Diamond Lake is a dismal mining city smeared around the western edge of its eponymous body of water. Cupped by mountains on all sides, it seems isolated from the rest of the world, cut off but for a few treacherous passes that snake with insidious intent through narrow gorges toward the more generous lowlands. Desperate men looking for work climb those high trails, while heavily guarded caravans make their way down, creaking and easing their way along cliff edge roads and steep declines.
It's as if the very bitterness of the cold and hardship of the toil brings out the garishness of the human soul, for the main strip that follows the water's edge is as raucous and fevered as the rest of the town is dour. Come night the miners turn out in all their haggard splendor to spend their hard earned coin on bad beer, perverse wonders and wonderful perversities.
A sonorous weave of cymbals and seductive pipes emerges from the open windows of The Emporium, a massive pleasure house where miners and the few wealthy citizens of Diamond Lake gather for their nightly pleasures. In the street, gangs of rowdies scream obscenities at each other as they wonder from one bar to the next. Farther down, in a tower-flanked church that is more fortress than place of worship, filthy men with nothing to lose shout hymns to their god, clutching to their idealism and principles like cornered animals.
Few lamps illuminate the muddy streets. Windows are shuttered, doors are bolted, and the shadows grasp jealousy at those who hurry by. On such a night, only those with a wish for desperate revelry are out. On such a night, the wise and the cautious are locked up in their ramshackle homes.
On such a night, you find yourself following directions to the very outskirts of town, to where a large, dilapidated manor house stands, fenced in by sharp iron and guarded at the front by brutish if competent looking guards.
For whatever reason brought you to Diamond Lake and left you stranded on the lake's shore, each of you have received a summons. A neutral faced, slender man with high shoulders and an impressively long nose discovered your whereabouts and handed you a scroll affixed with a genuine wax seal depicting a stag leaping over crossed fiery logs. Questions were evaded with saccharine smiles, and all that the messenger said was a time and a location.
Parrin Manor, eight o'clock.
The contents of the scroll itself were impressively succinct:
Dear Sir,
A matter as delicate as it is urgent has troubled our house, and we find ourselves in need of capable men who are not afraid of a little travel and judicious action. If you are amenable, please present yourself at Parrin Manor tonight at eight o'clock sharp. All questions shall be answered within, as well as an advance on your eventual total payment of two hundred Andoran gold crowns.
Regards,
Lady Luzane Parin.
And here you are. Standing in the drizzle, with the great manor looming before you, the guards eyeing you with professional disinterest, and the laughter, shouts, and moans of Diamond Lake at your back.
At a distance, the figure travelling along the path towards the manor house does little to grab anyone’s attention. The figure – a man, presumably – is hunched, and covered in a worn leather cloak that appears to have been darkened due to lack of cleanliness than anything else.
However, the disinterest on the guards’ faces disappears as the figure gets closer, and soon turn to looks of horror instead.
There is something wrong with this… person?
For starters, whoever is under that cloak - the cloak that suspiciously (fortunately?) covers all of its owner’s skin - has a head that is far too large for its body. It is difficult to make out exactly what shape the object is under the hood of the cloak, but that head is at least twice as large as it should be.
More than that, however, is the way the figure moves. It seems somehow broken, juttering, as if a being unfamiliar with walking is doing its best to imitate a casual stroll.
There is a cat – a wild-haired, filthy thing - travelling alongside the figure. Other than its filth, this appears to be just a common feline, the kind one would expect to find lurking in Diamond Lake’s back alleys, the kind rats have nightmares about. Nobody looking at this cat, however, will be able to recall ever seeing a cat this damned big before. Do cats normally even get this size? The figure it travels with appears to be hunched over, so maybe that is why the cat seems to come up to its owner’s waist.
By the time the figure arrives at the manor entrance, the guards’ mouths are hanging open, and it smells as if one may even have soiled themselves.
The figure raises an arm in salute, and briefly – oh, so briefly – raises its head, offering those nearby a quick glimpse at the face underneath. In the half light, all anyone can tell is that there are far too many teeth under that hood.
“Heyou is keeping good time, yes?” The figure’s voice is guttural and strange, as if forced to do something it had never been designed for. Other than that, amazingly, this creature seems to be almost jovial. “Walking and breathing, and keeping good time. Always breathing, Heyou is, just like everyone else. Aren’t we all having such a good time here, breathing like good little meatsacks?”
The man is stout, though it would seem he was not always so. His ecclesiastical robes are fine, but ill-fitting now; too tight at the belly, the waist, the buttocks. His shaven pate shows blond stubble, his lips full, his face pale, his eyes are gray and wise. He spares the malodorous, cloak-swaddled man a leery glance, then speaks to the guards, running a hand over his scalp as though smoothing a non-existant tuft of hair.
"Good evening, sirs," he begins, making a gesture that confirms his devotion to the goddess Sarenrae, as do his robes. His voice is rather high for a man his size, almost feminine. "I am Father Vajan, and I present myself in answer to Lady Parin's summons. I would be of assistance if possible.
Vajan looks again at the one calling himself Heyou, giving him a quick obligatory smile and nod. He turns back to the guards and tilts his head back slightly so that two chins become one.
From the shadowed eaves of the city's edge, a figure watches the gathering group, arms crossed over his weathered leather armor, one shoulder resting against the timber and stone wall of the nearest hovel. From behind the comfortable weight of his hammered-steel mask, he studies the shapes shifting about in the grey cast of the drizzle, thanking the Mother (not for the first time) for his heavy hooded cloak.
A wizard, a fat cat, and a bald priest find themselves standing in the rain, the figure thinks to himself with a wry smile. I'll have to think of an ending for that joke...
