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After reassuring Calwen by clapping her on the shoulder of her armor (quietly), Dalton will follow Bacarov and Vinnie inside. His gaze immediately falls upon the fireplace - a good place to burn evidence, he thinks to himself, studying it carefully a moment to see if he can discern anything unusual among the ashes.
"For what it's worth, I think Voyla is right. We just need to scope out his place, see what the best ways to break in might be, if that should become necessary. And it might." So saying, the monk rests his palm on the hilt of his sword and studies the house's exterior with a critical eye.
Dalton thumps Bacarov on the back to alleviate his coughing before nodding to Vinnie and setting out to the Mayor's place. From what little he'd seen of the young Varisian girl, he figured she would see which way the wind was blowing.
Dalton nods grimly. "He was able to convince me of his good intentions, even if it was a lie. I understand full well that he could manipulate the opinions of the general townsfolk even more easily. I agree- confront him when his followers are not his shield." Pulling his hood back up over his head, Dalton makes off with Vinnie to the mayor's house, avoiding the main roads of Ravenmoor.
Dalton lowers his hands with an exhausted whoosh of air - holding the wood of the front door of the barn from shattering asunder took all of his strength. Turning to Voyla, he recognizes nothing about her, but takes her to be a local. Thinking it best to remain diplomatic for as long as possible, the monk bows before her. Ignoring the aches running throughout his body as best he can, he keeps his voice level. "I don't know what it was, exactly," the young man glances to Bacarov. "But we do know who was responsible for its creation. We're here to make sure those people can't continue on creating abominations like those. I'm sure you agree that one was enough." He studies her face carefully, remembering that a cultist can wear everyday clothing as easily as black robes. He watches her face carefully as he asks his question... "Have you any knowledge of...Ghlaunder?"
Dalton moves back inside in an attempt to yank Vinnie back out of the doorway so Calwen can slam it shut behind him. The monk will expose himself to an attack of opportunity if needed.
"What? Ah! Foul creature!" Dalton cries, his sword gripped in white knuckles born of fear. With effort he steels himself. Focus on what you see, not your emotions, the voice of his sensei again. His eyes darted to the ground beneath the abomination's feet. Slurry. No good for his sandaled feet. Adopting a defensive posture, he has the same idea as Bacarov - seal the creature inside, and let it burn. "Get back!" he cries to Vinnie, gesturing wildly at him and holding his temple sword in a warding posture against the beast's assault, if it came.
While Vincent is going about his bloody work, Dalton focuses on helping to ensure the oil is spread evenly. It'll help the flames catch on and spread more quickly...he knows from unfortunate experience. As his hands grip the oil jug, he tries not to think about the last time he had to do something like this.
Dalton glances down at Calwen's injured form with concern, but obeys Bacarov's command, making after Vinnie at an easy jog. We can't burn this place down soon enough. I feel eyes looking at me from every direction, the monk thinks to himself.
Dalton sprints off to where Calwen collapsed, kneeling before her with concern stamped on his features. "Where did you lose her? What happened? How badly are you hurt?"
3 hours? Holy hell.
"I'm with you, 'Bastian, no matter which way we go," Dalton comments as he stows away the mushrooms he looted in the Inspector's book-bag. "But I, too, fear for Calwen and Warshawski. Fierce though they both are, they are isolated and alone. I say we put this location down for good."
I agree! Bears make everything better So true I want to see Mad Max again... ;_; I've seen it twice now and want to design a clan of barbarians after Immortan Joe's Warboys. WHAT A LOVELY DAY!
Dalton's stomach rumbles when he throws open the door, in spite of the chaos all around him - mushroom stew with steak was a rare treat, his favorite, back in the monastery of Manaket. He'd never seen any fungi that looked quite like these, however. Given the cult's afore-witnessed fascination with flesh-shaping, exotic plants like these were extremely suspect. They may be a clue, the monk thinks to himself, his mind racing. Better not let them touch my skin. Loosing the ropes on his robe to let the cloth hang a bit lower from his wrists, his casts the material over the nearest pot that he can find that appears to still be in whole condition. Stuffing it carefully in his sack, he tries to keep it as separate as possible from the rest of his rations. If he can't get a whole pot in his robes feasibly, he'll cover his fingers with the cloth of his robe and break off as large a sample of a mushroom cap as will comfortably fit. If any beakers are nearby that have stoppers in them and fluid still inside, he will grab those, but he won't spend more than 40 precious seconds searching. Hearing Marsh's voice over the flames confirms his worst fears. Grim news to have to deliver...if we survive... he thinks to himself, turning to the door of the room and making his way back into the main entryway to retrieve his friend.
Dalton hears Sebastian's voice and shouts an acknowledgement. he bellows, shouting loudly over the roaring flames and blocking his face from the worst of the omnipresent smoke.
