Vildran's suggestion is that they rest overnight before approaching Stonehome. He feels best prepared shortly after he's had a chance to review his spellbook and reflect on his arcane practices and methods.
"Don't worry, you'll pay me back when you sort this all out, right?"
“Of course,” Autumn responds with an easy smile as she tucks the healing potion into her purse. In truth, she has enough gold of her own to pay the rest, but she doesn’t want to dip into her personal stash for a communal purchase.
Seeing the concern on Morga’s face as she tends to San, Autumn realizes that it will take a lot longer than she thought for the archer to recuperate. “Thanks again,” she says sincerely. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time—we’ll let you get back to work now.”
Back at Morga’s place, the sorceress shares the concerning news from Art and Bastiano. “I’m not sure what’s occupying the Gorumites, but it can’t be good. I guess we’ll find out in the morning.” She glances over at the wizard. “I’ll just talk to the guard first—get a sense of where he stands—then we’ll use San’s disease to get inside, so don’t heal him too well,” she jokes. “I’ll fake symptoms as well. If he won’t let us all in, I’ll create a distraction so Vildran can get in with the key.”
"I'll be interested to see if they let us keep our gear if we try to present at patients. This disease might be taking it's toll on me but I can still pack a punch without my weapons if I need to. Fingers crossed that won't be necessary but I wouldn't hold my breath."
After spending all afternoon treating San (and all the previous night as well), Morga is drained. She notes how well he's been holding up, and decides that it isn't worth the effort to stay up all night treating her own infection. A good night's rest will probably do me more good than that, considering how hard it's been to treat this.
She narrows her eyes when San muses about the Gorumites allowing patients to keep their gear. "If other patients have become combative or have hallucinated, they might move it to another room for everyone's safety. Or if there isn't enough space near the bed. Plus, lying down in armor destroys anyone's sleep, which makes it harder for their bodies to heal. We'd better accept that they'll require us to remove our armor, at least." She frowns. She doesn't like that. Not one bit. But getting in, she might be able to visit her great-aunt's bedside before they shunt her into her own. What will I say? We've never met, and I buried her husband without her.
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"You will learn regret. - M"
The note is otherwise unadorned, and there's no sign of anyone nearby that might have left it. An inspection of the door doesn't show any signs of forced entry. You head inside and find the home exactly as you left it the night before.
---
After a long night's rest you awaken with San and Morga still feeling rotten. San at least seems to have slightly recovered, though his rust-colored bruise is still evident around his original wound . Morga on the other hand is wracked by a fever as the night progresses and awakens achy and sore. Her own wound now sports a spreading bruise whose edges are fuzzy and seem to wriggle with a life of their own.
Vildran nervously watches Morga and San as they get up the next morning.
Are you both sure you're up for the day? I think San will definitely be able to get in, I just hope they don't immediately incapacitate or restrain him. Oh...
His antennae twitch more than usual.
Let's just try it I suppose.
"Well... this note is ominous. M can only be Metrimar right? I suppose we shouldn't assume we're safe just because we're out of that cult hive."
Surprised there is only a dull ache in his leg, San is a little more optimistic about going to Stonehome. "No reason to stress about it until we get there. I'm sure it'll be fine."
San readies himself, making sure his bow is strung and the new hammer is secured. Strapping on his armor, he makes sure to leave the wound on his leg easily reveal-able for when they get to the doors.
Seeing Morga's condition worsening does damper his mood though. "It seems this disease is unpredictable. Maybe it was your treatment that allowed me to bounce back over night... I'm fighting back, I'm sure you will be able to as well."
“So not good,” Autumn frowns as she looks at the note yet again in the morning. “I was worried that waiting would have consequences—and now Meitremar’ll be ready for us.” Her frown deepens. A con works best when the mark is unaware.
“And signing it means he’s not scared at all, which means …” She shakes her head. “Anyway, at least we know for sure that the cultists are communicating with Meitremar. But I wonder how? No one’s mentioned seeing any of the cultists around town.”