For a few more minutes, the man waits, wondering if anyone else will show. He'd spent the day scrounging Diamond City and all its foul glory for information regarding the strange summons he'd received, as well as the odd messenger who had delivered it. Rumors were abound about the gloomy silhouette that stood framed against the chill of the evening, but nothing of actual worth had come of the search. He is tempted, studying the guards that flanked the entrance to Parin Manor, to turn and vanish into the darkness of the alleys in search of a more straightforward distraction. He'd survived enough years living by the paired swords at his sides to imagine doing more than giving the place a curious once-over was a good idea.
Trouble was, Diamond City was as likely to have anything more interesting within its rotting borders as he was of stripping down and doing the Harlem Shake.
With a sigh of annoyed resignation, the man shoves himself off the relative comfort of the wall and steps out of the shadows, his leather boots squelching in the muddy earth as he approaches the manor.A few faces turn towards him, and he raises a hand in unenthusiastic greeting.
Hail, friends he grumbles more out of expectation than any real interest in being polite. Sounds like you've all done your rounds of introduction, so I suppose I'll get mine over with. With one hand on the hilt of the short-sword on his left hip, he makes a fist over his heart, snapped his heels in the customary fashion he's never quite managed to rid himself of, and gives the group a brief bow. I am Kalen Alenon Arosed, though I would prefer "Finder", if it's all the same to you lot.
Father Vajan looks at the newcomer, unsettled by the metallic mask hiding his features, but finally manages a small smile.
"Greetings, friend 'Finder.' A curious name, that. What is it you seek to find?"
Finder turns to the priest, appraising him slowly, amused by his obvious disquiet. Tilting his head, he wonders if Vajan can sense his smile behind the mask.
"That would depend, Father," he says slowly. "Prove yourself a friend, and one hope's you'll never know. Then again-" Finder's eyes move to the stranger of the pair, the odd figure who had identified himself only as 'Heyyou'"-prove yourself a foe, and one hopes you have a heart..."
You pick up on common knowledge. Lady Parin, a widow, owner of the Diamond Spike mine from which a fortune in diamonds and silver doth flow. However, that wealth is not hers to spend; her husband left everything to their son Aurin Parin, and Lady Parin merely as the guardian until Aurin came of age. Aurin, in turn, is said to have left town six months ago.
There are four guards. Studded leather armor, small kite shields emblazoned with the leaping stag and burning logs, nose guard helms and spears. They're a hard bitten lot, but even they recoil at Heyou's approach, steeling themselves from taking a step back. Kalen and Vajan appear moments later, and their presence seems to remind the guards of their role; they straighten, assume scowls, and then one with a red braid on his shoulder steps forth.
"Yer expected. Lady Parin said to let you through, so that's what I'll do. Let you through, but yer gettin' an escort. No slinkin' off inta the bushes with you."
The wrought iron gate shudders open, the high spikes swaying back and forth as it swings inward, and two of the guards step before you, half turning to assure themselves that you're following.
It's a short walk up to the front entrance, a curving graveled driveway that stops beneath a generous overhang beneath which carriages could feasibly disgorge their contents without said folks getting wet from the rain. Bushes arise like malignant, bushy tumors from the darkness around you, and the sound of growls and the clank of chains in the near distance intimates at less than human guards on the grounds.
There's an ominous rumble from the horizon, and a brief flicker as lightning illuminates the underbelly of storm clouds coming in.
"Storm clouds coming in," says one guard to the other, but is ignored.
Gravel crunches, the rain continues to drizzle down, and finally you reach the overhang and are handed over to a new set of house guards.
These wear white surcoats over their armor, and their hands rest on the pommels of short swords at their hips. They give you all a nod, then one cracks open the majestic front door and leads you in.
It's a rambling manor, storied and many roomed, most of which lies in shadow. The guard leads you into an ostentatious hallway, grand and staircased with suits of armor standing at eternal attention between dark portraits of men and women who glower down at you from the wainscotted walls.
The guard leads you off to the left, down a hall, past three doors, and then knocks politely on the fourth. A formality, for he opens it and sticks his head in, says something quiet, then pushes the door open all the way and allows you to enter.
It's a library, its recesses lost in shadow, the flickering light of the fire and one lamp illuminating countless leatherbound tomes, deeply lacquered furniture, a bearskin rug, a half dozen grand armchairs arrayed in a semicircle before the fireplace large enough in which to roast an ox.
Two guards stand at attention just in view of the light, but your eyes are drawn to your hostess, Lady Parin.
She rises from her armchair, dislodging three luxuriously furred cats from her lap, and raises her chin as she examines you each in turn. You know that once she was a striking beauty, for a lifesize portrait of her is set above the fireplace, showing a stunning blond young woman, but now she is withered, with a thick layer of foundation over her features, her eyebrows overly accentuated, her lips crumbling into her mouth like a cliff into the sea. Her eyes however are vivid with intelligence, and she gestures with a claw of a hand to the other chairs before sitting down herself.
"Welcome. I am Lady Parin. Introduce yourselves."
Heyou’s eyes remain on the chair Lady Parin indicated, as if he is not quite certain what to do with it. His eyes move between Finder and Father Vajan, waiting to see what either of the men do.
Seeing Vajan begin to approach the lady of the house, Heyou instead sidles up to the masked man, Finder. “Better that Heyou does not speak, now,” he gurgles, entirely failing to whisper. “Meatsacks get upset when Heyou speaks. Better to let new friends speak for Heyou.”
He turns to grin at Finder, letting his hood pull back further than he has for a long while. Finder gets a brief glimpse of a pitch black face on a head that is far too large for Heyou’s body, and a wide, toothy grin that seems to slice all the way across Heyou’s face.
Then, Heyou turns to look at Lady Parin, narrowing his eyes.
What is this meatsack really up to, Heyou wonders?
Vajan tugs at the cloth of his priestly robes in several places, as though a stretch here or there will better conceal his girth. Failing at this, he instead smooths them out. He steps forward and puts his hands on the back of one of the proffered chairs, but does not sit. Before speaking, he tilts back his head back and clears his throat.
