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"The halfling witch speaks true." answers Garavel, a man, you have learned,of few words. "Let us begin the investigation by looking at the wagon itself for signs of foul-play. Then we may investigate the rest." He looks sharply at Horum, as the monk suggests Garavel has a suspect in mind. "I may have a guess, but i won't color your perception by naming him at present. We will see what we will see."
Bowing respectfully as the merchant princess departs, Garavel sighs deeply when she is out of earshot. "You heard the lady, my friends. Will you assist me in investigating this blaze and helping make the determination if it was purposefully set, or a terrible accident?" His fingers comb through his dark mustaches, a nervous habit you have seen before. "It is a shame about poor Eloias. Though he was a Varisian, I came to like and trust him. He was a teller of fortunes using special Harrow cards. I was never one for believing in that hocus-pocus, but milady is very interested in such matters involving astrology and the like."
As you share water and conversation, the caravan moves on and you near your destination. Outlined against the setting sun, a craggy tree appears over the next hill. "Behold, Satan's Claw! This is our destination." says Garavel in a tired voice, the strain of the long journey showing. With five immense, mostly leafless branches, the reason for the name is obvious. The gnarled tree looks more like a skeletal talon than a thing of living wood. As you top the last rise and the sun sinks beneath the horizon, a caravan of a half-dozen wagon and a large tent come into view clustered around the distinctive tree. Camels in a nearby pen prance in agitation, and a clutch of confused goats and livestock wander the grounds around the wagons. Perhaps a dozen men and women rush around the campsite, chasing down animals or hastening towards the center of the cluster, near Satan's Claw, with pails of water in their hands. Looking closer, you see one of the wagons is on fire! Lush orange and red flames begin to engulf an elaborate wooden wagon emblazoned with painted moons and stars. A gout of smoke pours from an open door and an ill wind blows a number of colorful fortune telling cards from inside the wagon. Gran:
One of the cards blows up against your chest in a burst of orange cinders. It is the Cyclone, signifying a force that tears through whatever it meets at the behest of an intelligent being. You know the card portends war, arson, and destructive plans. As you watch horror-struck, the whole of Satan's Claw erupts into brilliant flame. |
