”No.”
Beorae turns around to look at her companion, then down at Mot's body, and then back to Shark. Tears well up in the druidess's eyes and she pulls the cat close. She mutters something soft in the cat's ears that the others can't hear, and then with both hands on Shark's neck, puts her forehead against the bridge of his nose.
After a moment, Beorae releases Shark and stands again. With the room becoming brighter, she looks at her hands and arms, covered in blood, and sniffles through sad laugh with a small smile. "Mot would have loved to clean this up with his magic…" She inhales deeply to steady her breathing, and scans the room to decide on what to do next.
"Yes," she starts with a wavering voice. Clearing her throat, she continues, "We need to do something with the bodies. And given our experience with dark magics, I recommend that we burn them. All of them. But we need to do something special for Mot and Olp."
After a beat, she says in a softer voice, "I can't believe they're just… gone. One moment, and then…"
Nme'an's former mentor stirs as the paladin lays a healing hand on him, as some of the fresh wounds over his arms, legs, torso, neck, and face close somewhat. Black crust of dried blood remain in several lines and shapes over his flesh, in horrible profane geometry. Cloth stained dark with blood is wrapped tightly over his eyes and ears around his head. When the middle-aged man feels his bonds cut, his bearded mouth sneers and his limbs fall limp on the bed. Sir Montague does not react to Nme'an's words.
Without warning the emaciated, near-naked man springs to action!
Thin arms blindly try to wrap around Nme'an but the Knight Lieutenant is able to easily hold out a hand and stop Sir Belarand Montague from closing a hold on him. With the head wrapping still over his eyes, the older knight seethes and struggles, his bare hands sliding over the steel plate armor, but the half-elf is plainly stronger.
Beorae hears the commotion in the other room and runs to help Nme'an.
Completely defeated by the death of Olp and Mot, Themp's natural instinct can't help but spring him into action at the sound of commotion from the general direction Nme'an went to. Halting just inside the doorway, the sight of the older knight, badly injured, unsuccessfully grappling with Nme'an makes the rogue pause.
Nme’an spots the problem immediately and pulls the cover away from his mentor’s eyes.
”Sir Montague! Stand down!” the Knight Lieutenant barks as he holds his fellow knight at a distance.
Nme’an tears the cover away to reveal sunken, sagging eyelids! Bloody cuts around his eye sockets and the darkness behind the lids indicate that Sir Montague’s eyes are no longer there. The pull also loosens cloth that was stuffed into his ears, and the blind old knight halts when he hears a familiar voice. His posture relaxes somewhat, obviously confused. He swats his hands in Nme’an’s general direction. “Get back! This is a trick, some devilry of you shadowfolk!”
Sir Montague throws himself to one side of Nme’an in an attempt to get around him, perhaps to the door, but his foot snags a leg of the bed and he falls face first onto the stone floor. “Ooph!”
He claws at the ground toward the door!
"Sir Knight, I am in no mood for this pitiful display of misplaced defiance. The king WILL die if we waste any more of our time with your incompetence. Thaleniel WILL crumble. Two of my friends... two of my friends are dead because of YOU. So stand down or I'll slap some sense into you until you are useful to us."
With each sentence, Themp draws closer to the prone knight. There is no trace of playfulness in the rogue's words, his rage barely contained.
”Sir Montague, this is no trick. You know me. You trained me. And I and my companions were sent after you when you and the Prince did not return. We have been following in your footsteps and learning what befell you on your way here.” Nme’an tells his mentor.
”We heard how you lost one knight to bandits on the way to Brenan’s Crossing and how you dinned with Commander Morgan before moving on.
How you stopped at Axton and the people there show you great generosity even though it likely cost them several days work to do so.
How you lost at least two to the Kobolds in and near Blackcraig Pass. One who was knocked off his horse and who Prince Titus himself said words over at his burial, and Captain Lawdrake whose lance we found with the red ribbon. It had been set up in the middle of a Kobold pit trap.
We found the remains of Captain Aella Larkin and Sabr’adt Aibu’ya in the caves of a clan of Gnomes who had been driven from their homes by Vegepygmy. I now carry her very holy symbol with me.”
Nme’an’s voice drops a bit as he remembers the next knights he and his party encountered.
