Father Ruvarra gives Roger a slight sideeye. And edges a foot or two away. He also frowns. "This story clarifies much, but there are still questions. I will now proceed to be a useful narrative mouthpiece, since the GM already sent away Talon I believe I know the grave of which he speaks....
"About a month ago, the town's gravedigger and groundsman, a man named Sapiro, died of presumed natural causes. He was... well, it is bad form to speak ill of the dead-- but truly, I don't know that anyone in town might have been found who would have been eager to speak good of him," the father says with a weary sigh.
"He did a job that few want to do, and thus he was tolerated, but even in life I think all found him unpleasant. I was the one to find his body, in the little hut he was granted on the cemetery's periphery, when the grasses looked over high and I went to see why he had not attended to them. I found him dead in his bed, but I did not see any signs of foul play on his person, nor nothing of dire magics. He was an old man, well into the years where death can be natural.
"It was only in going through his effects that I discovered he had all manner of purloined wealth-- wealth I recognized could only have come from the dead that he himself was burying. Rings and necklaces that I remembered people being buried with-- that sort of thing. It was all very distasteful," the priest says with a pinch of the bridge of his nose.
"It might be good if we went to investigate this grave-- together, if you all wouldn't mind accompanying me."
An acolyte is assigned to watch Gellion, who seems quite exhausted by his tale. As the priest leads the way out of the temple and through the streets towards the cemetery, he continues to muse aloud, "There are still disturbing questions, aren't there? There was already bile in the warehouse-- how? Who placed it there, if not Gellion himself? I fear this mystery is not yet solved."
Within a few minutes, the group has reached the cemetery. Father Ruvarra leads to the potter's field section of the cemetery-- no ornate crypts here or marble headstones-- a piece of wood if the dead are lucky, and sometimes not even that.
"Well... here is where he was put to rest," Ruvarra says with a frown at a patch of earth. Though it does show signs of being a relatively fresh grave, with no grass growing over it yet, it doesn't show signs of an emergence such as Gellion tells. A single board marker says SAPIRO - MAY PHARASMA GRANT A JUST REWARD.
"Well... I can't fault the kid for what he does after tasting something strange. Not after the jungle." Roger's eyes gaze off into the middle distance and far past.
Emma glances over at Roger with a smirk. Tired though she is, she can't help but say, "You can't leave a tale like that untold Roger. Perhaps I'll regret asking, but the next time we're all gathered for a meal, I'd love to hear how that story relates to this one."
As the group gathers to follow Father Ruvarra to the cemetery, Emma hangs back for a moment and approaches Gellion.
"Well, it does indeed sound like you've been through quite the ordeal. Rest up, Gellion. Try not to dwell too much on what's occurred. As you've said, no one has died - just remember to keep all of this in mind in the future - evil can be cunning and tempt you without you even realizing it. Rather than spend time dwelling on the potential bad things that could have happened, focus that energy on helping to strengthen this community against future incursions - reconnect with your friends if they are willing to do so, as it sounds as though they don't bear any grudges. But for now, I wish you well on your recovery. If you ever want to talk - about anything - I'm available to listen for as long as I'm here."
----
The walk to the cemetery is an uneventful one, though Emma can't help but feel on edge, as though she expects corrupted insects to burst from the ground at any moment. As they walk through the grounds, she notices a spiderweb on one of the nearby trees, with a spider waiting in the center of the web. Glaring at the little thing, Emma walks over and crushes it in a gloved hand.
"Let's see you try to swarm anything now," she mutters under her breath before continuing to catch up with the others.
Ruvarra indicates the grave in question, and Emma frowns down at it.
Though she hadn't had much cause to use her ability to sense evil thus far, it seemed as good an opportunity as any. She knew better than to aim it at Sirio - she already knew he would light up her sense thanks to his dark patron. If there was anything that could alert her sense around the grave, she'd rather know ahead of time for once.
"Give me a moment," she says to the gathered party. "I'm going to scan the grave site for any indication of evil. Likely a waste of time, but given all we've encountered so far..." Emma trails off with a shrug and focuses her sense on the grave. She feels a sense of power thrum within her chest, and her visual sense begins to shift slightly - the edges of her vision fade but the center of her vision becomes sharper and seems to create a shimmering sort of veil across her vision; she knows that her eyes emit a soft glow as she uses her sense.
Though Emma focuses the senses that Iomedae has seen fit to grant her, the grave appears to have no evil taint upon it. If there ever were such a thing, then a month is long ago that it would have faded, probably.
Responding to Emma's check, Hannelia says "Nothing? Good news I suppose. Not that I'm expecting much but let me just check it as well in case there's any lingering magical effects." So saying, she speaks the words to the minor incantation and brings forth a spell.
After completing her casting she crouches down into a squat to peer closely at the grave. Again, a month down the line she's not expecting to notice anything of note but it seems prudent to check.
"It seems in poor taste to exhume the body but I guess we'll probably be able to get permission to do so if it comes to that," she muses, a grim look on her face reflecting the unpleasantness of such a task. Turning to address Father Ruvarra, she enquires "Is there any way we could also check out Sapiro's hut? I'm sure you would have discovered anything obvious when going through his possessions, and much time has passed since then too, but could be worth a look." Hannelia pauses, flicking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Dependent on the hut still being unoccupied of course. I'm not aware whether we have a new groundsman in post yet?"
To the party at large she asks, "I feel we currently have little to work with, are we missing any other leads?"
Constantine is glad that the gathered for this task are all diplomatic in their own way, as Gellion opens up quite a lot. It was probably Emma who took the young man over the edge with her careful empathy. There's a good connection, there, and Constantine wouldn't muddy that with more.
He also wonders about Roger's story. I wonder if this one involves the parrot.
Gellion's story doesn't make perfect sense--what about the Abyss does?--though at least it lends a chronology to the events that they had experienced. The abyssal bile had preceded Gellion in both the graveyard and the warehouse, and so his role in the spread seemed to primarily involve his now-destroyed home. This Sapiro could have been the original victim-progenitor, given the vile spread in the graveyard. But if he had not been found in a state like Gellion, then perhaps not. Not every maleficent action needed to be tied to fiendish meddling. Mundanity was often a simpler explanation than seeking plots. It was certainly something to pay attention to, though.
On their way out, he offers a suggestion to the most official people available, mostly to Father Ruvarra. "Not to raise alarm, but it might be prudent to gather up the cold iron available in town to ensure that the citizens have access to it in case of emergency."
---
Constantine is quiet on the way back to the graveyard, lost in contemplation. As with before, he feels a sense of calm coming here, more than he feels in town. He barely even notices Emma's trauma manifesting as she crushes a spider. Is that in the spirit of the Inheritor? he wonders.
It's curious to watch Emma invoke her deity's blessing to scan for traces of the malign. What caused someone (or something) to appear as evil, he wonders? Was there something physically different that magic could pick up on, something beyond traditional senses? Did a person's intention actively change something about them, something that you could measure?
Hannelia's detection makes a bit more intrinsic sense to him, although he had no access to such divination magic himself. Magic must change things. What, exactly, he wasn't sure. Arcane schools were not so prominent in Isger, and certainly not accessible to an war orphan with no prospects. The Sisters of the Golden Erinyes were not so keen on arcane teaching, so everything that Constantine had picked up had been through scattered reading. Or revelation. Those whispers.
He could ask them. Experience was useful information in the development of theories, or at least so the books said. He was no scientist, but...
Later...I don't want them to think I'm odder than they probably already do.
"Exhuming the body is a viable way to check Gellion's story, but perhaps we should check if any other graves have been disturbed. And then I agree with Hannelia: it seems prudent to go to Sapiro's hut. After that, I would like to check with the other apprentices to see if recovery has further jogged their memories. We can further assess leads from there."
"Aye, another time! For now it's time to break in some new boots, narry a better feeling." Roger breaks out of his imaginings and gives a vigorous nod, before thudding his new boots a bit with an exaggerated stomping swagger.
