"Let's give our draconic friends some measure of peace."
He asks to leave some of their bulkier provisions with the kobolds so that their mounts are not weighed down. Then he swiftly mounts his horse and works with Vod to begin tracking Tartuk at full speed.
The party follows the tracks for some time before arriving at a giant vibrant flower. Orange and yellow and purple and green! The plant is massive and so colorful it... it's painful to look at.
As though it doesn't belong.
The tracks lead up to a petal.
There are no tracks on the other side.
What will you do?
The plant the group finds at the end of their trail is something else, and makes even Lina, enthusiastic herbalist that she is, take a moment to consider the safest approach. It takes a lot for a plant to slow her down, but if it’s that dangerous, its colours that vivid, that’s all the more reason for her to figure out what it is, and maybe whether she can grow one herself. It’s like nothing she’s ever seen before.
She draws her sword, just in case, and approaches carefully, trying to find clues as to where their quarry might have gone without damaging the plant, although with something this size, she’s not particularly worried. She nudges the overblown petal that's fallen open with the toe of her boot, even as she hopes she's not about to be swallowed up by an unexpectedly mobile plant by poking about.
At the end of the trail, Brental sees this clearly unnatural plant and watches Morof cast the common cantrip. He follows suit and fixes his eyes on the plant. Illusion? Transmutation? A gate?
Brental raises one eyebrows and he looks at the half-elf, who he assumes sees the same thing. Lina pokes around, presumably not detecting magic.
"Apologies, Meneas," he whispers before switching to Elven.
Brental is curious, but he is also angry at this deceiver and the chaos he has wrought in this area. Answers are less important to him overall than ending the threat.
Meneas leans back in his saddle, having insisted on getting Veil before moving forwards. "Hm. That doesn't look naturally occurring. Might be from the First World?"
He flexes his fingers again, before he strokes Veil's neck and casts about the area for anything else that might clue them in to what has happened here.
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Morof comments "Well well well. If it isn't the all mighty Tartuk, cowering behind an illusion. Your fake everbloom flower doesn't fool a true illusionist. Come out so we don't have to poke you out."
The half-elf looks very smug, feeling as if he has just beaten a master at chess.
The vibrant flower dissolves into nothing around an elderly hunched kobold who waves it away with all the care and annoyance one would take with a fly. He rolls his eyes at the half-elf's smirk and mumbles. "Ohhh don't be too full of yourself now whippersnapper. I've seen magic that you couldn't even dream of so wipe that smug look of your face!"
He scowls and takes a seat in front of the party. "Shows what I get for not having a mount prepared ahead of time... Well?! You followed me all the way out here so I presume you want something?! Can't an old man get some rest? My bones ache from all that running... young folk like you... no respect for your elders none at all!" Tartuk grumbles.
Lina is non-plussed when the extraordinary flower evaporates into a withered kobold, and quite put out: not least because the illusion fooled her, but mostly because she’s been deprived of an interesting specimen. Her grip tightens on her sword-hilt, and it takes all her self-control not to start swinging first and ask questions second.
“Do tell,” she says dryly. “Your familiar seems to think you should be dead, and no true kobold. That magic we couldn’t dream of wouldn’t be some sort of polymorphous spell, would it?”
She keeps one eye out over Tartuk’s shoulder, unsure what he’s playing at, since people don’t normally sit calmly in front of her when she’s got a blade pointed at them.
“We want lots of things, greedy brats that we are,” she continues glibly, her tone at odds with the tension written all over her posture. “An explanation as to what sort of monster starts a false cult dabbling in the sacrifice of intelligent beings, whom for, and a gracious concession, for starters.”
“Failing that, we’ll settle for your head, and settle the rest with necromancy.” Her mouth opens in an alarmingly sharp, toothy smile, and her eyes gleam with more than a suggestion of unholy glee, looking for all the world like she would much rather take the kobold apart and paint magic circles with his blood. Or something.
"Alright, alright calm yourself girl! I'll key you in on what I know then we can get to the killing. You don't need to be quite so keen, sheesh!" The old kobold waves his hands at the woman nervously.
"We all know the way this is going to go so we can at least keep it clean until then. Besides, you couldn't do anything to me that hasn't already been done half-a-dozen times over." Tartuk grumbles.
