Marinus gives Milo a ginger hug before going to check on the boy. "Are you okay? You were so brave, refusing to run away from that awful thing. I'm Mari."
Milovic starts to tend to the Sheriff's almost mortal wounds, while Marinus addresses the young boy.
For your more intimate proximity to the boy, you notice that the front of his pants is stained darker for having wet himself.
"M-my name is Berti. And, I couldn't. Run away. I couldn't." His eyes barely rise to meet those of Marinus.
Those words uttered, Berti's eyes widen, as the Sheriff moans in pain from the doctor's ministrations to his jaw, mandible snapping back into its sulcus with a grind audible to all present.
"Berti, I'm so glad to meet you. Whether you ran or didn't, you survived. That means you're strong in the most important way. I'd be proud to call you my friend."
He sets his mind to healing the boy's pride — namely, magically cleaning the boys pants where they were soiled.
Millicent pets the dog, as much to help calm herself as the dog. ”This has been a particularly rough day for everyone. I think we had best prepare the town. Sheriff, I think it would be best to insist everyone shelter-in-place. There could very well be more undead on the way, and I do not think we are in much of a position to deal with them.”
Sebastien makes his way about the square retrieving his spent bolts and examining them to see if any are still usable.
He shakes his head ruefully and holds up a bolt whose tip shattered on the cobblestones. His gaze flits from Millicent to Caeller.
"Yeah, my ammo isn't going to last forever and we need more time if we're going to tend to the wounded." He says as he places the two ruined bolts into his bag with the others and slides the other two back into his quiver.
"Perhaps it would be better to gather the townsfolk to one defendable location, we would be able to search the town for any... extras... while trying to gather everyone.
He rubs the red marks on his chest as he makes his suggestions. Perhaps the town hall?
"Berti, I'm so glad to meet you. Whether you ran or didn't, you survived. That means you're strong in the most important way. I'd be proud to call you my friend."
Berti watches as Marinus tends to his attire, a look of relief crossing the young boy's face. He regards the young man, then smiles. He doesn't say anything further, only takes his place at Jominda's side, along with Lireia.
"Sheriff, I think it would be best to insist everyone shelter-in-place. There could very well be more undead on the way, and I do not think we are in much of a position to deal with them.”
The Sheriff blinks his eyes clear, taking in the words of Millicent, before looking upon her. "For those of us who are easy prey, I agree. I'm glad you decided to patrol, otherwise I might not be standing here."
"Perhaps the Town Hall?"
"That's a sound idea."
A familiar voice calls across the Town Square, emanating from the Silk Purse The portly Councilman Hearthmount looks both ways before crossing the Square to address you without the need to shout.
"I'm sure we won't need to gather everyone for safety's sake, not now, not with what I witnessed through the, uh, window, but I think we'll need to address the events of the day. To put our citizens' minds at ease." Hearthmount speaks like a man who is certain his plans will be realized, now that he's declared them.
It takes a while longer before two of the Sheriff's deputies gains the Square. You recognize one of them as Thomas, the lanky fellow who witnessed the altercation at the Laughing Demon, and was chastised properly by Kendra. The other fellow is much older, and introduces himself as Winfielde, while Thomas assists Sheriff Caeller. The two of them acknowledge the Councilman, though Thomas is sheepish to make eye contact with any one of you. He speaks directly to Hearthmount.
"Only two others, Missus Otel and Bonnie Canter, back from the dead! We were lucky the Missus couldn't walk, with her one leg and all. They're destroyed now. Winfielde told us to break them apart... seemed to do the job."
Councilman Hearthmount nods, though he looks unconvinced. "See to the Sheriff's wounds, then let the elders know that we shall have a meeting in the Town Hall, at nine, that should give you enough time to make the rounds."
The Councilman turns to each of you. "You'll be there, I expect?"
Millicent adjusts her glasses before greeting the new arrivals. ”Millicent Jones, Archivist. A pleasure.” She cleans her glasses with a quick cantrip. ”I would be happy to join you at the town meeting. I do hope you mean nine tomorrow, though, as we are all in need of a good rest in case whatever power is at work decides that a gathering of the entire town in one place would be an excellent opportunity to attack. In fact, if this opening move is not meant simply as mere terrorism, inciting such a gathering may be the intent.”
Councilman Hearthmount raises a singular eyebrow. His left one, to be exact, which is slightly bushier than his right.
"Are you suggesting we all wait for you to nap, while the dead walk our streets? Do you not think this is a grave concern that requires our immediate attentions?"