”And, just yesterday I buried the remains of Bast Thistletongue and two others whom the giant Craig the Twice-slain murdered. Their heads had been impaled on the pikes that surrounded his home just across the lake.
Perhaps the shadowy men would know of the fate of Sir Thistletongue, but would they know all of those other details of your mission? I very much doubt that you told them, so how could they?
You are safe now and no more harm will come to you,” Nme’an says as he raised an arm to block Themp’s path. ”but for the good of the Prince and the King and the Kingdom, you must calm yourself.”
Something in the thief's words plainly disheartens Sir Montague. He stifles a sob and stops where he lays on the floor. He remains silent when he hears more of what Nme’an has to say. Face down on the ground, one his his hands balls into a fist and he strikes the floor once.
“So many dead! And dishonor weighs on the living!” he wails. With some effort he twists over to put his back to the wall and slowly pushes himself up to standing. A solemn scarred face, with a furrowed brow, turns to Nme’an’s general direction, and he points a finger, not quite at the half-elf.
“You, I hear no lie in your voice, but I fear some magic to fool me is afoot! Or worse, you have captured my former squire and torture him too! But I know him better than you. Answer me this without hesitation and I will know the truth:
“The name of Nme’an’s living brother.”
His weak body maintains a stance that might dash again at any second, but for now, he is still and listens.
The answer Sir Montague is listening for is “Hev'an Aldael”. The Knight Captain often traded stories of upbringing with his squire, and from time to time would encourage the Dawnflower initiate to write home in hopes of repairing any soured relations with his elven family near Brakton. At the moment, Nme’an recalls that Sir Montague’s father and forefathers also served in the Order of Dawnflower, faithful devotees to the kings of their time. The middle-aged man was practically born into the order of knights, and followed that tradition with pride. Sir Montague also has a wife and small child in Thaleniel, but the half-elf does not remember their names at the moment.
The Knight Captain Sir Montague that Nme’an knows is not so easily disturbed by a rebuke like that of Themp’s. He is a paragon of strong will and character, capable as any at skill in combat. Aside from the grievous state of his body, something else is clearly wrong with Nme’an’s former mentor.
”Heav’an Aldael, whom I have still not written to, despite your insistence,” Nme’an answers at once.
”What dishonor do you speak of? What has happened?”
Beorae quietly stands in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Shark pads up next to the druidess, and she scratches the cat between the ears while keeping an eye on the situation.
“Correct...” Sir Montague's tone indicates that he is not fully convinced. Nevertheless, he answers the following questions.
“We did not know anyone was in the tower, just a lonely, foul-tempered brute living off the lake. We paid the man in gold and he ferried us across in two trips. I knew he was evil of heart, but gruff as he was, the Urlghain seemed scared of us and kept to himself. He was glad when the last of us stepped off his boat at the base of the tower. It seemed unwise to confront him, if he was to be our way off the island. I should have killed him where he stood!”
“They caught us unawares: the mad shadowfolk, that sorceress’ mind magic, the dervish goblin, and the wizard and his apprentice. It might have been a fair fight if that big-armed brute had not followed us up the tower, and cut down so many of my brothers, already ragged from spell and steel…” Sir Montague’s face twists with rage that quivers his scarred face. “'What happened?' I failed my charge that day, Nme’an. I could not protect the Prince. I could not bring evil to justice. I could not return with that damned spellbook!”
He turns his eyeless face to Themp’s general direction with a sneer. “Slap me all you wish, stranger. With all I have endured, your slappings will merely tickle.”
Sir Montague still reserves some distrust toward the voice of his former squire. It is possibly a residual effect of the endless torture subjected to him. Given the short interaction with Eleanor, and the briefest exchange from the shadow men, it seems likely that they toyed with his mind on a regular basis.
Nme’an can’t be sure, but Sir Montague’s lamentations are so severe, it is possible that he implies the ultimate dishonor for a Dawnflower knight: the loss of divine blessing bestowed on their holy order. Most often, these occur with a violation of the code of honor; Nme’an remembers a recent and personal brush with those limitations. There are other ways a Dawnflower knight could be cut off from the powers granted by their patron goddess, but it requires strong magic of someone cruel.