--
Roger looks at the grave. "Well, sure be where a dead guy'd be." He doesn't seem to have particular insight into the situation.
"What say you think it's possible one o'them trinkets what he stole from the dead was cursed?" Is his best off hand guess.
"That's not a bad idea at all, Roger," muses Hannelia. "It could be possible, and there's an element of grim poetic justice in there if so. Most folk aren't likely to be buried with too much of worth but we've all heard of hauntings, curses and the like. Between us we should be able to easily check for anything obvious with the items - assuming we have access to them, anyway." She counts to four on her fingers, ticking off Constantine's list of tasks to follow up on, adding Roger's suggestion into the mix. "More to work with there than I initially thought, thanks," she says, smiling appreciatively at her companions.
"A curse," Constantine repeats. "Maybe there's a god particularly keen on punishing grave-robbers at the root of this. Pharasma, perhaps. Or perhaps..." Constantine pauses at this next point, considering it the more likely explanation given the taint of the Abyss observed here, "...there's a demon lord who embraces grave-robbers."
There were probably a variety of deific powers who took an interest in graves, but for all his comfort around the dead, Constantine struggles to think of someone beyond Pharasma who might care enough to become involved. He waits for a whisper of insight.
Though the keen eyes of the adventurers rake the grave over several times, taking their time to ensure they are missing nothing, they find little in the way of clues. Talon's sharp eyes aren't present to help you scout-- but Sirio's gaze is honed by Hell, and after some minutes of searching, he does note some faint footprints that have managed to survive a month's worth of weather and the like. One of them surely belongs to Gellion, the distinctive crisp toes of his new boots visible here as they were in the orchard.
The other tracks he can see appear to be a humanoid adult's, barefoot, probably a man judging by the size. They are faint indeed, and cannot be followed any distance-- only a few imprints of these feet remain, not directly adjacent to the grave, but here and there within the surrounding two dozen feet.
Father Ruvarra rests his chin to his chest as he thinks. "If it was a cursed item, it was very subtle," he says. "I checked each item for the presence of magic as we recovered them. Some, we knew the families, and could offer the goods back, with our profound apologies. The rest are sitting in a box at the temple-- I suppose at some point they will be sold, it seems distasteful but it is wealth that could benefit people in need. But I wanted to give the townsfolk time to claim any that they could identify first. Nothing in the lot was magical, but you can inspect what I have left, of course.
"The hut too, as you like-- it's still unoccupied. We're still looking for another gravedigger-- it's a bit of a fraught job, given of course we certainly want someone of integrity, this time around, but it's not seen as a desirable or honorable job... finding someone who is both willing to do the work and who we trust to do it has been a task. So far the town guard has been assisting me with burials the last month-- thankfully we haven't had many."
The priest digs out a key to the shack and hands it over, gesturing to a tiny hut you can see further on.
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Constantine nods in thanks to the priest. "With a mystery such as this, it's best to leave no stone unturned. Thank you for your help."
He also thinks for a moment and then offers another thought. "If you wouldn't mind a competing faith in town, a Pharasmin might be a good candidate for a gravedigger. Some find psychopomps creepy, but they're integral to the path from this plane to the others."
Sapiro's hut is unlocked with the key provided. It's small, and has the general air of an untidy and unkempt place that was forcibly neatened by others after the death of its owner. The furniture that is left is basic and simple-- a bedframe, the straw-sack mattress gone now; a table; a few cupboards and shelves and a simple firepit with a handful of tin cups and utensils. Personal effects seem otherwise removed-- clothes, and so forth. In one corner of the hut the tools of the trade remain-- shovels and other equipment for the digging of the earth, boards and nails, a scythe for the grass, and so forth. Nothing appears to have been recently disturbed.
Scans for magic and evil alike turn up nothing of note in the small hut. If there ever was anything of interest here, it must have been removed already, to prepare the dwelling for a hopeful next occupant.
****
At the temple, Father Ruvarra rubs at his forehead as he fetches a small lockbox and opens it for your inspection. "Such a dreadful business. I apologize for the nature of some of these items."
The things left within the box are an odd motley: several teeth of gold or silver, which Sapiro must have wrenched from the jaws of the unresisting dead; a well-made glass eye with semi-precious inlaid stones for the iris and pupil; and half a dozen pieces of jewelry-- earrings, necklaces, hairpins, and rings.
Nothing radiates of magic, nothing whispers of evil, and whatever ghosts Constantine listens to are silent on the topic of these items. If they have a story, it does not seem to be one you can hear at the moment.
Ruvarra paces a bit as you look the objects over. "He had no other personal effects that seemed worth keeping. His clothing was generally in poor shape-- we threw most of it away, and distributed anything decent to those in need. There were no papers or books that I recall. A purse of coin-- I imagine from selling his past theft-- but we disbursed that to the affected families. I wish I could think of anything else in his dwelling that could be meaningful, but I really cannot recall there being something relevant.
"An exhumation may be needful, curse it. I had hoped this business was over, that the families might have peace, but if he rose as some sort of undead monster, then we must know. I'll get dispensation from the mayor, not that she would gainsay me in this matter."
At the suggestion of a Pharasmin, the priest nods and sighs. "Yes, perhaps I'll write to our cousins in the faith at one of the cities and see if any initiate might be willing to take up such a posting. Or I can hope for an itinerant, I suppose."
He shakes his head. "Let me go get you your shield, Mr. Fioritura, was it? --now that Gellion seems past the need for it."
By this point, Gellion is reuniting with his parents-- a shaky, tearful reunion, full of babbled and stricken remorse on his part. His parents seem wary but open to the idea that some other force had impelled their son's actions. The priest retrieves the shield, and passes it back to Constantine, then stops a moment, regarding him for several seconds with a distant stare.
"--actually, Mr. Fioritura, might I have a moment of your time? I might have something for you..."
He pulls back out, and unwraps a bundle wrapped in old oilskin, revealing a book that has seen better days, its leather binding crumbling a bit and its pages brittle. He passes it over carefully.
Being a Guide to the Traps, Poisons, and Hunting Techniques of the Savages of the Sargavan Colonies of Imperial Cheliax, for the Elucidation and Preservation of Loyal Subjects of House Thrune, reads the title. The author is one M. Sarini.
"...that this might..... be of use to you?" the priest says, still studying something known only to him in Constantine's face.
****
The mayor is duly concerned at all that is being told so far. She has the town requisition cold iron in a decent supply for the guards, and you're asked to brief the patrols on how to recognize and destroy the bile should they see it. She is more than happy to grant the permission for the exhumation, which will be carried out the next day with the help of the strong backs of some of the town guard.
Before you and Father Ruvarra leave her office, she says, "I've done a bit of digging of my own. That warehouse-- it is registered in the name of a merchant, Marcuccio Bravoni. According to my sources in the merchant consortiums, he divides his time between here and towns downriver-- he has no permanent lodging here, but rents lodging when present. And he is, perhaps, missing. He was last seen by anyone in town about three weeks ago-- he had rented a room for a week from one of the dockhouses that maintain such, paid in advance, but the house owner hadn't seen him past the third day. She assumed he'd simply decided to leave early, and since she already had the coin for the stay, didn't worry overmuch. But the harbormaster logs report no passenger by his name taking boat anytime that week.
"There could be many innocent explanations for that, of course. He left by land-- unlikely but not imposssible; he left in some secrecy, under a false name or by stowing away. But the fact remains that his whereabouts are currently unknown, and he is the man who owns that warehouse. For all we know he might be complicit in this ploy. Please keep an eye out for his name-- or person-- and I will reward you as best I can."
She shuffles papers with a sigh. "I will be at the exhumation in the morning-- I want to know what is going on, dammit. Until then, try and rest-- you have all certainly earned it."