"Lady Parin, I am Father Vajan, of the Church of Sarenrae. I have no parish, madam, as I am an itinerant servant of the Dawnflower, seeking opportunities to aid those in need as I wander and spread her sublime gospel. You have such a need, milady? If so, I am anxious to be of use. With my...uh, colleagues here."
Had to be a place like this, huh? Finder wonders to himself, eyeing the grandeur of the library with an sense of nostalgic dislike. It reminds him as much of younger years playing with his sisters and mother as it does of his father's iron will and the difficulties of another life.
When Heyou speaks to him, Finder is almost grateful for the distraction. He does not respond to the strange being, but the glimpse of the thing's face grabs his interest, and he tries to peer closer beneath the hood, amazed that (for once) his own disfigurement might not be the most hideous thing in the room...
With more important things to worry about, though, it isn't long before he supressess his curiosity for another time, turning instead to study the two guards, then the room, attempting to assess if other unseen dangers lurked behind the book-laden shelves that loomed above them.
Finder shrugs to himself and moves to sit in the right-most of the armchairs, closest to the fire, as Father Vajan address the Lady, hoping to dry his cloak a little before setting to whatever task Parin was undoubtedly about to ask of them.
Lady Parin seems neither put off nor discouraged by Heyou's gurgling tones or Kalen's silence. Instead, she places her focus on Father Vajan, her eyes flicking up and down his torso before settling on his face.
"I am indeed in need of your services." She sits, straightbacked, and a thickly furred cat leaps up onto her lap, going from a surging blur to a suddenly static pensive pose as if it had always stood upon her knees, contemplating the fire.
"My son, Aurin Parin, has sent word that he and his new settlement are in some distress. Six months ago he set forth like some storied hero to civilize the entrance to Wildhorn Pass at the mouth of a valley on the far side of the mountains. He took some twenty families with him, along with a dozen carts of building supplies and a score of dwarven laborers to help with the initial building." She sniffs and looks into the fire.
"Word has been constant and the news has been positive; the palisade was erected without trouble, housing built to accommodate the people, and the first fields cultivated to provide sustenance for all. If you enjoy playing the role of a frontiersman, I'm sure it was a delightful scene."
One of the absurdly furred cats approaches Heyou only to stop, crouch down, and begin a low, menacing hiss directed at him.
"Regardless. This morning we received a letter that was penned four days ago and sent with utmost urgency requesting help. It seems the settlement has come under continuous attack from a tribe of kobolds." She sighs. "Yes, kobolds. If Aurin can't even keep them at bay, I don't know what hope he has of 'civilizing' the Wildhorn. Regardless. As is legally required of me as the guardian of his fortune, I must sent posthaste an expedition of qualified individuals to help alleviate his troubles."
Her smile grows sharp as she turns back to Father Vajan. "Hence, you three. I ask that you cross the mountains, descend into the Wildhorn, and help Aurin defeat this pest of a tribe. I shall pay you each fifty gold crowns up front, and another hundred and fifty each upon your return. Questions?"
You get the distinct sense that while much of what she is saying is true, Lady Parin is leaving out quite a few details, and her intentions here are rather cold for someone professing to be Aurin's mother. If anything, you're left suspicious as to her ultimate goal.
Father Vajan fails in his attempt to feign ignorance of Lady Parin's scrutinizing his midsection, tugging again at the robe hugging his belly. He grips the chair back more tightly.
"Lady, I am happy to assist in rooting out these savages, but I must tell you: I know nothing of the circumstances of my new colleagues here, but I do not own a horse or the requisite gear. If the settlement's need is urgent, we would make better time if all of us rode. Would you make mounts and accouterments available for us?"
Vajan grimaces and looks down at the carpeted floor of the chamber, his face reddening. You present yourself to provide aid, he thinks to himself, and your first act is to ask for a free horse and saddle. How nobly you acquit yourself, Vajan!
Lady Parin seems to consider, then nods.
"Three mounts. Each valued at say, eighty gold pieces. Saddle and saddle bags... another twenty. Failure to return the animals in good health shall result in that sum being deducted from your final payment. "
It's not so much a question as a flat statement.
Vajan gives a stiff bow. "Most gracious and fair, milady. In that case I have some other questions. First, does the letter provide any further information about this tribe? Its name, size, the gods they venerate? What is the nature of these 'assaults' spoken of? Have they breached the palisades? Do they merely harry those outside the walls?"
He looks at his inscrutable companions, pursing his lips as Heyou's stink wafts beneath his nostrils. "I know something of the foul faith's of the kobold race, but have never encountered such creatures before in person. Do either of you possess such experience?"
Heyou hops from side to side, unable to contain his anxiety as he considers Lady Parin.
Something is wrong here. Yes, wrong. The meatsack is hiding something, and Heyou knows secrets mean danger, yes they do.
In his agitation, his eyes fall upon the Lady’s cat, currently hissing at him. Specifically, upon the cat’s twitching tail, whipping from side to side in warning.
Ah, yes, those tails. They are supposed to move. Heyou forgot.
Immediately, Heyou’s own Cat, until now standing rigid, begins to ape the pet’s movements.
Not losing his anxiety, Heyou continues to glance at Finder and Father Vajan, unable to figure out why they did not seem as concerned about this woman.
It is a lot of money, though. I think. A lot could be done with that kind of money. And the horse will certainly be interesting. And the kobolds. And the dead kobolds. Maybe one of the meatsacks will die too. That would be very interesting indeed.
“If these meatsacks are willing to go, Heyou will go with them. We will travel, and die, and breath together. What fun. Yes, what fun.”
