Centuries ago, the massive Shining Crusade destroyed the Whispering Tyrant Tar-Baphon, an incredibly powerful lich. Knowing he might someday return, the Whispering Tyrant’s foes sealed his remains away under his old tower, Gallowspire, and formed the nation of Lastwall to guard his crumbling edifice for centuries… until three years ago, when the Tyrant was reborn.
In a matter of weeks, the furious lich laid waste to Lastwall. The lost nation, now known as the Gravelands, is a haunted and desolate place overrun with undead while the Tyrant’s cult, the Whispering Way, operates freely.
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Lawric is already in the room when the others arrive.
He stands near the back, not moving, not speaking — just watching with wide, unblinking eyes. He wears a black cloak with the hood down, pale face plainly visible. In one hand, he loosely holds a small straw poppet with no face, only thread where the eyes should be. It swings a little when he shifts, though he does not seem to notice.
When the silence grows long enough to be uncomfortable, he speaks.
“THE DEAD IN THE GRAVELANDS DO NOT REST. I’M HERE TO COUNT.”
His voice is high and tight, like a child’s voice that never deepens. He offers no name, no title. Only that.
He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink.
He is, it seems, very patient.
A short (shorter than most) dwarf stumps into the room and takes a seat beside Lawric. He has a perpetual scowl on his face. One can see the symbol of the Forge Father on his belt.
"Hmmph." he snorts, and says nothing else.
Councilwoman Agrit Staginsdar requested to meet in the House of Wonder, her shop in Trunau. The aptly named business specializes in magical items, its shelves chock full of simmering potions and elixirs. Upon answering the door, Agrit, a dwarven wizard, leads the way to a table in the back, at which she sits and pours herself a steaming cup of tea.
“After a bandit raid some years ago, my friend Jacra Hillwren moved away from Trunau. We’d shared a passion for all things arcane, so I was sad to see her leave. Eventually, she settled in Fiorna’s Faith, a small village just outside the border of what was once Lastwall. Though Lastwall fell during the Whispering Tyrant’s rebirth, it seemed like Fiorna’s Faith managed to avoid becoming part of the Gravelands. Or so we all thought.”
She sets her mug down and brings forth a small parchment.
“Jacra and I still correspond via her raven familiar, Coal - mostly personal letters and theories about magic. But then, last week, Coal arrived at my window with nothing in its talons but this single scrap of blood-stained parchment. I’ve not heard anything since, nor has anyone else.”
She spreads the parchment out on her table. It reads: “I must be brief. Something terrible is happening in Fiorna’s Faith. Folk have been disappearing and I fear that I’m ne—”
Here the missive is torn.
Agrit asks the heroes to travel to Fiorna’s Faith and find out what’s happened to the small community, offering a hefty reward for their bravery. She hopes this is all just a misunderstanding, and that the heroes might reestablish communications with the townsfolk so everything can return to normal. Barring that, she ask the heroes to search the town and rescue as many people as they can find, promising that all will be welcome in Trunau should they make the journey north.
Finally, if all is lost, she requests that the heroes locate a leatherbound spellbook she lent Jacra a few months back, as it contains valuable arcane research that the two had been working on together - research Agrit hopes could aid in her town’s repair and defense.
Thurgan approached the town, cloaked in a mantle of ash-grey fur hood pulled high to avoid scrutiny and people worried about marauding orcs, and iron plate, with his battered shield slung across his back and a restless bear cub tugging impatiently at the length of rope lashed to his belt, he cut a dangerous figure - brute force, fur, and steel. Grump let out a low grumble at the town gates - half warning, half complaint - but Thurgan just grunted in reply. His tusked jaw clenched, eyes scanning the town with caution, and respect.
"That Lawric should be here somewhere, I hope he hasn't gotten into trouble on the way"
***
At the House of Wonder, he offered Councilwoman Agrit a nod of greeting, his gravelly voice quiet but steady, “Name’s Thurgan. Champion of Pharasma, born in Belkzen, trained to guide the dead to their proper rest… and to put down what won’t stay dead. My companion Grump’s still learnin’ not to chew on scrolls or slow-moving people.”