Nme’an knows that Sir Montague is not himself, and the more he listens, the more he suspects that some part of his mind was damaged. Sir Montague seems too rash and out of control of his emotions. Tortured since his capture, it is no surprise to see the older knight’s bones under his skin, where a muscular and healthy frame once supported him. A weakened state like that took a toll on his innards, which Nme’an also suspects to be doing poorly. Lastly, the half-elf recalls to mind his feeble attempt to escape. Doubtless, being held in bonds and malnourished has made the man slower to react, too.
The knight's boast snaps Themp back to reality. This poor soul got tricked, tortured and maimed. Lashing out on him would not only do no good, but the mere thought of it feels exceedingly wrong. Now even more angry, but now finally at himself, Themp storms off the room, taking a left at the hallway, away from the carnage.
"Call me when you need me." he addresses Nme'an and Beorae as crosses the doorway.
Mulling over the battle, rethinking every decision he made, Themp absent-mindedly picks up any loot he finds, clearing the way.
When he once again catches sight of Olp's body, he stops and sits in the middle of the mess hall, lost in thought.
With a noise that’s a cross between a sigh and a sob, Nme’an reaches out a shaking hand and grips hold of the contraption his mentor had been strapped in to. After hearing how his fellow knight’s mission had failed, for a moment it’s all Nme’an can do to steady himself and try and remain standing.
”Themp.. Bi Sevenstone,” Nme’an manages to choke out after turning back to the door, ”can we... will you help me to...” he turns back and addresses his fellow follower of Sarenrae once more, ”Sir Belarand, we are going to find you someplace proper to rest and we can talk more about what should... can... be done after you have had a solid night of sleep.”
”I’ll... I’ll stay with him until you find something. Please find something,” Nme’an pleads after turning to Beorae more.
Beorae replies with a quiet, "Yes, of course…" before picking up her torch and turning left down the hallway after Themp. She skips the first door that the goblin is in, and proceeds to inspect each room, Shark at her heels.
Themp walks the corridor, collecting Olp’s spear that had been thrown down the hall. Next, at the corner, he finds shattered glass from an alchemical explosion and the hand crossbow that was tossed aside by the dark assassin. The caltrops are easy to collect, though nothing weaker than a leather pouch will hold them for long. In the dining hall, the archer gathers up Mot’s shield and flail from where they lay strewn in the heat of battle.
The druidess follows closely behind, cautiously opening and peering inside every door they pass. The first door she opens on her left looks like it is a bedroom that was also changed into a torture room. There is nobody tied to the bed, but the heavy smell of old blood wafts into Beorae and Shark’s noses as the door opens. The sheets are stained black and brown with ichor, and harsh, twisted runes written in charcoal cover the grey stone walls.
There is a door on the right, and it opens to a tiny chamber with a basin set into a counter surface, opposite to a comfortable seat with a round hole in the middle. This room appears to be a latrine.
The next room has an odd musk to it, and Beorae notices the smell bears some similarity to the room that now holds the tied up goblin. This room is sparsely furnished with a desk, chair, a nightstand with drawers and a bed just big enough for one person. The candle on the desk looks unused. Inside the drawers, are dark clothes matching the the style worn by the sadomasochist cleric. Leaning up against the wall behind the door -she almost mistook it for a shadow- is a large black triangular shield. Inspecting it closely, the shield appears to be made from large black scales, perhaps those of a dragon. A spine of sharp horns or claws protrude down the center of the kite shield, designed to inflict more harm than the slam of a flat shield. Whomever made this black-scaled shield is a master crafter. Aside from that curious find, nothing else in the room seems out of place.
Down the stairs and up the other side, the next room seems quite plain. The single-person bed has sheets neatly folded and seemingly untouched. The drawers of the nightstand are empty. The desk has a full new candle, an unused feather quill, fresh parchment, and a sealed ink bottle. Likewise, the chair appears to be have seen little use. Overall, this is what Beorae supposes the rooms looked like before her enemies had taken residence.
The door immediately to the right appears to be a second latrine, a replica of the first she found on the other side.