"Aye," Kalen answers begrudgingly, leaning forward in his chair to warm his hands in the fire. "Foul little bastards. Supposedly they've dragonblood in them, but they're more pest than anything else usually." The curves of his mask shine in the light. "They're territorial, though, and don't trust humans. I imagine that might have something to do with the trouble our Lady's son is currently weathering..."
Lady Parin waves a hand, cutting the conversation short.
"The letter has been misplaced, unfortunately, and with it any details as to such... religious matters. Kobolds, however, are but kobolds; whether they worship a tree or a rock or a passing cloud surely doesn't matter. Now."
Her voice sharpens, and as if on command a well dressed man steps forth from the shadowy recess at the back of the room in which he'd been standing unnoticed all this time. He's tall, stooped, with a bony frame and hair combed back and lacquered to a high gleam. Perhaps in his mid-fifties, he looks as if he could have stood forever in the gloom, not needing light or movement or attention until summoned forth.
"This is my barrister, Mr. Sorrowith. He shall provide you with all the documentation that must be signed to make our agreement official. Please direct all questions to him. Upon completing this paperwork, you shall be led to the stables where Miss Joanna Kilraven awaits you. She is familiar with the mountains, and has been paid handsomely to guide you to Caerleon as quick as possible."
Her smile appears almost pained as she waves you away. "Good evening, gentlemen, and best of luck."
Mr. Sorrowith gives a half bow and leads you all into a side chamber, an octagonal shaft three storeys high lined with books and dominated by a smaller octagonal table on which he lays out three sets of documents.
"Ah, yes, good evening. This is a mere formality as dictated by the terms of the Mr. Parin's will, which elucidates that any request for aid by the heir of the family fortune must be met with immediate and sufficient aid by the guardian, who in this case, of course, is Mrs. Parin. You three are the aid, and by signing these documents you help fulfill the terms of the will. Please. Take your time to read the legalese, or if you wish, merely initial each page and turn to the back to sign in full."
His smile is stilted and causes his eyes to crease to the point of disappearing. "Since you are in such a hurry, however, I understand if you wish to skip to the signing. All is in your favor, I assure you."
The feeling Mr. Sorrowith gives Kalen is not a pleasant one. He remind him of Jalice Nerr, his father's old steward, a man as shrewd as he was unpleasant.
Turning to his two companions, Kalen speaks in a hushed voice so that only they can hear. I wouldn't recommend leaving without reviewing the contract. Something's not right as is. I was never one for the semantics of the courts, though. Either of you think you could take a gander at it?
Heyou stares at the pieces of paper on the table in front of him, struggling to comprehend why they would be important enough to spend time looking at if the meatsack lady’s son is in danger. He has a brief glance at the squiggles on the page, is delighted to find he has the ability to read it – a skill that he had not previously attempted – but is currently too agitated to pay much attention to them.
“Heyou is not good with these things either, but he agrees – Cat does not like the lady meatsack.” That was a lie, of course. Cat is unable to blink without Heyou’s permission, let alone think for itself. Heyou has realised, however, that the meatsacks seem to be more likely to trust Cat’s intuition than his own.
“Cat is not sure of this new meatsack either.”
Heyou screwed his eyes up, focussing on the barrister, trying to figure him out.
Heyou knows this man is up to something, but what?
Vajan, at last, takes a seat so that he can read the papers carefully. "I confess," he says in a stage whisper to his two allies, "that I have no experience with barristers and the aristocracy. Until but a month ago I was a contemplative, sequestered away from the world, absorbed in prayer and the study of religious texts. But I'll attempt to make something of this document. It seems a strangely complicated thing for so straightforward a task."
The document, Vajan soon realizes, is deceptively straightforward. It is a legal matter, their employment, and as such parties are designated and defined; Lady Parin, acting on behalf of the Parin fortune as Aurin Parin's guardian, and the three of them, each clearly named and set down in bold ink.
If anything, Vaja gets the sense as he leafs through the pages that these documents haven't been written for his benefit, or that of his companions, but rather for a future set of legal eyes; there is much verbiage given to elucidating how quickly Lady Parin acted upon receiving word of Aurin's distress, how she has spared no expense in hiring the very best that Diamond Lake has to offer, and so forth.
The terms of the contract for the signed on 'rescuers' are quite simple: to earn the 200 gp (50gp paid up front, 150gp to be paid upon satisfactory completion of the quest), the three adventurers must with all haste (balanced with caution as dictated by their own instincts) head to Aurin's settlement, defeat any existential menaces that threaten its continued survival, and then return with a letter from Aurin stating his satisfaction with their conduct and aid.
Sorrowith provides a hastily scribbled addendum, all the while casting glances at Heyou that are equal parts fascination and horror. Vajan, it is clear, settles the man, and it is to him that Sorrowith directs his comments.
"As you can see, a very straightforward affair. Miss Joanna Kilraven shall escort you by some path or another to the settlement, where you shall effect your trade, save Aurin from danger, and earn the rest of your monies. Simple, is it not?"
After Vajan has read the document in full, Sorrowith gives a mechanical smile. "Please sign here, here, and here."
--------
Sorrowith gathers the papers, taps them into a neat rectangle and then slides them into a leather folder.
"Very good, very good. A pleasure. Best of luck." He smiles and bobs his head, and then rings a bell which is immediately answered by the opening of the door.
The same guard who led you to Lady Parin's study escorts you through the house, out a side door, and back out into the rain. Fortunately you soon duck into a large stable, where you're greeted by the warm light of storm lanterns affixed to the thick columns, the smell of hay, manure, and the horses themselves.
Four horses have already been saddled and are tethered to the closest post. A young woman is busy with the last, and as you enter you see her grip the broad belt that wraps around the horse's belly and knee the horse firmly in the side. It exhales with a gush, and she yanks the belt in tight and buckles it with skill.
Turning, she blows a lock of red hair out of her heavily freckled face and eyes the lot of you, one hand still on the horse's flank.
