"What are those mists?" Leandro asks Alcien, staring at the wall with the rest.
Volidrian, very much not trusting these mists, begins stringing his bow.
Dr. Tovanarish finds a spot by a mast. He checks for rigging he can grab if the ship should roll. He peers Into the darkness
Res stares grimly at the looming mists coming ever closer. He joins Leandro with Alcien to learn more about the mist and what to expect.
Alcien looks at Leandro as if he had just asked what constitutes the sea itself, or perhaps the color of the sky. "The Mists bind together all of these lands. They give, and they take, but they are never to be trusted. They bring nothing but malice for those who would trifle with them." He looks back at the wall of Mist again and sighs. "But she knows her way through." It is unclear whether he speaks of the helmswoman or the ship itself.
As the ship plows forward, it is quickly engulfed by the roiling tendrils of Mist. Visibility within is limited to little beyond a hand stretched in front of you.
The crew is silent, but the timbers of the ship beneath your feet groan like the restless dead as the ship pitches from side to side. Eerily still waters lap at the hull.
You have the impression of forward movement, but feel no trace of a breeze on the air. The tendrils of Mist are damp and clammy, and your very flesh feels as if it will seize at that sepulchral caress.
In the distance, off to the port side, you hear a distant whimper, as of the young of some unknowable creature. The ship's crew does not react; they stare forward in a practiced fashion, having learned long ago that it is best not to observe certain surroundings.
The silence is broken by a faint clatter. Those close enough can see that Miss Pemberton has dropped her pen. She stoops to pick it up and faintly whispers, "Terribly sorry,", and that whisper feels more like a shout in this tense atmosphere. The silence that follows is somehow even deeper and more absolute.
One loses track of time traversing the Mists. With no geographic markers, no celestial bodies declaring the time of day or night, all is inky darkness. Strange shapes and sounds play beyond the field of vision, suggesting horrors known only to the recesses of the subconscious.
Still, the ship moves onward. In time (hours, probably, although you could only guess how many), the Mists once again give way to the open sea. Cloudy skies, dim with twilight, blanket the choppy sea. The air bears a damp chill, feeling worlds apart from the hazy heat of the sea you departed. Dreary as the weather may be, all on board heave a sigh of relief to be beyond the roiling Mists, which fade from view behind you as you proceed.
Dusk gives way to night, and the folk on board sleep heavily. By midday of the following day, the lookout spots land ahead. You sail toward a small seaport on the edge of a large town. Stately buildings seem crowded together like travelers huddling for warmth. As if to reinforce the point, the clouds begin to blanket both sea and shore in a steady chill rain. The crew have donned warmer attire, anticipating the change in weather upon arrival in Mordent.
As the afternoon draws on, the ship maneuvers slowly and carefully into port. Gloomy dockworkers garbed in sodden overcoats in defense against the rain assist the ship's deckhands in positioning a gangway to provide access to the docks. Some distance away, wearing an overcoat and standing beneath a large umbrella, you see the figure of Dr. Savarre standing in wait. Beside him is an individual you do not recognize. "Welcome to Mordentshire," Dr. Savarre calls out to you from a distance.
Leandro is pleased to don his full mail once again as the ship draws near to land. He packs his belongings and joins his comrades on deck to watch the docking, careful to stay out of the way of the busy sailors.
"Ah, cold rain. Makes a nice change from hot, steamy rain, does it not?" he observes wryly to his friends.
"Miss Pemberton, what will you do now that you are no longer in the employ of the Professor?"
Miss Pemberton looks wistful. ”I should see to the professor’s affairs. I think it best I keep to our original itinerary. Tomorrow morning I shall hire a carriage on to Port-a-Lucine and inform his colleagues of his passing. Perhaps I shall find a way to continue my studies with another.” She gives a faint, sad smile. ”I thank you for your concern. You have all been most kind. Especially you, Sir Leandro, and Dr. Tovanarish.”
"I see. Be safe on your voyage. If you have difficulty finding a position, we are friends with Dr. Savarre, there under the umbrella. Perhaps he would need an assistant and student? Though it looks perhaps like he may have one. At any rate, may Shelyn's blessing go with you." Leandro bows a farewell to Miss Pemberton and joins the line to disembark, with a wave to Dr. Savarre.
Dr. Tovanarish nods gravely
"I wish you all the best in your studies, Miss Pemberton. The quest for knowledge is a noble quest indeed"
He pulls up the collar of his greatcoat, and picks up his doctor's bag and cane, ready to disembark
"You are too kind," she responds.
