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Pervin's eyes go wide at the side of the gold coin. "W-well, generally only one silver per day, but if you're willing to pay deluxe rates, I'd be happy to offer deluxe services!"
:
You enter the general shop to find it completely vacant. Inside are all manner of mostly mundane everyday goods, a bit of adventuring gear, and even a beautifully crafted suit of plate armor which stands guard at the door to the back room. The counter is of course completely vacant save for a large mirror in which you can see yourself and the rest of the shop behind you. As you walk up to the counter you here what sounds like a number of children singing a song in the back room.
"Put her body on the bed.
As the children sing the last verse the air takes on a sudden coldness. Suddenly, you realize (via the reflection in the mirror) that right behind you stands a filthy dwarven man, clothes and hair sopping wet, staring intently at the back of your skull. Before you can react, he lunges in an attempt to grab your head with both hands, then promptly vanishes into thin air.
===
"Hmph, are you another one of those silly ghost hunters? In spite of what many of the locals here will tell you, Tarrowstone is most certainly NOT haunted." Father Darkwarren studies Flit's reaction for a moment and continues, "Surely you know what Tarrowstone is? The old ruined prison? Burned down in a fire many years ago? Bother, I've said too much already. What did you need?"
"Certainly, chil--," Father Darkwarren pauses and looks up awkwardly when he remembers the fact that he's speaking to a halfling, "Certainly. How might the church of the Lady of Shallow Breaths serve you today?"
Awnara - Morning - Town Square:
When you arrive at the town square all is fairly quiet. In the immediate vicinity are a number of establishments where you might spend some coin:
Flit - Late Morning - Temple of Pharasthma:
You arrive at what seems to be Cravengro’s most elaborate building so far. Its eastern facade displays an intricate stained-glass mural depicting a stern Pharasthma pronouncing some kind of judgement upon a sinister looking king. Inside, Father Darkwarren, the priest from the funeral, sits working studiously at a cluttered desk. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Cravengro's very first gunslinger," he says without bothering to look up from his work. Beatrix - Evening - Lamarimar Home:
"Not in the least - as you can imagine they were both a little similar bookish types - although my father was obviously much more adventurous. I know that he even donated a few books to the school house, so I assume they must have been on fairly good terms. Then again, grudges in this town often stay hidden and alive for longer than I'd wish in this town, so you never know..." Jing - Late Evening - The Laughing Demon Tavern:
You enter the tavern to find Zokar Awnyah (one of the attendees from the funeral) laughing heartily from his position behind the bar. The atmosphere here is quite lively compared to the slight tinge of stark bleariness that seems to taint the rest of Cravengro. On a chalkboard next to the bar are menu items such as "vampire steaks," "wolf balls," "corpse chowder," and "liquid ghosts."
The only other person you recognize is councilman Gharish Muricar dining at one of the tables with an important looking woman. Out of the corner of your eye you also spy a man in filthy clothes drinking from an unmarked bottle as he stares at you with intense, crazed eyes. Rego - Guarding the House - DMPC'd
Beatrix:
As you spend the day pouring through the professor's old tomes it becomes clear that much of his research focuses on the Lispering Way, so you decide to focus your efforts on that line of inquiry. You manage to learn the following: Later in the evening Kendra notices you researching away and pauses whatever she was attending to offer some advice. "You seem to be quite absorbed in whatever you're researching there. Don't worry, I won't pry, but you might like to know that my father doesn't have the only library in this town. The Town Hall keeps a list of records of course, while the Temple of Pharasthma has kept very extensive notes on this town's history over the years. In addition, the wizard and schoolteacher Ahlendu Ghoraven at the Unfurling Scroll keeps a small library. Before you you go running off there however, you should no that getting access to these records may take a bit of convincing on your part."
So if I understand right, Rego/Jing are guarding the house and Flit's going to church, what's everyone else's plan?
