Sighing as Dar falls, Shamautiel calls upon Calistria to ward Fliss against Hallod's attacks.
Fliss does her best to ward Dar against the attack, unleashing a blow with her sword as Hallod strikes. She then follows that up with two more attacks, before raising her shield defensively.
Fliss' retribution is enough to end the fight - Hallod collapses, blood gouting from his many wounds.
Shaumatiel quickly kneels beside Dar to tend to the fallen fighter.
"Oh dear," Dar says as he opens his eyes. "Is it morning? Kicking me out of bed already, Love?"
He grins, but the grin turns into a grimace. "Damn, that hurts," he mutters as he gets to his feet.
Fliss gives Dar a look as he gets up yet again after being dropped. "I don't mean to, like, be rude or antyhing, but are you sure you're in the right line of work?"
She looks aroudn hopefully to see if they have anything of value to show for their efforts.
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"No, Miss Cooper," Dar replies with a grin. "I'm decidedly convinced that I am not in the right line of work. But the career path of lying around in bed all day with beautiful women waiting on one hand and foot is very difficult to get into."
Around Hallod's neck you find a key that opens the chest you found in the other room. In addition, a search of the crates in this room reveals 50 gp worth of alchemical reagents that can be used in Crafting alchemical items, a runestone containing the shadow rune, and 2 everburning torches.
He also has a +1 kukri and a lesser healing potion.
Lastly, folded up in Hallod’s pocket is a note written on a scrap of parchment. It is in a handwriting which is distinctly unlike any of the other writing you have encountered so far. The style is plain and very severe, as if self-taught. The letter reads as follows:
Hallod,
The final shipment of corpse blood is due in just over a week, and it is the last thing I need from that greedy bastard, Bort. I’ve enclosed a parting gift for him that should ensure he never tells anyone of our dealings. Be sure that he gets it, my darling.
Drop off the reagents as soon as they arrive. My work is almost done. You will find your usual reward in the stump.
-- V
"V. V, V, V. Who could she be?" Shaumatiel says in a singsong tone, tapping the letter with a slender finger. "I think we have our next target. We should ask around town to see if anybody knows the author of this mysterious letter."
Giu all but spits on Hallod's corpse. "Whoever she is, death now has its eyes on her. We should be careful in how we approach the townfolks. Perhaps this 'V' has more friends in town."
Once Shau is done with the letter, Giu takes a look and taps his finger on the last sentence. "Didn't we come across a tree stump outside? I say we have a look, there might still be something valuable in there."
"To the stump and then back to town it is," Dar says with a sigh.
The chest in the other room opens easily now you have the key. Inside is a batch of 14 receipts that match the logs from Bort’s ledgers, as well as a scrap of parchment that lists each transaction along with a value slightly higher than that listed on the corresponding receipt from Bort. The chest contains some of the gold that Hallod has skimmed from these transactions over the years (the reason for the difference in values). Although Hallod has spent much of the difference, the chest still contains 21 gp and 37 sp.
Finally, on the back of the transaction list is a crude map. It depicts a cave helpfully labeled “HIDEOUT,” next to a shape that might be a pond; from there, a winding path passes through a strange V-shaped chamber before ending at what appears to be a clearing with a tree stump labeled “DROP POINT.”
Based on the crude drawing and estimating the scale, you would guess that the tree stump in question is between 3 and 5 miles outside the village.
"I am low on healing magic. With the frequency with which Dar likes to fall down, perhaps we ought to rest first before pursuing this lead," Shaumatiel says, giving Dar a wink.
Fliss is quick to agree. "Plus we should, like tell the sheriff where to come and find the body. He can make himself useful for a change."
"Yes, resting would be nice," Dar says, returning Shaumatiel's wink with a grin.
The sheriff listens with relief as he hears that you have solved his problem for him. "Well, that's that, all nicely wrapped up. Hallod poisoned Bort on the instructions of persons unknown, and there's the evidence of it. I'll send someone to fetch the corpse."
He nods at Tamli, who is in charge of the wagon-train following Bort's death. "You and your people are free to go."
The half-orc looks non-plussed. "But what about the 'person unknown,' this 'V' - what about them?"
The sheriff shrugs. "My jurisdiction is this town. Anything outside of that isn't my problem. Like I said, you people are free to go. I suggest you get a move on."
Tamli balls up her fists, but settles for giving him a glare. She stalks away without another word.
