at least. Who knows how accurate that really is since Hollingbroke wrote the book while in prison."
"Could he have died from the flowers then, if they're so poisonous?" she asks Valiard curiously. "Maybe the knife was just for show." Now that the tripwire is out of the way, she approaches the body and looks it over more clinically, especially the wound from which the silver knife was removed.
Body is four days old, but has been up for two days.
"You are welcome to the bolts, Mireza." The inquisitor peers at the body, but eventually leaves the more skilled healers and scholars to have at it. It is hard to remember that I am no longer doing this all on my own. The habits of years are not lightly discarded.
"He was already dead before they put him up here. If this was a trap," she indicates the wires, "then he was the bait, like a piece of meat soaked in poison and left out for the rats to gnaw on," she opines. "The wolves eat the body and get the flowers with it, and then the crossbows go off.... Someone went to a great deal of trouble and expense."
"But that is not an act of benevolence. That suggests that the werewolves have enemies who are themselves evil. Were there any identifying marks on the body?"
"Were there any identifying marks on the body?"
Iozef takes a look to see if there is some form of mark that might help identify who this man was.
The man looks like he's from a surounding village and seems in his mid-twenties. His clothes are very humble. His hands show clear signs of heavy use, with strong stout fingers and thick fingernails. You find small speckles of old blood on his breeches.
After collecting the knife, you dig a grave in the nearby woods, an eye kept onyour surroundings, and are back on your way.
Valiard stands by while Izoef and Windle hack out the shallow grave. Later as he steers the wagon down the winding forest path, he turns and looks at Izoef before asking, "So. I never have been able to figure this out, but why bury bodies? Why not burn them? I heard that folks up north do that...or it might have been one of the barbarian tribes...but there it is, why bury?"
"Here, we do that in imitation of the Graveyard of Souls, in Pharasma's domain. There is nothing that particularly requires it, though, and any of the four classical elements may be used to dispose of a body once the soul has moved on."
Finding there is nothing more he can add to Windle's response, "Mr. Thetra speaks truth, Mr. Tessar. Oh, and something I was meaning to ask you, Mr. Tessar: Would you be opposed to relinquishing the knife to me?"
Valiard merely looks over his shoulder at Izoef, eyebrow raised in question.
"What? You never know when a staff just will not suffice in a given situation. Plus, it is the chosen weapon of our Lady of Graves. It is an error of mine I do not already possess one." He states candidly as he straightens his vest. "How much further do any of you expect?" He asks, changing the subject quickly due to the awkwardness of his admitted mistake.
As though in answer to Iozef, the road comes to meet a ten foot high stone wall covered in vines. It follows the wall for more than a hundred feet before reaching a gatehouse flanked by two low stone towers.
"Is this our destination?" Mireza wonders, looking up at the wall curiously. "Are you going to play the dead man, Apothecary? Are the rest of us your retinue?"
"Let us hope so, Madam Mireza." Dropping his voice to a whisper, "And if Mr. Tessar is to impersonate the deceased, let us hope whoever it is we are attempting to fool is a fool himself. Nothing against Mr. Tessar, mind you, but the man is simply an herbalist. I would gather his acting skills are not much better than my own. And believe it or not, I am not much of an actor. Yes, I know it is hard to believe. Especially with one such as myself, who's been gifted with such an exquisite charisma, but I speak truth. I possess a great many skills but that, alas, is not one of them." He states in a tone of absolute seriousness.
Would be interesting if Valiard could pull it off - don't know if it could be done though. You got to know something of the one you are impersonating to make any con fool the 'Mark'.
"Well, only one way to find out. I better get changed, then get myself in the proper condescending, haughty and arrogant mindset."
Valiard hops off the wagon, and takes the clothes to change. After a few moments, he returns, suitably dressed. Amazingly all the buttons, toggles and belts that make up the noble's clothes are in the right place, and Valiard is the picture of a proper noble.