A sigh escapes the elderly creature's mouth and he smiles wistfully before continuing. "Well, the blasted bird is right on both counts girl... I am no disgusting kobold," he practically spits the word, "I am a man... or at least, I was. And my name is not Tartuk. You may even recognize me when I tell you... I was a bit of a celebrity you see, you may have even read my work... or had your mother's read it to you in the crib for the more human among you..."
He puffs out his chest slightly at this point in pride and takes turns looking all of you in the eye. "My name is Karn Zuddiger. And no, I won't be giving any autographs."
"Some resurrection magic leaves you with a bit of a different body than when you started so I accept your apologies for not recognizing me sooner."
Brental is, for better or worse no student of history. Now that the illusion is past, he looks skeptically at the man-now-kobold named Karn.
Reincarnation was part of druidic practices. Pharasma may have something to say about the occasional diversion of souls from their anticipated paths, but Brental didn't pay much attention to notions of prophecy or fate.
"I haven't heard your stories, I'm sorry to tell. And though you have experienced death before and know it must be on the wing, we have questions. Why have you waged this war? Why make kobolds and mites suffer?"
Brental rests his hand on his new scimitar, ready to remove the false shamans head from his shoulders at a moment's notice.
The purple shaman's eyes widen in surprise then he scowls at Brental. "Hmph! Sound's like someone had a deprived childhood then! Mama not love you enough boy?" He snickers at his own rude commentary until he begins to cough. Once he has steadied himself he continues. "On the wing is a clever turn of phrase though I will grant you... ever tried your hand at the pen as opposed to the blade boy? I've heard tell it's far mightier... The war though... the war was one of convenience. Kill off both the mites and the kobolds in one fell swoop, or so I thought. Only got halfway there with the kobolds before you chased me off... as for the exact why? My master demands sacrifices and you were doing so well playing the part of bloodletters... oh well. I suspect I'll be getting you into more trouble yet, in another time at another place... to bring another speck of ash for the master."
"I rather thought this too ambitious for someone as small as yourself." Meneas muses. "Not your height, mind you. Just... you're rather pathetic, when it comes down to it." He shrugs. "I don't know about you all, but I rather dislike being seen as a tool."
His voice turns icy. "Mind telling us more about your master?" One hand drops to his lance's handle. I wonder whether he's actually here or not.
Hymbria’s a quiet place, and it has no cities like the motherland does, but it does have culture, and enough bardsy gossip passes through that what passes for such elsewhere gets talked about, in Mimere at least.
“So this isn’t your first picnic,” Lina nods at Zuddiger, placing him while Brental and Meneas apply more pressure, alluding to the title of his best-seller, but she doesn’t relax as she realizes just how evil a little man she has in front of her. “Pitax had enough of you painting a new picture every week with some poor sap’s guts, but some other idiot saw fit to yank your soul out of the Abyss.”
She glares at the serial killer, scorn freezing onto her features. “I suppose that would instill a certain sense of gratitude. Is that what this is about? Repaying a favour?”
“I’ll ask again, like my colleague, who for? Some other black bird stealing your cutlery?” Lina really dislikes the foul creature, but she’s had to deal with enough people she didn’t really like for long enough that a certain amount of banter comes easy regardless, and she bounces between monstrous crime and referring to the criminal’s storybook with aplomb, even as the back of her head wonders about her sister guild’s rival across the Inner Sea and their reputation for making sure their marks stay dead. A surprisingly useful set of skills, apparently.
The man harumphs in Meneas' general direction appearing more annoyed and put out than anything. "Your petty insults do nothing to me boy... after having been pulled apart by wires, having killed my family with my own hands... what can words do?"
He shakes his head and turns his attention back to Lina. "Well, at least SOMEONE has heard of me! My oh my, do you people not have books where you're from?" Zuddiger chuckles raspily. "Yes, my master saw fit to raise me but it is not out of any sense of gratitude that I serve... it is to avoid the fate that awaits me should I not sufficiently please my master. Letting me die that day was simply too easy... as I suspect will be letting my soul fade to the Abyss today... Do you know what it's like to be dissolved bit by bit? What it feels like to kill those you love most with your own hands? I suspect you will, in time." the elderly 'kobold' winces and rubs his aching bones in discontent.
"Everything else you'll find out in due time girl. In the meantime just keep doing what you're doing. The fields must be wet for the crops to grow after all... Now hurry up and get this over with, I haven't got all day. Oh and please do help yourselves to my equipment, mere triffles, slightly magical trinkets compared to what my master can create." Karn sits there with a strange calmness to him. Appearing more annoyed than afraid. Like a servant entering a castleand being searchedby the guards before being allowed entry. Just another unnecessary hassle.