The next room is quite similar to the one preceding it: bare and empty. Untouched bedsheets, unused writing supplies, and furniture with no discernable wear. Despite its appearance, Beorae does find a few sheets of paper stuck between the wall and behind the nightstand, perhaps lost and forgotten by the previous tenant. Lines upon lines of black ink, in a flowing script that she does not recognize. If she had to guess, it appears to be the shorthand common among arcane scholars, typically customized uniquely to the scholar who penned them.
Onward to the next door, the room inside is messy, disorganized, and definitely lived-in. The bedsheets are in disarray, and the writing supplies normally found on the desk are all stuffed into one drawer on the nightstand. The drawer below it is crammed with garb similar to what the goblin wears, along with a hefty bag of gold coins. Assembled on the desk are several vials and wood bowls containing a variety of materials, none of which are labeled. To one trained as the druidess, she feels confident that these are alchemical reagents; raw materials for tonics, salves, and other alchemical products. A single sheet of paper lays on the table as well, a written list in another language unfamiliar to the half-elf. This writing here is quite unlike the pages found in the previous room -this language has no flowing aspect and is rife with tiny characters made up of jagged, uneven lines. The room stinks slightly of rotting grass.
In the last room, are the remains of what Eleanor did not take with her in her rush to leave the tower on Nme’an’s order. An unmade bed, empty nightstand drawers left open, and on the desk are a few sheets of scrawled parchment. The candle is burned down to one inch, drops of wax hardened around the plate of the candlestick. A spilled ink bottle has a pool of ink that partially blots one of the written pages.
The middle-aged knight nods at the talk of sleep. "I haven't had a full night of rest since we camped in the jungle many weeks ago, months, maybe? Time went so slowly. I would like to pray first, as long as my tired body will hold out..."
He lifts his hands and fumbles around until he rests one on Nme'an's shoulder. "If you would guide me, brother. I cannot see."
Detect Evil.
Upon the druidess’ report, Nme’an leads Sir Belarand across the hall to the cleanest of the rooms.
”I will be a while. If you and Themp could begin organizing things I will help you dispose of the bodies and move our friends outside for memorials once I am finished,”
he tells Beorae.
Inside, Nme’an helps Sir Belarand under the blankets before leading his mentor in a short prayer. The younger of the two knights then sits in the nearby chair and begins reading aloud passages and stories from the holy text they both put so much faith in. He is sure to single out those that talk of divine forgiveness and finding ones way back to one’s intended path.
After nearly an hour, Nme’an closes his book and moves to place a gentle hand on Sir Belarand‘s head. This time, instead of attempting to heal his superior’s physical injuries, Nme’an focuses on lessening some of the trauma inflicted on his friend’s mind.
He then quietly exits the room to see how the others are doing.
Sir Montague Belarand follows along in prayer and lays silent as Nme'an reads the passages aloud. One or twice, he recognizes the verse and recites the rest from memory as the half-elf continues. As the Knight Lieutenant closes the book, the middle-aged man wipes bloody water from his sunken eyelids.
"Thank you, Nme'an. That means a great deal to me. Now I shall rest and hopefully find some peace..."
When Nme'an lays a hand on the Knight Captain's head, he feels the healing power flow down his arm and into his palm. But as the energy fades, he gets the sense that it did help Sir Montague at all.
Sir Montague pauses when he feels the hand on his head, but then relaxes when nothing seems to come of it.
"If this is not a long and elaborate ruse," he says sleepily, "And you are Nme'an, and truly did defeat the cruel people in this tower, you have done what I could not. I am proud of you. And I wish there was some way I could repay this debt of gratitude. But..." Montague's face twists with sadness. He rolls over to one side to make himself more comfortable. "I think a long sleep is in order before addressing these things. I have so many questions, as I am sure you do. We will have to wait..."
Beorae helps Nme'an and the old knight get to the clean room. As they walk, Beorae takes careful note of the older man's movement and injuries, trying to ascertain the source and severity of his wounds.
Once the knight is laid down, she leaves the two, quietly shutting the door behind her. She retrieves the dragon hide shield and gold and carries them to a table in the large room next to where Themp is sitting. Next, she collects the various papers with writings that she encountered, and takes a few minutes to go through them before setting them down next to the shield as well.
Finally, she searches the bodies of their two enemies for anything of interest.