Not much time...better snatch what we can. It might be useful evidence later. Dalton throws open the door to his left, glancing inside for anything small enough to be carried out of the burning house. If he finds nothing, or if he can grab it quickly and easily, he will then turn his attention to the rotting rope overhead, reaching up to yank down the trapdoor. Vinnie had the mutant under control, and besides, Dalton didn't have his bow on him.
The monk knows that Vinnie is unstoppable when something's really caught his attention. He knows that the big man with the big hammer is, in the end, going to get where he wants to go, and resolves that it is best simply to follow him there. The loose folds of his robe are cinched tightly to his body in a few quick tightenings of the ropes running through them; the elven cloak was quite well-made. After ensuring that Marsh won't fall into the pit before him, Dalton casts about himself quickly. He, too, heard the cries of the mutant, but recognized them for what they were - bait. Something lurked in this charnel house; and Dalton would be damned if he allowed it to get the drop on his friend. His temple sword has been drawn for some time. It will taste blood tonight.
I'm here, I'm sorry, I'm really overwhelmed at work (still behind at this very moment,) and when I get home I have a newborn to look after plus I'm still exhausted from my work day. Generally when I get home I've been napping/trying to sleep in between feedings and changings of my baby boy. Posting in all my campaigns - I want to get on top of things again, hopefully this Memorial Day weekend will let me do that.
The monk approaches the corpse as fearlessly as possible, nudging the elongated finger that lies sprawled on the ground. He speaks in strained whispers. "Twisted and corrupted. Like Markham's boar, but even more vile. We've truly stumbled upon something dark here, my friends...in Manaket, legends tell of cults that participate in occult practices called flesh-shaping." the monk shudders a little, glancing around himself nervously. "This was placed here deliberately. We may be under observation this very moment."
Dalton gets a little uncomfortable around the strange elf, Calwen, when she drifts off into her own trailing sentence, and stares at the mound. What's the source of her fascination? he wonders to himself, before shaking himself into focus. Your mind wanders again, take a care to keep it focused on remaining quiet... he admonishes himself. Following Bacarov's lead, he makes sure that he holds his sword taut in its sheath, to prevent it from shaking and making noise. His lips feel dry, and he licks them nervously. He could feel a big conflict coming closer and closer, and he can't help but check over his shoulder often.
I look so dashing in this elvenwear.
The boots are for Acrobatics, cloak is for Stealth...I'm happy to share though, want the boots?
Dalton feels no such reticence from claiming booty from the dead. If he ever felt such qualms about post-mortem looting, they were scrubbed out far earlier in his adventuring career.
Doffing his plain old traveling cloak in favor of Markham's, Dalton is pleased to see that despite the rough nature of its previous owner, the cloak is still in pretty good condition, and is elf-make. The boots require considerable adjustment and tightening to go from Markham's feet to Dalton's, however. As he tightens the straps, he speaks up again. "I'd rather miss the festival and go to the "sick fields" at full strength; Dramin is right, on this one. As sad as I am to miss the festival," he thinks wistfully, thinking of Marleyna.
Sorry, been kind of consumed with taking care of my son, but I'm working on posting more :)
"I agree that we should investigate that field Markham told us about." the monk adds quietly, staring down at the boar's body and fearing the stench that will eventually arise from it. "I actually think that introducing the Korzhas to Abner is a good idea. He's harmless enough in his dotage; I fear he will not be influencing the minds of anyone else in his lifetime." The monk adjusts the straps on his outfit, tightening them for travel, and looks to the others to lead on toward the cultists' meeting place.
While outside, Dalton had decided to attempt to move the colossal boar's body so that it's clear of the house. Grasping the pig's rear legs and hiking them up under his armpits, he tries to haul it back so it's pulled free of the woodwork.
Is he successful?
Dalton jumps in surprise at Markham's sudden scythepukku, his normally calm outer exterior shattered. His eyes widen and his hand immediately goes to his temple sword, though there are no enemies to be fought. None except the enemies of sanity, the enemies of the mind. "This...Beliandral inspires a truly dedicated following for some, it seems..." He shakes his head. "Pah. Religious zealotry claims another life full of potential." his voice is slightly shaky. Killing a man in combat, in self defense, that was a fact of life - it changed you, true, but it could be rationalized as a contest of wills made manifest. Witnessing this man kill himself was something different. The smell of death, with Markham's soul added to the pile, became too much for the monk. Covering his mouth with his robe's sleeve, the man throws his hood over his head and steps outside through the window, since the boar's body is blocking the doorway.
A canny remark indeed...
Dalton keeps his mouth shut, mindful that saying the wrong thing could ruin Bacarov's interrogation. He doesn't react when the foul-smelling ichor plops out of the boar's dead wound, only wrinkling his nose faintly in disgust. Kreigler... he thinks to himself, remembering the unknowable look in the man's eyes grimly and gazing out the cabin window.