The explanations are unsatisfying in their cruelty. But it all points to a higher master, someone else pulling the strings. And to be manipulated so puts Brental ill at ease. Again, the temptation to separate the man's head from his shoulders swells. But the druid sighs and moves his hand from the pommel of his blade.
"Justice does not belong to us this day. Those you so cruelly despised and tortured ought to do with you as they please."
There was also the worry of whether they could prevent this wretch from coming back. Brental makes a note to look for ways to prevent this aberration in the river of souls.
He takes out a rope and looks at his companions. "Let's tie and gag him. I've heard enough of his filth."
"Unfortunately, I'm in a bit of a hurry so I'll just be moving this right along if you don't mind." Zuddiger huffs impatiently and flicks out an odd crystaline stick, waving it in Brental's direction.
Suddenly the device sparkles and flares to life as three orbs of light spin off the crystaline device in seperate dorections before converging on Brental to strike him in the chest. Each sky-blue orb imparts searing pain to the druid before fading into smoke.
Lina glances at Brental in some surprise: should she have made it that much more explicit that she knows some of what the madman got up to in Pitax before his horrors among the Sootscales? And, depending on how different they are from other kobolds, what sorts of tender mercies are they going to render him up to? Under the circumstances, who swings the sword isn't something she's very worried about.
The split second of her distraction is all it takes for Zuddiger to draw a wand, and with that, Lina cuts short the last chance she was about to offer, letting him think what the kobolds’ vengeance might look like, “I’ll give it to you cleaner than you deserve –” “if you give us a name, or at least a species? Some fey got you under geas? The Stag Lord?”
Her free hand is already moving as she recoils, sword hand swinging as she steps back, and then her gesture is complete: a hex sign, but one to invoke, not to avert.
The old 'kobold doesn't even stand making no mives to resist or avoid the elven woman's blade. He doesn't flinch when the sword cuts inti his torso and simply flicks his wand again to cast against Lina.
Lina isn’t surprised to find the wand turned against her next, though just how quickly Zuddiger follows her is unnerving, as he practically throws himself at her blade, not keeping the distance to make it easier to retrieve whatever nasty tricks he has in store. She needs no more encouragement, and lashes out as he leers up at her.
Another trio of bright blue balls erupt from the mad-mage's wand and sear themselves into the flesh of the elven woman before as Zuddiger stands before the group, unflinching despite the blood issuing forth from the fresh wounds from the elven-woman's blades his scaly body.
Brental is surprised by the mage's sudden attack, and he winces in pain with the unerring bolts of force that slam into him and Lina. The rope drops from his hands, and he blinks a few times.
"Your body and soul are condemned. You will never walk this plane again."
"Anfalla."
Vodnykel sees his two-legged companion in pain and leaps to the attack with a blare that shakes the nearby foliage.
Brental unsheathes his sword, takes it in both hands, and brings it down into the kobold's flesh.
Meneas draws his blade as quickly as he can, launching a series of strikes against the elderly kobold. He doesn't care if he dies. Should we really oblige him? Will he come back again, only worse?
Even so, he leans forwards in his saddle as Veil leans back and strikes down with her hooves, smashing down at the puny reptile-thing that is so threatening.
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Morof can't conjure offensive things to do with his hands as the fake kobold draws his wand. Thinking quickly, he realizes that he hasn't really prepared many spells that would be useful in this situation. Thinking the wand is dangerous, he decides to dip his finger in dirty butter which sits in a container in his belt and after saying a few arcane words and gestures, throws it at the wand.
As the blows come for him the old 'kobold's' shoulders sag and he drops his wand to his side. "Finally." he mutters as blades, tusks, hooves and magic all descend upon him.
In a moment he is reduced to a useless read smear on the grass.
The carrion birds begin to gather as the group pick through the creatures remains. Among them they find the crystalline wand, a pair of iron bracers lined with fur on the interior that puffs out along the sides , and finally an ornate sickle, the blade of which seems to be emerging from a lizard-skull's mouth.
"I hope we won't regret that." Meneas says, sighing. "I don't think we've been introduced, by the way. I'm Meneas - sometimes called the Cowl." He looks to Morof. "The kobolds mentioned you said something about the fey bird?"