Snapped out of his rut by Beorae's proximity, Themp slowly gets up and sets the loot he has found on the same table as the druid's. Without speaking a word, he helps her search the bodies of the gaunt figures.
The more she listens, the more she suspects that some part of Sir Montague’s mind was damaged. For the stalwart reputation of the Dawnflower knights, he seems too rash and out of control of his emotions. Tortured since his capture, it is no surprise to see the older knight’s bones under his skin, where a muscular and healthy frame once supported him. A weakened state like that took a toll on his innards, which Beorae also suspects to be doing poorly. Lastly, the half-elf sees how slowly the middle-aged knight moves, seemingly from aching joints. Doubtless, being held in bonds and malnourished has made the man slower to react, too. She is confident in her assessment as a healer, yet the bloody and scarred shapes and sigils carved into Sir Montague tug at her memory of magical theory. They seem to be a bit more than torturous doodles of madmen.
The papers on Eleanor’s desk appear to be letters. Each one appears to bear a different handwriting:
One is a letter from someone named Gregor, unremarkable in content, stating that there was little to report, other than the people of Brenan’s Crossing knowing next to nothing about the mission of the knights. The letter was dated for nearly a month ago.
Another letter is penned in the Common tongue, but many of the lines are hard and straight, forming sharp angles in place of round characters. It is an agreement to meet at “the usual spot” for an exchange. The writer seemed to expect to receive weapons and armor was bringing gold, magical scrolls, and costly spell components to trade. Judging the cycle of the moons passed, Beorae estimates that the exchange took place ten days ago. The bottom is signed by Fignar Glittermonger.
A different letter is written in strange language consisting of large, obtuse runes and markings.
The last letter has a cursive that seems vaguely familiar, but Beorae cannot recall where she might have seen it. The letter is dated from three days ago, stating the writer successfully found their pupil. The writer mentions the difficulty of travelling with “the heir”, further hampered by an orcish invasion, and consequently, “the plan” must accelerate. Eleanor and her band are advised to leave the tower and meet the writer at “The Gloombridge” by the next new moon. A sentence begins to state where the writer will be staying until that time, but the black ink blot obscures the bottom-half of the letter before the author and their location is revealed
The lines of arcane shorthand float and drift into a language that Beorae can understand, and she studies the deciphered contents.
The pages appear to be notes, but Beorae is not certain of the subject on which they are written. It seems to hop from one topic to another, all of them related to magic in some way, until after reading the entirety of both pages she determines that these are notes to an intricate puzzle that require several spells to solve. Wherever this puzzle is, the first part of it is to figure out which spells to cast, where, and in which order. The notetaker indicates that this puzzle room was originally designed to test students before allowing them to proceed to more advanced magical theory, back when Ithalgol’s Keep was a center for education and learning. The notes outline a long and complex trial-and-error process that results with the following conclusions: entrants to the puzzle room must be able to cast the spells Detect Magic and Read Magic. This puzzle room contains two illusions in opposite corners. The cymbal was enchanted to shatter something when struck correctly, but what was to be shattered was unclear in the notes. A lockbox puzzle is described as painfully easy, but its answer is not written down. Additionally, the notes refer to a “hidden staircase” that leads to a problem the notetaker had not quite worked out. The author of the notes says that they were lucky to have a priest with them to help with some of the puzzles, but that commentary offers no clues as to why.
From the exploded corpse of the evil cleric, the two find bits and pieces of what used to be a chainmail shirt. Unharmed by the blast, however, is a heavy spiked chain, and a leather sling, both appear to be a master’s work. They also uncover a headband of blackwood, inlaid with a single onyx gemstone from the body. Clipped to his belt, the cleric also carried a set of iron manacles and a key to lock them. In his pockets were small tools that seem similar in function to the torture implements in the room Beorae found Sir Montague, as well as loose coins amounting to fifty in gold.
On the bloodied corpse of the grey assassin, they find a steel shirt of woven chainmail, and a short sword, both plainly made by a master craftsman. A torc of two large curved grey claws bound together with leather form an incomplete ring is found encircling the assassin’s neck. He wore a braided leather belt with a buckle shaped like the head of a roaring panther with amber eyes. In his pockets are two vials full of a black oily substance like the substance Beorae remembers glistening off the blade that stabbed Shark. In addition to the poison, Themp and Beorae count out one hundred in gold from the assassin’s various pockets, pouches, and even including a platinum coin in the sole of one black boot.