***
That night, at the Witch's End, you are feasting on coal-baked salmon, hard cider, mutton seared with a sage sauce, bread that rival's Gunty's, and carrots cooked in molasses and white wine. It's not an exaggeration that the Witch's End has some of the best food in Saringallow-- and yours is on the house!
A scraggly-looking youth of twelve or thirteen approaches your table. "You must be them. Talon sent me with a message for you!"
He passes over a note.
Sorry not to return. Been busy. Traps I'd set before I went into town caught things-- goblins. Typical harvest! But normally they're not so purple. Hope you take my meaning.
I'm investigating more. If you can meet me at the Escoro homestead on Toilday evening, I'll share what I've learned. Scrent, my messenger, can give you directions.
-Talon
Toilday is tomorrow. The youth, 'Scrent', looks at you somewhat hopefully, or rather, at the table and its piles of food.
"The hut too, as you like-- it's still unoccupied. We're still looking for another gravedigger-- it's a bit of a fraught job, given of course we certainly want someone of integrity, this time around, but it's not seen as a desirable or honorable job... finding someone who is both willing to do the work and who we trust to do it has been a task. So far the town guard has been assisting me with burials the last month-- thankfully we haven't had many."
He also thinks for a moment and then offers another thought. "If you wouldn't mind a competing faith in town, a Pharasmin might be a good candidate for a gravedigger. Some find psychopomps creepy, but they're integral to the path from this plane to the others."
Emma nods to Constantine. "Not a bad suggestion, given the nature of the work. Having someone who is well versed in that arena is likely a sound idea. Should you need any help until you can find a replacement, though, I'd be happy to lend the guards a hand with the task. Hopefully there won't be any need for it, but..." Emma shrugs. "The offer is there regardless."
---
The feast is easily the most relaxed that Emma has felt since arriving in town. There's nothing quite like warm food and lively company to lighten the spirits. It makes her think of the occasions they had feasts back home, for holidays and festivals or to celebrate winning a battle against a camp of bandits or goblins. It's the kind of opportunity that lets people have a chance to relax.
Emma turns to Roger. "Alright," she says around a mouthful of bread and salmon. "You've got to tell me the story about the jungle now." Emma frowns a moment later, regarding the captain. "Well, I mean, unless it's something so disgusting that it would ruin our meal. In that case, perhaps wait until after the feast." She hesitates again. "Or if it involves a swarm, in which case, never tell me." She winks at Roger to let him know she's mostly kidding.
She opens her mouth to speak again, but a moment later, a small boy approaches their table, panting slightly. "You must be them. Talon sent me with a message for you!" he says.
Emma's eyebrows raise at this. She was wondering what Talon had gotten up to in his time away. It felt weird not to have the ranger with them this evening - he had been a vital part of the mission, and deserved to partake in the feast as a result.
Sorry not to return. Been busy. Traps I'd set before I went into town caught things-- goblins. Typical harvest! But normally they're not so purple. Hope you take my meaning.
I'm investigating more. If you can meet me at the Escoro homestead on Toilday evening, I'll share what I've learned. Scrent, my messenger, can give you directions.
-Talon
Emma wrinkles her nose at the thought of goblins - though at the very least, it's better than hearing that Talon's traps had caught more corrupted insects. If it had been another sighting of spiders...
Some of the ease of the night begins to wane at the thought of what Talon wants to discuss, but then she glances at the boy, Scrent, and notices how eagerly he's eyeing the spread of food on the table.
Laughing slightly, she pushes her plate towards him. She can remember herself looking about the same as a youth, coming into a feast after a night of doing chores; one of the Paladins passing through had taken similar pity on her and given her his uneaten food, which she had eagerly taken.
She's happy to give it to Scrent, should he want it. Though not before plucking the bread from it.
"All yours, lad," she tells him. "Thanks for delivering the message. Do you have a place to stay until we set out tomorrow?"
The items prove less-than fruitful, which is both a disappointment and a comfort. That is, the mystery remains to be solved, but there's less apparent nefariousness than what could easily be tracked. It's a mixed bag.
The invitation surprises him, though, and he excuses himself from the larger group to go with the priest.
The book had certainly seen better days, and Constantine wonders if there are any alchemical preparations or spells that could go towards restoring it, at least enough to read something of it without doing further damage. He does have a way of manipulating things without the oil and pressure of his fingertips further despoiling an object, but would that be enough? Or would the decay of neglect cause the binding and pages to crumble even with minimal careful force?
"Thank you," Constantine says. "I have...questions. But those can wait. We have had a long day."
---
Even if individual items were less apparently useful, the mystery both continues to unravel and deepen with the mayor. Constantine agrees to show anyone interested about the detection of the bile and the use of cold iron.
"Marcuccio Bravoni," Constantine repeats, logging the name in his memory. "We'll certainly keep our eyes and ears out for the man or his mention. While we search, perhaps we can draft letters to some of those downriver towns, with a bent truth pretext that he left property in town and his return and/or whereabouts are requested."
---
A scrumptious and well-deserved meal is welcome after all that, stories and all. The note from Talon via Scrent does little to diminish Constantine's upraised spirits. More purple. Then here was another lead to pursue. It may involve Marcuccio or Sapiro, or this may be another branch to the oddities of Saringallow. Either way, it would be good to get out and stretch his legs again.
Emma, ever the generous one, offers part of her portion. Constantine sighs, tears a good piece of bread off from his portion and lays it on Emma's proffered plate, then fishes out a couple of copper pieces for the lad. "For your trouble, and directions to Escoro," he says.
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--
"Aye, well, it's not so much gross as it be canny strange." Roger strokes his beard.
"See, we was laying low up a river, just killing time between convoys to raid. Now, everyone knows a cabin fever, even among landlubbers, but I'd say jungle fever just as bad, what with all the sorts a trouble you can get into." Roger gets quickly into storytelling mode, a familiar sight to anyone who frequented the Witch's End.
"And this case, whether it was the cook or the some scavenger, thought it'd be a canny idea to try stewing up some mushrooms what he found into a brew what me and the mates passed round to drink as a lark. Funny blue spots what these mushrooms had like stones sparkling on a dark cave wall, and the brew took that color too." He sloshes his drink in a circle to demonstrate the 'brewing' and takes a drink at the end to show they drunk it.
"Well I don't know why it all came into our heads, who said it first, or if we all just thought it the same time, but we got to thinking we were mushrooms!" Rogor almost rises from his chair. "We all started moaning bout the sun burning down on us what was fine a moment before, and we all got set to running down to a dark crevice. How we found it I haven't the foggiest, was like we all just new it should be there."
"Each of us then found a nice cool spot what to sit down and stop moving. All got real quiet. Mushrooms don't move. Mushrooms don't talk. Leastways not the mushrooms we were. Started to feel real cold, and right spooky, and I could've sworn I felt a hand hovering over me to pluck me from the soil. Felt right scared but mushrooms can't run away." Now he leaned in, lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Then the ship's carpenter came in hollering and yelling at us that we were supposed to get him the straightest lumber we could find, and we all realized we weren't mushrooms. Felt right silly we did, stood up and looked around for that hand I felt but couldn't see it. Guess it was all in our heads, but I can't rightly know whether we was all just a little touched from the shrooms or if there was truly some bad magic about." And then the tale ends with a shrug of the shoulders.
After the note is given out to everyone, Roger leans in for another whisper.
"Purple goblins ye say? I don't suppose what that's code for the goblins having that goopy demon stuff affecting 'em? That t'were sorta purple, was it?"
Scrent doesn't hesitate. As soon as food-- and coin-- is offered to him, he helps himself to a seat at the table and starts stuffing his face. He makes the coin disappear within a pocket with startling speed.
"Aye, I can lead ya back 'to Escoro'-- 's my farm. My family's farm. We're the Escoros," he say with a grin that shows off some impressively snaggle-toothed dentition. He looks hopefully at Emma, having already pegged her as the soft touch. "Mister Talon said maybe I could sleep in town? It's a long way back! Hours!"