“This friend of yours, Jacra, was she the sort to go digging in things better left buried?”
“What does this spellbook contain that makes it so vital? Something that could protect the living… or raise the dead?”
“We’ll go north, but if this is a place where folk vanish and don’t return… what signs should we look for to know all is lost?”
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He did not arrive with fanfare or flourish. Days earlier, Lawric had quietly entered Trunau and made no introductions. He took up a corner in the back room of the mortuary, unbothered by the stone floor or the scent of old incense. He did not ask for hospitality, only simple accommodations. The attendants recall him speaking very little, but always listening for the reason fate seemed to pull him this close the Gravelands.
Lawric doesn’t answer the councilwoman’s invitation right away, despite having already having been in Trunau. Upon reading the invitation he quietly considers the strands of fate at play
THIS MUST BE THE LADY'S PURPOSE HERE.
SOON, THURGAN SHALL BE ARRIVING. I FEEL IT.
****
Now, in the House of Wonder, he cradles his small straw poppet in one hand, its blank face turned just slightly toward the table. His other hand smooths the frayed thread along the crown of the doll's head, a repetitive motion that might be soothing if it didn’t feel so precisely timed.
Lawric doesn’t shift when Thurgan enters. He only tilts his head slightly, a soft and deliberate movement like a doll being adjusted on a shelf.
Only after a stretch of silence, not long enough to be rude but long enough to notice, does he speak.
“I AM LAWRIC. I SERVE THE GRAY LADY.” His voice scrapes the air in a high, thin, and unnatural tone. “I ARRIVED BEFORE THE OTHERS. STAYED BEHIND THE MORTUARY. THEY LET ME SLEEP ON STONE.”
“IT’S COOLER THERE.”
He listens to each pathfinder with a patient but almost oppressive fixation, is if mentally cataloging each response.
“IF THEY ARE GONE, I WILL WRITE THEIR NAMES.” and a slight pause, “IF THEY ARE NOT GONE, I WILL FIND THEM.”
He finally looks up at Agrit directly, eyes still.
“WHAT SIGNS DID COAL SHOW? ANY SCRATCHES? BURNT FEATHERS? DID HE FLY STRAIGHT?”
Then, almost offhandedly, he turns slightly toward Thurgan and says without blinking:
“YOU ARRIVED. THAT’S GOOD. I KEPT TRACK.”
Another orc is part of the party, meeting the others for the briefing. The orc wears leather armor and a wolves fur as a coat with it's head serving as a hood. On his shoulder sits a ghostly blue jay, shifting to left and right and cautiously observing the others
"Niaqun, I am shaman having personal interested in Gravelands" he simply states
"Did any of you heard any stories about that city?"
Galimus wanders the shelves near where Councilwoman Agrit speaks, scanning them for things of interest. He picks up a bottle and reads it thoughtfully.
He almost drops it at Lawric's abrupt and loud proclamation.
Of average height and build, wearing simple studded leather armor and carrying a longspear, he would be mistaken for a nondescript adventurer were it not for a few...oddities.
Most prominent are the subtle scars on his face and neck, normally not a thing of note for adventurers but in Galimus' case they seem to form patchwork borders, the flesh on one side of one of those suture scars not quite the same shade as on the other. The way those scars descend down into the collar of his leather jacket suggest that they may cover his body.
His hair also seems to have slightly different colors and his eyes are notably two shades of brown, one warm and light, the other dark and ominous.
Though it does not hinder his speed, his gait is strange as though he favors one leg prominently over the other.
He eyes the Pharasmins with trepidation and notably keeps his distance from them.
"A dangerous place to live," he comments. "The dead are restless there and other unholy things stalk the land."
His words come in fits and starts as though he's remembering the words as he speaks them.
The dwarf sitting next to Lawric retains his cold stare. He turns to the group "So ye're called here as well? Might as well get it over with. Pandak. I serve the Forge Father." he says by way of introduction.