She shrugs. “We still don’t know where the Gorumites stand, so we may as well stick to the original plan.” Autumn retrieves her disguise kit, using some cosmetics to fashion the appearance of a rust-colored bruise on her right arm. “Morga’s a better bet to get in—her wound’s worse, like San’s was yesterday. Which makes me wonder—how did the townspeople fall ill? There’s no way people wouldn’t notice the cythnigot biting someone.” She looks at the dwarf. “Do you know anything about how your great-aunt got sick?”
Morga glowers at the threatening note. You think I don't know about regret already? That's never kept me from my duty before, and it won't now. She crumples it into her fist and uses it as kindling for the fire once she's inside.
"Glad you're feeling better, San, though I doubt anything I've been doing has done any good. This disease is so different from anything I've ever heard of. ... We'll see how well my body fights it, I guess."
Responding to Autumn, she sighs and wipes the sheen from her brow. "No. Great-Aunt Hilga didn't mention being sick in her letter, and neighbors told me the Gorumites took her to Stonehome the day before I arrived. Great-Uncle Guntrand didn't remember she was taken away, no matter how many times I told him. I wonder if it was a contamination of the food or water... But then wouldn't more people be sick? I'll prepare a spell to cleanse our food, just in case."
Having prepared yourselves for the day, you set out in the early morning to Stonehome. As you make your way from the west to the east end of town, you see a few people out and about at their day's work, blissfully unaware of the strange and dangerous cult situated so close by. Just as Art and Bastiano noted the day before, you see no Gorumites in town or watching the harbor.
The path up to Stonehome is similarly quiet, but as the massive walls come into sight you also see a single acolyte standing guard at the front door. An older woman, she has a greatsword slung across her back and is armored in splint mail. As you get closer, you can see she looks rather disheveled, and her face is quite haggard from what seems to be a lack of sleep. Tired or not, she raises a hand to halt you as you approach.
"State your business."
“Oh, um, hello,” Autumn decides to adopt a mousy, nonthreatening persona for this interaction. “We were just … are you okay? You look really tired, like you’ve been on duty all night.” A note of concern creeps into her voice as she timidly steps forward. “Oh, and we’re here because we’re sick,” she gestures vaguely at the bruises on Morga, San, and herself, “and we were hoping we could get some help.” It seems clear that the guard is not in a mood for chitchat, so the sorceress moves rather quickly to the point.
Vildran habitually thumbs the key in his inner-cloak pocket while Autumn starts to attempt to loosen him up.
Saab gives the guard a half smile and a shrug as he presents the bruise. "We hear you can help."
The guard rubs her eyes "Aye, on duty all night. I'm afraid we can't accept any further sick. You're outsiders, right? You should head on from Iron Harbor and get to a bigger town if you need treatment." She points with her head to the harbor. "You should be fine if you head immediately, Averaka or Irrere are only a few day's swift sailing."
“A few days?!” Autumn injects a note of hysteria into her voice. “Did you look at her injury?” She draws attention to the eerie autonomous wriggling of Morga’s bruise. “That’s not normal! How many sick people do you have in there? Another priest said that you’re treating just a few people, so surely a few more won’t be a problem?”
She pleads desperately with her eyes, then forces herself to take a moment to breathe deeply and visibly calm down. “Sorry … I shouldn’t be taking this out on you, especially after you’ve had such a long night.” The hysteria dissipates, replaced by concern and compassion for the guard. “Is it usual for you to stand guard all night? That’s not healthy. Couldn’t they make the shifts shorter—surely someone else could stand watch for part of the night so that you get at least some sleep?”
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Hmm... Morga clears her throat to inquire: "I've heard of several people coming in to Stonehome for healing, but no one coming out. Are they all still alive, after all this time? If so, why not send them home? If they've passed, why haven't the next of kin been told? What's been done with their bodies? I ask because my great-aunt Hilga Fistcrusher was brought here some days ago, and there's been no word. <cough> Sorry. Excuse me."
The questions are getting a little direct, but maybe this guard will just remain tired. Vildran does not think adding more words will help, but he pays attention to the guard's reactions.
She glances at Morga after her question, grimaces "Not my business to be talking about that. When the Ma- Lord Ragnulf decides to announce something, he will. That's all you're getting for now."
Vildran senses that there's more she's not saying, but that much is obvious to all of you. He also notes that beyond her tiredness she seems feeble, like she's suffering from some kind of ailment herself. There's no other visible sign of what it might be however.