Scrent listens eagerly to Roger's mushroom story, his eyes wide and even the food-inhalation slowing in favor of the tale.
If asked for details about what Talon might have seen, the adolescent shrugs, using his bare fingers to eat salmon. "There's always gobs. Not TOO close, but closer than anyone wants. Talon comes round once a season and helps us run 'em back. Strings a couple up in the woods as warning to the others where the boundary line is. The ones he got this time, he was worried. I dunno why. He didn't say. But he wrote the message and paid Da a whole silver mark to have me bring it to town for you all. Must be important..."
Scrent can confirm, however, that he caught a glimpse of one of the dead goblins, and it 'had this inky pus on it.' Uh-oh.
Morvinarr interrupts further immediate discussion by swinging by with another round of good cider, on the house, and to eagerly shake the hand of each one of you in turn. A big, strapping lad, he seems utterly back to normal-- though judging by the circles under his eyes, some of his hearty normalcy may be partly for show's sake. The misadventure has left scars on all who were involved, not just Gellion, and they will take time to heal.
****
In the morning, a small and somber group gather at the gravesite of Sapiro, utilizing the early morning mist to avoid the curious eyes of townspeople that might otherwise be drawn to site of both the mayor and the priest present, as well as guards, and... you. While it would be a stretch to say you're now local heroes-- what with the mayor trying to keep the matter discreetly quiet-- gossip has a way of traveling in a town like Saringallow, and in the last few days more than a few people have thrown recognizing glances your direction.
In any case-- the early hour, and the fog, keep onlookers at bay. It's a chill morning, but digging the earth will warm cold muscles in short order. The guards welcome any help you may choose to give. Many hands make light work, and the soil here is not densely packed but loose fill earth. Soon enough the shovels reveal...
...cloth; coarse-woven sacking that lies limp in the grave, torn and... empty.
Father Ruvarra hisses softly in the morning's cold, stamping his feet. "There was no coffin," he explains. "We buried him in rough sacking-- the sooner for the things of nature to reclaim his body. Common enough for those with no kin, or who've committed crimes. That is the sack-cloth there-- but I see no body, damn it all!
"A month is enough for decomposition, yes, but not the complete vanishing of all his remains. There should be bones at least."
Mayor Trinelli looks grim but composed. "Have we an undead loose in the city then, Father?"
The priest paces. "It's possible, Mayor, yes. I must apologize. I feel that this happened on my watch, as it were. Please be assured-- I checked the body for sign of ghoul-bite, for necromantic energies, as is my habit-- nothing--!"
"Peace, Father Ruvarra," says the mayor, holding up a hand. "I'm not interested in blame at the moment, only in determining where we go from here. Surely if he were some sort of-- 'zombie'-- we would have had attacks by now? Are not the undead known for rapacious hunger?"
Ruvarra frowns, tugging on his beard. "The most common sorts I know of are, yes, but I confess I'm no Pharasmin scholar, Mayor. My studies have been the field and the wood, the cycles of seasons for the farm... not undeath."
Those of you who have got a rudiment of training in such things know that there are dozens of ways that undead can arise-- the most universal one being to have been slain by some other undead, such as a zombie or a ghoul or even the legendary and fearful vampires of Ustalav and Geb. Failing that, many undead are often created by unusual and violent circumstances of their death-- such as drowning, fire, murder, the executed, and so forth.
But according to Ruvarra, Sapiro died in his sleep, of old age, rather than in any violent fashion. Perhaps more will have to be known.
The mayor sighs, arms wrapped around herself under a thick fur cloak. "The matter deepens. I find myself again turning to all of you-- you already know more than others would. Will you continue to lend your skills to Saringallow? I will reward you fairly, for information on Sapiro's death, or undeath, or whatever has happened here. And Bravoni and the warehouse... the matter of the bile....
"Your suggestion of letters was a sound one, Mr. Fioritura-- I had them sent off last night with the evening boats, and I have at least a description of Bravoni for you:
"A tall man, heavy-set, dark-haired and with a mustache he was very proud of from all accounts. He favored dressing in somewhat ostentatious silks, and was known to be fond of his wine and food alike. I'm sorry I don't have more, but it is something. Have you any leads you can think of to pursue?"
Sirio volunteers himself to do the bitter work of exhuming the defalcating digger. He doffs his regalia and armor, to keep it from getting dirty in task. After unearthing the sackcloth, he finds himself more shocked than he'd thought he would be at the revelation.
A missing corpse? How does that tie in to the demonic influence over the town? Or does it at all? Would that mean someone is gathering whatever dark force they can muster to harass this small town? No. Musn't overspeculate.
"Mayor Trinelli. One can't speak for everyone here, but a man of the cloth would be remiss in his duty, were he not to help his fellow countrymen." To say nothing of rewards.
"Aside from Mr. Bravoni himself, we do have another avenue of inquiry. The goblins seem to have taken on the same demonic corruption as your own young master Vazarro. The Escoro farm has had a few of them strung up. We can investigate that lead while we await the return of the Bravoni."
"Absolutely," agrees Hannelia, echoing Sirio's pledge to continue the investigation, answering the easiest question while trying to sort through the suddenly unspooling threads of new information. That she would continue was not in doubt - both for the protection of the town by removing the threats and the chance to test her mettle and use her skills. And, perhaps surprising herself, she found she was enjoying the developing bonds between the group. We've already come a distance from the disparate group who originally met at the town hall.
Having turned the matter over, she speaks aloud, "I'm no expert in the ways and creation of undead, but is that the only option here? The grave appeared untouched - is a mindless zombie or even something possessed of a more animal cunning capable of covering its tracks like that? This suggests either an intellect a level above this," she shudders, as the thought disturbs her, "or perhaps somebody else dug up the corpse and removed it." After a pause to let that sink in, she adds a new thought that has just occurred to her, "Though I guess that doesn't preclude the presence of undead, just that the creation was enforced by someone else rather than..." she searches for the correct word, unsure of the foul processes by which the dead transition to unlife, "spontaneous?"
"When we discovered we were fighting demonic foes, we sought out weapons that they were vulnerable to. Does anyone know if there is anything similar that we could use against undead? It might be prudent to arm ourselves in preparation if we expect to face such creatures."
Taking on board Mayor Trinelli's information about Bravoni - Well done Constantine, smart thinking - she ventures, "Maybe we could have someone check out some of the town's finer establishments for anyone of that description? Quietly, of course. That doesn't have to be us," - she thinks of Scrent's message delivery - "and might save some time for us grabbing futilely at small chances when we have a more concrete lead to follow up."
Constantine listens to Roger's story with great amusement. Roger and his friends sound like they had found some particularly potent mushrooms. The pirate was lucky that the poison had not been more lethal, although it sounded as though he may have more or less enjoyed the experience. Was he more jolly or lucky?
Thankfully, Scrent Escoro doesn't seem to pick up what Roger is putting down, which is all the better. Better yet, he doesn't know the full extent of the implication of goblins turned further mad than usual from abyssal bile. Constantine preferred to avoid stereotypes, but when he was orphaned as a direct result of a goblinoid invasion...well he wasn't exactly predisposed towards goblins.
Constantine whiles away the rest of the evening, not exactly appreciating the increased recognition of these recent activities. He enjoys the free food, drink, and clothing, but less the attention. He retires to his room for the evening after a bit of celebration, perhaps not the first to leave but certainly not the last. Anyone who passes him by sees him hunched over a very old, very worn-out looking book, turning through the pages with the aid of a simple spell.
---
In the morning, Constantine helps Sirio with the digging and is not overly surprised by the state of the grave. Even as the mayor and priest exchange theories about what had happened, Constantine is rifling through his mental catalogue.
"Hannelia and I have similar thoughts. It would be nice to believe that we have a standard corporeal undead, but the evidence suggests otherwise. It's possible that a necromancer who covered their tracks is involved. But we can't discount the possible connection of this case with our others. There are almost certainly abyssal denizens with an interest in undeath. That only narrows it down so much, if there is a connection, but it could provide some direction."