The dockworkers usher you away from the gangway. The ground beyond the docks is muddy as rainwater soaks the ground beneath your feet. Dr. Savarre approaches, sheltered by his umbrella, but heedless of the mud on his shoes. "Good to see you in one piece. And you brought back Dr. Tovanarish with you. Good, good," he says in his usual frenetic manner.
"We have much to discuss, and I wish to hear of your travels in Souragne. But not while we stand here. You are all getting soaked. Come, I know a pub with warm stew and stout beer. 'Warm the stomach, warm the soul' - that's what I always say!" He seems ready to trod off.
The fastidious Dr Tovanarish attempts to avoid the worst of the mud patches snd puddles as he follows Dr Savarre
Leandro bows to Dr. Savarre as they meet, and gives the doctor's companion a friendly nod. He seems about to say something, but subsides at the mention of warm stew and stout beer. Glaive in one hand and pack in the other, he smiles at the doctor. "Please, lead on!"
As they walk, he muses aloud on what has been bothering him since on board the ship. "If the navigator - or the ship - can find its way through those Mists to arrive here, why can they not set course for Oppara instead? Is there no way back? Or no... I don't know... compass?"
The man next to Dr. Savarre watches for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he seems to examine you before, finally, locking on Leandro... or, more specifically, his holy symbol. "It's... true," he mutters, before turning to Dr. Savarre, "I.. didn't... I couldn't... believe it. But it's true." He points, "Shelyn!" and starts to laugh before what at first looked to be a fur stole around his neck moves, the poor ermine's fur as grey as it is white as it twists around to sit on the man's shoulder, chiriping at him as he does. The man's near-mad laughter stops, and he says, simply, "It's been so long," as he absently pats the poor, aged creature's head.
Leandro starts at the mention of his goddess's name and stares at the newcomer with astonishment. "Yes, I serve the Eternal Rose. You know her? So long... how long, exactly?" He shakes his head as he recalls his manners and bows to the man. "Your pardon. I am Leandro Filipe Aluizio Simón Grelo, true son of Taldor and servant of Shelyn."
The man laughs again, the maniacal edge still present, if reduced, "How long? It's been 4,912 nights since I was brought to this terrible place by the mists. It's been 3,300 since I've spoken to anyone who even might know what the Thanelands or the Linnorm Kings are, other than poor old Dynamo here."
He shakes his head, whether from incredulity or to clear it, and then sighs, "I am Irikar Vareth, of Kalsgard, havocker of the storm. Dynamo and I are the sole survivors of the Stormcrow Warband, the hunters of witches and slayers of monsters."
”Ah yes yes, I meant to introduce you,” Dr. Savarre says while maintaining a brisk stride. ”I met Irikar some years ago, and sent word to him to come here. I thought your mission may be of interest to him. And his skills may likewise be of use to you, I have no doubt.”
"Well met Irikar, I must confess to ignorance on my part as I do not know of the term, "Havocker". But those who stand against the powers of darkness are always good allies."
Irikar says, "Actually, he told me there were others from my homeworld.... and that they were exploring a way home -- something that, I confess, I'd pretty much given up on."
"Ah... yes... the Linnorm Kings," Leandro stalls, trying to remember the geography his tutor droned on about, then thinking about how far south Oppara was on the map. "Up... north."
”Geography lessons aside, I thought Irikar could be of use, particularly since I may have need of Anuqa to aid in the research I am undertaking regarding these artifacts,” Dr. Savarre explains.
He reaches the door to a cozy public house and stands beneath an overhang as he shakes out his wet umbrella. A sign beside the door reads “Sword and Lion” and sports an improbable illustration of an oddly proportioned great cat wielding a blade. He opens the door and ushers you all in out of the rain.
The interior walls and bar are clad in dark, aged wood, and the smell of peat fire hangs in the air. A handful of patrons crowd the bar area and a few nearby tables. The barman nods at Dr. Savarre, and Dr. Savarre leads you through a side door to a small private room, furnished with a table and several chairs. A small coal-burning stove puts out a warm heat and fends off the chill from outside.
Dr. Savarre sheds his overcoat and takes a seat. ”Please please... sit. There is much to discuss. The Lion and Sword is a private a place as any. I myself have taken a room upstairs, although this is not really an inn. I made arrangements for all of you at Mrs. Maynard’s boarding house for as long as you are in town. She keeps a tidy establishment, as far as such things go.”
”I am sure there is much to discuss, as far as your recent travels. I wish to hear it all. But first, I must ask - do you have the Skull with you?”