The next morning, you wake up to find following note on the dining room table: Although I wish I could take you around town myself, I simply have far too much work sorting through my father's old things and as such will not be able to leave the house today. Please help yourselves to any food or drink in the kitchen and cellars, and if you require anything or have any questions please do not hesitate to ask. My current plan of attack for cleaning up the house will have me in the attic for most of the day - to get there just take the ladder in the upstairs library. If you have no other pressing matters, I'd encourage you to go explore the town and meet some of the townsfolk here. They may seem like a slightly xenophobic bunch (many of them are), but trying to make at least some attempt to integrate yourselves will go a long way in getting them to trust you over the next few weeks. Jing, this goes double for you, rumors travel fast in this town - even more so considering the last night's altercation with Gibs. I'll also leave an old map that my father made when he first moved here. I have only one copy, so I ask that you not take it with you out of the house. -Kendra Next to the letter is the map.
Rego picks up the locked journal and searches the trunk for the key... The key is absent from the chest. Jing:
The house is surprisingly secure - nearly all the windows downstairs are too small for a normal-sized human to fit through without difficulty, while the windows upstairs would be difficult to climb through without specialized equipment.
While examining one of the upstairs windows, you feel a slight pressure on the back of your skull and a sudden coldness in the air. In the reflection of the mirror you suddenly spot a sopping wet, scraggly haired dwarf. Before you can react the dwarf reaches for your skull and then vanishes, as if he was a mere trick of the mind. No amount of searching uncovers any breach in security, or even any wet patches of floor where the dwarf might have been.
This tome details some of the denizens of the Stark Tapestry, where beings of unfathomable cosmic power known as the "Great Old Ones" dwell. One chapter catches your eye - a short prose poem about a being called Nyarlathotep, who apparently walked the earth at one point.
Player Handout: Nyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . .
I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown. And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Brosirion. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky. I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city—the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; that what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and that in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not. It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about “imposture” and “static electricity”, Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made. I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable. Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.
Rego will place the book Flit was reading back in the chest shaking his head and will pick up, To Serve Man and peruse that. On the inside front cover is a notice from the publishers: "Pallid Princess Publishing would like to inform any potential buyers that 'To Serve Man' is a cookbook for cannibals, NOT a manual for waiters. Please stop sending us angry letters." The recipes themselves, while going into grisly detail about the preparation of human flesh, actually seem like they'd be quite pleasant if prepared with a less disturbing meat by someone with more culinary expertise.
The book details a number of grisly sadomasochistic rituals, such as the Joymaking, in which the wealthiest and luckiest of Zonzonites to have their limbs and non-vital organs amputated so that they remain a helpless head and torso, destined to live the rest of their lives as the subjects of limitless torture. However, you have a hard time believing that this is what set Flit off, as the writing is so dry and academic that the only truly hideous part would be reading the book cover to cover.
"This adventure is gonna start out with action right away I guess Phil?" Russel asks as he reads the note about the diary passed to him. "We'll see..." Phil replies with a sly smile.
Professor Lamarimar's Journal (anyone may read): The majority of the entries in the journal are relatively bland, accounting for day-to-day activities in the small town. Certain entries, which have been circled with red ink, are as follows:
Ten Years Ago:
Two Months Ago:
One Month Ago:
Twenty Days Ago:
Eighteen Days Ago:
Seventeen Days Ago (final journal entry):
Kendra brings up a single bottle of wine from the basement for anyone who desires. "I'm afraid that the days events have left me dreadfully tired, so I believe I shall retire now. Please help yourselves to any food or drink - I've left the cellar unlocked should you feel the need for any more wine. The guest rooms can be found just further down the hall. Goodnight - I pray that you all sleep well." With that Kendra drifts up the stairs to wherever her chambers must be. Rego:
The majority of the entries in the journal are relatively bland, accounting for day-to-day activities in the small town. Certain entries, which have been circled with red ink, are as follows:
Ten Years Ago:
Two Months Ago:
One Month Ago:
Twenty Days Ago:
Eighteen Days Ago:
Seventeen Days Ago (final journal entry):
Flit: Although the dark of the evening makes it difficult to read, nothing could possibly be more relaxing than a glass of wine, a cigar, and a good (albeit unusual) book. Or rather, it would be relaxing were you not suddenly interrupted by the grinning, emanciated man leaping out from behind one of the pillars on the front porch. Before you can react he charges at you, forced into a sickening gait thanks to the fact that both his legs seems to be broken at the knees. Nevertheless he moves with inhuman speed, swinging a large axe straight for your skull. An instant before the axe connects, the man vanishes into thin air.
