It is the 19 Desnus, 4713 AR. The weather has been cool, but not too unusually so for this time of year. Most attribute it to being cooped up under the forest canopy for days now, travelling ever southwards towards Almas. The cool river weaves its way in and out of your view from the worn but not overly well-kept cart path that connects the lands hereabouts.
The caravan masters and a few guards have returned from a fruitful stopover in Fusil, putting all in a good mood. One of the servants of the masters delivered a couple of bottles of good wine and fresh pot of stew picked up in the town, a thank you reward for everyone's efforts thus far. It was well received, and quickly devoured. Afterwards, everyone once more set about there duties, and the camp settled in for the night, as a few dark clouds pass overhead, blotting out the few glimpses of the moon and stars that peek down upon the cheery band.
This night, the rotation is such that you find yourself with a night free of watch duty, and you have turned in for a well deserved and much needed full night's rest. Or so you had hoped.
Your sleep takes a restless turn, and a fever washes over you in the night. Near dawn you finally succumb to rest as a dream draws you into its embrace.
You are standing before a great chasm within the ground, miles from side to side. Shadowy forms are spaced out around you, all facing the great dark hole. Cracked mud and sickly plants gather close upon the edges, whipping wildly in a warm smothering, dusty breeze. It's sound undulates in volume, rising and falling, flowing one way then another, as though some great beast snores within. Ash and heat rise from the expanse, and you find yourself peering closer, despite the fear that grips your heart.
A light begins to grow within the pit, glowing brighter, rising higher, and as it does you see it is a great scroll, edges burning with flame and glowing embers.
The unfurled scroll, anchored end and end with wicked iron rods, both barbed and spiked, bears words that squirm and crawl like bloody dripped ink worms, forming into passages ripped from some great dark tome.
A voice that is both great and terrible whispers the words, with a harmony so calming, a discordance so brash, that it tears at your senses, maddening your mind to remember its call even as you try to flee its sound.
Your eyes tear up as the story unfolds, streaming down your cheeks, great sobs and gasps ripping from your throat, and you feel yourself growing sick with each passing syllable. As you try to turn away from this nightmare, you see others like you trapped in its embrace. So you recognize, companions from your journey, some you can only guess to their purpose, and some you know have passed from you life. They look to you pleadingly, eys of fear and terror, mouthing words you cannot hear over the rising volume of the scroll, its words reaching their end.
At the end of the speech, its echo drowning in the increasing tempo of the winds, the scroll explodes silently into ash, swirling away into the pit, and almost as one, the others around you turn towards the pit, struggling against the winds to no avail. One by one, they falter and fall, slip from their feet, bodily they fly into the depths of the pit and are lost to the darkness. As you yourself, last to move, feel yourself slipping free of solid ground, you see within the pit, innumerable great eyes open in sickly yellow glow, illuminating a great and terrible maw in which you will be devoured forevermore.
As you reach that horrid vision of death, you wake with a start, drenched in a bloody cold sweat, smelling of sulfur and brimstone, awash in terror. It takes a few moments to realize you are alive, safe and whole, it was not real, you are where you should be, it was a dream, hellish and dreadful, but a dream none the less. As your voice returns to you, dry and parched, you ask What has happened?
Angel looks around, blinking her eyes to clear her vision.. What a crazy dream.. As hard as i tried i could do nothing.. Please watch over me Everlight, for i see my path to be dark.. She reaches for her waterskin to quench the dryness and peers around to the rest of the caravan..
Conner wakes with a start, jumping out of his bedroll that he laid neatly under a wagon. He neraly smashes the top of his head on the underside of this makeshift shelter. His mind races as he quickly grabs his bow and checks his armor.
What in the name of...what was that? Jeez, I seldom dream, but that was a bad one! I best look around.
He knows of no other way to calm his nerves than to wscout the outskirts of the campsite. He begins to investigate the surrounding area and to see if any other caravan members appear as flumoxed as he.