Saying that makes him remember something. "How truthful do we think that his familiar was being? If indeed it existed at all."
Brental's eyes have shifted crimson as he and his companions bring a vicious end to this bitter man. He steps back from the carnage after a moment, wiping the blood from his blade and resheathing it.
"I'd salt and sour the earth to keep him in it," he curses. "I think I'd like to know what personal history he was talking about, but...only to know what lengths to go to to end him."
The aasimar shakes his head and touches the wounds from arcane blasts. It hurt more than he expected. With a wave of his hand, he casts his familiar orison and looks at the items left behind.
He also looks at Morof after Meneas' introduction and shakes his head. "Yes, apologies. Where are my manners? I'm Brental Fenson of the Oakstewards, and this is my friend, Vodnykel. We've been so focused on our terrible business that we haven't had a chance to properly meet. We seem to have dragged you further into something that you may have been trying to get out of."
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"How truthful do we think that his familiar was being? If indeed it existed at all."
“Now that I know who this was, I’m afraid his familiar was probably telling the truth, as far as it goes. Was it as important in ‘Tartuk’s’ – and its own – master’s scheme as it wanted us to think? I would guess not, but that there is one, playing with us, I can believe. ‘Tartuk’ was terrified, especially if after everything he accepted a raven as his familiar,” the witch concludes.
Brental's eyes have shifted crimson as he and his companions bring a vicious end to this bitter man. He steps back from the carnage after a moment, wiping the blood from his blade and resheathing it.
"I'd salt and sour the earth to keep him in it," he curses. "I think I'd like to know what personal history he was talking about, but...only to know what lengths to go to to end him."
Her gaze settles into vaguely into the middle distance, as she fondly remembers visits to the library in Mimere. Her family’s boat had only a certain amount of room for books, after all, and while she was decades past Tartuk/Zuddiger’s book when it came out, she remembers the gossip afterwards, and the public discussion about how to frame the context for children going forward.
“Burn and/or bury him, but leave his grave unmarked,” Lina suggests.
“He was a mad murderer, and I meant what I told him. He wrote a book for children, but then used his victims to recreate scenes from it in gore. And it all started with a raven that led him between the worlds… At this rate, I’m going to jump any time I see a crow. It’s like that counting poem, isn’t it? Only more sinister,” she adds, trying to conclude, uneasily, on a somewhat lighter note.
"Hm. I see. Wouldn't he have an affinity for ravens anyways?" Meneas asks after a moment. "In any case, I don't have a clue as to what sort of fey he could have referred to as 'master.' They'd have to be pretty powerful to be able to restore him to life, but... I don't know any specifics there."
He shrugs helplessly. "I would leave him for the scavengers, myself, but I'm not sure I want whatever he is getting inside the local wildlife." A pause before he continues darkly. "Assuming it's not already there. We're strangers in these lands, and I am beginning to suspect that that might be true of most mortals."
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Morof introduces himself "My name is Morof. I've studied magic and... herbs." Looking at Lina, he says "Maybe we can trade knowledge someday?", then looking back at Meneas he says "I really don't know anything about a fey bird, I was.... well, I was travelling in an expedition to liberate the Stolen Lands, but I got uhmmm, separated from my group. I don't suppose you'd know where Nujo, Carla and Lofin are, would you?"
Recalling the events in the kobold home, Morof says "I don't think that raven was Tartuk's familiar. I think it may have something to do with... whatever entity has resurrected him. I am glad we're rid of him, as he was annoying at best. Now... would you mind if I tag along until I find people who would help me in my quest to liberate the Stolen Lands in the Aldori's name?"
Brental is horrified by the revelations of this local serial killer from before his birth. As Tartuk had insinuated, Brental's parents had never spoken of him before. Then again, they had lived in Silverhall their whole lives. Would news have reached up there? Likely--but not in any way that they would likely have cared to speak of.
This was a body Brental was happy to burn to ash and leave no trace of. He sets to work gathering firewood for the deed.
"This is a strange land, more full of plots and schemes than the courts back home." Brental is troubled by this realization. He had had enough of those plots from the outskirts in Silverhall. The Oakstewards held their own secrets, but despite their vaguely hierarchical structure they were still mostly flat, and utterly divorced from notions of aristocracy. Brental, Meneas, Lina, and Morof, along with Lorna, Wisp, Signy, Nujo, Carla, Lofin, and whoever else had already been sucked into these machinations, were playing at a dangerous game.