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Fliss rolls her eyes as the sheriff takes refuge in the "not my job" excuse. Thankfully, tracking down someone who murdered a trader (or conspired, or accessorised, or whatever. Oh, that reminds her, she needs to buy another set of clothes) is very much part of her job description.
"Hey, Tamli! Wait up." She trails after the half-orc, who walks deceptively fast. "How much? To, like track down this V and punish them for killing Bort. What's it worth to you?"
Yes, it's her job. But getting paid is part of her religion.
Yes, it's her job. But getting paid is part of her religion.
A pained expression crosses Tamli's face. "I'm not made of money, OK? I'd hope you'd do this because it's the right thing to do. Anyway, most of what I have is invested in the cargo." She mutters under her breath as she has a think about what she can afford. "Right, I can give you 40 gold: half now and half when you come and find us in Almas with the job complete."
She scowls. "I'll know if you're lying."
”Righteous punishment is what I’m all about,” Shaumatiel says. ”Well negotiated, Fliss. Let us retire for the night, and we shall begin our search in earnest on the morrow.”
The next day, the elf asks around town about anybody with ties to Hallod whose name starts with V.
The poet isn't surprised by the fact that the sheriff acts according to his nature: cowardly and craven. Despiccable individual, that man, but if he's trying so hard to hide from the realities of life, perhaps what lies underneath is nothing but a broken fragment of a boy forced into maturity. Heh, you should write that down before the words escape you, Giu.
It's good that the others push the envelope because Giu is too busy embracing his own self-indulging nature. Eventually, he snaps out of it and makes a dismissive hand gesture. "Gold is a fool's motivator, but perhaps all of us are just that. Be safe, Tamli, and may Desna dance amongst the stars overhead during your travels."
Fliss beams at the old elf-lady's praise.
"I'm all about the law and the profits. Like, you're not paid what you're worth. You're paid what you negotiate."
"Gold is a fool's motivator"
She glares at the poet, who has just like unforgivably mortally offended everything she believes in. Like, for real? How can he think that? She broods on it all evening.
Next morning however, suitably refreshed from a good night's sleep, all is forgotten. She follows the others around. Asking questions nicely isn't really her thing so she takes her lead from them.
Delma (the owner of the Feedmill tavern where you're staying) wrinkles her brow slightly at your queries. "Well, if you want to know who's who in this town then my father is the person to ask. I was about to take him out for the day, but if you want to do that and ask him about things then be my guest."
This, it turns out, is a thinly-veiled way of her getting you to do a time-consuming chore for her. Targen Fulst, her father, is an octagenarian who spends his waking hours in a wheeled chair. He is hard of hearing and part-blind, although not so much that he fails to notice Shaumatiel. "Well, the quality of the help 'round here has certainly gone up, darling!"
He has a clear map in his head of the way his route around town should go, and he lets you know if you start going the wrong way by giving whoever is pushing his wheeled chair at that point (it's surprisingly heavy so you take it in turns) a swipe across the legs from his walking stick. He punctuates the journey with solemn pronouncements, delivered with the certainty of a High Priest ("Course, kids these days got no respect for anyone. Back in my day, if they went runabout in the forest, they got a goblin arrow through their neck! That learned 'em!"); but mostly he dozes half-asleep, waking only when you pass some place that he considers noteworthy, or deliver a mostly-irrelevant anecdote.
..."Well, what d'you think of the Feedmill, huh? The only major business in town that's still running, that's what it is! Opened it myself, 50 years ago, with my brother, who died in the Goblinblood Wars... No, this way, you damned idjit!" He swipes Giu with his cane. "...So as I was saying, I had a legume tied to my belt, as was the custom at the time - oh, this here's the plaguestone!" He points excitedly with his stick at a large stone with a hollow in the middle of it. "Sad story, this town never quite recovered. Course, people being people, they was all about whose fault it was - the priest at the time, Father Bolgrist, whose son upped and run off with my cousin, anyway, he accused one of your people." He pokes Shaumatiel with his walking stick, and gives her a wink. "Name of Silwyth, maybe you knew her? You people all stick together, everyone knows that. But then she went and caught the plague herself and died, and her daughter ran off a few years later. Pretty little thing, what was her name? Ilree, Viree, something like that."