Interrupting this discussion, the barman arrives with flagons of stout beer and copious amounts of warm bread. ”Ah, thank you,” Dr. Savarre says. ”Is the stew still mutton? No matter, we’ll take it anyway.” The barman leaves and Dr. Savarre looks at you all expectantly.
Leandro is lifting a mug of stout to his lips when Dr. Savarre asks about the Skull. He grimaces and sets down the mug.
"We failed to obtain the Skull. Monerre traded it away," he says heavily, not looking at the Doctor. He presses his lips together and will say no more.
”Ah. I see,” Dr. Savarre says with a look of concern. ”Dare I ask to whom?”
Seeing Leandro's expression, Res speaks up. "He gave it to Katalin Szabo," he says.
Dr. Savarre purses his lips in thought. "That is what I feared - that she or another member of the Crimson Court would arrive before you and apprehend it."
He takes a sip of his beer. "Well, my old associate Professor Binwick will hopefully be able to shed more light on the remainder of these artifacts. We have corresponded and it sounds as if he has information that should be of interest. He has been delayed slightly attending to business in Port-a-Lucine, but he said we should expect his return to Mordentshire tomorrow. He said he will contact me as soon as he is arriving in town."
Dr. Savarre pauses as the barman returns with bowls of savory stew. They are set before everyone.
"Well, what else can you tell me of your travels? And what became of Monerre?"
Tybalt nods at Res' revelation; "Monerre's dead....permanently we believe. Or at least hope."
With a deep breath; "We did hope that Professor Hailstork, might have been able to tell us more about these artefacts. He was aboard our ship, however....well he transformed into some sort of skinless abomination."
"Thus he was put to rest....what was he?" Tybalt looks to his companions, to see if they had heard of the creature before.
”Hailstork? Ah. If I recall he is - was - a most disagreeable fellow. Still, that sounds like an ignominious end for such a bright mind.” Dr. Savarre looks saddened by the news.
Dr Tovanarish speaks up
“He had been replaced by a faceless stalker. A particularly nasty abomination that camouflaged himself as the late doctor after coming aboard as a stowaway. “
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"He was quite improved by the replacement, except for the people-eating part," Leandro remarks, shaking off his gloom. "Quite a shame for his assistant, who is heading for Port-a-Lucine to report to Hailstork's superiors and try to find another position. If there is anyone you could say a word to there on her behalf, Dr. Savarre, it would be very kind."
Irikar watches carefully, then winces at the mention of a Faceless Stalker. "Could you tell me what these artefacts are? And who this Crimson Court might be?"
He looks at Dr. Savarre, "Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself - you've already linked me to one group from my homeworld, and now I'm already leaping ahead to the other and dreams of revenge."
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"Ah, yes. Let us review what we know," Dr. Savarre says between spoonfuls of stew.
"The vision encountered by Tiffana referred to six artifacts that Tetslin and his cohort among the Crimson Court have been seeking. These artifacts are used in the Ritual of the Grey Gates. What that will do exactly is not entirely clear, but it seems it would empower the vampires to spread their influence beyond this plane... possibly to your homeland." Dr. Savarre pauses to let the implications of this sink in.
"The artifacts are a strange assortment of powerful items that all have properties of their own. I have only a passing familiarity with them, but Professor Binwick has a great deal of research on them that he can hopefully share. The artifacts in question are Harrag's Skull, Saran's Fang, the Yellow Jade, the Blightstaff, the Bleak Rose, and the Eternal Shroud."
"Harrag's Skull is an artifact of some notoriety, and it was known to be in the possession of Monerre - until recently, anyway. And Saran's Fang is well known as the personal blade of Lord Vlad of Falcovnia. The others I know only by rumor, but hopefully Professor Binwick will be able to share more."
He takes another bite of stew before continuing. "Now, the Crimson Court... About these vipers I can tell you a thing or two. While you have been traveling, I have reviewed my own journals and had correspondence with a few others inclined to monster-hunting. The Crimson Court is an influential cabal of vampires native to the lands of Borca and Dorvinia. Their inner circle is ancient and powerful."
"Perhaps the most powerful - and something of an informal leader among them - is Tetslin Alstana. The oldest member of the court - with all the powers that come with centuries of undeath - he is also a formidable archmage in his own right. It would appear he is at the center of this plot, but he is not alone."
"At his side sits Anastasiya Vordova, powerful with the sword, but perhaps even more powerful with the political influence she wields among the human courts of those lands. For over two hundred years her ageless beauty has been a presence at the noble courts, influencing them to do Tetslin's bidding."