Nme’an motions to Themp for help.
”I would rather not burn these two here,” he says of their two dead foes. ”At the bottom of the lake.”
The Knight Lieutenant goes to heft the more mutilated body of the dark priest only to catch glimpse of Beorae.
”Bi Sevenstone, you should come with us or we should wait for you. I will not permit any of us to be alone in this tower,” he tells her.
Clearly avoiding to even glance in the direction of the priest and the barbarian, Themp carefully moves around Olp's body, towards the assassin.
"Good call", he addresses Nme'an, not entirely loud enough "I'm taking this one"
Beorae considers the horrific carvings in the older knight's skin, wondering what magical properties they may contain.
---
With Themp's assistance, the druidess places all the items of interest on the table next to the shield and other gold. "Some of these are magical, I'll check them out later. After we, clean up." she says, choking on the last words.
:
Beorae grows quiet and searches for a book on dragons to hold off her discomfort while she waits for Nme'an to finish with the knight. The druidess grows lost in her reading, with one hand turning pages of a book and the other running her fingers over the dragonhid shield, feeling its texture and energy. So absorbed is she that it's not until Nme'an addresses her that she realizes that he's in the room!
"Hmm? Oh, sorry… I was…," she starts, and clears her throat. "Sorry, I was reading about dragons. And these papers…" she continues, holding up the various sheets that she had gathered, "…are particularly interesting. This one's from someone named Gregor in Brenan's Crossing, this one suggests that Elenor has an 'in' with the kobolds, this one's written in Giant, so I can't read it, and the handwriting on this one is more familiar than I'd like, but I can't place it. Elenaor seemed to have allies all along our path. And these appear to be notes about a magical puzzle here in the tower, which I'm rather curious about." She shares the content of the various papers and hands them over to Nme'an and Themp for inspection.
Looking at the bodies, she thinks for a moment and says, "I'll be right back. I have an idea." She disappears into Elenaor's room for a minute and returns with a bundle of sheets. "We can use these as a makeshift sling to carry them downstairs."
"Fignar Glittermonger" sounds more like a male dwarven name, not kobold.
The druidess' magical scan of the middle-aged knight brings some very interesting things to light. Firstly, Montague's distinct lack of the passive auras she has found whenever Nme'an ends up in her magical sensors, such as his supernatural resistances over his mind and body, and his unbreakable defense against fear. Secondly, and more relevant to what drew her curiosity, she detects three auras that are quite similar, all of them registering as energy steeped in necromancy. However, each of them differ in the way the magic was woven into the horrific scars over the former captive's body. She does not recognize specific spells, and is not entirely sure how the necromancy magic functions, but Beorae is positive that it is there, and it is powerful. She might need to research this finding before making a complete assessment.
Black dragons often seclude themselves to swamps, preferring places of the world left to decay and decompose. Of the evil chromatic dragons, the black dragon revels most in destruction for destruction's sake, which can make them unpredictable and difficult to reason with. Unlike their infamous red cousins, black dragons do not breathe fire. Instead they spew out long streams of burning acid, laying waste to anything it touches. It follows to reason that black dragons cannot be harmed by such a caustic fluid. Most dragons prefer to distance themselves from lowly reptiles, however, black dragons are naturally adept at speaking with other scaly creatures.
Like other dragons, however, the size of these creatures are an indication of age -they do not stop growing. Similarly, they are highly intelligent creatures with magical abilities, usually suited to the environs they prefer, in this case, marshes and swamps. Black dragons also share the obsession with hoarding treasure common with their kin, and despite their preference for rot, they love valuables that do not decay. Gold, silver, gemstones, jewelry, and fine crafts of stone or metal are what make up a black dragon's hoard.
With the others’ help, Nme’an buries both of their foes’ bodies in the lake that surrounds the tower, thinking all the while about the things Beorae uncovered. Though silent save for the few instructions it takes to complete this first task, he finally makes comment as they head back upstairs.