"The, ah, adventurers, Joanna," says the guard, eyeing askance of Heyou, and then stepping back.
"Evening." Her voice is firm and confident. "I'm Joanna Kilraven, stablemaster and former scout for Lord Hardin up at the keep. Looks like we're expected to head out tonight and in this weather. Can't say I'm too excited, but what can you do. Pick your mount and then we can talk which way you want to take over and down to the Wildhorn."
One horse is clearly hers; the other three are of varying natures. One is fit to be a plow horse, with hooves like dinner plates, a dappled brown and white coat and with a dozen pewter charms hanging from his saddle.
The second is the first's opposite in almost everyway; charcoal, scrubby gray hair covers its small bony frame, and its long face and shrewd eyes make it appear almost as if it understands the conversation as it watches the three of you carefully.
The third is fine riding horse, a black stallion with a white star on its forehead, its coat so glossy it shines and with an elegant saddle with a high pommel upon its back.
Heyou watches the others make their marks on Sorrowith’s document, before hastily grabbing the pen and doing his best to ape their actions.
Humming with satisfaction at his own ingenuity, he gladly follows the party down to the stables. The new meatsack is interesting enough, but he has not tried interacting with horses yet.
I wonder if they are as easy to influence as Cat?
Assuming that the animals will react poorly to his presence – why is it that all living things tend to do that? – he approaches the scrubby charcoal one carefully. Aware that the others might be looking, Heyou cautiously pulls back his sleeve, revealing a jet black hand that does not seem as solid as the flesh of a person’s hand should.
Just one touch should be enough. One touch, and the horse’s mind will be mine…
Still not entirely convinced it is the best course of action but deciding to trust Father Vajan's judgement on the matter, Kalen, takes the quill after the Priest, signs with a flourish, and hands it to Heyou. Another moment of confounded fascination passes over him as he watches the odd being stare at the utensil for several full seconds before setting it to paper and scribbling an ilegible mess across his line, like an infant with a piece of drawing coal.
For some reason, Kalen decided he likes the 'man', though he can't put his finger on as to why.
As they follow the guard back out into the night, Kalen blinks away the dreary mist and tucks the hood of his cloak more tightly about his collar. He's relieved when they step into the warm glow of the stables, and spends a second or two eyeing the stablemaster (or rather certain of her assets) with interest before passing his judgement on to the horses. Heyou shuffles immediately over to the frailest of the three, which doesn't bother Kalen in the least, leaving him to contemplate the other two. Sizing them up, he casts a sidelong look at Father Vajan's ample frame, then coughs politely.
"Father," he starts carefully with a respectful bob of his head towards the man. "With your permission, I will take the stallion. I have some skill in the saddle, and I think it might cause disquiet among the settlers if a man of your rank and... uh... stature should come to their aid on a war horse..."
Without waiting for a reply, Kalen promptly moves over to the ebony beast, approaching it slowly with palms spread, allowing the animal to shuffle and snort at his fingers, getting to know his scent.
Vajan looks to both his companions, shrugs his shoulders, and puts pen to paper, signing his name where the barrister points with a bony finger.
_________
At the stables, Vajan feels a flush of pleasure at the masked mercenary's respectful address. He nods, makes a gesture of blessing in the air, and smiles. "No need for my permission, friend Finder," he responds, watching the man stride over to the dark beast. "And just Vajan, please. You're not my parishioner and I'm not your priest, though I'll happily serve the latter role if you count the Dawnflower your patron"
The plump priest turns to the woman and gives her a deep bow, again smoothing his ill-fitting robes with self-conscious gestures. "Well met, Miss Kilraven. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance and grateful for your guidance. What do you know of the country we'll be passing through? And the settlement--do you know much of it and the man who is its leader?"
Vajan watches and listens carefully to the stablemaster's response;
Re: picking a horse:
"Now, if our cloaked...brother does not object, I think the stoutest of the mounts is best suited for me, considering my, ahem frame. There's no shame in riding a plow horse. What do they say about slow and steady, eh?"
The scrubby gray horse stiffens at Heyou's approach, ears shooting up and nostrils flaring. It begins to side step, seeking to avoid Heyou's touch, until Joanna steps in, tutting under her breath and taking hold of the reins with easy confidence.
"There, there, Bolthole. It's just... a very strange looking man... in a cloak... with a very creepy voice." Joanna casts Heyou a curious glance and then soothes Bolthole - as the horse appears to be named - till it grows accustomed to Heyou's presence.
Once everyone has made the acquaintance of their animals (the plow horse being called Carollan, and the stallion named Death's Dream), Joanna leads the small group over to a sideboard where she unrolls a weathered map that has been heavily waxed.
"I'll tell you what I know of Aurin and his settlement once we fix on our route. Here we are. This is Diamond Lake, here on the far right of the map. Here's the Black Cloud mountain range, roughly north to south, and here in their center is the Wildhorn pass that leads right down the far side into the valley in which Aurin is camped."
Her long finger traces the most direct route, up the steep mountain sides to a narrow pass then straight back down.
"If we go direct it'll take us two days to reach Aurin, but this time of year it'll be a perilous endeavor. The pass might already be snowed in, and that high we might run afoul of ice trolls or stone giants or Desna knows what else. I can probably steer us clear, but still. Risky."
She doesn't sound afraid.
"Another option. We swing south, following the cart road for a dozen miles, then cut through this wide belt of black balsams here, and make our way to this lower pass known as Lamashtu's Courthouse. It's safer than it once was, and should take us three days if we hurry."
Finally her finger traces the cart road a good distance south. "Or we play it safe, follow the road all the way here to the Hangman's Crossroad, then head back northwest, looping through Tanbark Valley to the far side of the Black Clouds, then ride north along the foothills and approach Aurin from the other side. A good four days of hard riding, but by far the safest route."
