"...those animals...their stomachs are distended. Rot...or...was something implanted in them? Albreane. I think we should leave. Does this track branch?"
You can see Albreane is shaking slightly, perhaps due to adrenaline from the shocking sound of the cave-in. She closes her eyes, and the movement stops. "No branches. Just one long, downward slope, ending abruptly where the iron ran out. " Her voice is just above a whisper, but it still sounds loud in the new confinement of the air.
"I want to turn around. We have unknown numbers of strangely-acting people who may or may not still be alive in front of us, animals full of...something...and a cave-in behind us. I'd rather claw through rock behind us--digging is fairly mundane."
"Agreed. We came down here to investigate an accident, not be the next in a line of victims."
Wamblee stop, and turns to Bree.
"Bree, what we have seen so far...will that be sufficient to exonerate Father?"
"Yes. Assuming we can get out, there is clear evidence of unauthorized intrusion, deliberate sabotage in multiple areas, and the very suspicious presence of all these dead animals. This all happened after your father's death - you would have to be blind not to see foul play here."
Wamblee turns on the spot.
"Thank you Bree. For everything. And now I am happy to leave this deathtrap."
For an Oread in a stone tunnel, that is quite the statement.
Marianne let’s out a gasp of rage when she sees the animals. She looks ready to press on even through the tunnel, but backs down after the cave in. ”Let’s go back, but we should,” she trails off, looking sick, but pushes on. ”We should bring a body back. If the sabotage runs as deeply as it seems to, there could very well be another cave-in that covers all of this up. If that happens, we can cite two convenient cave-ins and the... defiled” she spits the word, “corpse as proof.”
Albreane says, "Let's leave that task for one of the els, Mari." There is a hint of a joke in the words, but her face is serious. Fear makes her sylphan features even paler than usual, and the shadows under her eyes speak of a poor night's sleep.
"Well, let's see how bad it is," and she heads back the way you came. Your footsteps echo against the close walls and low ceiling, rebounding around curves and corners. The rot smell, whatever its source, is stronger now that your supply of fresh air has been cut off.
As you round a corner, the first thing you notice is a muscular red ifrit arm sticking out of the pile of huge rocks, a sharp axe still clutched in its death grip. Albreane makes a gagging sound, but composes herself.
The investigator takes a long moment to survey the damage. The rocks and debris go straight to the ceiling - there is no telling how far back the cave-in goes. She nods, her face brightening with confidence. "Okay. We can do this."
”Albreane, do you think he chopped out the support?” Marianne asks nervously, before shaking herself. ”Somebody point me to a vulnerable point and I’ll climb to it,” Marianne says, pacing and nervously muttering prayers while she waits. ”Fallen Sky, may Your Aspect who governs cavern air hear my prayers. guide us from this darkness into Your expansive embrace, that Your humble disciple may continue to serve. Fallen Sky, may Your...” it continues like this until someone points her to a spot on the wall.
"Contact with these diseased creatures will probably infect us the same as whatever got into Carl, and we'll be blamed for it. Bree's right, you should have someone useless get afflicted."
Samen gingerly picks up a dead squirrel and puts it in his bag.
"Could be worse, I suppose. We can probably get around it."
He begins moving rocks out of the way, trying to make a passage to crawl out of. With any luck, this won't cause another cave in.
Wamblee is about to look for a sack to wrap a corpse in, but Samen acts more swiftly.
Instead, the oread begins to clear rocks aside, the straightforward labour appealing to him.
Wamblee and Samen work surprisingly well as a team, both stoically going about the task of lifting rocks in a fluid and seemingly effortless manner. Albreane directs Marianne to a few stones that appear to be unstable, and the athletic sylph removes them with ease.
Samoon shakes his head, wondering for a moment how to help when he lacks his orean brothers great strength, and his sister's truly miraculous climbing. He takes the cross-staff off his shoulder, a faraway look in his eye. He fiddles with the various knobs and points of articulation, pondering the weak white light he made in the cave.
The white light comes back again, weak but steady. A solitary thread of sharp brightness grows from the staff. Just like a spider's silk, he thinks. Lazily, the thread follows Samoon's gaze, drifting toward one last huge boulder that the brothers cannot move, even together. With casual ease, the thread loops around the boulder, once, twice. It tightens, and-
With a sudden hard tug, the boulder moves just enough to the left to allow even wide orean shoulders through. The spiderglass thread puffs into a million tiny, harmless nothings that melt away into the tunnel floor.
The way is clear.
Wamblee nods at Samen.
"Good work. Let us move."