After visiting the plaguestone, Targen 'guides' (by vigorous use of his cane) your group through the north side of town, where most of the plague victims lived. He sighs. "Would you look at that? All these homes, empty and tumbledown. After the plague, nobody came back to rebuild. I call that disrespectful, hmm? Anyhoo, nobody lives here now, well - nobody worth knowing, anyway. Gotta be poor or desperate to be in this part of town! But I still like to wander past, remember it as it was. That was Mossy's home, local smith, ha! Jealous man, he was, gorgeous wife. They were some of the first to go when the plague came. Shame. She was a real looker."
As you leave the north side of town, Targen insists (more flailing with his walking stick and loud protests) on being taken along an old, bumpy shepherd's path. "Mind the trail, you clumsy varmints! Don't go shaking my old bones, now. Huh. All these turnip fields. I hate turnips! Used to be sheep pastures, but the last large flock left town years ago when business went bad." He sighs lustily. "Damn shame. Some of the shepherdesses were good folk - lonely, too and mostly glad of a bit of company if you know what I mean."
The path you walk leads to an old shrine in the middle of an ancient copse of oak trees. Targen shivers and wraps his blanket round his frail form. "Ugh. Not a lot of time for Gozreh, sends the damp chill that gets into my bones. Not like the winters you used to get - they were crisp and dry and you could do something with that snow. The snow you get these days? Pah. Course, it used to belong to Old Deadeye - Father Bolgrist, he was the last priest here. Guess it doesn't belong to nobody now. Like so much of the town. People got no respect for what I built up here, running away, scurrying like varmints!" He cracks Dar across the shin. "No, not that way, you daft fool!"
As your path meanders back into town, you pass a large hill that looms over the southeast part of town. Targen interrupts the monologue he was giving to laugh bitterly. "Etran’s Hill, they used to call that after the man who built this place: thought he was so much better than everyone else, so they say. Nothing doing but he had to have a house on the highest bit of land. Then the fire came, as they always seem to, and he was too far from the river! Him and his whole family died, so they say, and they changed the name of the town to Etran's Folly. Course, everyone these days calls it Plaguestone..." He broods.
"Ah, look, we're back already." He glares at you suspiciously. "Did you miss any bit of it out?"
Delma is waiting for you, clearly expecting you to be back at this hour. She gives you a grateful nod. "No, father, you're back in time for your meal. Let's get you inside." She pushes the complaining old man back indoors.
Shaumatiel mostly tunes out the old man's ramblings, but her pointed ears perk up when he speaks of Silwyth and her daughter. "The geezer said an elf was accused of starting the plague that ravaged this town. If Viree actually was her daughter's name, then that could be the 'V' we're looking for."
For Fliss, the outing passes as her own personal version of hell. She scowls as she is dragged through the town, having to listen to this old guy drone on and on about himself, as though he's the only thing that matters. Doesn't he realise how annoying it is to be around someone who only thinks about themselves?
She tries to make the time go more quickly by thinking about all the things she was planning to do today, that she could be doing instead.
"...So as I was saying, I had a legume tied to my belt, as was the custom at the time - oh, this here's the plaguestone!" He points excitedly with his stick at a large stone with a hollow in the middle of it. "Sad story, this town never quite Course, people being people, they was all about whose fault it was - the priest at the time, Father Bolgrist, whose son upped and run off with my cousin, anyway, he accused one of your people." He pokes Shaumatiel with his walking stick, and gives her a wink. "Name of Silwyth, maybe you knew her? You people all stick together, everyone knows that. But then she went and caught the plague herself and died, and her daughter ran off a few years later. Pretty little thing, what was her name? Ilree, Viree, something like that."...
It's a few moments before the old mans stream of conscioussness talk replays itself in her mind.
"Hey, hang on a mo there." She tips the brim of her hat back to allow herself a proper look at the old geezer, and him at her, and she gives him her best smile. "I don't suppose you could, like, try real hard to remember that girl's name? Like, did it actually begin with a V?"
Targen doesn't remember the name despite Fliss' efforts, but a quick conversation with some of the other old-timers at the Feedmill confirms that yes, Silwyth the herbalist had a daughter named Vilree. There's some disagreement as to whether or not Silwyth was a witch, but all agree that the priest was one of the first to accuse her of spreading the plague. Nobody remembers what happened to the daughter.