The Occultist can hardly even imagine what kind of craven horrors were created when negative energy collided with raw abyssal energy. Pray to all of the gods that they weren't witnessing the birth of a new Worldwound.
He shrugs at Hannelia's mention of special materials to fight the undead. He had been trying to be clever with his initial litany upon meeting everyone here, but it seemed increasingly possible that he wasn't too far off.
"As I understand it, the material to exploit, if any, often depends on the nature of the undead creature. There's probably too much variety without knowing more."
Absent any further clues, they had to go into the woods next. Leave the adventuring to the adventurers, and the research to the researchers.
"To the Escoro Homestead, then."
You ask Father Ruvarra if he has one of those new-fangled curative wands for sale, perhaps-- and he grimaces apologetically. "I'm so sorry-- if you'd asked two months ago, I would have said yes. But a group of mercenaries going down the river to Lake Encarthan purchased it from me. I do have a number of scrolls that hold the same magic, if you wish them."
The mayor listens with a stern expression to the mention of goblins. "Wonderful, more trouble. I suppose that trouble never truly goes away, does it? Then let me make you an additional offer: five crowns for each exterminated goblin, ten for their mounts, and should you find-- and deal with-- any sizeable settlement, another hundred. As you can imagine, we have little patience for the goblin race here in Isger. Occasionally I hear rumors that in such places as Absalom they are tolerated; I cannot imagine such a thing, but foreign ways are foreign ways...
"But I digress. If you have a lead to follow in the woods, that will give me time to potentially hear back regarding sightings of Bravoni-- either downriver, or possibly in the places around town where he might have been. It's a good suggestion. I wish you safe travels and a fruitful hunt-- do not hesitate to contact my office if I can be of further assistance."
She gives you a nod, waits to see if you have further questions, then sweeps off towards her day's duties.
The priest considers the grave a moment longer then sighs and shrugs. "Of the undead I know primarily that holy water affects nearly all of them, does it not? And positive energy, the energy of life. Beyond that, well, as I said, I'm no expert on that particular field."
Hannelia's awareness of the undead would certainly support the use of holy water against them, it's true.
The priest also points out that if you do have more instances of the bile to worry about, it does draw vermin-- and you're going out into the woods, where there's no shortage of natural insects. Being prepared to deal with insects both large and small might be wise.
Good lord, that's a lot. Off to an automated treasure generator goes me.
Consulting both Saringallow Sundries, Father Ruvarra's odds and ends, and Majara Pricknettle's uncovers the following items for sale-- many of them unfortunately still outside your coin-purse limits:
+1 scale mail - 1,200 gp
+1 studded leather - 1,175 gp
Gloves of Reconnaissance - 2,000 gp
Robe of Infinite Twine - 1,000 gp
Ring of Animal Friendship - 10,800 gp, if the merchant ever sells it he is retiring
Potion of darkvision - 270 gp (includes 10% discount)
Potion of spider climb - 270 gp (includes 10% discount)
Potion of lesser restoration - 270 gp (includes 10% discount)
Potion of Cure Serious Wounds - 675 gp (includes 10% discount)
Scroll of disguise self - 25 gp
Scroll of remove fear - 25 gp
Scroll of bestow curse - 700 gp
Wand of Slow (31 of 50 charges) - 6975 gp
Wand of Fox's Cunning (24 of 50 charges) - 2160 gp
It takes a bit of time to investigate the shops, and of course one must get some breakfast in one's body, especially given that the farmstead is well out into the woods and a good trek, as Scrent says. The Witch's End serves as superb a breakfast as it does a supper: fat poached eggs with rashers of crispy bacon, thick slices of bread served with honey and melted butter, kippers caught that very morning and tossed into a pan just enough to sear, preserved peaches in a glaze of cinnamon and sugar, and glasses of rich cream with little flakes of chocolate grated on top. If you weren't about go walking several miles, it would be too much. It might still be too much.
Scrent eats like a bottomless, snaggletoothed pit, clearly assuming that your largesse of last night extends to him this morning as well.
Emma shakes her head at the overzealous way Scrent eats the food, even though he hadn't been offered this time. She doesn't mind. She knows that Scrent probably considers her a soft touch - and in a way, he's not really wrong - but she also doesn't mind a small opportunity to let the kid have some good food. She still has her fill of sustenance to prepare for the day's travel ahead. It will be nice to meet up with Talon again, though the news about the goblins and the circumstances surrounding the grave have her a bit worried. It was bad enough when it was just creatures being infected by the corrupted demonic bile. The fact that it now may be spreading to goblins isn't a great sign, nor is the fact that the mysterious person behind it all is still out there somewhere.
It would be nice to be able to purchase more gear appropriate for the upcoming mission, but Emma doesn't exactly have enough to spend on anything particularly useful. She does make a mental note to keep as careful of an eye as possible out for any more swarms, however.
Most of the magical items on sale are far too pricey for Constantine's meager funds. He recommends that they pick up a few doses of vermin repellent, if Majara has any available. Knowing their track record with insects, a bit of extra preparation seems warranted. He also purchases two vials of alchemist's fire. If there is holy water available for sale (or free from the Temple), he will also acquire a vial of that as well.
While at the tavern and shops, Constantine asks for what, if anything, people in town know about the town's namesake family: the Sarinis. He tries to be surreptitious about it, working it in with introductions like "I think I read in a book that" or "I heard this story up in Elidir that went" and such.
Father Ruvarra smacks his forehead lightly when you ask about holy waters. "I'm not thinking straight-- yes, you can have the supply I have on hand today, I will work on making more to replenish it. I try to keep some at hand for whatever crisis may threaten."
Constantine's queries earn reactions-- dark stares, and people spitting on the flagstones. Some make furtive gestures of warding, gestures not sanctioned by the church of Asmodeus.
"I hope they're rotting in the Hell they wanted to serve," an old woman says flatly, and her equally aged sister nods, the two of them turning their back on Constantine and stomping off arm in arm on the flagstones.
"The Sarinis? They were vampires! I think. Or they drank blood," says a wide-eyed boy of ten. "They hung 'em all! They say you can still see their ghosts on the old road to their estate!"
"Nuh-uh," says the boy's friend, a freckle-faced child. "It's not THEIR ghosts. It's the ghosts of errybuddy THEY killed. It's little kids."
"It is not! It's them whipping the honest farmers!" The argument devolves into a scuffle.
"Oh, I doubt they were as bad as people say," chuckles a middle-aged man wearing the finely cut clothes of a prosperous merchant. "You know how stories grow in these smaller towns. Sacrificing people to devils-- preposterous. More likely their serfs simply got tired of being whipped like dogs and did the old nobles in! That's why I treat my employees fairly! I'm sure all that stuff about torture chambers was made up to justify the deed after the fact..."
A half-elven scholar, his thin arms full of scrolls, pauses in his hurrying along the street to give Constantine an arched-brow look. "I'd be careful how loudly you ask about the family Sarini, here," he says drily. "They are neither loved nor welcome. To say the least. What precise information were you wanting confirmed, Mister.....?"
Without the desired healing wand available, Hannelia feels the weight of gold burning a hole in her pocket so sets off to spend it wisely. She has her heart set on a new tools for tinkering, a high quality set which she thinks will aid her in setting and disabling mechanisms. Looking at the wares on offer, she has a test of a couple of different sets, finding one which feels right. Part exchanging her existing tools she feels a pang of remorse at the escapades she has had with them, but puts this out of her mind as the pragmatism of finer implements has a stronger allure.
With far less feeling she also parts with her shortsword, deciding to take the plunge and purchase one made of cold iron. If it comes to me using this, things must be pretty bad, though I'd take that over dead any day.