”An army on the march to battle will still measure their pace and allow the soldiers rest. And the people here are hardly soldiers. Hasty measures are never good. They make people predictable and stupid.”
She throws up her arms and shrugs. Politicians, as worthless as ever.
”I can hardly stop you if you insist upon holding it tonight. I can only give me sincerest, most informed advice. In such a case, I would hope that you could take measures to protect the proceedings properly.”
"It would be better to have everyone in one spot. If there is some power gathering on the town, it's unlikely they would wait until its convenient for us. It is wiser to have them in some place where the capable can defend them all and see the attack coming. We do not want to waste our energy running from fire to fire or splitting our resources."
"If we need to rest, we can do it in shifts with the locals. Some seem to have already been tested against these foes and found victory.
Best to have faith in others than bear all the burdens on our own shoulders."
Millicent makes a displeased click of her tongue. Ajir’s disparaging tone was the last straw upon the camel’s back. ”Yes, you made your opinion known before, Ajir, and I still disagree. The politicians agree with you, though, so the matter is settled.” She brushes off her jacket and flattens out her shirt as she prepares to leave. ”I am tired, agitated, and nobody finds my input worthwhile anyways, so I might as well go take a nap.” She plays at an exaggerated yawn. ”Apparently, after sprinting about the town on my own initiative to fight off a literal attack by the undead, I am thought of as a layabout and a fool.” She turns and begins to walk off.
Marinus clears his throat and proclaims loudly, "This is what we will do: Councilman Heathmount, you will requisition any medical supplies and magic healing, to be brought to the town hall. Those grievously wounded or able to fight will be tended to first. The latter will ensure that our neighbors have all gathered in the town hall."
Tired and still hurting from his near death experience, he looks with empathy to Millicent. "We will arrange watches. Those who wield magic will be given an opportunity to rest. If we do as I say, then we will get through this."
Ajir scratches an earlobe, confusion visible by a singular raised eyebrow.
I didn't say... he interrupts his internal conversation as soon as it begins. Focus on the village.
"Have the sheriff organize his men to sweep the town for villagers and any remaining trouble," he adds to the councilman, as he watches Emm leave.
Milo rubs exhaustedly at his face, then belatedly goes to pick up his damnable sword before some curious child can get hold of it. "If there is ice, or anything cold, for that jaw, Sheriff, we will try and find it, so that it won't swell overmuch until I can heal it."
Milo's stutter is much less in evidence when directly treating patients, it seems.
He accepts Marinus's hug with slight bemusement, and then stands around looking rather haggard as he listens to a great deal of discussin, and holding his own ribs.
"In the name of... all the gods, why is there-- arguing over-- nnghhh." He shakes his head.
"I agree with Ajir-- better the people are gathered in one defensible puh-place. The farmhomes here are greatly spread out-- ordering them to, to, shelter at home means someone has to actually go to each place and spread that word-- juh-just as we will have to, in order to tell them to come here. But buh-better to gather everyone by daylight than to just hope there will be no attacks over night on the out- outlying farmsteads. We saw that... the dead know enough to... to attempt to burst through the doors," he says, with a swallow.
"We'd have no way of... of knowing if someone were attacked in the night on the further homes. At least in... one place we can... share the defenses. And if people are to be gathered, it makes little sense to tell them, nothing official will.... be said until muh-morning... 'until then, feel free to g-gossip panicked amongst yourselves....'"
Milo exhales. "I utterly... agree... with the desire for rest. I am injured, right now. I think my ribs are cracked. I would love to lie d-down. But there is more to... do.
"Marinus's suggestion of... all the medical and magical healing is a g-good one, Councilman. And until we are s-sure no dead are still walking... then, yes, I support gathering people. Are there horses to spare, to ride to the furthest homes and make sure everyone knows? These corpses can be fast, but a rider could, could, outpace them. People shouldn't go... alone."
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Sebastien sighs as Millicent storms off. "Well this is going well. Maybe I can smooth things over with the Councilman."
Stepping forward he clears his throat and addresses the Councilman."Excuse me, Councilman. If I may, you are right that the situation is grave and warrants our attention but my friends and I are physically and mentally exhausted from fighting against this threat and the citizens of Ravengro have seen their loved ones rise from the grave, get sent back to the grave, and in some cases take some of the living with them. Hell, the Sheriff's barely able to stand. People aren't in a place to make rational choices. Perhaps if we gathered everyone together and then gave them a few hours to compose themselves we would be able to have a more productive conversation in the morning. I would be more than happy to stand guard while the others recover."