You don't have a lot of time to contemplate your discovery however, because that evening a woman shrouded in a heavy brown cloak trimmed with
leaves marches up to you, pulling a simple wooden sledge behind her. As she approaches, she brings the sledge to one side and uncovers her cargo, a pile of wolf carcasses. She turns to you, and despite having her cloak’s hood pulled low, you can make out weathered lips and a slender chin. In a pointed tone, she asks, “Is this your work?”
Dar steps forward and lifts the cover a little more to take a better look at the wolves.
"Not that one specifically, no," he says before pointing at a different one. "I did kill that one, though." He straightens up and looks closer at the woman. "We didn't claim any reward because we were only doing what we were paid to do. Defend the caravan against attackers. Which they were. Attackers, that is."
"Indeed. And what's it to you?" Shaumatiel asks, eyeing the woman suspiciously.
The outing is a stark reminder of why Giu had left home. Old men, you can't sail any sea with them. From the sail to the wheel to the rudder, they got to man it themself, so you might as well stay home. But that's also no good. It's no wonder then that old men end up alone and at home.
Such cherishing thoughts fleet through the depraved mindscape of Giu's head, only to be occasionally interrupted by a proper caning. In a way, he's sad that they reach their destination, as the old man does say interesting things from time to time. But Giu feels more glad about the fact he didn't hit on Delma. Oh, the thought of inhering that man into his life ... the bard shudders.
The dreary nature of life in Plaguestone continues in the form of turnip torture. Luckily, however, the arrival of a rather mysterious and ominous-looking woman breaks the monotony. "By Gozreh's hairy balls, don't let this turn into a lecture on men versus nature ..."
In a way, he's sad that they reach their destination, as the old man does say interesting things from time to time. But Giu feels more glad about the fact he didn't hit on Delma. Oh, the thought of inhering that man into his life ... the bard shudders.
The newcomer throws back her hood, revealing long, elven ears and deep green eyes. She gestures with one arm at the sledge of wolf carcasses (her other arm is entirely covered with an oddly-shaped leather gauntlet).
"I am Noala and I am a - servant, let us say - of these woods. These wolves aren’t the first, and I am afraid they won’t be the last. Worse still, the forest itself is turning sour. Plants and trees are withering, bearing bitter fruit that sickens and kills those who eat it. If you’ve been out to the old orchard, you’ve seen it. The blight is growing, and I can't stop it on my own. I came into town to see if Delma knows anyone who might help. Is she around?"
...go on, Pril/Dar. I dare you :P[/ooc]
"So there have been more of ... these ... kind of creatures?" Dar asks, indicating the wolves. "Have you seen an elf about? An elf named Vilree?"
Fliss is slightly nonplussed at the story, but she nods in reply to the question. "Yes, Delma is inside, I think but she's dealing with her father at the moment. What sort of help do you need? And more important, does it pay?"
Noala nods, and then shakes her head at Dar's question. "Plenty more such creatures, and these wolves are not the worst of it by far. As I said, I can't stop it on my own. And no, the name Vilree is not familiar and there are few other elves in this region that I know of."
She looks at Fliss, taking in the paladin's symbol of Abadar. "I would think that ensuring profitable farmland remains profitable and does not become blighted wasteland is payment enough for one who follows the Lord of the First Vault."
"If it comes to it, I can pay you in furs and hides. I don't encounter much in the way of gold or silver."
"Perhaps we ought to approach this matter from a karmic point of view. It's clear that with Bort's death and, heh, everything that happened in this town before and after, someone needs to simply pick up the proverbial broom and sweep the damned place till there's no dirt nor dust to be found. There's wisdom to be found in the ways of the Vudrani," the bard says with uncharacteristic sincerity. Perhaps doing what's right in return for nothing is the contrarian thing to do here.
Dar turns to look at the bard in complete confusion. "I have no idea what you just said. Did you have some mushrooms earlier, perhaps?" he asks. Turning to look at the others, he gauges them to see if, perhaps, one of them understood that.
The bard resists the urge to roll his eyes and counts to three before explaining to Dar what exactly he meant with all those words. He cups a hand and greets the sky with the palm, gesticulating at Dar as he elaborates. "To be more succinct, we can do what Noala wants for free."
Fliss rolls her eyes as the elf neatly puts her on the spot. "Ugh. I hate economics, it usually means someone's explaining why you're not getting any gold and silver today. But we'll help out. What do you need?"
Noala relaxes slightly as you make it clear - in your own way - that you are willing to help her. "I am an explorer and scout, not a fighter. I want to see how far the blight goes, but I'm going to need some help putting down anything that tries to attack."