Learning similar lessons from their encounters so far, she pays a visit to Pricknettle's and picks up a couple of vials that the gnome explains will ward off insects and other such pests. Sniffing it lightly, Hannelia is not surprised, as the aroma is a strong one. I can see why they would steer clear of anyone covered in this, it would repel anyone, she thinks. As a counter, she tries a couple of different scents, finding one that she likes with a subtle but pleasant smell of fresh flowers with a citrussy undertone. Pleased, she purchases a few doses. For the right customer, this could be handy for business too.
Continuing her rounds, she stops by Drummady's to collect her new boots. The woman is delighted to see her, allowing Hannelia to try on a number of pairs until she finds one which fits perfectly. Warm, comfortable and practically customed-fitted, Hannelia is very happy with them - Drummady's reputation for quality is well-deserved and she has coveted a pair for a while. She wears them out of the shop, eager to break them in.
Finally, she calls in at Petrello's, who is less welcoming but does uphold his promise of a free item. Perusing the standard clothing, she finds nothing that particularly appeals, but after an enquiry she is able to indulge her penchant for both novelties and practicalities. She settles on a pair of darkened lenses that will filter out blinding light and similar sight-based issues, and rounds things off with a heavy scarf of peacock blue, a nice accent of colour for her normally practical neutral shades.
Satisfied with her purchases, she returns home to carefully repack her gear and catch up with her father. After assuring him that all is well and that she and her companions have been up to the challenges laid before them, she heads back to rejoin the others.
Sirio purchases a few things from Pricklenettle's, probably with Hannelia making sure not to forget vermin repellent. He's able to acquire a few other sundries from the general store. After loading everything onto Leyva (which she chafed and snorted at), he heads back over to the temple to finish his purchases.
He asks Father Ruvarra if he can offer a donation in exchange for a more potent scroll than the healing scrolls he already has. He's a few coins light on the donation, but Emma, ever the paladin, is able to contribute to the temple.
Pricknettle sells things willingly, but her blue eyebrows climb nearly to her hairline at the repeated orders for vermin repellent.
"--I'm going to deduce you all had a bad experience," she says drily. "You're lucky I always have huge batches of this on hand this time of year...."
Between all the going back and forth between the temple and the apothecary and the various shops that owe you favors, as well as checking out Saringallow's Sundries, it's past mid-day by the time you're actually ready to get on the road. And since there's no point in wasting a free meal...
Alcie, the proprietress of the Witch's End, serves up a solid mid-day repast: the tavern's crusty, thick loaves are layered with slices of tender venison in a rich, savory gravy that soaks through the bread, with soft-cooked onions and herbs piled atop the meat. Asparagus shoots and spring radishes cooked in garlic and lemon are served alongside, as well as a soft, creamy herbed goat's cheese and thin sticks of crisp-baked bread. When she sees that you are packing your gear, Alcie grunts to herself, and disappears into the kitchen.
She re-emerges to hand over some bags made of tied cheesecloth. "You adventuring sort never pack the right food for the road, if left to your own devices it's nothing but dry jerky and mixed nuts. Here."
The little bags contain rinds of cheese sealed in wax, hard sausage that will keep well for the road, Saringallow orchard apples, and some small pressed cakes of oat dough, sugar, and apricot preserves. "Get on wit you," Alcie says, and gives even Roger a semi-friendly look.
Scrent Escoro chatters a mile a minute as you start on the road out of town. Before you have even left the town's high wall behind you in the distance, you already know all about Scrent's Ma, his Pa, the family cow, the four barn cats, the two extremely unpleasant goats, and twenty sheep, and Scrent's sisters, all four of them, which he regards as a punishment by the gods, and you also know about the time Scrent broke both legs because he thought a fairy had given him the gift of flight and he jumped from the barn roof to test it and also there was the time when he tried to sell his youngest sister to some peddling Varisians and--
Fortunately, he runs out of oxygen somewhere around the half-hour mark. It's a long hike, but not unpleasant: the sun is shining, but not intolerably hot, and puffy springtime clouds drift through against a blue sky born by springtime breezes. You walk at an unhurried pace, knowing Talon doesn't expect you until dusk, and you break when seems good to you, sipping from waterskins, or streams, or the well of one of the farmhouses you occasionally pass.
As you go, those farmhouses get less frequent. Scrent tells you with some pride they are the last regular stead on the road this way, right up against deep forest, and that after their home it's nothing but trees for miles and miles.
Finally, at around three or four in the afternoon, Scrent points a skinny and wiry arm at a hilltop visible further down the road. By this point, it's more woods than farmlands around you, but you can see the clearage of the Escoro homestead. The land around the humble buildings are used more for pasture than for crops, with only a kitchen garden near the house and the barn, and white sheep dot the green pasture. A thin line of smoke rises from the house's chimney, and you can see the tiny figures of the Escoro family moving between barn and household in the late afternoon sunlight.
Scrent picks up his pace, eager to show off the guests he has fetched, no doubt. At the home, Ma and Pa Escoro greet you with slight shyness, seemingly unused to having such visitors-- they are hard-working folk, with dark tans from outdoor labor, and the whole family has dark and curling hair. They make you as welcome in their humble cabin as they can, bidding the girls to fetch fresh cool water from the well.
As for Talon-- they know him well, saying that the ranger lives not-so-far from here, further into the woods, and that he makes a point of swinging by once every few weeks at most-- not merely to their farm, but to all the farms nearby-- checking in with folks, bringing animal hides to trade for goods from town or home cooking, and listening for any tales of trouble in the woods around. They speak of him highly, saying he's been visiting the farms as long as they've dwelt out here-- Pa Escoro can remember that even when he was a boy, Talon would come round, and teach those children that wanted to learn a bit of archery or woodscraft.
They bid you rest from the road and make yourselves comfortable while you wait for Talon's arrival.
Scrent says you're here to kill goblins, and excitedly asks if he can go along too-- a statement that earns some parental harrumphing and firm headshakes of 'no.'
"You had best leave that to the professionals, young man!" says his mother, with such a glower that Scrent quiets immediately.
"That's right," echoes his father, with a nod to all of you. "I'm sure these folk could tell tales of terrors they've seen that you don't want anything to do with, boy."
Pricknettle sells things willingly, but her blue eyebrows climb nearly to her hairline at the repeated orders for vermin repellent.
"--I'm going to deduce you all had a bad experience," she says drily. "You're lucky I always have huge batches of this on hand this time of year...."
Emma has to smile at this. "A fair deduction," she admits to the shop owner. She herself has requested ten of the potions. Perhaps it's overkill, but she's not willing to take chances with being caught off guard in the future. "Let's just say we'd rather err on the side of caution in the future," she goes on.
While Scrent gives what Emma assumes to be his literal entire life story, she examines some of her new gear. She wasn't able to afford anything particularly fancy in terms of weapons or armor, but she fills a bit more confident now that they're fairly well stocked for supplies. She'd even sprung for a compass - not that she thought they'd be needing it in the immediate future, but it seemed a useful thing to have, and something she likely should have purchased before even setting out in the first place.
She'd also purchased some additional sunrods - she still had her original one, but it couldn't hurt to have some additional sources of light once they were out potentially tracking down the goblins. She had two potions of cure light wounds, and had sprung for some marching coffee. She sipped it as they walked on, enjoying the bitter taste and resolving to ensure that Scrent never came in contact with anything containing caffeine - the results could be more disastrous than any potential corrupted creature.
Thanks to Petrello's offer, she'd also obtained an Explorer's outfit - who knew what they'd be traveling through next, and it would be a good idea to have some good traveling clothes - as well as some cushioned inserts for her boots - given that they were going to be doing plenty of walking, it seemed to be a prudent idea - and some furs, since it would likely be colder at night out in the woods or if they had to venture into any caves or forts to track down the potential goblins.
She regards her companions with newfound respect and fondness - it feels nice to be traveling together again, with a specific goal ahead of them. The fact that they'd been able to help the apprentices without any of them dying had been a great boost to morale. It's hard not to appreciate the company of the people around you, especially when your last endeavor had turned out to be a successful one. She looks forward to getting to know them better, and hopes that she can put forth a better performance in whatever trials may await them next.