Councilman Hearthmount considers the responses as a whole, his eyebrow now lowered in a bit of a frown as Millicent turns her back on him. His eyes move from the archivist to the sheriff, and the bridge of his nose wrinkles. The injured youth's loud proclamation barely gets a head turn, once Hearthmount lumps Marinus together with Caeller in the 'injured' column, though Milovic's reinforcement of the boy's words seems to carry more weight with the weighty councilman. When Ajir and Sebastien lend their thoughts to the discussion, Hearthmount relents.
"The Wayward Inn maintains a small trade in horses, for travelers who pass through. I'm sure our Diva will not object to their use." He gives himself some space to consider his next words. "Of course you must rest. The Sheriff, too. With the sun already set, it might be wiser to have folks bar their doors to the horrors of the night, and come together in the dawn hours to make sense of this all."
Winfielde speaks up lastly. "Those of you injured, you should come with us to the Temple. Father Grimburrow should be able to fix you right up. Those of you who can ride, well, maybe you can be our town criers." He doesn't look to the councilman, as his words call for action, something Hearthmount likely lacks in enthusiasm.
"Would it not be wiser, Councilman, to escort the priests to the town hall, where we are to gather? Otherwise we risk spreading our forces thin."
The councilman looks off at the lawmen, then back at the young man, and sighs. "If Winfielde and Thomas are already escorting Benjan to the Temple for healing, would you tell them to bring the Father back? Your associate is already departing to rest elsewhere, and master Draznoi wants to run the town on horseback." Hearthmount looks to those of you still standing in conversation.
"I only considered bringing the elders together to discuss the day's events. Bringing every man, woman, and child, and they will spill into Town Square for their numbers. Ravengro has at least three hundred citizens, you know." The councilman looks on Marinus, then the others, and waits, though his manner is growing impatient, and not a little fearful of remaining outdoors.
Ajir nods and sprints off to catch up to the lawmen to inform them of the councilman's request. He'll also escort them to the temple and the priest back.
Millicent only made it about a block before she had second thoughts and stopped to try to clear her head. She has spent her entire adult life doing thankless work against the vilest people she has ever met, and she thought that perhaps, just this once, she could get a taste of recognition for putting her life on the line. She does not do what she does for the recognition, but just once it would be nice. That the councilman would speak to her so disparagingly for daring to give an unvarnished assessment of the situation...oh it just makes her burn up inside. Being treated as a nobody is fine, but being treated as a fool by the very people she is trying to help? That she will not tolerate. She has spent too long letting people chip away at her pride to let go of what she has left.
"Just... let me see if I can have the temple tuh-tend to my ribs before I try and ride a horse," Milo sighs. "Ajir or S-Sebastien, would you wish t-to ride with me?"
The day's events have taken their toll. The Bereaved collectively seek reprieve, against a potential punishment for pushing back against the darkness. Ajir accompanies the lawmen on their march to the Temple of Pharasma, waving Marinus and Milovic to join him. Moments later, they arrive at an archivist in the process of composing herself, so encourage Millicent to strength their numbers. For your chosen direction, Lireia also joins your escort.
This hits a tipping point in Winfielde's mind. He pats Thomas on the shoulder. "Looks like you've got good company here. They'll see you both safely to the Father." The old deputy leaves the group, and calls to Sebastien, currently engaged in reasoning with the councilman.
"Come with me. Let's make the rounds. You know how to ride? Suppose we'll know soon enough, eh?" Councilman Hearthmount crosses the square, and disappears into the Silk Purse, where muffled conversation breaks out behind the closed front door.
With momentum carrying the groups to their respective actions, the evening permeates with unease and unreleased tension, in the threat of the unknown.
The Injured find their way safely to the Temple of Pharasma, and are welcomed in, with nary a question of contention uttered by either Rankin or Father Grimburrow. You are informed that Saiya still stands guard at the Restlands gates, which have all been locked against any further unearthing. The Richers and the Laramees are also taking refuge in the Temple, the latter family welcoming Lireia into their fold.
The Riders arrive at the Outward Inn, and mistress Vai is most accommodating. She's up-to-date, as Jominda and Berti have taken shelter in her cozy common room, and have lent their eyewitness accounts. Three horses are saddled, and Winfielde can't conceal his surprise when Sarianna insists on joining them in visiting the whole of the town, with fell warnings of wandering the night under present circumstances.