"I'll show them. mutters a short (shorter-than-most) dwarf. "Run me outta town 'til I can prove meself" The leagues fly by, powered only by his own anger. Presented with the assignment to find out about a village overrun by undead with an order to 'not come back unless something substantial is recovered'.
Upon reaching the House of Wonder, Pandak finds other Pathfinders already there. Wordlessly, he stumps in, plants himself on a stool and stares balefully at everyone else.
Unlike most clerics, Pandak lacks the accoutrements of a healer. Instead he's dressed for battle.
Noticing Lawric’s arrival, Thurgan instinctively moves to stand beside him a reflex born of habit. The gesture speaks to a quiet protectiveness over the halfling cleric, whose peculiar manner sets him apart from the average wandering disciple. Thurgan is certain Lawric is touched by Pharasma’s hand, but he’s no ordinary temple-bred priest. In a small town, that kind of difference invites confusion… and questions. Thurgan’s presence is a simple deterrent; a silent way of saying that, perhaps, some questions aren’t worth asking.
The bear notes the movement, and just rumbles quietly.
“This friend of yours, Jacra, was she the sort to go digging in things better left buried?”
"No, but if others went digging for trouble, she wouldn't have noticed until it was too late."
“What does this spellbook contain that makes it so vital? Something that could protect the living… or raise the dead?”
"Many of the spells are incomplete, and are works in progress rather than finished products. There are a lot of notes about the nature of magic and research into boundaries between worlds, that could lead to new spells in the future."
“We’ll go north, but if this is a place where folk vanish and don’t return… what signs should we look for to know all is lost?”
"If the town is uninhabited or uninhabitable, it will have to be abandoned, and any survivors evacuated."
“WHAT SIGNS DID COAL SHOW? ANY SCRATCHES? BURNT FEATHERS? DID HE FLY STRAIGHT?”
"Coal has a few scratches, although they might be from previous run-ins with the weather. He made it out just fine."
"Did any of you heard any stories about that city?"
Fiorna’s Faith lies in a small valley in southern Belkzen, just outside the Gravelands. Hidden in this valley, far removed from the devastation of the Whispering Tyrant’s rebirth, the village escaped the fall of Lastwall unscathed.
All that remained of Lastwall's mighty army were scattered and demoralized defenders who once guarded these lands, but were too few and too disorganized to have an effect now.
Fiorna's Faith was one of the few town that took in refugees fleeing from the continuing violence in the east, even though townsfolk of Fiorna’s Faith rarely trust outsiders.
Like most towns in the area, Fiorna's Faith has a large cemetery, housing many generations of the past dead.
Pathfinders
After a 3-day march through the wilderness of southern Belkzen, Agrit’s directions lead the heroes to a narrow valley along the outskirts of Fiorna’s Faith. The village is nestled in a narrow valley just inside the borders of the Hold of Belkzen, to the west of the Gravelands and the north of the Nirmathas border.
As the heroes make their way down the road, they come across small farms and the occasional trapper’s cabin. Investigating any or all of these sites reveals that they are all abandoned. While one or two look like they’ve been empty for years, the dwellings closer to the village seem recently vacated, with meals left unfinished on tables, overripe crops left untended, and barn doors wide open with livestock nowhere to be seen.
There’s no sign of what happened here, no clue or note left. Everyone is simply gone.
One last farmhouse stands near the pass leading down into the valley, window shutters creaking in the wind. This farmhouse is different from all the others, in that there is a foul stench emanating from the building.
As a member of the newly reformed Order of the Starless Night, Galimus considers it his duty to not only keep Tchekuth from awakening but also to use his knowledge and abilities to quell other existential threats to his reality.
The Gravelands in all its many forms and names has contained one such threat for quite some time.
So, he has come to investigate and do what he can.
It does not hurt that death and undeath are particular areas of interest for him.
