There are several patrons wailing at the back door, mostly soft-looking merchants. "The door is blocked! We are doomed!"
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"Blocked, you say? Here, hold my beer...man."
He drops the innkeeper on one of the more sturdy looking merchants and applies his magic stick toward vigorously unblocking the door.
After a few more whacks from the magically-destructive staff, the door splinters and then gives way. The various merchants and farmers cheer and clap you on the back.
The air outside is deliciously cold, and clear.
"Albreane, maybe we can get out a window. Tying bedsheets together. You know, like in the chapbooks," says Samoon. "Unless you have some rope? A large air elemental cushion?"
He pats his bandoliers and pockets, but only has some mutagens and glass blowing tools--grabbers, cutters, shapers.
Without many other ideas, he heads to the room where Samen duped the boy and takes a look out the window for a way out.
Wamblee nods in approval at Samen's straightforward approach. He then aids anyone who is stumbling or struggling to exit. While keeping an eye on the spreading flames.
Scarcely ten minutes pass before the inn begins to creak, groan, and-with a final deafening crash-collapses to the ground. The Motherlode is now a smoldering pile of timber.
The gruff innkeep finds the five of you and shakes your hands. His sons have since washed his eyes of the acid, though they remain red-rimmed and sore. "If it weren't for you lot, t'would be me and mine in there burning too. I have nothing to give except my thanks."
”Your thanks is plenty. He was chasing us anyways. While I refuse to take complete responsibility for that el’s actions, the fact remains that he came here because of us. Even if you could spare anything after your inn just burned down, we couldn’t in good conscience accept it,” Marianne tells the barkeep.
"As my sister says, he was hunting us. If there is anything we can do for you now, we will. I have gold.", Wamblee offers.
The innkeep laughs hoarsely, which ends with a smoke-choked coughing fit. "I'm not takin' gold from those who killed an enemy. No, my sons and I will be takin' this up with the dotis in Forge. Their little guild wouldn't last long if they didn't cover for the occasional madman that comes from their blood halls."
Wamblee cracks a tight smile at the innkeeper's reply.
"Good. Take them to task. Now, is there any shelter to be had in the vicinity? There *should* be no more mad els knocking tonight but there will definitely be exposure."
Samen dusts the ash off his cloak as the magic fades from his staff.
"Don't speak too soon, Wamblee. That dark-lover is still out here somewhere. Morning exertion aside, we'd probably best keep moving back home."
"A fair point, Samen, and thank you. I however would not expect a second attack in one night, even I can not rule it out."
The innkeep squints at Volcano, looming in the far distant above the hilly terrain. A hint of yellow colors the sleepy purples and reds now and then. "Eh, least the fools had the decency to wait for bright to do their dirt work."
He glances to the ruins of his inn. By this time, all the patrons have hitched their pogonas--from the fortunately separate stables--and made a hasty departure.
"Seems like the merchants will be cozy in their blankets and what-have-you while the beasts do all the work. My family is used to the cold." He looks at the five of you. "In fact, it's you I'd be worried about, if I didn't just witness what yer capable of. Watch yourselves out there, y'hear?"
"We shall be brown against the bark. Fare you well."
As her battered body shivers in the cold, Marianne remembers the cloaks, and passed them out from the belongings of whoever had them, casting Albreane an apologetic look as the ele is excluded. A little warmer now that’s she’s actually wearing something, Marianne groans. “I feel like Dead Sky Himself right now, battered into uselessness,” she moans, displaying the severity of her condition by sheer fact of making a slightly irreverent reference to Dead Sky. ”Anyone have another one of Bertrude’s healing potions?”
Just as the innkeeper and sons are departing, Wamblee has a thought.
"Their leader's name, the big fiery one, called himself Pugliesi."
He turns and takes a cloak.
"Thanks Mar. I drank mine before."
As he puts on his cloak, the feathers turn to a dull but consistent rock-brown colour.
"None left here." Samoon and Albreane have appeared none the worse for wear for their escape.