Autumn gives a desperate, hurt look at the guard, then glances at Vildran, then looks back at the guard again. “Why are you still keeping her great-aunt if you can’t help? I know, I know … it’s not your business to talk about it.” Though Stonehome’s refusal to accept the sick is unexpected, she has had experience improvising her way through unforeseen situations—even if that means telling the truth. She gives the wizard a meaningful look.
“Listen,” the sorceress returns her attention to the guard, “we … well, we didn’t want to say anything, because … well, frankly, it’s hard to believe. I’m not sure I believe it myself. But we know something about where this disease comes from—we just don’t know how to treat it.” She glances at Vildran, deciding to let the paranoid elf decide whether to speak true or lie. “Go ahead—tell her.”
San's happy nonchalant attitude is slowly shifting to frustration and anger as the guard refuses to let them in. He holds his comments, trusting Autumn's strategy to work this out before resorting to plan b... it wouldn't do to go assaulting someone peacefully doing their job for no reason.
"When the Ma- Lord Ragnulf decides to announce something, he will."
Hmm... No answer regarding all the sick who've entered here. That's beyond suspicious. And who's "the Ma-"? Urrrgh. Sounds like someone's taken over and Lord Ragnulf is a puppet of some kind... or worse. The wheels in Morga's head are spinning, but whether it'll do anyone any good is unclear. She looks to Vildran, awaiting his response. She doesn't know him well enough to predict how much of the truth he'll tell, but if she was a betting woman she'd put her money on "not all of it".
Vildran is a bit caught off guard, quickly suppressing an instantaneous stunned look and regathering his composure as the antennae on his head straighten out to talk "business." He starts with the barest of functional details.
Yes... we call it "rust creep," for now. Two of our own contracted it from a seemingly unsavory group who like to hang out by the rusty ruins across the bay, out on that strip of land.
He gestures vaguely in that direction.
I see no reason they couldn't have given it to others around town! We're not yet sure what their little club is really about.
Yes, "club," we'll hold back the word "cult" for now. And others such as dungeons, cythnigots, fungus dogs, and whatever else we saw down there...
The guard squares her jaw at Vildran's explanation "An unsavory group by Rusthenge?" She looks about to leave it at that, but perhaps thanks to your earlier attempts at friendliness, she continues. "I'll not argue against your account. But, I myself saw when the first ones were afflicted and I have Lord Ragnulf's own pronouncement that this ailment is a trial from Gorum set against the town. That you were caught within it too is your poor luck in arriving at such a time. All the more reason to seek care elsewhere where the Lord in Iron's scorn will not fall upon you." She seems to disregard your account of the "club" at Rusthenge out of hand, fully convinced of her own understanding of the cause.
Implacable, she adds "This is our business. There is no sense for you to-" She shakes her head "I've already said too much. Leave." She says the last word firmly.
Autumn watches and listens carefully, trying to glean more from the guard than just words. In the back of her mind she assesses their various angles of attack. She’s definitely not in league with the cultists, but telling her about the fungus hound and that apparatus thing won’t help, not against her blind faith in Ragnulf and whatever story he’s concocted. And they’re too weak and inward-looking to sally forth against a threat to the town. So …
The sorceress glares meaningfully at her companions before turning back to the guard. “Very well, we shall leave.” She makes a tiny shooing motion behind her back, then steps in closer to the guard. “But, um, if I might offer you a piece of friendly advice … because I really am worried about …”
Suddenly there’s a sharp crack, like the sound of someone stepping on a dry twig, followed by a low growling noise. “What was that?! Did you hear it?”
San takes advantage of the momentary distraction to hustle everyone else through the door and into Stonehome.
Morga knows the guard won't be fooled for long. It's not like there's anywhere else they could've gone, but she tries to slip through the door as soon as the opportunity presents itself. I'm coming, Great-Aunt Hilga. If we don't get far enough this time, we'll find another way. I won't give up on you!
As soon as the guard's head turns to look, Vildran swiftly follows San through, padding his feet as softly as he can.
The guard frowns, raising her hand to the greatsword on her back. She takes a couple steps toward the sound, momentarily distracted. "Probably a wolverine. Not anything to be afraid of."