”It would seem to me that Eleanor is part of some widespread conspiracy against Vyren. One we have by chance come across and even foiled once or twice. And on top of that an orc invasion that was not planned for by these conspirators?! And all of our top knights dead or missing? I fear we are gravely needed in Thaleniel,” he says.
Upon reaching their two fallen comrades, Nme’an easily hoist Olp’s limp body up onto his shoulder.
”I would like to give Olp a proper burial just as he gave to his Blood Arrow warrior. He deserves that much and more for the things he did and endured,” the saddened knight tells the others.
While he wait for the others to heft Mot’s body, he checks to make sure that their goblin captive is still unconscious and secure.
"Aye," Beorae says, as she moves toward Mot's feet. She frowns sadly at the warrior who, despite his crudeness, had been her friend. With a deep breath, she helps Themp carry the Urlghain down after Nme'an and Olp.
The three survivors carry down their fallen friends in silent procession. They reach the base of Ithalgol's Keep, where green, overgrown grass stirs in the gentle breeze that drifts south. The lake shore laps at the pebbly edge of the small round island. The air is cool and the sun is presently veiled by white overcast sky. Faint calls of the jungle animals can be heard over the serene surface of Stillwater Lake. Dense greenery stretches as far as the eye can see, to the north, east, and west. To the south, loom the towering, snowcapped Komat Mountains, crowned with low wispy clouds. The boat taken by Eleanor is gone from the island. Beorae, Nme'an, and Themp suddenly realize that they are quite far away from home.
Nme’an circles the tower so as to judge the path of the sun through the sky then finds the softest patch of ground to the side of the tower that will never be eclipsed by its shadow and begins to dig.
Beorae, aware of her fatigue, stands a little taller and begins to help Nme'an with the difficult task of burying their companions.
As soon as Nme'an decides a proper place for the burial, Themp sets to digging, glad to have some heavy work to keep his mind off what happened in the tower. While the physical labor is refreshing, he isn't sure he will be able to climb those stair any time soon. He lets his mind wander off the thought and focuses yet again on the earth below.
Nme’an too allows himself to become lost in the repetitive motions of preparing the grave.
Beorae, Nme'an, and Themp commit themselves to the task of digging a grave. The hour is half passed when a hole is dug wide enough for the enormous highlander's body, and deep enough to hide the smell from scavengers.
With great care, they use a sheet to lower Mot Casns' heavy body into the ground.
When it is time, the three begin the bitter work of moving the earth back over their friend. The dirt feels heavier than before.
Already both physically and emotionally exhausted from the day, Beorae's face is like stone as they lower Mot into his grave. "Goodbye, Mot. Let it be said that his big Casns heart was always in the right place. We're going to miss you… friend. And…" the druidess looks down at Shark and rubs her hand through his fur, his big orange eyes looking back at her. The thought that she almost lost him today, too, strikes at her heart and the tears begin to flow in earnest. She looks back at the big man and finishes, "…and thank you. For whatever you did to save Shark."
Nme’an nods at the Druidess’ words to step forward to say some of his own.
”I do not have much to say, except this: The others, they would not be here were it not for you. And neither would I. And that is not only because of your strength and your bravery, but because you were the reason I ventured forth into those challenges to begin with. Though it seems like years ago, it was your turning to the crowds and shouting:
‘THALENIEL SHOULD FIGHT TOGETHER.
THAT RED HAIRED LASS O’ THERE AND I WANT TO FIGHT.
DO YOU WANT TO FIGHT?
STEP UP HERE TO SHOW YOUR WANNA FIGHT!’
Were it not for your challenge that morning I would not have stepped up and more lives might have been lost. Though we had our differences, your strength and your bravery and your challenge to fight will be remembered. And though it may take time, I will see this sword of yours to its proper home.
Thank you.”
As we discussed we were struck with the (brilliant) idea to play a beginners game with a small group of DBOers! So this thread is born to gauge interest for said game.
I've been playing for a little over a year as I said, and I'd love to play in this game, Beorn is interested to play, so that leaves two or three slots open for PCs and a slot for the DM.
I could DM, but I'm not super experienced with the role (see what I did there?), and in any case I'd love it if a more veteran player wanted the slot.
But I CAN help with the actual usage of the Paizo website, it's not super intuitive though once you get used to it it functions as designed.
tl;dr
DBO SHOULD PLAY A PATHFINDER GAME TOGETHER.