"I know of few situations that are not easier to deal with after getting additional knowledge. This structure seems different than the ones that we have passed, so far. I believe it is to our benefit to explore why," he comments, still in his stilted, halting method.
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Lawric walks with deliberate care, boots making no more sound than necessary. His straw poppet sways in one hand, but the other holds a small notebook bound in faded blue leather. Every time they pass a farmstead or cabin, he pauses — not long, but long enough to inspect any signs: etched initials on a doorframe, faded names carved into fence posts, a family crest stitched above a threshold.
Without comment, he writes.
He doesn’t ask questions. He simply jots the names down. "JUST IN CASE" — a quiet act of stewardship, as if preserving them might anchor the vanished.
As the stench-laced farmhouse comes into view, Lawric slows.
There’s something different here. Not noise, not movement but a change in the shape of the quiet.
The poppet stills and he turns back to the others, face unreadable.
“I WOULD LIKE TO SEE INSIDE.”
Thurgan is many things, but first among them is patient. He’s learned, through bruises and blood, that survival often lies in restraint. So he halts, narrowing his eyes at the last farmhouse by the pass.
The stench rolling off the building is foul and thick - death, certainly, but death left to rot? That could mean carrion beasts, maybe worse. In this cursed stretch of land, even the dead might have other ideas.
He casts a glance at Lawric, gauging the halfling cleric’s expression. When the little priest shows interest, Thurgan exhales through his nose, resigned. He raises his shield, gives a curt hand signal to Grump, and begins a slow, deliberate advance on the door with sword drawn, senses sharp, ready for whatever unnatural thing might be waiting inside.
"I'll lead Lawric, stay behind me like usual, and if you get in trouble just hide behind the bear"
The heroes enter the house find it abandoned like all the others; well-appointed with handmade wooden furniture, but with most personal effects missing, as if they were grabbed in a hurry. The kitchen, however, contains a rather gruesome scene.
In the middle of the nondescript square room lies the corpse of a dead cow, from which a trail of dried blood leads out the door to a small pen just behind the house. The poor beast’s head is crushed, and it’s hard to tell anything else due to all the cockroaches feasting on the body.
Critical Success:
Galimus finds a human tooth in the grass near the bloodstains, also covered in dried blood.
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Lawric moves when Thurgan does, not quite in step but close enough that it feels like a practiced rhythm. He enters behind the large Orc, a silent shadow beneath the raised shield, his eyes already tracing the room for forgotten names or patterns in dust.
The stench doesn’t faze him. Nor do the cockroaches.
When he sees the cow, Lawric walks forward without hesitation. He kneels beside the corpse and rests his poppet beside him, placing it carefully on the blood-streaked floor like a second set of eyes. Then, he lowers both hands to the cow’s crushed head and leans in, inches from the mess.
The insects crawl over his knuckles and sleeves but does not react or pull away.
He inspects the wound with a clinical precision and then gently presses two fingers to the dried blood beneath the skull. He speaks as though reading from a ledger, voice sharp against the silence “SEVERAL DAYS OLD. A SINGLE BLOW. STRONG. DECISIVE.”
His eyes flick toward the trail of blood leading to the back door. The poppet’s thread-stuffed face points in the same direction. “NOT SPITE. NOT HUNGER. PURPOSE.”
He stays crouched and adds
“THE LADY OF THE GRAVES DOES NOT COUNT ANIMALS.”
“BUT SOMETHING ELSE DOES.”
He reaches out and draws a slow spiral in the dust near the cow’s head — not a ward, but an acknowledgment. Then, with a glance to Thurgan and a faint shift toward Grump’s shoulder, his voice speaks again.
“I THINK WE SHOULD SEE WHERE IT TOOK THE BODY. WILL YOU LEAD?”
It, perhaps, says something about Galimus and his personality that the grotesque display they discover in one of the rooms of the house does not disturb him.
He simply squats next to the dead cow, brushing away some of the cockroaches so that he can examine it more closely.
"Strange. I've never seen a cow killed by cockroaches before," he comments after his examination. "I would not have expected them to be able to crush its skull."