"Let's sleep in the stables. Hay insulates, and pogona reek keeps some things away." He points to the unburned structure.
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Samen puts on his cloak, and, surprisingly, it shifts into a vibrant mix of garish colors. It presents feathers from a variety of birds from the many regions of the world. He grunts in disgust at the universe once again trying to make him out to be something he doesn't want to be.
"Er, onward, then," says Samoon. "Unless we're playing hide and seek."
Wamblee raises an eyebrow at Samen's cloak but thinks better of commenting.
"A walk it is."
Albreane walks over to Marianne, gently positioning Mari's burned arms as she binds them with soft gauze. As Bree leans over to her task, you notice two thin streaks of white in her hair, like winter's first snow upon red clay. They are not fading.
"Well, that's the best I can do for now. I'll put more salve on them after we get home." She pauses, thinking for a moment. "Speaking of which, where exactly are we going first? Just diving straight into the sabotaged mine again? Or maybe stop by my dad-" she clears her throat awkwardly, "I mean my family's house for clues?"
"Perhaps your family home first, Bree.", Wamblee says, taking note of the strands in her hair.
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Marianne's cloak turns a brilliant sky blue as she puts it on, but it takes her a moment to notice. "Blue, huh?" she notes, nonplussed, before shrugging. "The winds blow as Dead Sky wills them."
You know Bree well enough from the old days. And throughout the morning's walk, you notice a few instances where she is...not quite herself. It happens for just a moment - a glance up at the wind rustling in the late autumn branches where the tilt of her head is not quite natural. Or the timbre of her laugh is off: higher-pitched, and breathy. Without the streaks of white to set off your suspicions, these could be easily overlooked, but you are quite certain of your observations. The 'rider' is taking peeks out of Bree's eyes, here and there.
Volcano's waxing peaklight frames the skeletal remains of both inn and mercenary in stark black-on-red silhouettes. The morning breeze lazily stirs the ashes that once provided comfort and warmth to the travel-weary. Anger's fire and greed's steel have come, and there will be no more laughter.
In the wake of the surreal violence, the road seems a false place, a painting of bare-branch trees blurred by autumnal mist. More brushstrokes resolve distant scrub bushes and hills, only to decay back to bleeding watercolor as you continue on. There is little talk between you, as each comes to grips with the loss, fear, and--for some--exhilaration of the last several days. It is a chill day, but your cloaks shield you from the worst of it. Bree seems unbothered by the wind or cold.
Marianne notices it first, just on the edge of her hearing. The windchimes are wrong, discordant. Bertrude tends those chimes as she would her own children, had she any. Two notes play over and over, a jarring disharmony ringing between them.
ting, rang
The door to Bertrude's hut is open, knocking against the wall with each gust.
ting, rang-SLAM
ting, rang-SLAM
”Oh no. Bertrude?!” Marianne calls worriedly, hurrying forward at a pace that threatens to leave her siblings behind. She slows when she sees the door, too hardened from constant danger to rush right in. The ranger limbers her bow and listens, giving the rest of the party a chance to catch up.
ting, rang-SLAM
The hut is silent, save for the wind rustling the dried herbs that hang from the ceiling. Not too far from the door, you spot a chalky, pale red substance on the floor - dried sylph blood.
Once again, Samen pulls out his staff. Once again, he prepares to charge it with destructive force. Once again, he steels himself for the killing that may soon come.
Samoon walks slowly around the hut when he arrives.
Wamblee stares down at the ruined body of Pugliesi, now bereft of sword, coin, and potion. He will carry whatever the others do not wish to.
At Samoom's suggestion, Wamblee draws his kamas.
"Stand back.", he says, as he positions himself to avoid blood spray and to get a good swinging position. Wamblee waits for the others to move, aims, then strikes off the ifrit corpse's head.
He then walks over to the head, now with his sansetsukon in hand, and strikes it with crushing force from the three part staff.
He then begins to clean both weapons.
"It is done."
Wamblee picks his moment. When Bree is furthest away from Mar and not looking.