"If Anastasiya Vordova is Tetslin’s right hand, Katalin Szabo is his left." He pauses, as if recognizing that there is some sensitivity regarding this name. "I believe this is a name with which some of you are familiar. Sadistic and cruel, she binds beings of good and light - tormenting them, breaking them, twisting them to forsake their blessed natures. Her chief weapons are pain and despair, and she employs them without mercy."
"A close ally and sometimes consort of hers is Dmestrei Gorbaich, a cunning enchanter known to contort the minds of men and bend them to his will. He sits like a puppetmaster behind the curtain, pulling strings of his puppets until it is time to strike. Subtlety and cunning are his arts, and his spies are everywhere."
"There is also Svetlina Pruczki - perhaps the most reclusive and secretive of the court. Little is known of her publicly, but where she goes, pestilence and death are sure to follow."
"Finally, there are Mily Astrenko and Drago Hvarczy - an inseparable duo known to reside in Dorvinia. Mily in his mortal life was once a court bard - a lover of art and poetry - and his voice was said to be the fairest ever to grace these joyless realms. The brooding and tempermental Drago, an unholy warrior once known as the 'Dark Champion', had to have this beauty for his own. They have been partners in undeath for over a century. Under the luxurious trappings of their estate lies a penchant for capriciousness and malice that should never be underestimated."
"These seven have various lieutenants and henchmen through which they can undertake their schemes throughout the lands of the Core and beyond. And, it would seem, they have an alliance of convenience with the wererat covens of Richemulot. How their plot benefits the wererats - or what payment has been promised to secure their assistance - I cannot say. But right now the combined efforts of the wererats and Crimson Court have Lord Vlad rightly worried about his southern border. As if that is not enough, word has it that some manner of plague spreads among his foot soldiers. This, even after some of you put down the fey creature that spread the 'laughing plague' among the Borcan borderlands."
Dr Tovanarish nods as the good doctor goes into the Crimson Courts history. At the end he speaks
“I have spent much of my life fighting the undead. When we face foes such as this, we must be aware that they are cunning prey. We must be ready for assaults upon our mind and spirit, as well as our body “
Leandro regards the newcomer levelly. "This quest may be our only chance to part the Mists and return home. It may also be that we can prevent the creatures here from invading our homeland, but will be stranded here. Such a choice is easy, and I will do anything in my power to prevent sunny Taldor from becoming like these lands."
Irikar nods, during the recitation, finally sighing, "And I thought the small packs of monsters I've been helping with were bad enough. A cabal of the deathless is... concerning. Especially one that is actually united - the best strategy would normally be to play them off each other, let their petty egos and jockeying for power and position to tear apart their circle."
He chuckles grimly, "...which, I admit, is the same strategy we'd employ against the Winter Witches -- and for largely the same reason."
At Leandro's statement, Irikar nods - though a little reluctantly, "Having had the pleasure of nearly 5,000 nights here, I... don't disagree. But, since we're talking about home, I should note that Taldor may not be the only place at risk. The mists took me from the North -- I don't think they're locked into to your soft southern lands."
He sighs again, and opens his mouth, then shakes his head and pats the grey-white creature wrapped around his neck.
Tybalt sighs; "I'd not want to match my wits or words with the undying directly. Best to thwart their aspirations, reveal them to the others and as you say Irikar - set them against one and another."
"But not directly... best we harry them." Tybalt indicates softly.
”Set them against one another, yes. I am sure they would like to do the same to you,” Dr. Savarre muses. ”They are certainly aware of our efforts. The wererats have firsthand knowledge of most of you. And yet... if the Crimson Court wanted all of us dead, they could strike decisively with relative ease. That they have not done so is a trifle worrisome.”
”Nothing that Tetslin does is by chance; every step is part of his master plan. At this point, I cannot help but wonder - what part are we playing?” He contemplates a moment before draining the last of his pint.
Dr Tovanarish nods
“To these creatures we are ephemeral, food that talks, cattle with aspirations of grandeur. They have the luxury of planing decades in advance, and we are the pawns upon their board. The trick is to look like a pawn and act like a knight”
Irikar shrugs, "It could be they think you're insignificant, or it could be that they think you're potential pawns. Either way, I suspect that we'll need to be careful as we start proving them wrong."
"If we are known enemies of the Crimson Court that may allow us to get close enough to Vlad to steal the Fang at a critical moment. It also appears to me that he is the weaker of our foes so that bolstering his forces would result in more in fighting rather than a quick victory."
"Could be," Dr. Savarre considers. "Hopefully Professor Binwick will have more to share with us regarding these artifacts when he returns."