"Priest", he sneers as he walks up, slapping his gloves against his leg, "This does not appear to be the gate you oaf, just a section of the wall. Do you think that you could do a proper job of steering this festering piece of trash that you call a wagon to the entrance? Or do you expect to just keep bumping into the wall until it crumbles away under sheer boredom?"
...will be delighted to have you again... Margrave Graydon has sponsored your sojourn with us...
Grigor grunts, impressed.
Not bad at all... I could just about buy 'blue butter' from you, he says using the criminal slang terms for the bait used in a con.
Iozef rolls his eyes at the herbalist's attempt at theater. Sighing, "This is going to be death of us." He mutters under his breath. "Now Mr. Tessar, you must remember that 'Margrave Graydon' is the gentleman that sponsored your sojourn. AND, he is supposedly excited at seeing you again. DO NOT forget this. If you are to have any success at this, I would deem it wise to run the man's name through your mind over and over."
"If he's seen him before," Mireza points out, "you don't think he'll notice the Apothecary isn't the same man when he meets him again? Or will he only look at the clothing?" Trying mentally to undecompose and rehydrate the mummified corpse from which they took the clothing, she stares into Valiard's face appraisingly.
"Well let us hope those that have seen him, won't be at the front gate." He ponders the issue a moment. "Mr. Tessar, if at all possible, do your best to keep your face hidden. But don't be obvious about it. And please, Mr. Tessar... don't slouch." He tells the typically laid back rogue.
Windle shakes his head. This will not work. We may learn something interesting from its failure, though. "If the ruse is discovered, we may be able to salvage the situation if the rest of us have a cover story. Perhaps that we found him wounded, treated him, and were persuaded to accompany him?"
Mireza finds little resemblance, it would take good skills at disguising for Valiard to pass for Lord Dravin. For one, the hair color is wrong...
"Well. I guess I could try and pass for the noble...whatever his name was. The way I see it, they probably have never met in person. They probably corresponded and worked through letters, otherwise, why the invitation letter? If it was an open invitiation to a man that was known, there would have been little need correct?" Valiard says, dropping his haughty attitude to converse.
You make your way to the front gate. A heavy iron door stands in the middle of a heavier iron gate topped with spearheads and flanked by two low stone towers.
A bang on the door and a spyhole is slid open to reveal a bleary eye: "This is Ascanor Lodge. Welcome, but we don't let anyone come in. Unless you've got an invitation. Who are you!?" says a gruff voice.
Iozef rolls his eyes at the herbalist's attempt at theater. Sighing, "This is going to be death of us." He mutters under his breath. "Now Mr. Tessar, you must remember that 'Margrave Graydon' is the gentleman that sponsored your sojourn. AND, he is supposedly excited at seeing you again. DO NOT forget this. If you are to have any success at this, I would deem it wise to run the man's name through your mind over and over."
"Who's name? Margrave Graydon is the name of the person who sent me the letter. Do we know any names of any likely nobles from where Graydon lives that I can pretend to be? If I don' have enough information it doesn't matter how good I play the part, theater is always terrible when the actors don't know the lines."
"I'm afraid the only other information I have, Mr. Tessar, is that the letter was addressed to, 'Lord Echtmoor Dravin of Sturnidae'. Which, I would gather, is now to be you. Now, I believe I have heard of this gentlemen at some point. If I recall correctly..."
"No, no, nevermind. I have confused the name with another noble family who's name is similar, yet far more prestigious. Apologies, Mr. Tessar. The only information I do have was gathered through rumors, now that I recall properly. And those consist of nothing more than him being a part of a small noble family who is possibly on the rise. I fear we are just going to have to, 'wing' it, for lack of a better word, Mr. Tessar." He tells him matter-of-factly as he straightens his vest.
"Valiard shrugs. If we haven't heard of him, he can't be all that important. Or at least I will keep telling myself that." Valiard says, smoothing out the front of his doublet.
"No time like the present to get started. Any last words for the condemned?"