As the farmhouses grow more infrequent, Emma keeps a wary eye on the surrounding area as best as she can. Given what they'd already been encountering, it wasn't out of the question that there could be something lying in wait for them. But she's pleasantly surprised when their journey goes relatively unhampered.
Perhaps Scrent's constant talking earlier had been more effective than any vermin repellent could hope to be. Emma chuckles softly at the thought, though she doesn't harbor any ill will towards the excitable young boy.
--
"You had best leave that to the professionals, young man!" says his mother, with such a glower that Scrent quiets immediately.
"That's right," echoes his father, with a nod to all of you. "I'm sure these folk could tell tales of terrors they've seen that you don't want anything to do with, boy."
"Like being attacked by swarms of spiders," Emma mutters to herself in a low voice.
Then, raising her voice and speaking to Scrent, she nods in agreement with the father. "Besides, we'll need you here to keep your folks and sisters safe!" she tells him, hoping that this will dissuade the boy from trying to follow them.
She recalls a time when she was around eight or nine and had tried to follow her mom on one of her patrols of the surrounding woods back home - only to be discovered and literally carried back to their home, as the rest of the company had laughed. She'd been angry and embarrassed at the time, but understood all too well now about the dangers of adventuring.
Sirio purchases a few things from Pricklenettle's, probably with Hannelia making sure not to forget vermin repellent. He's able to acquire a few other sundries from the general store. After loading everything onto Leyva (which she chafed and snorted at), he heads back over to the temple to finish his purchases.
"You have a mule!" exclaims Hannelia, surprise making her state the obvious. Red-faced and panting from hard physical exertion, she drops the two tents she has been lugging across town. "That seems a lot better than being a human pack mule. I figured we probably need something to sleep in, assuming we might be away from any other kind of shelter. She eyes the creature, who shakes her head and doesn't entirely meet Hannelia's gaze. Slightly guiltily, she asks Sirio "Am I ok to load these onto her too?"
* * * * *
On the walk to the farmstead, Hannelia is mostly quiet, taking in the scenery as the minutes slip into hours and the farmland blends into woods. She continues to turn over the events of the past few days in her mind and to work through possibilities for what may await them, determined to rise to whatever challenge is presented.
Finally they arrive at the Escoro's home and Scrent introduces his family.
* * * * *
Scrent says you're here to kill goblins, and excitedly asks if he can go along too-- a statement that earns some parental harrumphing and firm headshakes of 'no.'
"You had best leave that to the professionals, young man!" says his mother, with such a glower that Scrent quiets immediately.
"That's right," echoes his father, with a nod to all of you. "I'm sure these folk could tell tales of terrors they've seen that you don't want anything to do with, boy."
A small smile crosses Hannelia's lips at the woman's words, she is pleased that Ma Escoro's words matches her view of herself: as a professional. As something she strives hard for, she takes the compliment. Her husband's words, however, are a sobering reality check. She thinks of some of her early escapades - a tangle with goblins of her own, a teenager drinking stolen gnome spirits, and a brush with an owlbear which she was lucky to escape from with only broken ribs and bruised pride.
Looking at Scrent's awkward form, on the cusp of adolescence, she wants to keep the boy innocent. Better to keep battling imaginary goblins with a wooden sword, than facing the harsh reality of the real thing. And yet, isn't it such romanticised dreams that led you to take your first tentative steps down such a path? says a voice in Hannelia's head. And can you really say that such ideals aren't what helps keep your feet on this road? Lost in her thoughts, she is only half-aware of Emma's kind words to the boy, but she appreciates her tact.
"You have a mule!" exclaims Hannelia, surprise making her state the obvious. Red-faced and panting from hard physical exertion, she drops the two tents she has been lugging across town. "That seems a lot better than being a human pack mule. I figured we probably need something to sleep in, assuming we might be away from any other kind of shelter. She eyes the creature, who shakes her head and doesn't entirely meet Hannelia's gaze. Slightly guiltily, she asks Sirio "Am I ok to load these onto her too?"
Sirio beams and replies, " But of course. You really are quite thorough in your planning. She's a bit bullheaded, but that's apparently a common trait among beasts of her kind. Allow me, Leyva is a bit intemperate at the best of times." She snorts and kicks out viciously as if to punctuate his point. He settles a hand on her side and clucks at her, then waits until she calms a bit before loading the tents onto her back.
_________________
At the Escoro home, Sirio tries not to scowl at the child's impertinence, but he can't really help himself. He's not very good at dealing with children. He dips his head to Pa Escoro and says, "Thank you for your hospitality Mister Escoro. I pray that one day Saringallow will accept the strength the Church has to offer. But in the meantime one ought to be grateful for your tolerance. I understand the town has had a tumultuous experience with diabolism."
Farmer and Missus Escoro both offer slightly uncertain, strained smiles in response to Sirio's words of the church. They share a glance with each other, then Farmer Escoro clears his throat. "I wouldn't know much about all that, Mister, er, yes, trouble in town I reckon, but no need to dwell on that, is there? We are just simple folk out here, sir."
Scrent says with a lift of his chin, "Yeah, but we don't truck with dev--"
His mother's hand claps his shoulder swiftly and firmly. "Now that's enough talk, let the people be, Scrent! Out with you, go see about bringing the sheep in, the sun will be down before too long! Girls-- help me with supper, we've extra mouths to feed, haven't we? And we'll need to set a place for Mister Talon too...."
With a huff, Scrent collects a shepherding crook and heads outside without completing his defiant sentence.
Missus Escoro smiles brightly at you all. "I'm afraid we haven't got fancy grub, but there'll be plenty of it. Baked the bread this morning, and our goats give good milk... Still, it'll be a bit of time before it's ready, if you all care to enjoy the fresh air til then?"
It doesn't take a critical sense motive check to grasp that the cabin is relatively tight space and she is trying to urge you out of the kitchen to give her and her daughters room to work, preparing the meal.
Outside, Farmer Escoro looks through the growths in the vegetable garden, tutting about weevils and the weather. His small talk is a bit forced, clearly trying to think of things that might be of interest to such formidable warriors as yourselves, but having a limited supply of conversational topics. When he gets into the story of the time the goats chased half the family into the barn hayloft-- a story you heard on the road, from Scrent-- you're almost grateful for the shouting from the pasture.
Late afternoon sunlight spills over the green hillocks and the rain-engorged stream that runs through the homestead, creating a picturesque scene of the sheep feeding at pasture, and Scrent... waving his arms? Attacking a sheep?
"What's that fool boy doing now?" his father sighs, shading his eyes with his hand as he peers towards the youth and the livestock.
Back in town it seems Roger had taken the shopping trip to pay back quite a few tabs he had accumulated over the years. He had been quick to take advantage of the new boots as well as any of the provisions offered him. The grand old pirate could certainly tuck away the victuals as well as the drink. For new purchases, he had browsed the town's supplies of cold iron weapons now that his funds were in better states, and picked up a Halberd.
Rather worryingly he swung said Halberd around a bit going, "Right, this one seems fun! Never tried it before, but can't be that hard!" It seems he had a taste for just trying strange new weapons. Though, perhaps it was a less exotic weapon than his strange long handled curved blade he was using before.
After acquiring so many provisions from grateful folks, he found them a bit much to handle, and so set about to find a fine backpack to help him carry them all, importantly without crushing the bread.
--
"... I don't suppose what a sheep could get infected with the demon goop?" Roger whispered to the others at the strange sight of Scrent embattled with a sheep. His eyes unable to see for sure what was going on from the distance, he started power walking over to get a closer look.
Constantine is quiet during their trek out to the Escoro homestead, pondering the mixture of fear and hatred that people in town had towards the founding family. Recognizing that his honest inquiries were beginning to be met with hostility, he backs off, thanking people for their time.