The chorus of riders' voices call out to every home, its dissonance certainly effective in piercing the night, a mixture of hoarse old-man-voice, baritone dhampir-voice, and sonorous opera-voice. Some doors open to lay eyes on the passersby, but most doors remain barred, and curtains snap shut and lights dim in acknowledgment of the message. Only once is Sebastien required to pull up his horse's pace to a halt, and level his crossbow to plink at a lone zombie. Winfielde bolts by on horseback, hacking the injured zombie down with a single sword's blow. Sarianna looks disgusted at the grisly work, but says nothing in objection.
Eventually, the BeHealed and the BeHailed regroup at the Lorrimor Place, the looming fitful night ahead, but also the promise of a town's gathering in the dawnlight hours to discuss the grave matters at hand.
...
The next morning creeps in, as does the fall of light rain, as if the night tries to claw back its essence and shroud your eyes against any hope daylight might bring you.
Millicent sleeps well that night, having thoroughly exhausted herself the day before. She is also confident in her assessment that any further attack would not come that evening.
As she meets the others downstairs for breakfast, any disagreements or raw feelings on her part are forgotten. She felt nothing so extreme that a new day and a good night's sleep would not cure it. Furthermore, she has some new tools at her disposal now that she is confident will be invaluable moving forward. She is already fully dressed and ready to head out.
"Good morning, all. That was exactly what the doctor ordered. I shall endeavor to be more restrained in my use of magic today, should more combat come to color our day." She sips on a coffee and sighs in contentment at the warmth. "I can provide magic protection for those without armor now, including myself, so feel free to ask."
Ajir's eyebrow raises. "A useful trick. I never found a set of armor that felt comfortable on my skin."
Unable to disassociate the texture of zombie flesh from a meaty breakfast, he sticks to fruit and eggs this morning.
"I suppose we head into town to see what the locals want to do after last night?"
Sebastien turns his attention from the Councilman as both Milo and Winfielde call his name. "Sure. I'd be happy to help alert the town. I think Winfielde and I can handle it without too much trouble though Milo. You should go take care of those ribs."
As he rides through town Sebastien makes note of Gibs Hephenus' whereabouts.
Sebastien also looks greatly recovered as he joins Millicent in the kitchen. His smile is firmly back in place as he makes himself a cup of tea.
"Good morning, Millie! Glad to see a good night's rest did the trick!" he says as joining her at the table.
He blows on the tea and gives it a moment to cool after the first sip burns his tongue.
"Hopefully your powers of deduction see more use today than your power over the arcane. We really need to find the source of these troubles. We did well yesterday but I doubt the town could handle too many days like that."
Sebastien nods in response to Ajir. "Hopefully we've earned a bit more trust and goodwill from the town leaders. Getting to the heart of this problem would go a lot smoother if we had their support."
Marinus wakes early, rested and fully healed. "Let us hope the restless dead have left the town alone for now, so that we may focus today's efforts on finding their source." He seeks out Milo and asks bluntly, "So, tell me more about your sword. You don't seem very at ease with it."
Your entire circuit through Ravengro, you see several townsfolk come to their windows or doors, but not Gibs. His shack is dark when you pass both southern buildings.
...
While the Bereaved begin to gather for breakfast, Zena and Kendra enter the front door, followed immediately by Russel. The big man carries a tarp. He moves to the living room, retrieving the body of the late Professor. He doesn't say a single word in the task, only nods to Kendra and Zena, who return his attention with pursed lips and conscientious blinks. Russel departs, full tarp slung over his shoulder. Zena and Kendra follow him out. Zena turns to address those present.
"The morning will be spent seeing the dead returned to the Restlands. Councilwoman Straelock promises a meeting in the late afternoon in the Town Hall." She speaks only the words necessary, as her full attention returns to Kendra, and escorting her out.
Millicent stands by the door, ready to head out. "Before the town hall meeting, I would like to meet with Father Grimburrow in private. I think he may be more willing to speak to us now that the situation in the town has changed."
"Good plan. Hopefully he's managed to get some rest as well."
Milo doesn't argue with Sebastien's suggestion, and makes a pained way to the temple to have his ribs tended... and from thence, to check on his mother.
The sword, he bids it to be gone, in an annoyed whisper. Though he does make reluctant plans to buy a scabbard...
***
In the morning, Milo gives Marinus a look of some bare shock at his blunt question, then gazes to the ground, rubbing his face with his hand.
"Ac-accurate. I don't want it. I wish it were gone from my life. But it is here and I... I... after yesterday I suppose I must... make use of it. I... s-suppose you must know of such-- things, with your own odd... lives...