BEORN AND I WANT TO PLAY.
DO YOU WANT TO PLAY.
POST HERE TO SHOW YOUR INTEREST.
With a heavy sigh, Nme’an walks away from the grave and carefully lifts the body of his second friend. He moves to find a suitable spot to lay the Dragonkin out as Olp did for the Blood Arrow. The Knight Lieutenant then begins the process of paying honor to Olp just as Olp paid honor to the his own slain hero. All the while, whether it is arranging Olp’s body, weapons, and treasure just so, or writing out words of praise in the Dragonic script, Nme’an moves slowing so as to be sure to hear any words that Themp might have to say.
Only when Mot’s funeral has concluded nearby does he use one Firebolt to light Olp’s body in ceremonial fire then a second shot towards the sky to signal to all those for miles around that something of importance had just concluded.
With that done, Nme’an finds a moment to slip away and sits within the shadow of the tower with his back against the wall and weeps for his two departed... friends.
Themp had never really buried a friend before. Back in the streets, they either vanished too soon or stuck long enough for their relationship to sour. The royal guards were quick in cleaning up the weak, the dumb ones. The strong, the smart ones, were quick to stab you in the back. The streets of Thaleniel were no place for long-lasting kindness, no place for trust. So as much as Themp has lost friends before, this whole... ritual was entirely new to him. Sure, he had read about it in books, but it had always sounded like something exclusive to the regular folk, the civilians and the army, people who had a family. Not to him, not a street rat, vermin.
"Guess I finally found a family. Of course I had to lose some of you to realize it, huh?" he addresses the graves he's sitting beside, a half-sad, half-jester grin on his face.
With a heavy sigh, the rogue stands up. He feels tired, he feels broken. Yet, he feels a tinge of happiness, a certain pride.
"Goodbye dragonkin, the bravest soul I had the pleasure of fighting alongside. Goodbye, you psycho, you goofy brute, the best drink mate of all time... My brothers. Rest at ease, for we will not let your sacrifice be in vain."
After a time, Nme'an collects himself and rises to lead the others back up the long dark passages of the tower to collect Gixard and a single chair. Back on the shore some minutes later, the goblin awakens from unconsciousness to Nme'an's healing hand only to finds himself tightly bound to a heavy chair near the lapping waves of the lake.
Once the goblin is awake and aware, Nme'an stands before him, with a grim expression on his face and his warhammer in hand.
"Let me be clear, your life will end at the conclusion of this talk," Nme'an begins. "We have many questions for you, but you will not be set free or sent on your way if you help us. That boat has already left and you choose not to be on it.
I will not threaten you with a slow painful death or with torture. No matter your next choices, I will dispatch you as painlessly and quickly as possible.
What you have to gain here by helping us is a proper burial. Do anything else but answer our questions and your remains will be scattered about this beach and in these waters for the birds and fish to feed on."
Nme'an grips his hammer more tightly and prepares for what he believes will likely be a less than helpful response and asks, "Will you answer our questions truthfully and to the best of your knowledge?"
Smite Evil.
Nme'an's single, powerful blow smashes Gixard and the chair he is bound to to pieces, and the Knight Lieutenant begins the joyless work of carrying out his sole threat.
When Gixard first wakes, he struggles and twists against the rope. He quickly finds it futile, and listens to the half-elf. His hideous little goblin face is not easy to read, until Nme’an poses the weighted question:
“Fine. I will speak truth. And since I’m being honest, I don’t care what you do with my body. But at least this way I get to live a little longer,” he leers up a grin filled with tiny sharp teeth.
“Ask me your questions.”
"Bi Sevenstone," Nme'an says, relaxing a small amount, "you read the letters. Maybe it would be better if you asked the questions?"
Not realizing that she'd been holding her breath, the druidess slowly exhales when the goblin surprisingly delays the inevitable outcome of Nem'an's righteous rage. She's a bit shocked, however, when Nem'an directs her to do the questioning!
"Um… alright," she begins, uncertain of where to start the line of questioning. "Who is this letter from, and where is 'The Gloombridge' that is mentioned?" she asks, holding up the letter from three days prior.