Seeing that the guard is unwilling to take more than a few steps anyway from her post, Autumn abandons her attempt to distract the duty-bound Gorumite from her post. Indeed, she has much less hope of sneaking inside like they had planned. But the guard had almost seemed forthcoming—on the verge of divulging potentially useful information.
“At least not with you here to protect us,” she smiles in response. Her emerald eyes twinkle brightly as she subtly casts a spell. “But before we go, couldn’t you at least tell us if her great-aunt Hilga is even alive or dead? Surely you can understand wanting to know at least something about your loved ones—imagine if someone treating your sister or mother refused to tell you anything. I just don’t understand why there’s so much secrecy?”
Autumn subtly casts both charm spells, but finds no obvious effect from either. The guard frowns "Whatever signs you're making, you are wasting your time. As I said, you will have to go elsewhere if you need aid. Do not make me say it more forcefully."
Vildran is already nervously backing away when the guard makes this suggestion. It seems this won't be the way through. He starts to brace himself for a possible climb up the slippery well...
After aborting the attempt to rush through the door, San waits patiently as Autumn tries other avenues. When the conversation turns to being forceful, his hand drifts to the hammer hanging at his side. He doesn't draw it quite yet but all the airs of a meek injured elf is gone.
With the failure of her magic, Autumn abruptly drops all pretense of being nice. “Fine,” she glares darkly at the guard, throwing all caution to the wind. “But we’re not leaving until we get at least some answers. So humor us, or you’ll have to explain to Lord Ragnulf—or to Meitremar—why there are four people camped outside Stonehome.”
The sorceress stands tall and rigid, like a queen inspecting a lowly subject. “What’s really going on in there?” Perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, but one of her emerald eyes seems to decay into an ominous dull grey. “And don’t bother threatening us—you’ve crossed Gorum yourself, just like your comrades. You’re sick and tired and weak. Just like Brother Blanton. Yes, we know. And you’re going to tell us everything. Now.”
A lowly guard probably doesn't know the important parts. On purpose. Morga muses darkly as she crosses her arms across her chest, plants her feet, and glares at the guard. "After all this time, the people you've taken in are either dead, healed, or not so bad off that they couldn't go home to be nursed by their families. Why the secrecy? It makes it look like you Gorumites are hiding something, and that doesn't fit with the reputation of the Lord Ragnulf the folks in town remember. Oh, and you can tell "M" that their little note was 'very inspiring'." She finishes wryly, recalling that the guard almost said a name that sounded like it would be spelled "Ma...", but that Meitremar would be spelled differently. Maybe there's more than one 'M' behind all this.
Suddenly feeling outnumbered by the armed travelers around her, the guard steps back to get the door behind her back. She's now worn out and nervous and on edge, but you get your answers, more or less "Fine. What's really going on is people are sick. Those that are still well are dealing with it. But... there's also some strange things I've seen. I don't know if I imagined them... but a cowled figure walks the halls. Not human or dwarf. Some kind of nightmare."
"As best I know, everyone who was taken in's still being treated. Lord Ragnulf wouldn't lie to us about that. And he'll make sure the innocent are the priority." She furrows her brow, looking off into the distance "For the rest of us, I don't know."
"As I said, this isn't a place for you. Lord Ragnulf's orders were that no one gets in, especially anyone from out of town. Forget what I told you. Go far away. Far, far away."
Finally giving up, San nudges Morga then speaks to the guard with resignation, "You understand that leaving isn't an option right? A family member and a friend are in there and we intend to see to their well-being. This news of a 'cowled figure' doesn't inspire us to leave things as they are. You are doing your duty well but you are now in our way. I'm sorry things have to be resolved this way..."
As he speaks, San takes the warhammer to hand. Can't just knock someone out with arrows after all.
Morga sighs heavily, shaking her head at the guard as she places her shield on her arm. "I understand doing your duty and following orders. I've done that my whole life. Doesn't mean the orders are right, though. ... Last chance."