"It is... connected to, my, my father, somehow. He was a soldier of Lastwall. He d-deserted. After his puh... passing a few years back, my mother... gave me the blade, and the armor... I sold the ssss-sword. I didn't want it. It... it talks to me. I thought I was going-- mad. I'm-- still not sure I haven't.
"You call it a... a gift. It harangues me, it belittles me, it... it... I didn't-- I duh-didn't used to-- t-talk like this. I-- would toss it into a ruh-river if I could. But it would just come back."
Milo shakes his head, rubs at the back of his neck. "There's no use... in... it is what, what it is. We should go to the.... the meeting. With Father Grimburrow, as Madame Jones wishes. And c-can you please stop-- running towards the dead? I-- p-perhaps this is all-- ordinary to you, with all your, your... past lives but--
"But I really would rather nnnot see you die for another time, Marinus."
Milo finds his mother nestled on one of the couches in the Professor's Library, on the third floor of the Lorrimor Place. She encourages him to remain in Kendra's residence, to find himself an open couch, and lend the poor girl a sense of security for a night's rest.
...
The Bereaved visit the Temple of Pharasma the next morning, hoping to speak with Father Grimburrow. For the cascade of recent misfortunes, your eyes adjust to the dim light of the western transept, where you witness not one, but three coffins. Two adults, one child, for their size.
The sound of the rain heightening, then muffling, as you enter the Temple is enough to attract the attention of the Father. Both acolytes Rankin and Saiya appear to be absent, for the moment.
The old man looks every bit his age, dark circles under his eyes suggesting little to no sleep. "You look well. Has the day revealed any further atrocities?"
Marinus gives Milo an affectionate light punch on the arm. "I don't think I can make any promises, especially when innocent kids are in danger. But I'll see what I can do."
He gazes at his friend's sword hand. "You know, I believe in destiny. I suppose I have to. There is a thread running through my lives. Almost always I'm fighting the forces of undeath and decay in these lands. Maybe wielding that sword is your destiny."
He nods at the others, indicating he's getting ready to go, as well. "The thing about destinies is, if you fight them, they'll fight you back. And the struggle'll be on their terms. Once you accept them, you get to take charge."
He smiles and walks toward the door, pleased with his attempt at insight.
Marinus inclines his head respectfully at Father Grimburrow. "We are just beginning the day. I pray none of the outlying farms were attacked. Father, do you think the old ruins might have enough lingering necromantic energy to cause the dead to walk?"
Millicent waits until Marinus leaves. "People generally talking about two different forces when they use the word 'destiny." The first is what the expectations and social force upon you are pushing you to. That was the destiny my parents intended for me, who expected me to be a quiet son and heir to the bourgeois ideal. The second is what you are naturally inclined for based on your personality, deep desires, and skills. That is the destiny of the truth I denied myself for the first half of my life. When it comes to the latter, I agree with Marinus that you should stop fighting it. When it comes to the former, I suggest you take it out back and shoot it right between the eyes. Keep pulling the trigger on the crossbow until it stops moving." She begins rolling up a cigarette for later, then heads for the door, briefly turning back to wave to the others. "Shall we?"
Millicent nods in agreement with Marinus. "Also, I thought it might be a good idea for us to speak privately. Perhaps we could both, you and our group that is, share what we know. Any material assistance you could provide would be helpful as well."
"Father, do you think the old ruins might have enough lingering necromantic energy to cause the dead to walk?"
"Petros certainly thought so." The pharasmin closes his eyes, eventually opening them, still looking at the temple floor. "His fatal curiosity is becoming yours. When he mentioned ghosts, I didn't take him literally."
"Also, I thought it might be a good idea for us to speak privately. Perhaps we could both, you and our group that is, share what we know. Any material assistance you could provide would be helpful as well."
Father Grimburrow beckons you into his office when Millicent mentions privacy. This accomplishes two things- your group being able to take a seat comfortably, and the priest being able to return to his cup of kahve.
"Humor an old man, then. I have not tried to be willfully ignorant, but here I am. What do you know, and what do you wish to know?"
"Oh, goodness. What I know... Are you familiar with the migration of souls between lifetimes? Suffice to say, sometimes I feel all of this has happened before, and all of it will happen again."
Marinus' voice and mien epitomize his now-familiar mishmash of youthful enthusiasm and centuries old world weariness. He quickly focuses in on the matter at hand. "We know that Petros suspected the Whispering Tyrant's cult to still be active. They had taken an interest in a particular prisoner who had been held at Harrowstone — who perhaps remained there in its basement, kept there by Warden Hawkran and his men during the fire. Petros believed the Whisperers had been up to foul play at Harrowstone. Perhaps attempting to unearth and reanimate this evil."