"If you have nothing pressing, I suggest we leave tomorrow morning."
Shaumatiel nods. "Then in the morning, we shall leave."
"I was thinking about getting a haircut, but knowing this town, I'd just end up with a slit throat, so no, the appointment can wait and yes, sure, tomorrow morning will be fine."
Rising early the next morning, you eat what may be your last cooked breakfast for some days before Delma waves you off and out of Plaguestone. Travelling from here to the more seriously blighted parts of the forest takes about three hours. The first sign that you are approaching the blight is that the plants in the area are a sickly shade of green with spots of brown. Soon, the forest smells of sweet rot, and the trees look entirely unhealthy, their bark peeling off in sticky black strips.
The presence of rot increases with every step you take, and Noala slows to a stop, turns to look at you. “This is where those wolves came from, I am sure of it. Somewhere ahead is their den - I'll cover you." She unlimbers her bow, fitting an arrow to the string as she lets you move forward.
As you move forward to where Noala is pointing, the ground softens and squelches underfoot due to the sticky runoff from all the dying plants. Soon after, the trail opens into an area with tall trees but little underbrush. The path continues toward the rotting remains of a truly titanic tree and, under its roots, there appears to be a small cave.
Fliss spots what the rest of you do not: at the mouth of the cave, several plants have wrapped their tendrils around the decaying corpse of a wolf - even as she shouts a warning, they unwind their brambly branches and lash out at you!
Fliss looks disgusted. "Ewwww. Nature is like, so gross."
She strides forward to attack, raising her shield.
Fliss' attack misses the bramble-thing as it raises its thorned branches defensively, slashing at her several times, although her shield protects against the worst of it.
The other plant starts to spin on the spot, slowly at first and then faster and faster as its thorny tendrils fly through the air with terrifying speed! Nobody is able to escape as the thorns wreak terrible damage, tearing at your flesh.
Dar 18/32, 2 bleed
Fliss 9/32, 3 bleed
Giu 12/26, 2 bleed
Shaumatiel 6/20, 2 bleed
Shaumatiel cries out as the thorns rip into her. She calls out to Calistria to heal herself and try to stop the bleeding.
She then gives Fliss guidance for her next attack.
Fliss uses her shield to block the vine that strikes her, although it still gets past her defences.
She calls on Abadar to heal her, and then continues to attack the bloodthirsty plants.
Blood from her wounds continues to drip down, staining the ground around her.
"Get out! Don't go toe to toe with the damned things!"
In direct opposition to Giuseffe's instructions, Dar - who only knows one real way to fight things like this - charges in to slash at the thorny thing.
Dar and Fliss take down one of the bushes, but the other one continues to spin, sending lethally sharp - and accurate - thorny branches lashing at Dar, Fliss and Shaumatiel (Giuseffe has sensibly moved away).
Fliss' armour protects her from some of it, but Dar and Shaumatiel suffer terrible wounds.
Giuseffe's injuries clot, but the others are still bleeding badly.
Dar 2/32, 4 bleed
Fliss 10/32, 4 bleed
Giu 12/26
Shaumatiel 1/20, 4 bleed
Barely remaining on her feet, Shaumatiel staggers away and heals herself again.
You can take steps to help yourself recover from persistent damage, or an ally can help you, allowing you to attempt an additional flat check before the end of your turn. This is usually an activity requiring 2 actions, and it must be something that would reasonably improve your chances (as determined by the GM). For example, you might try to smother a flame, wash off acid, or use Medicine to Administer First Aid to stanch bleeding. This allows you to attempt an extra flat check immediately.
The GM decides how your help works, using the following examples as guidelines.
Reduce the DC of the flat check to 10 for a particularly appropriate type of help, such as dousing you in water to put out flames.
Automatically end the condition due to the type of help, such as healing that restores you to your maximum HP to end persistent bleed damage, or submerging yourself in a lake to end persistent fire damage.
Alter the number of actions required to help you if the means the helper uses are especially efficient or remarkably inefficient.
Persistent damage runs its course and automatically ends after a certain amount of time as fire burns out, blood clots, and the like. The GM determines when this occurs, but it usually takes 1 minute.
Giu brings a hand to the rapier at his side but stops mid-motion.
He speaks occult words that twist the fabric of reality, causing the rapier to fly out of its sheath. "Come on, none of us got the talent needed to be proper mulch!"