He steps up to his sister and with his mouth turned away from Bree, he whispers:
"Bree walks differently, tilts her head differently. Not all the time, but her rider looks out through her eyes."
Wamblee draws his sansetsukon once again, and begins to slowly advance on the hut.
Even a cursory glance from your trained eye confirms the chalky stain is sylph's blood, perhaps only hours old. Only a small patch - a scratch or a cut, not a large wound.
Moving slowly as a river stone, your eyes miss nothing. A wink of light from the floor, near one of the cabinets. A small, shiny sliver of metal, no larger than your fingernail. As a miner's son, you know the metal immediately - brass.
As you all cautiously explore the too-quiet abode, you see other signs of a struggle: surgical tools knocked to the floor; scrolls askew; and the lifeless body of a small mockingbird. Outside the small area of violence, everything else in the hut seems untouched.
Wamblee puts away his three-piece staff, and points.
"There. A sliver of brass, the size of a fingernail. Is this a weapon - or a piece of Bertrude's assailant?"
"Who knows? Could be a piece of the old bat herself!"
Samen remains cautious as he holds position outside. It may seem safe now, but he is expressly unwelcome here in the best of times, and it'd be a shame if she popped out of who knows where just to scold him.
"Have some respect, Samen," snaps Samoon. "She's wounded, or dead. Marianne, can you track whoever did this?"
Marianne shoots Samen a heated glare, but ignores him to respond to Samoon. "I will try, but there is not much to go on. Almost nothing was disturbed. My best guess is that the dragon flew in and took her where she stood, I will search with that in mind."
You find some relatively fresh bootprints outside the hut. They are clearly not Bertrude's, and she gets almost no visitors except for you. They point back to Rokerenge before they are lost to the general traffic of the road.
"Fresh tracks over here!" Marianne calls to the others. "They're not Bertrude's and people only come up here if they have a very compelling reason. They lead back to Rockerenge, but I can't follow them into town."
"A dragon? That's hardly a stealthy type of attack. No er, claws? Prints? Fire? Do dragons breathe fire? In any case. We should go to the Rentwyrth estate. We need clues and a secure place. If it's all right with you, Bree."
Albreane hides her feelings behind a tight-lipped smile. "It has to be all right for now." She takes your arm, and you are suddenly walking outside of town with Bree again, as if no time has passed, as if all those years in Light were just a dream.
You make the short trek toward Rokerenge, the town of your childhood. The cold wind blows across the empty road; the only movement is that of bare branches and stunted yellow grass here and there among the hard earth. No wagons. No elens.
Over the last hill, right at the edge of town, you see a young ele--a little younger than Samen perhaps--in a drab gray dress. She is grinning widely, either at you or a distant Joshua tree. There is no one else you can see. The 'Line' of the town--the general store, the tavern, and all the other businesses--shows no signs of activity.
Waving enthusiastically, she walks briskly toward you. Some of you vaguely recognize her - a server in the tavern. A flower name...maybe Lily?
Speaking directly to Wamblee, she says, "Welcome! Do you need help with these?"
Marianne frowns, taking up a defensive, but nonthreatening position out of immediate reach of the young ele. She has her bow out, and an arrow nocked, but is holding it down and hasn't drawn yet. The ranger waits for Wamblee to respond, clearly confused by the question.
Curtly, Samen ignores the question. "What's going on here? Where is everyone?"
The ele cocks her head at Samen's question, still looking at Wamblee. "I can show you! Everyone is being useful!"
Without another word, she turns around and walks, with the same brisk pace, toward the tavern.
Bree frowns. "I think I'd rather go in the opposite direction. That was creepy."
"Great. A mind controlled town. Or perhaps they are all brass golem zombies." Samoon crosses his arms. "We aren't going to find out what this latest mystery is unless we follow. Perhaps only some of us should go, so that we don't all get trapped."
"Why did she talk just to Wamblee? Do you know her?" Albreane watches the ele walking. She does not look back to see if you are following.
”It is like that hunter when we first came. Remember? He was acting strangely too.”