He looks into Grimburrow's eyes. For a moment, his own expression seems very ancient indeed. Weary. "I had occasion to visit it once, before the firer. The people they kept inside... Those are not spirits we want running rampant in this world."
Father Grimburrow looks towards both Marinus and Millicent, before pulling some stress from his face, from forehead to chin. "You may be right. Professor Lorrimor spoke vaguely on such things. I think he meant to shield me from the investigation into Harrowstone. His death is less happenstance now, I see that. If you seek knowledge about this prisoner, we may have records. In the basement. Our file room may shed some light, help in this investigation." The Father bids you follow him.
Presuming you follow the wiry little man, he leads you to one of two doors, which in turn lead down a small set of stairs and into the Basement of the Temple of Pharasma. Here, you encounter a room full of papers, binders, and books.
"You are welcome to spend time here. Do your best not to damage the bindings. If you need writing implements, I can accommodate."
Harrowstone is a ruined prison— partially destroyed by a fire in 4661, the building has stood vacant ever since. The locals suspect that it’s haunted, and don’t enjoy speaking of the place.
Harrowstone was built in 4594. Ravengro was founded at the same time as a place where guards and their families could live and that would produce food and other supplies used by the prison. The fire that killed all of the prisoners and most of the guards destroyed a large portion of the prison’s underground eastern wing, but left most of the stone structure above relatively intact.
The prison’s warden perished in the fire, along with his wife, although no one knows why she was in the prison when the fire occurred. A statue commemorating the warden and the guards who lost their lives was built in the months after the tragedy—that statue still stands on the riverbank just outside of town.
Most of the hardened criminals sent to Harrowstone spent only a few months imprisoned, for it was here that most of Ustalav’s executions during that era were carried out. The fire that caused the tragedy was, in fact, a blessing in disguise, for the prisoners had rioted and gained control of the prison’s dungeons immediately prior to the conflagration. It was only through the self-sacrifice of Warden Hawkran and 23 of his guards that the prisoners were prevented from escaping— the guards gave their lives to save the town of Ravengro.
At the time Harrowstone burned, five particularly notorious criminals had recently arrived at the prison. While the commonly held belief is that the tragic fire began accidentally after the riot began, in fact the prisoners had already seized control of the dungeon and had been in command of the lower level for several hours before the fire. Warden Hawkran triggered a deadfall to seal the rioting prisoners in the lower level, but in so doing trapped himself and nearly two dozen guards. The prisoners were in the process of escaping when the panicked guards accidentally started the fire in a desperate attempt to end the riot.
The Whispering Way is a sinister organization of necromancers that has been active in the Inner Sea region for thousands of years.
Agents of the Whispering Way often seek alliances with undead creatures, or are themselves undead. The Whispering Way’s most notorious member was Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant, although the society itself has existed much longer than even that mighty necromancer.
The Whispering Way itself is a series of philosophies that can only be transferred via whispers— the philosophies are never written or spoken of loudly, making the exact goals and nature of the secretive philosophy difficult for outsiders to learn much about.
Exact details on the society are difficult to discern, but chief among the Whispering Way’s goals are discovering formulae for creating liches and engineering the release of the Whispering Tyrant. Agents often travel to remote sites or areas plagued by notorious haunts or undead menaces to perform field research or even to capture unique monsters. Their symbol is a gagged skull, and those who learn too many of the Way’s secrets are often murdered, and their mouths mutilated to prevent their bodies from divulging secrets via speak with dead.
Originally, Harrowstone housed only local criminals, but as the prison’s fame spread, other counties and distant lands began paying to have more dangerous criminals housed within this prison’s walls. At the time of the great Harrowstone Fire, the number of particularly violent or dangerous criminals imprisoned within the dungeons below was at an all time high.
The five most notorious prisoners in Harrowstone at the time of the great fire were Father Charlatan, the Lopper, the Mosswater Marauder, the Piper of Illmarsh, and the Splatter Man.
[ooc]Success on this Research allows you to attempt separate DC 25 Knowledge(History or Local) Checks for each of the five names you discover.
Sebastien follows along behind Father Grimburrow as he leads the group down to the basement.
"Thank you, Father. Any information we can gather will be a great help." Sebastien says as the weight of suspicion begins to lift from his mind. "In his journal the Professor mentioned you had access to the tools necessary to hold the prison's spirits at bay. Do you know what he was referring to? If so it would be much appreciated if we could make use of them once we've had a chance to thoroughly research what we're walking into."