"I'm sorry to say I haven't heard of Nujo, Carla, or Lofin. We did hear that we are the fourth group sent by the Aldoris, and that some of the earlier groups may have met with...insurmountable difficulties I believe was the turn of phrase. Wandering off, mauled by beasts, losing supplies. We have encountered similar, but we're still here fulfilling a charter I imagine is similar to your own."
Brental pauses and looks north before continuing. "Your companions could have been among those who made it back north, though. We didn't receive names. In either case, as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to join us! We have been dealing with the Stag Lord's bandits since we arrived, and have been looking for his hideout while mapping the region. This business with the mites and kobolds is something that we got ourselves embroiled in along the way."
Brental sighs and his eyes fade to their usual verdant green. A smile slowly cracks across his face as well. It had been a grim couple of days since they last set out from the Fort, with the only lightness having been their encounter with good-natured fey in the Narlmarches. Between the poachers, the mites, and this serial-killing kobold, Brental had nearly lost track of the number of bodies.
"We can tell you more of our journey so far on our way back to the Fort, and we can hear some of yours."
Meneas chuckles dryly. "Well, at least one of our predecessors has survived in the Greenbelt. As Brental says, though, we don't know any of your companions. Sorry." He flexes his fingers thoughtfully. "Shall we continue mapping on our way back to Oleg's?"
"Yes! We've been at such a furious pace that I've have scarcely had time to make maps as we have traveled. We can probably stop at the mine on our way back, and take a more leisurely pace."
Before saddling back up, Brental notes the direction Tartuk had been traveling. "I imagine we'll be coming back this direction before long. If he was trying to return to his master, they'll be to the South."
"South... like the Stag Lord. I wonder if there's some sort of connection, or if it's just a coincidence." Meneas muses, gently nudging Veil forwards.
"Maybe we can trade knowledge someday?", then looking back at Meneas he says "I really don't know anything about a fey bird, I was.... well, I was travelling in an expedition to liberate the Stolen Lands, but I got uhmmm, separated from my group. I don't suppose you'd know where Nujo, Carla and Lofin are, would you?"
Recalling the events in the kobold home, Morof says "I don't think that raven was Tartuk's familiar. I think it may have something to do with... whatever entity has resurrected him. I am glad we're rid of him, as he was annoying at best. Now... would you mind if I tag along until I find people who would help me in my quest to liberate the Stolen Lands in the Aldori's name?"
“Oh, certainly!” Lina enthuses, glad of the distraction while dealing with Zuddiger’s body. “You have quite an eye for illusions, that much is clear. I … dabble, mostly, in a lot of things. I’m new to this part of the Shifting Lands myself, and I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything of your friends either. I mostly stay close to the rivers, and it’s becoming dreadfully clear how easy it is to disappear deeper in the woods.”
Meneas chuckles dryly. "Well, at least one of our predecessors has survived in the Greenbelt. As Brental says, though, we don't know any of your companions. Sorry." He flexes his fingers thoughtfully. "Shall we continue mapping on our way back to Oleg's?"
Once the madman’s body has been dealt with, she mulls over Meneas’ question for a bit as she tries to situate herself. It takes a moment, but she thinks she has it, eventually. “That sounds like an excellent idea. I think the Shrike River must be a few couple of miles south from here, before it turns north-by-northeast, going upriver, so we’re probably getting close to the eastern edge of the region covered by our charter. We should probably stay this side of the Shrike, for now.”
"Following the Shrike makes sense to me." Meneas says. "Then we can swing back towards Oleg and Svetlana's and take a rest." He rubs his gloved hands together. "Hm... we should probably look for potential sites for secure camps and such - forward bases. I don't want to have to run all the way back to Oleg's every time we need to rest securely."
The group makes sure to quickly deal with the mad kobold's corpse before continuing on their way back to the Sootscale Den. There they inform the kobolds of their deed, having slain the false shaman, to much rejoicing from the cave's small inhabitants. They are all invited to a feast of giant centipede flesh to be held in their honor but politely decline, deciding they have more important matters on their mind given what has recently transpired. Still, Mekmek makes sure to personally give a great big (and surprisingly strong) hug to each of his three saviors before they head out into the setting sun.
Soon the sun disappears behind the horizon and a blanket of stars shines overhead.