Perception:
O Blessed Iomedae, Light of the Sword. Inheritor of righteous valor, justice, and honor. Thank you for giving me companions for my quest. Give us the strength of heart and body to persevere and succeed. Please give us the cleverness to deduce your visions. Sir Gareth d'Orionus silently prays to his divine patron before opening his eyes. He unconsciously rubs the sword birthmark on his forearm to sooth the imagined itch.
He gets out of the cot that the merchant has provided and stretches trying to touch the sides of the tent that are heavy with dew. He does not cast Light to preserve his night vision. From the folding table, he grabs and drains the half full cup of watered wine that he didn't finish before bed sluicing his parched throat. Then, he casts Keep Watch, because he doesn't want to continue sleeping tonight.
After a couple of minutes listening to the camp noises, he starts donning his full plate armor more as a ritual to relax than for protection letting his sense of touch lead the task. Once fully equipped, he steps out of the large canvas tent and heads toward his warhorse Hunter.
Slowly making his way through camp to avoid tripping in the dark, he nods to the individuals that he recognizes from the vision. Obviously, they had the vision, too. He meets their gaze with a friendly look of understanding acknowledgement and a slight grin.
After checking on Hunter, Sir Gareth makes his way to the guards on duty and stands with them making small talk until dawn and breakfast.
He knows of no other way to calm his nerves than to scout the outskirts of the campsite. He begins to investigate the surrounding area and to see if any other caravan members appear as flumoxed as he.
Perception: 1d20+9+2
Conner notices the camp is unusually quiet. Everyone seems a little rough for wear today. It seems a bad night was shared to some extent with everyone, though few seem to have the haunted look you feel you yourself cant shake.
Conner returns to the camp and encounters Sir Gareth and Angel.
Good mornin'. It appears that Master Delt's cart has left in the night. I should be able to track it, if you feel it is necessary. In the meantime, it might be best if we alert the other caravan masters, no?
"I would say they deffinitely need to know.. Which way did the tracks lead?"
Conner finds Sir Gareth returning from visiting Hunter.
"Good morning to you, too. Conner, is it?" Then to Angel, he nods and says, "M'lady. We should speak to the guards on duty first. They should have heard or seen something." He pauses for a moment for consent and then leads them toward the guards.
It is just before full dawn, so roughly 6 AM. The camp is mostly waking up/restless. No sunshine so still working from torches, lanterns, and campfire light.
The driver's are beginning their morning libations, then moving to tend to their charges.
The healer's and non-essential members of the caravan are gathering gear or helping the cooks set out warm pots of coffee or tea with hard tack and warmed stew from the night before.
The guards are moving for shift change, quickly giving shout to the whole group. They find that Delts wagon is missing, and the last watch is not at their post.
All up, all up. Where's Master Shylocke? Delts be missing and guards be gone.
Wakes up as he hears people talking about a something that happened trying to shake the feeling the dream has left not remembering much of the dream.
Getting himself together and trying to get rid the images that are stuck in his head he walks over to Conner and Angel.
[b]"Good morning, What is going on?"
At the shouting, Sir Gareth changes directions toward Shylocke's tent.
Conner attempts to pick up the tracks and follow them a short distance to determine the direction.
Perception to find tracks:
Survival to track:
D'witt's breath was heavy and ragged as he sat in his bedroll. The cook was use to waking early on caravans, but not usually so abruptly. Images danced in the back of his mind, fragments of the dream still haunting him. He shook his head to clear before standing. "Well, He thought to himself. "I don't I'll be getting much sleep after that one. May as well start breakfast preparations.
Stretching and walking over to Stonewall he retrieved a skin to quench his throat. Once dressed he joined Drys in readying the fires for warming coffee and leftovers. At the shouting of the guards D'witt gave pause. "Delts? But his wagon was right there. How did no one wake to it leaving?" He gave the other cook a confused look. "I think I should go see what going on.