Sebastien brushes a layer of dust from the spine of a book on the nearest shelf. "Well let's see what we can learn about Harrowstone."
"Thank you, father. Paper would be most helpful. If you happen to have a large slate, that might also help."
Marinus dives into his studies quickly. Ultimately, the tomes serve to fill in bits of memory from his previous visits to Ravengro those many years ago.
He rather bluntly hands pen and paper to the dhampir as he notices his struggle to find appropriate references. "Basti, would you help me by taking notes?" He proceeds to narrate his findings.
Millicent does her best to research as well, immediately pouncing on all the best resources regarding The Whispering Way. Evil Ustalavic cults are her specialty, after all. She remembers that the foremost reference on such activity is in the rather dry and horribly-written memoirs of a Caliphas detective who had dealt with several cults during her tenure.
She does figure out exactly which tome would be most useful to her each time for the other subjects, but Marinus always seems to have gotten it during her blitz on The Whispering Way, so she has to make due with far less useful references.
"As I suspected, the evidence of Whispering Way interference in Petro's death is mounting. 'Agents often travel to remote sites or areas plagued by notorious haunts or undead menaces to perform field research or even to capture unique monsters. Their symbol is a gagged skull, and those who learn too many of the Way’s secrets are often murdered, and their mouths mutilated to prevent their bodies from divulging secrets via speak with dead.'"
"In his journal the Professor mentioned you had access to the tools necessary to hold the prison's spirits at bay. Do you know what he was referring to? If so it would be much appreciated if we could make use of them once we've had a chance to thoroughly research what we're walking into."
Father Grimburrow gives the dhampir a measuring look. "I do. I suppose we can talk about that later, once you've had your chance." The pharasmin finishes the latter part of his final sentence by handing the young man a sheaf of papers, and a thin piece of charcoal.
Your chance takes up the entire morning and afternoon, threatening to keep you from making the meeting at the Town Hall in the late afternoon.
The Bereaved begin to amass various journal entries and monthly accountings, and the picture of the problem slowly but surely comes into better focus.
Between Marinus and Millicent, the fullest history available is obtained on both the prison of Harrowstone, and Ravengro's accounting of the Whispering Way.
With an hour left before adequate time to depart for the Town Square, four of the Five Prisoners of Harrowstone are brought to candlelight. Only one name continues to elude you- the Mosswater Marauder.
Sebastien continues to chalk his fingers in the writing, while Marinus and Millicent look up at times to see if Ajir and Milovic are having better luck securing the last grain of truth on the final Prisoner...
Ajir paces for a while before beginning to look through a few sheaf of paper.
Father Charlatan, the Lopper, the Mosswater Marauder, the Piper of Illmarsh, and the Splatter Man.
In awe at the speed and capacity of the book-smart members of the gathering, Ajir quickly realizes there are party members more apt for this work. He quickly swaps over from trying to draw conclusions from various words on parchment, and begins to try and help Marinus and Emm organize the work they have already perused based on their subject. He also takes the time to dust and clean between organizational efforts.
Milo mostly hands off books to the others. Though he has heard of Harrowstone, of course, as a Ravengro native, his knowledge is based more in the hyperbolic whispers of children such as he himself had once been, than any sort of factual basis. The stories he calls to mind contradict each other and he doesn't volunteer them against the genuine research of the others.
The books in fact make him sneeze, a bit, dusty as they are.
Beyond that, he mulls over the concept of destiny, with a sigh.
"If it's my 'destiny' to use that sword then it's a destiny at odds with my wishes. I'll do it reluctantly, and only if it seems lives would be at greater risk if I didn't. Pharasma knows the fate of a man, or a woman, but... I don't... t-trust much to those who claim to know her, her will..."
He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. Like Ajir, he busies himself largely with carrying and shifting the books around at the request and behest of the more academic among them. If nothing else, he can hold a lot of books at one time. He shares an absent half-a-smile with Ajir when they both find themselves trying to grab the same tome at Millicent's request, and backs away to let the monastic warrior grab it first.
Ajir confirms the names of the Five Prisoners independently, handing a tattered transcript off to Milovic, as its terminology smacks of medicine. In this last concerted effort, the entirety of knowledge regarding the Five Prisoners is bequeathed unto you. The Temple of Pharasma proves a competent receptacle of local knowledge, however disheveled it may be.
In the basement of a local temple stands five individuals, contemplating the nature of five inmates of Harrowstone, basement dwellers themselves...