Thurgan watches Lawric closely as the halfling makes his deliberations, but then looks visibly confused by Galimus’ hypothesis.
As Lawric suggests going for a walk, Thurgan nods, "We should get a good idea of what took place. Why would someone go to the trouble of killing a cow and leaving it for the worms?"
Survival
Thurgan seems quite pleased with his wisdom, but as he steps off to see where the trail leads, he’s confounded by Grump, who has already started disturbing the carcass and looks set on making quite a scene if his meal is interrupted, leaving Thurgan busy negotiating with a bear rather than wandering trails.
Grump follows the trail to the fenced-in pen, where more bloodstains mark where the cow fell.
Galimus finds a human tooth in the grass near the bloodstains, also covered in dried blood.
"Ho, ho, what's this?" Galimus says, picking up the tooth. He holds it up to his face, ostensibly to examine it, but for a moment it seems like he is contemplating trying it out for size in his own mouth.
"Maybe the cockroaches didn't kill the cow. Maybe it was whoever this belonged to. Or maybe whoever killed the cow also knocked this tooth loose. Which would mean that we're looking for someone missing a tooth, living or dead."
He pauses to contemplate. "Hmmm...for that matter, maybe it came from an undead, either a victim or an attacker. This clue creates more questions than answers, I fear."
He continues to look around but also pockets the tooth. After all, one never knows when one will need a replacement.
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“THAT WAS A HUMAN TOOTH.”
Lawric is suddenly there... too close and too quiet- staring not at Galimus, but at the pocket where the tooth now rests.
His poppet hangs at his side, still as bone.
“YOU SHOULD NOT CARRY PARTS OF PEOPLE.”
He doesn’t explain. He just watches the pocket for another beat before drifting away, as if the conversation had already ended.
As Lawric voices his worries about the tooth, Thurgan’s brow furrows, a flicker of almost parental concern crossing his face.
He steps toward Galimus a little awkwardly, there’s warmth in his tone, but a quiet weight of concern behind his words “Lawric takes his vows to Pharasma pretty seriously,” Thurgan says, glancing briefly toward the halfling “He’s got a few… particular ways about it. Would you mind not carrying the tooth? Maybe we bury it, or lay it to rest somehow. I think it’d mean a lot to him.”
Galimus stares at them both blankly. Then blinks a few times. He slowly pulls the tooth out of the pocket that he'd placed it in. He examines it for several seconds then shrugs and puts it into Thurgan's palm and moves around to examine the scene without comment.
Thurgan and Galimus bury the tooth, and Lawric says a Pharasman prayer over the deceased.
---
After investigating the farmhouse, the only way forward is down the valley path into Fiorna’s Faith. The path is dangerous, made worse by recent downpours that have washed away many of the slopes.
After about 2 hours of treacherous terrain, the heroes ànally arrive at Fiorna’s Faith around noon, approaching from the northeast. As they arrive, the heavy rain becomes a torrential downpour, turning the mountain trail behind them into an impassable river of mud and sealing them into the valley.
After descending into the rain-drenched valley, the village of Fiorna’s Faith finally comes into view. About two-dozen buildings make up the village of Fiorna’s Faith, most of which are single-family residences, nearly all made of wattle and daub with a thatched roof. No smoke rises from the chimneys of the quiet town. Even from this distance, it’s clear something has gone terribly wrong. Doors hang open, windows are shattered, and no light or sound emanates from what appears to be an empty, abandoned town.
Most buildings show signs of struggle, such as splashes of blood, the sooty remains of small fires, broken-down doors, or shattered cookware. The buildings all smell foul, either from old blood, rotting food, or a heavy mildew from days of doors and shutters left open to the cold and damp - but there are no bodies.
Homes that seem to have been spared active fighting look like they were abandoned in a hurry: drawers thrown open, chests tossed, and kitchens raided for basic provisions.