"In the meantime, I am sure you wish to rest. Mrs. Maynard's boarding house lies along the road leading out of Mordentshire. It should be easy enough to locate." He provides you with directions. "Before you go, I have some supplies that could be of use to you. Please, come with me to my room."
He leads the way up some narrow stairs to a small room. Within, there is a small bed - little more than a cot - and some crates of supplies apparently for the tavern below. "As I said, this is not an inn," he says, apologizing for the state of things.
He pulls open a trunk beside the wall. "Take these, I believe they will be useful."
Within, you find a variety of gear.
Tybalt does wonder aloud to the doctor; "Doctor Savarre, you said the Professor was coming in tomorrow, he will be safe? He doesn't need an escort?"
"Is there a library, archive or someone versed in rituals that we could ask about the ritual of the grey gates?" The bard wonders openly.
”I understand that Professor Hailstork has been in correspondence with some academic associates in Lamordia, to the north. It sounded as if they had found a promising lead. As for the professor himself, no one is ever truly safe on the roads, but the one he is taking is well-traveled and the professor is no stranger to the hazards of travel.”
”If there is nothing else, perhaps we should retire for the night. You must all be weary from travel. There are some shops here in the town - a blacksmith, a fletcher, even some traders specializing in alchemical and magical goods. You might avail yourselves of them in the morning while we await word of the professor’s arrival.”
"My thanks, Doctor Savarre, this will be very useful," Leandro says with satisfaction, binding a gemmed silver fillet around his brow. "We should seek the boarding house before it grows too late."
Dr. Savarre nods and wishes you a good night.
The streets of Mordentshire have largely deserted after nightfall, but you encounter the odd passerby on your walk to the boardinghouse. Folk seem disinclined to spend more time than they must on the streets at night, and you find it hard to blame them. There seems a presence, as of something very old, pervading this town, with its narrow streets, leaning townhouses, and dark windows.
The boardinghouse lies on the road leading out of town, and the stretch is eerily quiet. A couple of the cottages you pass seem largely fallen to ruin, and one might wonder if you made a wrong turn somewhere, but you round a bend and arrive at particularly large, warm country house bearing the sign of Mrs. Maynard’s boardinghouse. Warm light spills from the windows, and the welcome aroma of wood fire spools in smoky tendrils from the chimney.
The paladin, who seems to generally have trouble staying silient, sighs at the sight of the welcoming light. "I suppose it is a measure of the time I have spent here that the sight of what appears to be safety makes me wary," he remarks wryly.
Despite his words, he does not hesitate to stride up the front walk and knock at the door of the boardinghouse.
After a few seconds, the door opens and you are greated by a smiling woman well beyond her middle years. She is dressed in mourning black, which shows some signs of mending over many months or years of wear. Her gray hair is tied into a neat bun atop her head, and a kerchief hangs from one of her sleeves. Her hands show signs of advanced arthritis, and her gait is slow, but her eyes are quick and she greets you readily. "Good day, sirs. How may I be of service?"
Dr Tovanarish executes a stiff at the waist bow
“Good evening, goodlady. I and my companions are looking for a lodging. Dr. Savarre gave his highest recommendation to your house. Would you have any available rooms?”
The paladin, who seems to generally have trouble staying silient, sighs at the sight of the welcoming light. "I suppose it is a measure of the time I have spent here that the sight of what appears to be safety makes me wary," he remarks wryly.
Irikar shakes his head and chuckles quietly, "Just means you're learning faster than we did when we got here."
Leandro sighs in response to Irikar as they approach the house. "It has been a hard lesson." After a pause, he continues. "I hope you know I was not only thinking of Taldor falling victim to the Mists. If this place invades our home, nowhere will be safe. It's just... Taldor is where my heart lies."
~*~*~*~*
After Dr Tovanarish's request, Leandro favors the landlady with his most charming smile. "There are six of us. We are accustomed to sharing rooms... is it Mrs. Maynard?"
”Oh, you’re the lot the doctor was talking about. Yes indeed, your rooms are ready, good sirs,” she says with nod of her head. She gestures inside.
The common room of the boardinghouse is cozy, if a bit cramped. A few lumpy chairs sit by the stove, which struggles to warm the room against the outside chill.
”Er, it’s a bit past supper, I’m afraid. Have you eaten?” Her look conveys she would rather not warm any supper, but wishes to be a polite hostess.
"We dined with the doctor at the tavern, though a warm drink would be welcome if it is no trouble," Leandro replies. "This is a cozy and comfortable place, Mrs. Maynard. Our thanks. How many rooms do we have?"