Perhaps Markham performed some blasphemy out of devotion to his unnatural religion, and that is what led to this boar's suffering, Dalton considers to himself as he looks at the black blood. Not trusting his own memory to recall knowledge of the sort, he mentions it to Warshawski, who seems to have some knowledge of otherworldly things. "Is corruption of the blood mentioned in Beliandral's texts?" the monk wants to know. "For that matter, does that particular deity have texts?"
This is the detectives' wheelhouse - I'm just hired muscle. Dalton is spending the next few moments in silent contemplation of the boar. Actually that gives me an idea.
Dalton lowers his sword slowly, with a long exhalation of breath. By the time his lungs are empty, he is as composed as he was a moment ago, before the battle began. Like Marsh, his first thought is for Bacarov; seeing that he is already being tended to, Dalton turns his thoughts to his foes. Markham was securely bound on the floor thanks to Warshawski...the old man was unconscious as well...that left the boar. Sheathing his sword, Dalton reaches out and touches the beast's flank with one hand, feeling the coarseness of the fur. Would that I could have admired your majesty under more peaceful circumstances, mighty beast. I regret what was done to you...both by Markham himself, and by me. Before your corruption you must have walked these lands fearless of any and all, the monk thinks to himself in wonder. He closes his eyes in regret for what he was forced to do. He took no joy in that kill. But only for a moment. The monk was conscious of the need for professionalism on this case. Opening his eyes again, he looks outside. "Calwen, are you alright out there?" he turns his gaze from the window to his other inspectors. "Dramin, you're unharmed, right?"
Dalton served in the kitchens of the monastery of the Way of Mankind for much of his childhood. The children would go everyday to the markets of Manaket, bringing the swine to be butchered back to the monastery on their shoulders. The older the child, the bigger the swine that was carried. He thinks back to those happier days, remembering the parts of the boars that would slice apart the easiest, compared to the nigh-impenetrable hides found elsewhere in the pig's anatomy. Imagining his temple sword as a colossal carving knife, he sets to, trying to kill the beast before it can hurt his new friends.
Hang in there Budd and rest up - we'll still be here.
Dalton tosses his blade at the pig. As it sails through the air, turning slowly end over end, Dalton charges forward, ducking around Marsh with his hand held high. He leaps slightly to catch the blade's hilt midair, in a reverse grip. On the downward arc of his jump, Dalton smash, seeking to drive his blade through the dire boar's brain in one swell foop.
Dalton is in a perfect position to strike. Warshawski would save Bacarov's life. Put it out of your mind, the monk told himself. Focus on what must be done. This scythe-swinging brute must be brought to justice. I'm thinking too much again, just STRIKE!
His mind wiped clean of distractions, Dalton lashes out at Markham with a quick double-slice.
Dalton shifts his stance to a defensive posture, trying to position himself so he's standing protectively over Bacarov's fallen body. "Stand down, Markham! Stand down!" he shouts, gripping his temple sword with both hands. The moment Markham's attention is taken away from Dalton or Bacarov, toward Calwen perhaps, Dalton will drop his sword and use both hands to find his healing potion as quickly as possible, so he can pour it down the Inspector's throat.
Dalton had been preparing for this. "Goodnight Abner!" he calls, as he rises to his feet and draws his temple sword in one smooth motion. He vaults up onto the table with ease, and leaps at Markham, swinging his sword in a vicious overhead chop!
"Damn . . . look at the size of that hog. That's a s~$* ton of bacon sittin right there. Dude's gotta be pretty bad ass to have a animal like that."
Although you can tell that Dalton is trying to be stone-faced, giving away nothing, your eyes are too experienced to be fooled by the callow monk. There's a drop of sweat running down the young man's temple, and you catch his fingers flexing ever so slightly. You note how the monk is deliberately keeping his hands where they can be easily seen, on the table before him. You can see how he doesn't make direct eye contact with Markham. You can see his shoulders bunched up slightly, tense as coiled springs. One of his hands curls around the drinking cup that Abner had set before him, gripping it... The monk is ready to jump to your side the moment you make a move. Knowing Dalton like you do, you can probably guess that he's not confident enough in his own judgement to make the call to arrest Markham himself, but he would follow your lead.
Dalton can hardly breathe from the tension. His gaze remains fixed on Markham, but he keeps his hands well clear of his weapon. It would not be him that triggered any fights, that was for certain.
My apartment flooded at 2 AM this morning...I'm beyond overwhelmed right now :'( Please don't expect anything of me today and possibly tomorrow. I will get back up to speed ASAP.
Dalton's eyes widen briefly of their own accord before the monk can restrain himself. Something about the song made him profoundly...uncomfortable. Disquieted, the monk rises smoothly to his feet, lifting the chair to prevent it from scraping on the wood. "I think I'll step outside for some air, for a moment..." he says, moving to the front door and stepping outside. The breath he draws catches in his throat when he sees the dire boar.
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