Thurgan takes a slow breath, eyes scanning the surroundings with a warrior’s caution - “Let’s start at the edge—work methodically, one building at a time,” he says, pointing toward the manor, “That one first. Clear it, then move across. No sense rushing in blind.”
Niaqun let's other investigates, he does however follow the trail of blood
When others discuss the tooth he simply says
"The cow was dragged to its current position soon after it died. The trail leads from the fenced-in pen, where more bloodstains mark where the cow fell."
He grabs a handful of earth and crushes one of the cockroaches and puts it into a leather sack. Then he passes it to Thurgan "Hold it with you, if we are to meet what I fear, it could be of help." says the Shaman
================ In town
[b]"How about we start with the Church, some could gather there if undead would come"[b]
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Lawric says little after the burial. He kneels beside the small mound where Thurgan laid the tooth and places one hand over the soil. “MAY THE LADY OF THE GRAVES KNOW YOU. EVEN IF NO ONE ELSE REMEMBERS.”
Then he rises, brushing his hand once against the spiral carved into the earth. As the last bit of earth is pressed over the buried tooth, Lawric looks to Galimus, not directly but near enough. His voice is softer than usual, but still strained and high:
“THANK YOU. THE LADY SEES KINDNESS DONE IN SMALL THINGS.”
Then, to Thurgan, he adds with a glance (and the closest thing to warmth Lawric ever seems to show)
“YOU KNOW HOW TO GUARD MORE THAN JUST BONES.”
He picks up the poppet again and falls silent, content.
--------------------------
The rain does not seem to bother him. As they descend the muddy trail into Fiorna’s Faith, Lawric walks with the same even pace as before, unhurried, as if he already knows they cannot leave.
He pauses at the edge of the village, poppet tucked under one arm, and slowly turns in a half-circle, taking in the damage. No bodies.
When Thurgan gives the plan, Lawric nods once, solemn and sure.
"WE MUST FIND WHAT IS MISSING. MAY THE GRAY LADY GRANT US HER BLESSINGS"
Despite himself, Galimus is pleased by the faint praise given by Lawric. Strange though the little fellow is, he is compelling.
He hurries along as the rain makes the pass treacherous. He has been through too much (and more than he knows) to get buried in a mudslide. Yet, he looks back with some chagrin as it becomes evident that they won't be able to leave any time soon.
"Well...I guess our decision has been made for us," he comments to no one in particular.
"I agree with Thurgan. I don't think anyone is left to hide anywhere, and if they are they've been hiding there long enough that a little more time won't matter. And I don't like the idea of passing a place that might be full of threats that can come at us from behind."
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"The cow was dragged to its current position soon after it died. The trail leads from the fenced-in pen, where more bloodstains mark where the cow fell."
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A small but stately manor home looks out over the village from the slope of a small hill. The only two-story building in the community, its outer walls on the first floor () are made from stone, while the second floor () is constructed from lumber and plaster, crowned by a slate roof.
The opulence, however, is marred by the barricade around the front door, while the gaping hole of scorched stone and wood in the building’s back
corner indicates a recent fire. With its shuttered windows and barricaded door, the manor looks as though it was readied to withstand a siege - but
despite these preparations, it didn’t hold.
There is also a separate, smaller building to the side. It appears unbarricaded.
Thurgan moves the party to the smaller building first - then with shield raised, steps inside...
Galimus likes Thurgan. The man thinks like he does. Better to get the small building out of the way before committing to searching the larger space.
He also raises his shield, though his is made out of a weaving of solidified occult energy rather than steel and leather, and follows the champion.
Niaqun stands in the back, "Just so that you know, I can send my spiritual friend to scout."
Thurgan pauses, then nods. "Then let the friend scout"
Niaqun moves towards the door and speaks to his bird
"As we practiced it, fly in, do the round and fly out, we will shut the door when you are out!"
The bird looks at Niaqun "Sure thing boss, I am sure it will be perfectly safe ..."
And it flies in!
---
Niaqun's familiar pokes its head inside and reports no dangers.