Excusing himself from Drys ventures over to where the missing wagon had been when they bedded down for the night. "How did I sleep through it leaving? Maybe that night terror had me in firmer grips then I first thought." He wondered curiously.
As he approaches D'witt spots Sir Gareth, the knight seemed ot be heading in the direction of the caravan's lead wagon. He joins lady Angel and Conner as the ranger searches searches for clues. "Have you found anything unusual" He asks as he takes a moment to look around.
Around the camp, the men are nervously going about their jobs, busy, quick, but fearful. It is apparent that many at least had a bad night, and are fighting to waken up from the nightmare they find themselves in this morning.
Though having scared off an aggressive black bear two days out of Woodsedge, and a river bandit skiff that gave the caravan a wide berth, the trip had been uneventful, til now.
Sir Gareth glances around the ransacked interior and enters enough to check Shylocke's vital signs.
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Angel walks with Conner.. "You make anything from that jumbled up dirt?"
Looks around to see Sir Gareth looking in Shylock's wagon. He walks over Sir Gareth. While looking for footprints or anything unusual.
Is he ok did you find anything?
Conner returns to the site, and is confronted by Angel.
Aye, Angel, they continued along the route that we are headed, and they either turned towards Nulb or Hommlet.
"He lives. Please fetch the healer." Gareth replies to the curious half-elf.
After Xavorin (everyone) gets out of earshot, Gareth casts Detect Poison and starts to search the interior of Shylocke's wagon.
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You notice in checking over Shylocke that behind his sleeping pillow is a concealed panel, one apparently overlooked by the intruder.
Per Sir Gareth's instructions, Xavorin shouts for Lady Dawnstar or Healer Staier to come at once.
Return the pillow in front of the concealed panel. "Healer!" Gareth calls out like 'medic' on a battlefield. He impatiently waits for Angel.
As Angel approaches, "Master Shylocke is stable but poisoned. Be careful of the bolt. Please find me when he regains consciousness." Unless she says anything, Sir Gareth walks around the camp 'taking charge:' quick breakfast and ready to move as soon as possible. He redistributes people to ensure all the wagons have drivers.
Unless Conner finds him first, Gareth finds Conner after ensuring the caravan understands the plan.
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What happened, Sir Gareth? I was tracking the departing Master Delts' wagon.
Angel comes running to the call of healer.. "What has happened.. Oh my! Back away give me some space.." A warm glowing light manifests in her right hand.. Touching Shylocke the light disperses into him..
another..
As Conner and Sir Gareth discuss what has transpired. D'witt and others discover bodies in the brush at points around the camp. Oi, we have bodies. All to arms and be wary.
Role is quickly mustered and it is determined that a few people are missing, with three dead and accounted for.
Healer Staier comes as quickly as he can for Master Shylocke, shaken from the other bodies he has checked this morning. Heal check for the poisoning
I'm sorry, I can't shake a bad dream I had last night, my heads all foggy. If I knew what the poison was, I could help further, but I just don't know.
Angel's laying on of hands heals much of the damage Master Shylocke has taken. Staier removed the bolt, but neither healer has healed the poison coursing through his body. He is fevered and his breath shallow and weak. It is as though he falls deeper into unconcsiousness.
Angel will attempt to identify the poison..
Although Angel cannot determine the exact poison, she does believe it's effects resemble a concoction rumored common amongst the elves of the Darklands, a sleeping toxin designed to wound and subdue prey rather than kill. By all reports though, that toxin would be mild compared to this more potent formula. This in mind, someone may reattempt to treat Master Shylocke, focusing on the anesthetic nature of the concoction.
"Conner, what did you find on the trail?" Gareth walks toward the discovered bodies while Conner tells him what they found.
When they arrive at the bodies, Gareth asks Conner, "What do you see? How did they die?" They take a couple minutes to look around.