”That was terrifying,” Marianne declares as they begin to take their leave of the cave. She then does a double take. ”Wait a moment. Samoon, how did you move that boulder?”
"...I...I think I was able to spin something like glass...or light. It might have been solid light." Samoon is puzzled by his own actions. "I'm not sure. I'll have to research it later. Let's get out of here for now."
"...and leverage. There must have been leverage," says Samoon to himself. "...Samen, be careful with that bag. If it starts to wiggle, dump it."
Samen winks at Samoon. "Sure thing. Right in Mar's hair, just like old times, right?"
It feels mildly absurd, but the town has not changed at all, despite cave-ins, animal sacrifices, and murdered fathers. You emerge, all of you varying amounts of dusty, sweaty, and bruised, while the town below is stretching awake. The first-shift miners started at seventh candle, same as the schoolchildren. The farmers have been up since fifth.
You missed bright, and Volcano already glows with a typical shade for autumn: a warm caramel orange. The smell of snow is in the air, clean and sharp. The cold air upon your warm skin is at first refreshing, but quickly becomes chilling. A spiteful gust of wind buffets you every minute or so.
"Let us get ready for the road. Forge, with all its ills, beckons."
"I agree. Prey never rests."
Samen hefts his bag, considering its contents. "Either I'm getting weaker, or this bag is getting heavier..."
He opens the bag, halfway convinced it's going to explode on him, and investigates the situation inside.
You see Volcano's light reflected within your bag, reminding you somewhat of a mirror. Peering closer, you see that the squirrel's abdomen and chest are now made of polished brass.
"Neat. That shouldn't happen. Samoon, do you know any alchemical process to turn meat into brass?"
"Neat? This is something twisted. Were these creatures alive when this process started? I shudder to think of the consequences. Mother--perhaps when this is done we should consider moving."
Wamblee quickly thinks of whether there are any rituals of the Dark that are known to do such things.
Marianne shudders as she eyes the brass squirrel. ”Put that abominable thing away,” she demands even as she forces herself to hold it in her mind’s eye as she tries to recall any stories about animals turned to brass.
While we're doing knowledge checks, I might as well toss my hat in.
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Wamblee, unfortunately you tended to lose interest when the endless stacks of ifrit myths were making the rounds as required reading at the monastery. You had already had enough of ifrit domination back in Rokerenge, and you saw little point in learning more of the people of fire when you were in the heart of Forest.
Samen, you are too caught up in how much this situation sucks to effectively focus on the ridiculous half-brass squirrel in your grasp.
Samoon, one thing crosses your mind, just a phrase. During your studies and Light, you learned about various metals and other substances. In one book, concerning uncommon metals, in a passage describing the uses of brass: the more common applications include clockwork cogs and machinery ; catalyst for certain reactions; sterile medical tools ; and finally, older texts refer to a branch of Science known as 'efreeti alchemy'...
As you recall the text goes back to the properties of brass, no further mention of efreeti alchemy.
Mother a loud, relieved sigh when you all walk through the door. She walks over and gives each of you a tight hug as you come in. The house looks exactly the same - you can imagine her sitting at the table the past two hours, worrying.
She agrees immediately to leaving the town. "You were all right - it can't possibly be safe to stay here."
At Bertrude's, there is no answer to your knock.
The hut is eerily silent, after being so full of the old witch's bustling yesterday. Walking into the kitchen, you see Bertrude is dozing heavily, her lined face somewhat smoother in sleep. Under her nose is a shiny, clear oil - white dream.
Uncle is gone.
”Zephyr’s #$@‘s,” Marianne swears angrily as soon as she takes in the scene. ”Wamblee, get that stuff off of her. I’ll check if anything was taken or moved.”
Thanks for letting me know :)
Although most of your religious reading has been focused on the scraps of Sky you've found over the years, you've also perused the writings of Volcano, Forest, and River in hopes of finding incidental mentions of Sky within.
One popular myth (or series of myths) is that of the efreet, the half-elemental half-elen monsters that betrayed Volcano millennia ago. One tale pops into your mind: a cruel efreet twisting a greedy ifrit's wish such that all his food turned to brass in his stomach. The tale ends poorly.
Marianne, nothing has been moved. In fact, it is quite suspicious that even the doors do not show signs of tampering, as you know for a fact Bertrude is meticulous about locking her home at night.