Diabolism and demoniacism did not typically mix well, but Constantine wondered whether one had led to the other over the intervening years. Stranger things could happen.
Anyone that directs a question or comment towards Constantine gets the odd one- or two-word answer, far less verbose than perhaps they've grown accustomed to. Even with the Escoros, he's uncharacteristically quiet. Mostly observant. Perhaps more.
---
Constantine manages a somewhat better glance than Roger, but still can't quite tell what's going on. He elbows the pirate in the stomach and holds a finger to his lips, eyes flashing with frustration. Why would he talk about the abyssal bile in front of this man and get him all worried?
"Maybe," he says, continuing his afternoon pattern of brevity. He also begins walking across the pasture, not drawing his blade yet--no need to worry the sheep or the farmer--but nonetheless remaining vigilant.
Whipping round at Roger’s words, Hannelia peers out towards Scrent on the hillside. Squinting, she whispers a quick blessing for fortune, trying to make out what the boy’s father was talking about. ”Something’s not right with one of those sheep,” she says uncertainly, ”I can’t tell exactly what it is but it appears to have some kind of sheen to it? Metal perhaps? Whatever it is, Scrent appears to be struggling to keep it at bay. Hopefully there’s an obvious explanation but I think he needs our help.” She snatches up her bow and quiver from where she had carefully placed them against a wall by the door. ”Let’s go!” she urges the others into action.
"Mmm? Aright." At Hannelia's urging Roger breaks into a run instead.
"Hurry!" The cleric shouts and joins in. Sirio draws his weapon as he approaches the boy. The morningstar gleams like the glittering sheen he could spot from beneath the sheepskin. He calls,"Scrent, run this way!"
The group races for the pasture hill, grabbing at weapons and gear that was set down in appreciation of the journey's end. Jogging on a slope gives you little chance to take in the full view until you're there-- there's sheep, sure, baahing and milling about in some confusion and light distress-- and there's Scrent, who seems to have a foot-- stuck? under the sheep-- and is windmilling his arms in a fashion that would be awkward and comical if not for the look of real fear on his young face.
You enter the field and register that the 'sheep' engaged with Scrent appears to be something-- other. It's kind of hard to tell what. There's white curly sheep wool alright, and soft black ears, and a fluffy tail, and also... a hand, wrapped around Scrent's ankle? The flash of a blade?
Even as you look, Scrent gets yanked by that hand, and lands on the ground with a solid thump. The sheep (?) scrambles on top of him, and in the process, something shifts-- and you realize you're looking at no sheep, but a goblin, wearing a sheepskin as a surprisingly elaborate costume. And the goblin has a wicked, jagged-edge knife that is incoming for the boy's throat.
A... goblin?! Hannelia's brain registers, giving a grudging sort of credit to the disguise. Realising that Scrent is in real trouble here, she scans the area, looking to see if there are any other goblins-in-sheep's-clothing - or indeed any other threats - before loosing an arrow towards boy's attacker. "You've been lucky just now, let's be lucky again, eh?" she murmurs.
As Hannelia takes aim and fires an arrow at the goblin-in-sheep's-clothing, Constantine takes off towards poor Scrent.
Clever buggers.
Hannelia sends an arrow arcing in a clean line over the confused sheep, and her arrow finds its mark, in the nick of time! It lands right in the goblin's back and the creature shrieks before slumping, limply. Scrent struggles to kick off the wool-covered form even as Constantine races towards him.
Hannelia registers there's at least two more goblins she can see-- on the far side of the stream, the waters swollen with spring rains, one is lurking, and not too far from your group another is trying to edge closer crawling on all four in sheep-guise.
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"Have at ye, Mutton Chops!" Roger barrels into one of the disguised goblins, pulling forth his sword and swinging away. No need to bring out the fancy new cold iron for regular old goblins.
But alas, there's naught but fluff and wool for Roger's efforts.
"Scrent!" Emma cries. She charges right after Constantine, while keeping a wary eye on the one across the river - charging across it might prove difficult given the bulk of her armor, but hopefully she can draw fire from it rather than have it try to attack Scrent or one of her other companions. Either way, for the moment, her focus is on protecting Scrent.
For Iomedae's sake, we were just trying to discourage him from danger! And there I was, suggesting he stay home to stay safe, and this happens! Is fate itself mocking me now?
Sirio calls out, "One more across the river!" he doesn't dare cross in his armor, but he draws a vial of acid, looking for a clean shot at the goblin if he can get close enough.
Running across the field takes the energy of several of you. The two goblins Hannelia has spotted are quick to act in turn. One lashes out at Roger with a rusted blade, trying to hack his legs out from under him!
The other takes aim at Sirio, standing there with his acid flask. The goblin rises up and whips a small bow from under the sheepskin, and send an arrow Sirio's way.
"Hhahah!!!" it screeches as its arrow finds a home. More Goblin shrilling follows, the two remaining live ones cackling at their successful strikes.
Hannelia lets out a quick sigh of relief at the sight of Scrent scrambling out from under the lifeless form of the goblin she felled. It is short-lived, however, as she spots movement to either side. Following Sirio’s call she moves alongside the priest. ”Ok?” she asks, eyeing the arrow - she doesn’t think it has obviously hit anything vital - before returning fire at the goblin across the river.
As two more goblins reveal themselves and move to viciously attack, Constantine holds his shield around Scrent.
"Are you injured, Scrent? Ah, stay with me until we can get you cross the field."
The occultist grimaces as he hears their disgusting song. At least they weren't talking about burning...yet. Constantine responds in kind.
All you'll get is your throats slit."
Gritting his teeth, Constantine begins a baton pass with Scrent, covering him on the way to Sirio, and then hoping that the Asmodean minds him back towards Hannelia. On the way, he looks at his drawn sword.
All right, dad. Let's get to work.
Constantine's sword begins to glow with a soft blue light, and any wear and tear on the blade seems to fill in.
"Arrrrg! Ye rude Sheepshanks! That bloody hurt!" Roger stumbles back a moment from the deep wound to his thigh, before engaging back once more.
"Over here greenskin scum!" Sirio calls to the goblin across the river. He winds up, steps forward, and lobs the vial of acid at the creature.
Emma glances at the river, frowning in annoyance. In her armor, forging across it could cost her precious time - and there could be more of the goblins lying in wait. A wrong step on a slippery rock could send her into the water, where it would take time to right herself. Time for more goblins to appear and pepper the recovering target with arrows.
Eyeing the goblin across the way, she instead decides to draw one of her javelins, hefting it in her hand. She doesn't waste any words on taunting the spiteful little creature - now's the time for action, not words. She can hear Roger engaging with the other goblin that they know of, and hopes that he's faring alright.
Emma releases a breath, grips the javelin, and then throws it across the river, hoping her aim is true.
Sirio is better at throwing shade than throwing acid, it seems. His underhanded lob is really underhanded, and caroms off the surface of the stream briefly before sliding under it.
Emma's javelin, at least, crosses the river, but the green-hued annoyance sniggers and dodges the strike easily enough.
Meanwhile, the sheep.... The outright violence frights the already distressed sheep, who start to trot, and then outright bolt, away from the smells of blood and the sounds of breaking glass and yelling voices... Those of you who were nearest to sheep find yourself jostled and pushed by the sudden rush of low, woolly bodies, their panicked baaaas ringing in your ears!
Constantine's versifying, unintelligible though it may be to the rest of you, earn some 'oooohssss' from the goblins. The one that Roger faces with sniggers at his second miss, and tries to counter with another stab of the jag-edged blade it holds.
Again, the small blade finds its way past Roger's guard! The mighty pirate himself stands on his feet, wobbling, blood seeping too freely from a deep cut in his gut!
Another arrow arcs across the stream, this time at Emma.
It finds it mark. The goblin laughs manically and pulls back thicker into the rich spring grass. Scrent hesitates, staying close to Constantine. "What do I do!?"