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"Sir Gareth, your expert knowledge of poisons is needed over here! Come help this poor man.."
D'witt gave a heavy sigh as he regarded the body he had found. Calls rang out as others found more. Death always left a bad taste in his mouth.
As he moved to rejoin the others by Shylocke he notices a drop of the stew on his sleeve. Wiping it off with a finger something stirs in the back of his mind. The bodies weren't the only thing that left a bad taste of late. He sniffed the drop and lightly tasted it before spiting it out. He remember now, the stew had tasted off last night but with everyone in good cheer he hadn't thought to say anything.
With a muttered curse in Infernal as the talk of poison reached his ears D'witt turned and ran over to the stew pot. Taking a bowl he quickly ran to his horses and pulled kits out to test for poisons.
Sorry, I apologize for missing Angel's edit about having used the Healer's kit. I did not realize she took the kit from Staier.
D'witt investigates the stew and finds that it was indeed spiked, laced with a form of Taggit oil, slow acting to cause deeper sleep, but not effective enough to do any harm. Someone wanted everyone to be "Lights Out."
Arriving at Shylocke's wagon, he furhter determines that Angel's diagnosis is correct. The toxin is a rare, concentrated and refined form of Dark Elf poison, though he can't place off hand why that seems familiar. I will allow that the three together have managed to abate the poison coursing through Shylocke's body, though it will still be a few hours before he regains consciousness.
Upon inspection, the bodies of the victims all appear to have been attacked from behind. The cuts are quick, clean, and precise, the work of a professional.
None of the victims appear to have been poisoned, nor were they robbed. Kazam and le Breton were on guard duty, as Campion was as well. Ristenblatt was not on duty, haven been given the night off after serving the celebratory dinner. Unosh usually slept in the wagon with Delts.
Sir Gareth continues to be the model of calm confidence walking around the caravan. He focuses on calming others and getting them into their routine of breaking camp to leave as soon as possible.
He calls for Angel. "Please account for all personal possessions of the deceased." If your paladinhood is not obvious, you would get the feeling that Gareth knows how Lawful and Good Angel is. "Then, lead the healers to prepare and pack the bodies on the caravan. We don't have enough time for proper rituals and need to follow that wagon. Let me know if you need any other help."
He calls for Conner. "Until the caravan leaves, please survey the area for clues, especially where the guards usually stood. Look for anything out of the ordinary to identify who and how many attacked last night. D'Witt will save you breakfast to eat when we start rolling."
"Indeed i shall Sir Gareth, Brien would you mind giving me a hand.." She goes about collecting all the deceased people's things and puts them in a sack.. She then does a small prayer for each, hoping to help guide their souls to Pharasma.. For those witnessing this it seems she is very familiar with death and has probably said this rite hundreds of times.. "Come we will secure the bodies on the pack train.." Hefting the bodies with little help, those watching can tell she has above average strength for a woman..
D'Witt will save you breakfast to eat when we start rolling."[/b]
D'witt nods his head. "Cook Drys was one of the bodies found so I'll work to get something together for everyone. The stew from last night will have to be thrown out, it's been tainted. That's how they distributed the poison."
As everyone begins to move off D'witt goes to cook's fire to dispose of the stew and start pulling together something quick for everyone to eat.
After getting some of the horses packed and ready to go he goes over to where some of the guards stood to look for clues and to see if there are any footprints.
It takes a short while for Angel, Staier, and Mistress Yoakima to gather up the dead, round up their possessions from both the bodies and their gear, and secure them to the pack horses. It takes some redistribution to balance out the train now, but it gets done.
Searching the area around the guard posts/body points turns up little you have not already guessed. Each appears to have been attacked from within the camp, there are no tracks coming into the camp, only out to kill spots, then back. The Cook however had his throat severed, and closer examination the manner suggests most likely he was facing his attacker, and not taken from behind as first assumed.