Marianne stops for a moment mid-search, struck by something. ”I just remembered an old tale about an efreet twisting a greedy ifrit’s wish and turning his food to brass. Maybe someone was trying to consort with an efreet?” she proposes, equal parts uncertain and disgusted. After that, she lets her brothers discuss and returns to her search. Even those who can’t hear the swearing can tell she’s getting angrier by the moment from the sounds of objects knocked down their place by strong winds gradually increasing. Finally, Marianne comes back into the room with Bertrude, winds raging about her, long mane of hair whipping in the unnatural breeze. ”Nothing!” she roars. ”They didn’t touch a thing! The door is untouched, the windows aren’t broken! They just slipped in and out like @$%^ ghosts!”
Old Bertrude's eyes immediately snap open. With a look at Samoon, then Marianne, she says, "Enough with yer winds and yer curses, girl! My hut won't take it!" Drying spices on string dance near the ceiling in the wake of Marianne's angry wind.
The old sylph takes Samoon by the shoulder, both as an gesture of thanks and to help lever herself to a sitting position. "Thanks, potion boy. Yer a useful one to 'ave around."
"So they have Uncle. I will see if these ghosts left any traces outside."
Wamblee wanders out, seeking a trail.
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Samen stays outside to respect the healer's wishes. "Not to be callous, but we should probably get on toward Forge without him. If they want him dead, there's nothing we can do. If they want to use him as a trap or as leverage against us, then there's nothing we should do. I wouldn't rule out the possibility he snuck out himself anyway.
Hag, he got lost on your watch, so this is your responsibility. Organize a search party and recover your patient. We have things to do."
Wamblee, your attention wanders to the stone far beneath the soil, making it difficult to find any evidence of tracks. You grow introspective, thinking back to your skin repelling the bites of wolves and even the edge of a blade.
Samen, Bertrude makes a sound somewhere between hen-cackle and annoyed goose. She tosses a small pack out the door, which contains four poultices. "A show of good faith to keep your smelly curses off my doorstep, warlock."
"'Efreeti alchemy'--the name just came to me. Brass is used for standard mechanical things like cogs and clockwork, but it was used by efreeti long ago...er, I can't recall the rest. I'm not sure much written on it survives."
"Samen, I don't think Uncle would have used the same methods that someone...presumably someone who needs to stay dead--used on him lately," says Samoon a little briskly. "But your rather grim calculus is correct. We need to get to Forge and report this to some sort of authority and keep Mother safe. Our wandering Uncle will be found, or not."
While sitting, Samoon toys with the Jacob's cross, seeing if he can get it to release more light-glass, or focused light, or whatever it is, aiming away from the wagon.
"None of us know much about our uncle other than trouble follows him. We'll see what the next several days brings to light, but I'm guessing he still has a few surprises left, which he's likely saving for a dramatic moment."
"Betrude, my thanks. Samoon, that sounds ominous. Samen, hopefully your guess is accurate."
Wamblee will stay slightly ahead of the wagon. He wants to feel the earth, and see the foe.
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Marianne takes her usual spot next to Albreane, bow at the ready. The only difference is that this time there is a little less friendly conversation, and a bit more worried prayer.
Samoon, there is absolutely no response from your cross-staff.
Marianne, Albreane is content to keep a companionable silence on the return trip. Though she keeps the fear off her face, you can see the tension in her white-knuckled grip as she guides the pogona team. There is still a streak of rock dust in her hair. The twisted branches of the rocky hills, bare in the late autumn wind, reach up to the darkness in supplication. There is no bird song, and Fallen Sky seems distant and cold.
Wamblee, away from the town, that ugly mine, and the strange old witch's hut, you begin to relax into your surroundings. You walk lightly upon the ground, and the rolling hills are an open tapestry of rock and root. You follow small paths here and there, keeping ahead of the wagon. There is no sign of wolves, or any other predator.
After a time, Wamblee turns to speak back to the others, his body language visibly more relaxed.
"It looks clear. I will keep an eye out still."
"We should have left word at home with the watch," says Samoon belatedly, and somewhat morosely. "This is such a disaster. Threats on all sides."
He entertains himself by making little bits of obsidian and pumice disappear between his long fingers.
"Anything shows up, this little bit of stone becomes a bomb," he says grimly.
It is the most desolate stretch of road between Rokerenge and Forge - a straight shot, slightly uphill, that goes on for miles. The occasional scrub bush stares at your progress. Volcano's peaklight wanes a deep violet in the midnight hours. The rustling of tiny, wild pogonas is just barely audible over the rumble of the cartwheels.
Wamblee, you notice a presence, perhaps more than one, at the top of the stretch. A moment later, a figure steps into view in front of the wagon, about a hundred feet away. He holds up a friendly hand, and calls, "Ho! Who comes from Rokerenge?"
You all recognize the green cloak and orange feather of the Rokerenge hunters, but you cannot tell exactly who this is.