Joanna looks up. "Which way would you have us go?"
Joanna sounds forthright and honest, and perhaps even a little eager. You get the sense she's ready for adventure, and perhaps curiously shows no fear at the prospect of ice trolls or whatever else lies in your way. Further, you notice that she doesn't flinch from Heyou's rather disturbing presence, nor blink before Finder's rather disconcerting appearance.
Vajan looks serious, nodding while he listens to their guide, studying the map. "'Urgent' is the watchword, friends, and intrepid Miss Kilraven believes we can manage the mountain pass. But I must be honest: I'm not an accomplished horseman, nor am I a great warrior. I can stay seated on my mount and defend myself, but may not be up to the rigors of a snowy mountain pass with its giants and trolls. While I think we should make haste, perhaps the middle way, through Lamashtu's Courthouse, is the wiser course. Better we all arrive at the settlement hale and hardy, if a tad tardy. Regardless, I will bow to the judgment of the trio if both of you think otherwise."
Vajan grimaces, wondering if his new companions will think his counsel a sign of cowardice. He tugs again at the robe tight across his midsection.
"Bolthole," Heyou whispers to the horse, his hand running along its flank, tiny tendrils of blackness breaking from him, trying to find purchase on the animal's hide. Do not resist Heyou. You will be happier when you belong to Heyou. Happier, and safer. Just ask Cat. Look how happy it is."
Cat, for its part, stands rigid beside its master.
Heyou is interested in these ice trolls," he tells his companions, "but he is interested in kobolds too. He will not mind taking a longer road that will get him to the kobolds safely. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet something interesting out in the wilds for Heyou to play with? Heyou likes to play, isn't that right, Cat?"
"I agree with the good Father," Kalen tells the group with an apologetic shrug at Vajan. He had been raised to grant any herald of mosts faiths some measure of respect, and would be hard pressed to break the habit. "A slimmer likelihood of minor dangers on the middle road will be to the benefit of Aurin's people if possibly gaining a day means a risk of never reaching the settlement period." He pats the sword on his hip as though to make his point. "Bandits and the like can be taught a lesson in steel. Giants and trolls,though..." He lets the obvious speak for itself.
Joanna nods slowly. "Lamashtu's Courthouse it is, then." She picks up the map, rolls it up, and then slides it into a leather scroll tube at her hip.
All the while she's eyeing Heyou.
"All right. We're going to be traveling together. So I've got to ask. What... what is going on with you? Are you some kind of..." She trails off, obviously searching for some term that might be appropriate. Or at least, not overly offensive. "Mage?"
She's speaking directly to Heyou, brows lowered in confusion, eyes narrowed. Not afraid, but rather... mystified and repulsed.
Kalen frowns at the woman.
"It's not wise, sometimes, to tell someone to lift their mask, woman," he says in a warning tone. "There are those among us who understand the value of privacy, even-"" he gesture towards Heyou "-in the case of others."
Heyou looks behind him, to get a glimpse of whoever the female meatsack is talking to. It takes him a few moments to realise she was addressing him, and then immediately begins hopping from foot to foot, agitated.
”Heyou? Heyou is just a regular human meatsack, same as everyone else. Heyou can look after himself in a fight though, yes. Heyou has had to do lots of the fighting. Cat, too. We have to fight a lot. Heyou is also good with life. That precious, breathing-in-and-out, blood-or-sap-pumping-through-fleshy-shell LIFE that Heyou had not been expecting to find so… interesting.”
On hearing Finder speak, Heyou turns to the masked man to give a thumbs up, letting his hood slip back slightly so he can grin at his companion. From within the dark recesses of the hood, Finder can see two circular yellow eyes, and a many-tooth grin that tears across the entirety of Heyou’s overlarge, jet-black face.
Joanna doesn't seem offended. She stares at Heyou a moment longer, brows lowered, then shrugs as if it's none of her business. Moving over to her own pale steed, she buckles the saddlebag then casts Kalen a hard look over her shoulder.
"And the name's Joanna. Not 'woman'."
Moments later she's leading them out of the stables and into the rain. The horses follow her own steed with equanimity, and they walk down the gravel driveway to the estate's gates, then circle around the outskirts of Diamond Lake along Moon's Way till they reach the broad Cart Road that spears south by south west along the steep slopes of the Black Clouds.
The lights and raucous festivities of the mining town quickly fall behind them as Joanna urges her mount to a canter; Death's Dream flows smoothly beneath Kalen, while Carollan powers along beneath Vajan and Bolthole seems to hit every rock and step into each pothole, making Heyou's ride the least smooth of the lot.
The sky is overcast and presses close, like a wet cloth being smothered across a sleeping man's face. The glittering peaks of the Black Cloud mountains are hidden to your right, the forested slopes rising into vague darkness, and then land falls away gradually to your left, following the curvature of the sharp valley at whose base Diamond Lake itself rests.
It's a dozen miles to the Hangman's Crossroads, and Joanna alternates the pace between the rapid canter and a slower trot so as to not exhaust their mounts. The roads have become treacherously muddy in the rain, and Vajan's large plow horse is starting to visibly tire when the crossroads hove into view.
A large group of people are gathered there, holding spitting torches aloft and casting an orange glow upon the intersection as a dozen men lower a casket into a dark hole. A priest of some sort stands at the grave's head, and another dozen or so people are gathered about in the feeble light, half of them casting looks over their shoulders, grief warring with fear and exhaustion.
Joanna slows her horse to a complete stop while you're a good three hundred yards away and looks askance at the group.
"What do you think? Cut through the woods to avoid 'em, or ride on through?"
In the stables, Kalen decides he has little fondness for the horsemaster, watching her mount her steed through narrowed eyes even as he pulls himself up into Death's Dream's saddle.