Of the five notorious prisoners, only Sefick Corvin was not technically a murderer, yet his crimes were so blasphemous that several churches demanded he be punished to the full extent of Ustalavic law. Although he claimed to be an ordained priest of any number of faiths, Father Corvin was in fact a traveling con artist who used faith as a mask and a means to bilk the faithful out of money in payment for false miracles or cures.
He became known as Father Charlatan after his scheme was exposed and his Sczarni accomplices murdered a half-dozen city guards in an attempt to make good the group’s escape.
When Vance Saetressle stalked prey, he would hide in the most unlikely of places, sometimes for days upon end with only a few supplies to keep him going while he waited for the exact right moment to strike. Once his target was alone, the Lopper would emerge to savagely behead his victim with a handaxe.
Only 5 years before his hometown of Mosswater was destined to be overrun and ruined by monsters from the nearby river, Ispin Onyxcudgel was a well-liked artisan and a doting husband. When he discovered his wife’s infidelity, he flew into a jealous rage and struck her dead with his hammer, shattering her skull and his sanity with one murderous blow. Wracked with shame and guilt, Ispin became convinced that if he could rebuild his wife’s skull she would come back to life—but unfortunately, he could not find the last blade-shaped fragment from the murder site.
So instead, Ispin became the Mosswater Marauder. Over the course of several weeks, the cunning dwarf stalked and murdered nearly 20 people while searching for just the right skull fragment. He was captured just before murdering the daughter of a visiting nobleman from Varno, and was carted off to Harrowstone that same night.
Before he snatched his victims, the Piper taunted his targets with a mournful dirge on his f lute. He preferred to paralyze lone victims by dosing their meals with lich dust and then allowed his pet stirges to drink the victims dry of blood.
Professor Hean Feramin was a celebrated scholar of Anthroponomastics (the study of personal names and their origins) at the Quartrefaux Archives in Caliphas. Yet an accidental association with a succubus twisted and warped his study, turning it into an obsession. Feramin became obsessed with the power of a name and how he could use it to terrify and control. Soon enough, his reputation was ruined, he’d lost his tenure, and he’d developed an uncontrollable obsession with an imaginary link between a person’s name and what happens to that name when the person dies. Every few days, he would secretly arrange for his victim to find a letter from her name written in blood, perhaps smeared on a wall or spelled out with carefully arranged entrails. Once he had spelled his victim’s name, he would at last come for her, killing her in a gory mess using a complex trap or series of rigged events meant to look like an accident.
You can see your breath, and the breath of the others.
Alone in the basement of the Temple of Pharasma, you find yourselves a touch hungry for pressing through lunchtime. When you ascend the stairs, you are able to ascertain from Father Grimburrow that the time is drawing nigh for the Town Hall Meeting...
"Did you find what you needed?" The pharasmin stands in the doorway of his office, pulling a heavy cloak about his shoulders, as he readies to depart for the meeting, himself.
"We found much that may be helpful. What we need... That we shall see! Have you perhaps holy water? A wand that heals?"
Sebastien cups his hands to his mouth and warms them with a breath of warm air.
"Is it always so cold down here? I was so focused I didn't notice it earlier but I can see my breath it's so cold."
Millicent is so distracted by their studies that even her with her notoriously strong powers of perception is almost at a loss to notice the cold. "Indeed. I wonder as well." She begins looking around the room for anything out of the ordinary. She speaks while she does so. "I think that this so-called 'Splatter Man' in particular may be less dead than we hoped. The letters written in blood on the town monument point to either such a case, a copycat, or someone intending for us to believe it is him." She looks over some books that had been untouched on the shelves to see if any might be secret mechanisms. "Whatever necromantic force is behind the events in the Restlands may also be behind the return of one or more of these particular characters." She taps her chin. "But these are mostly murderers and there has been a decided lack of murders about town. If The Lopper was on the loose, for example, why would he not simply be going on a tear about the town as per his name?"
Marinus moves to the chalkboard and raps on it with his index finger, his focus on the conversation and not the cold.
"Petros wasn't investigating these spirits breaking loose of their own accord. He was focused on the lich lovers themselves. Perhaps their rituals have stirred up the necromantic energy needed to wake the dead. Or maybe they've just gotten bored with their hunt and decided to do some flesh crafting on the side."
Millicent nods along, still tapping her chin. ”This is true. The surge in necromantic energies could also be what drew them here in the first place, though I find that unlikely given our current timeline. No, I think you are right. Something the Whisperers did has likely caused our current crisis.”