Going through the men's personal effects turns up nothing unusual. No extra or missing sums of coin, no toxin vials, notes of recrimination, nothing out of the ordinary.
D'witt whips up a fast breakfast from some dried oats, water, and bits of fruits and nuts from the past days lunch. He strengthens the coffee and tea, wishing to give everyone a boosted jolt to pick up the pace a little.
Did anyone else wish to do anything else, search anything else, etc before rolling the caravan onwards.
"More poison?" Sir Gareth replies to D'Witt. "When you have time, please search the personal effects and cooking supplies of Cook Drys for evidence of the poison. The poison might help us with Master Shylocke. Since he was killed from the front, he was probably double-crossed."
The caravan folk seem to recognize gareth''s right to lead in Shylockes absence, as he is a partner in the venture. They rush around following his few commands, eager to do something, and take their minds off the horror the day has become.
The cook's personal effects are of the usual variety. A few changes of clothing, a small brass locket etched with the name of a young woman he discussed from his home village outside of Almas. He took these caravan jobs with Shylocke to make enough coin to gather the dowry to offer her father for her hand, having made such runs to varing places over the past three years. Once wed, he was planning to move to Almas and setup as a tavern cook, hoping to someday earn enough to start his own shop.
You find a few spices, nothing expensive or unusual, his well worn cutlery, a small recipe book, and a total coinage of 2pp, 7gp, 11sp, and 23cp. Tucked in the book is a receipt for a funding house in Almas where Master Shylocke made deposits for his services. You also find a large pouch, about a third used, of Galtan pipeweed.
A few guards make mention of the fact that yes, he would occassionally sneak out and smoke his pipe at night, thinking himself sly and clever.
Once D'witt had food and coffee ready he moved off to check the deceased cook's belongings as Sir Gareth had asked.
The tiefling sifts though the belongings, carefully looking for clues or evidence.
D'witt pockets the coins and the recipe book with receipt, but sets aside the locket and the pipeweed. If he finds anything else of importance he sets them aside as well.
After not finding anything else unusual looks around area for footprints to see what may have killed the guards.
d'Orionus thanks Angel, Staier, and Mistress Yoakima for their respectful work with the bodies.
He waits for Conner to report before signaling departure. He listens to everyone in the caravan while walking around to hear in other clues.
The trail headed on to a fork in the road. The departing Master either traveled on to Nulb or Homlett, I cannot be caertain.
Conner moves around the outskirts of the dead bodies to determine if he can tell what may of killed them and if there are any tracks indicating the same.
Survival:
The missing wagon left along the roadway, staying to the track farther than Conner was prepared to follow. From his and others' knowledge of the area, the roadway travels onwards, the next viable change being the turn for the ferry crossing to Nulb, or onwards to the junction for Hommlett or points south.
The victims were all killed by a short bladed weapon, a foot in length, very sharp, with great skill. Kazam and le Breton were stabbed from behind, the blade entering between the ribs, reaching upwards and striking the heart. Ristenblatt was skilled by a blow that cleanly severed his jugular, a quick deep blow. Only one hand was covered in blood, so he was possibly in shock and unaware that he was already dead as he tried to determine what had happened to him.
First, a short distance from the camp, it appears the wagon may have stopped shortly. A faint track led from the roadway down to the river bank. The water's edge there would be a clear and shallow enough area for a raft or a few canoes to put ashore and climb out of the brush to the roadway. The bank onwards in wither direction proves too high, rough, or overgrown to allow such activity. Further marking the spot, you discover a ragged cloth, half soaked with blood, tied to a limb cut and erected to hang out over the waterway.
Second, slightly further on, Evaneligh found two smashed and one intact though empty, glass vials. Each appears to have contained acid, small trace amounts having scarred the nearby foliage, but not nearly so as would be expected if they had emptied their contents thereabouts. They are within range of possibly having been tossed from the wagon as it rolled past. No foot tracks led to where they were discovered.