Soon, though, he finds all the fondness he might have reserved for the woman applied directly to the black stallion. Dream manages the town roads like a silent river, smooth and flowing. He reminds Kalen of the animals of his father's prized pastures, and he's forced to shake away yet another nauseating bout of nostalgia as they clear the edge of Diamond Lake and reach the Cart Road.
Coming across the mourners, Kalen frowns in the direction of the forest Joanna indicates, not liking the darkness of the shadowed trunks in the overcast gloom of the day.
"Unfamiliar woodlands in unfamiliar terrain?" he asks the woman sarcastically, eyeing her with mistrust. "I'd rather keep my horse's legs in one piece, thank you, even if it does mean a little mud on a coffin that's going into the ground regardless."
Leaving the city for the first time in his short existence, Heyou’s eyes are wide with wonder. Lagging behind the others due to Bolthole’s stumbling, for the first time in a long while he completely pulls back his hood, so he can best take in the world around him. Anyone looking behind will see a perfectly spherical head, three times larger than it should be, the only features marring its jet-black smoothness are his circular, yellow eyes and his knife-wound slit of a mouth.
Such… such vastness, he thinks, unable to focus his gaze for too long on the variety of life around him, afraid he might miss something new and wonderful. Heyou did not know the world was so big.
He draws his hood over his head again as the female meatsack slows her mount, and arrives with the others in time to hear Finder speak.
“Heyou agrees with meatsack Finder. Heyou’s horse is clumsy enough with legs as they are. If entering the woods stops them being in one piece, Heyou will never get to that important place we are heading to.”
Heyou narrows his eyes, contemplating the crowd, reaching out with his otherworldly senses to try to spot anything out of the ordinary about the gathering ahead.
Vajan feels a tightness in his chest with the tense exchange between Finder and their guide. He thinks for a moment to play the peacemaker, but opts for silence, mounting sturdy Carollan with an inartful grunt. He feels a plodding amateur watching Finder atop Death's Dream and Joanna at one with her sleek mount, but glances back at poor Heyou reminds him to count his blessings.
As they come to the funeral party Carollan is slowing, perhaps unused to carrying the priest's girth as opposed to the strain of pulling a plow in the field.
"I think we should ride 'round the mourners, out of respect for their loss, but if the majority think we should soldier forward, I won't argue. At least allow me to express our condolences and ask their patience as we disrupt their ritual."
Assuming we move forward:
"Hail, strangers! Forgive us for trespassing on your sad duties here. Perhaps there are worshippers of the Dawnflower here? If so, blessings and may Sarenrae smile upon each of you. If not, I offer heartfelt condolences for your loss. Allow us to pass now, please, as we journey to a task most urgent."
Vajan makes a sign of blessing in the air, while he says a silent prayer to himself: Sarenrae, please grant that my less diplomatic traveling companions recognize the wisdom of a quiet tongue and nod of respect as we ride on through.
Heyou, about to ask the mourners if he could get a closer look at the body, hears Vajan's words and realises this is supposed to be a sorrowful event. Instead, Heyou wisely choses to remain silent.
Kalen watches Heyou carefully as they ride passed, wondering if he'll have to reign in the strange creature. To his amusement, Heyou clearly leans forward in interest, apparently intent on catching a glimpse of the corpse, then stirs at Vajan's words and retracts, sitting straight in his saddle again.
"Don't worry, friend," he mutters sidelong to Heyou, slowing Dream down to clop along beside Bolthole. "I've a nasty feeling you'll have plenty of opportunity to make your acquaintance with the dead before this adventure of ours is over."
Joanna's face hardens at Kalen's words, assuming the kind of impassivity that servants since time immemorial have adopted when dealing with distasteful. She simply bows her head, acknowledging his desire, and then urges her mount on down the muddy road toward the cross roads.
The assembled villagers wheel in half terror at the sound of the horses, the rain having masked their approach till the last moment. Hands drop to clubs and short swords, but their leader, an iron haired man with an anvil of a chin and the look of a former warrior now clad in the fur robes of a priest of Erastil holds up his arms and steps forward to listen to Vajan's words.
"A follower of the Dawnflower? You're welcome, then, for tonight of all nights any holy man will find a place at this crossroads. We're burying a much loved member of our community, Fallow Oaks a good two miles on south. A grim business, but it cannot wait. If you'll bless the coffin, father, and bid that Korstan Smith lie peacefully and pass on quietly to the next world, we'd be most obliged."
A number of the villagers are trying not to stare at Heyou; his great spherical head - even hidden under his hat - slowly becomes more obvious to casual observation the longer he sits astride Bolthole within the light of the torches.
Heyou listens to the cries coming from inside the coffin.
Heyou is so confused. He was so certain that meatsacks were supposed to stop moving before-"
A moment of realisation hits him, and he signals for Cat - previously skulking just off the roadside - to come to him.
Heyou turns to his companions, grinning in satisfaction at having eventually understood the situation, gripping the large wooden branch he uses as a staff.
Something is wrong," he says, satisfied grin not disappearing. "Something is horribly wrong. Heyou thinks it might be time to open some meatsacks."
assuming Kalen Perceives nothing with that abysmal roll:
Kalen is glad when Heyou says something. He himself sees nothing out of the ordinary, but something indeed seems amis. After all, it seems odd enough on its own that men would bear weapons to a funeral...?
Still unsure as to why he strust the strange stunted creature so much, Kalen gives Heyou the smallest nod of understanding, placing one hand casually on the hilt of his longsword, eyes studiously scanning the group of mourners through the holes of his mask even as he is careful to appear calm and uninterested.
Vajan scans the crowd ( ; assuming nothing is amiss) and dismounts. "Of course, friends, though we must make haste." He notes the quiet signals between his companions, nods to them, and approaches the coffin, one hand keeping a tight grip on sturdy Carollan's reins. Standing before the coffin he raises his free hand in a sign of the Dawnflower and speaks.