The building appears to be servants’ quarters, and appears to be completely untouched. There are four small sleeping chambers, each containing a bed with a chest underneath, and a communal dining room with a cooking hearth. Basic supplies can also be found inside, including 2 days’ worth of food and fresh water, clean clothes, and simple tools.
Given the relative poverty of the servants and the opulence of the main manor, it's a good guess that the servants were all conscripted to serve as soldiers during an attack. Nobody came back to claim their belongings.
"Either they fled, or they are held somewhere. Poor people would not leave their belongings easily" states the obvious shaman giving his bird a bit of sunflower seed.
"Shall we go to the main building?"
Galimus takes the time to search through the servants' belongings, but they are all of poor shabby materials so he leaves them all behind.
"Yes. The main house is the next most logical place to look," he says. He has little intention of scampering around like a monkey (unless the situation is dire) so he intends to enter via one of the doors to the building. Maybe a first floor window, if it makes sense.
Pandak pulls his hammer and readies his shield. He murmurs a soft prayer to the forge father to guide his hand...
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Nothing here tries to linger. That is a different kind of silence.
He doesn’t speak, but he watches—long enough that it’s clear he’s weighing something behind his wide, pale eyes. Then, with quiet finality, Lawric turns back to the others. He steps toward the manor’s front.
"THE DOOR WOULD BE PREFERABLE TO ME"
The heroes walk straight up to the main door, led by the bird.
The barricade on the outside of the building is relatively intact, but it appears that attackers simply climbed over it. The doors to the building have been broken down, and the entrance to the grand hall is covered in blood. Clearly, several people died here.
A few discarded shortswords and a steel shield lie next to the mess. Two cloakrooms sit on either side of this entry, both containing a few storm cloaks, along with a single finely crafted mantel bearing the town sigil (a spring atop a hill). The stairs leading up to the second floor are caked with mud.
There are barefoot human footprints going up and down the stairs.
Survival
"Nice mantel, sort of thing a mayor would wear? Let's keep alert for danger, those barefoot human footprints going up and down the stairs have been made after the fighting had completed, as they were made atop layers of blood, mud, and dust"
"Well, we shouldn't just leave it hanging here, should we? There's no telling what sort of unscrupulous scoundrels might come along and lay claim to it," Galimus says and dons the mantel before following Thurgan toward the next room.
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Lawric doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look to the stairs, or the weapons, or the open door. While others examine the battlefield for context he kneels where the blood has dried thickest.
His straw poppet hangs from his belt now, unmoving, as both of his hands hover just above the congealed streaks on the floor. He doesn’t touch the blood. He tries to reads it.
Lawric takes an extended look at the blood on the floor. There are many different types of blood, both from living and dead. It's been long enough for the blood to completely dry - more than a few days, at least.
---
After the bird scouts, the heroes make their way through the western door.
This two-story library on the western side of the building features a massive window looking out toward the manor’s titular spring. Before, this room played host to the mayor’s many parties. It’s now dark, and a coppery tang suffuses the air. As the undead broke into the manor, someone used a dagger to take their own life in this room. Blood stains from where they fell streak toward the door leading to the hall.
All that remains is a bloodstained low-grade silver dagger, shattered glass goblet, and half-empty bottle of red wine, turned to vinegar.
In addition, they seemed to be holding a small object that fell from their hand and landed underneath a nearby chair. It is a shining symbol of Sarenrae depicting the goddess with her arms held wide. In the center of the symbol is a crystal reliquary with a perfect feather floating inside, glowing bright as a candle with the light of the goddess.
Though he doesn't know why, Galimus knows a little bit about a lot. Sometimes knowledge and memories just drift up unbidden from depths of his subconsciousness that he doesn't even know about.
"It has been at least a week since this bottle was opened. At least, that's how long it takes for red wine to turn to vinegar."
His eyes alight and light up as he sees both the obviously valuable dagger and the symbol of Sarenrae.
"Will you be struck down or plagued with curses if you carry this?" he asks Lawric and Thurgan as he picks up the holy symbol.