She's not too keen on meeting that cowled figure in the halls, especially after having her life nearly snuffed out just yesterday. But creepy monster-types tend to favor the hours of the night, so perhaps they won't encounter it today. She tries to picture what her great-aunt would look like, sick and disheveled, based on the sketched picture that was hung on the wall of their home, so that she can recognize her. One way or another, I'm coming-- no matter what I have to do...
Lord Ragnulf's orders were that no one gets in, especially anyone from out of town.
Autumn furrows her brow. “That’s a lie. Ordwi, a priestess of Cayden Cailean was brought to Stonehome by Sister Vanda. The captain of the Thassilonian ship entered Stonehome too. Both outsiders.” Her eyes narrow menacingly. “What happened to them?”
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Morga shifts her position so that Autumn and Vildran are behind her. Fortunately she's short enough that the others have no trouble maintaining eye contact with the guard.
With San taking warhammer in hand, the guard draws her greatsword "So it comes to it after all. He warned me... Heh... Heh heh.."
---
-
|||| INIT ||||
Autumn
Vildran
Gorumite Guard
Morga (Rust Creep - Stage 2; -1 penalty on Athletics checks)
San (Rust Creep - Stage 1; -1 penalty on Athletics checks)
Though she’d rather not fight, Autumn is quick to act once the guard decides on violence. With an ominous hexing glare, her one eye seems to melt into black oblivion while her fingers tug at invisible strings within the guard’s mind.
Before...
Oh dear...
Vildran nervously rhythmically taps his fingers together waiting to see if violence breaks out.
More loudly he speaks up.
Look if you just release their loved ones, you can go back to guarding Stonehome so that we can avoid violence.
As the guard starts to grin...
Vildran sighs.
So be it.
He mutters some draconic under his breath, and into his palm held out in front of him. He blows on it as if sending an unseen result towards her.
Drop prone!
Failure The creature must spend the first action on its next turn to obey your command.
Critical Failure The target must use all its actions on its next turn to obey your command.
He mutters some more spell words and a soft glow falls over a five-foot emanation from himself.
-
|||| INIT ||||
Morga (Rust Creep - Stage 2; -1 penalty on Athletics checks)
San (8 dmg, Rust Creep - Stage 1; -1 penalty on Athletics checks)
Autumn
Vildran (protective wards)
Gorumite Guard (5 dmg)
Vildran grumbles that his spell didn't work.
This one has a strong will. How can she be wasted on these Gorumites...?
He concentrates on the ebbing and flowing miasma of shimmery protective runes that washes over his party.
Then he thrusts his staff forward, between San and Morga, sending a bolt of flame at the guard.
“So not helping,” Autumn frowns when the guard, not unexpectedly, calls for help. “We need to be quick,” she mutters with a shake of her head, though she doubts that this entrance is still viable now that the alarm has been raised. With nary a word nor gesture, the sorceress focuses her will upon the Gorumite, pinning the guard beneath her gaze like a cruel child inspecting a bug between her fingers. Then she tugs once again at occult threads reaching into her foe’s mind.
Seeing the rusty blade, San decides mercy isn't on the table any longer. Swapping the hammer for his bow, he squares his stance and fires an arrow.
Rust, eh? So you're in league with those cultists. "We'll discover who twisted your perceptions and abused your loyalty, and uproot the evil you have grown in your midst!" Morga swears grimly. A small part of her is glad the guard called for help; she doesn't have to worry about casting a loud spell. She flicks out the wrist of her free hand, flinging the resounding peal of a massive bell at the guard.
Raising her shield, she prepares for more combatants to arrive.
Combat Over. You each gain 30 XP.
Though the guard shouted for assistance, you hear no approaching voices or even boots. All you hear is the frightened braying of some animal within. Otherwise everything seems largely quiet for now.
Vildran looks around at the others before approaching the door and poking his head in...
Autumn exhales a sigh of relief. She pauses to give the guard an odd, grimly sympathetic look, then stoops down to quickly rifle through the body, searching for anything that might be of use—the necessities of survival outweigh any remorse for the dead.
She glances at the door, both surprised and worried by the apparent silence. “Hopefully they’re all too sick to respond,” she mutters, “and that animal isn’t a guard dog.” The sorceress gazes at her tattoo for a moment, then exchanges a determined look with Morga. “Let’s go find your great-aunt.”