"O sweet goddess of light and redemption, look down upon we faithful, gathered here to bid farewell to this mortal man, Korstan Smith. Speed his passage to the Great Beyond, and have mercy on his human failings as his body falls to corruption."
Vajan touches the coffin with a palm, holds it there for a moment, then turns to the man clad in the robes of the Stag God's priest, looking him in the eye ( ). He gives the man a curt nod and turns to climb back onto Carollan. "Now, peace be with you all. We go now to answer duty's call."
While Kalen, Heyou, and Joanna watch from the back of their mounts, Vajan descends to move close to the coffin and place his hand upon its rough surface. It is, he notes, stoutly built, with broad nailheads lining each corner and four broad leather belts buckled around its girth and cinched tight.
Even as he speaks his words, he hears the first muffled thump from within the coffin, and when he lays his hand upon the wood he hears something from within.
Old One Eye's priest notices Vajan's inevitable change in expression and draws himself upright. "Don't be fooled, my friend. That thing yet has the semblance of life, sure enough, and speaks sweetly, but it is a dead thing, and needs to be buried deep."
Then, before Vajan can object, he gives a stiff nod to the pallbearers, who begin lowering the coffin into the ground.
Vajan reaches for his heavy mace, stowed on Carollan and calls out in a commanding tone, two octaves lower than he normally speaks. "Halt! We will inspect the occupant of this coffin before you bury it in the earth! If he is indeed, as you say, a dead thing, then he must be dispatched by a priestly hand or a warrior's blade, not interred to bang and plead forever in a box beneath the ground!"
Vajan speaks to his mounted companions without turning to them, focusing on the man dressed as a priest of Erastil. "Friends, I think we must police this dubious funeral. You, sir, if you be a priest of the Stag Lord, why would you not say forthrightly what it was you did rather than make me think you were saying farewell to a friend? Erastil's clergy is as straight as an arrow, but I think you meant deception."
In anticipation of possible fisticuffs, I'm getting ready to loose one of my seven daily fire bolts:c
"Wait, good father, wait!" The priest raises both hands, his tone imploring. "You are but strangers, and until I learned of your true calling I did not want to elaborate on our curse. But please. Stay your hand, and I'll explain!"
The other villagers have grown tense, casting glances from the mounted strangers to Vajan, hands lowering to clubs and short swords. Nobody draws, however, and the dozen men lowering the reinforced casket stop, grunting and straining as they watch Vajan carefully.
"Korstan was lost in the woods for several days. Upon returning to us, he acted strangely. That night, he killed his family. We only discovered this days later when the truth came out. The next day he lured the baker into a backroom and killed her, then murdered three children behind the stable. He was finally caught trying to gut Elisha there, but she escaped and sounded the hue and cry. Believe you me, when we discovered the truth of it we tried to kill Korstan, but our weapons could not wound him."
The priest wipes the rain from his face. "Worse, he seems to have some limited range telepathy, for he can read one's thoughts and say what he thinks will get the best reaction from you. Twice we nearly released him, but what we'd seen with our own eyes overcame his protests. So we've come to bury him here, bury him deep, and bury his curse or whatever happened out in the woods while he was lost with him!"
Kalen slides off his horse to step up beside Vajan, glaring at the villagers through his mask with both hands on his swords, warning them silently of the fight they would have if any dared draw their weapons.
"What's the word, Father?" he mutters sidelong to the Priest. "They've belted the damn coffin." He studies to cask a moment, examining the nails and straps up close. "If they're liars, they're damned good ones... "
To see if Kalen can glean anything else from up close
After several tense seconds, Kalen relaxes, his attention now wholly on the coffin itself.
"I can't say for sure," he continues, speaking to Vajan, "but I'm getting more 'frightened' than 'dangerous' from this lot. Any idea what might be in the cask? Is it something we could deal with? Something that steel can't kill... I don't know how effective ten feet or dirt and mud is going to be at keeping it in check..."
Vajan looks at the faces in the crowd, back to the man in Erastilian robes. "Why not wave us on as we rode by, sir?" inquires Vajan of the priest. "Instead you ask for me to give my blessing and draw me in to this strange drama, without providing me with what you see as the facts? Do you have incontrovertible proof the man you have sealed in this coffin is the murderer? Have others gathered here seen proof of his guilt? Why not hang him as the law prescribes, if he's guilty of such monstrous crimes. Do you bury all your criminals alive? If he is indeed a dead thing, with only the semblance of life, why have you, a priest, not destroyed him? All these questions come to my mind, sir. I cannot in good conscience simply nod and be on my way."
On crowd:
Vajan turns to Finder. "What does your intuition tell you, friend?"
If Finder believes the priest's words...
Vajan frowns, nods. I despise being lied to, he thinks. But I despise being wrong even more. He tugs self consciously at the robe clinging to his midriff. He focuses all of his attention now on the man clad in the vestments of a cleric of Erastil.
"Sir, is the man within the coffin bound? I assume he is, as surely he didn't consent to take a lie down upon your kind invitation. If he is secured, you will place the coffin on the ground. The people gathered here will back away for their own safety. You will open the coffin while my colleagues and I ready for this undead creature you say is within. When the lid is removed, I will channel healing energy at the thing within; if he be an undead beast, it will harm him. If not, we will know. If he is the murderer you claim he is, and you have proof, you can hang him from that yonder tree with rope from my own pack, then bury his remains here. What say you of my proposal?"
Kalen turns and takes half a step closer to Vajan.
"They're more frightened of whatever's in that coffin than they are of us," he whispers in confidence, meeting the Father's eyes. "Their Priest is holding them together. I believe them. If I'm wrong, though, and this gets messy-" he indicates the faithful of the Stag Lord with a subtle tilt of his mask, "-cut of the head, and the body may fall."