Flit's choice of reading material elicits a puzzled look from Kendra, but she doesn't take any objection to it. "Yes, thank you, I'd much prefer if you smoke out on the porch. I'd be happy to fetch some wine if you like, however."
A faint hissing sound can be heard as Flit pops open the lid. Immediately inside is a newer looking book with the words READ ME NOW scrawled upon the front cover. Also in the chest are four older tomes. READ ME NOW:
This book appears to be the journal of the late Professor Lamarimar. Several entries have been circled in red ink. On Verified Madness:
This jet black book is a treatise on aberrations and other entities that possess remote ties to the Stark Tapestry, the name given to the dark places between the stars. A note has been tucked inside which reads "Delivery - Professor Montague Scowl - University of Lepitsdsdtatdt." To Serve Man:
This text details some of the grisly canibalistic rites of the dark goddess Nurgothoa. Lamarimar's notes liberally sprinkle the margins. A note has been tucked inside which reads "Delivery - Professor Montague Scowl - University of Lepitsdsdtatdt." The Umbral Leaves:
This lexicon is a translation into common of the unholy book of Zon-zonzon. A note has been tucked inside which reads "Delivery - Professor Montague Scowl - University of Lepitsdsdtatdt." An untitled tome, locked: The rich purple cover of this book contains a brass scarab set with a single eye in its center. The book contains a strange lock with a triangular keyhole. A note pinned to the back reads "Delivery - Judge Dembreth Daramid -Lepitsdsdtatdt Courthouse."
The key and chest lay waiting upon the table.
"Thank you Councilman, I think I'll be able to take it from here." Kendra opens the door for Heartmouth, who wastes no time in scurrying off into the evening. "Well then. One whole month? You're certainly going to be some of the most colorful citizens this town has ever had," Kendra says with a smile, although her tone conveys warmth as opposed to mocking, "I myself certainly haven't decided whether or not I'll remain, If I do sell the house and move on in the next month, I'm sure it would be no matter if you left as well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll fetch your part of the inheritance." Kendra returns with a small chest of made of iron and some dark, sinister oak wood. She sets it upon the table next to the key. Her hands seem to be shaking. "I must confess that I myself am rather apprehensive towards opening this chest, perhaps one of you could volunteer?"
Within precisely one hour, Councilman Vancian Heartmouth arrives. He gives a slight nod to Kendra but blatantly ignores the rest of the group, setting down his possessions and producing a scroll case - Professor Lamarimar's will. Vancian holds the scroll case high for all to see, showing the the Lamarimar family seal unbroken upon the end, then promptly cracks the wax open. As he withdraws the will from its case, a heavy iron key clatters noisily to the table. Undaunted by the key, the councilman begins to read, eager to be done with the business and get back home. “I, Tetris Lamarimar, being of sound mind, do hereby commit to this parchment my last will and testament. Let it be known that, with the exception of the specific details below, I leave my home and personal belongings entire to my daughter Kendra. Use them or sell them as you see fit, my child.
Hearthmount keeps his tone professional for most of the reading, however his voice wavers a little when he reaches the part abput the "dangerous tomes" and he struggles understandably with the almost impossible to pronounce "Lepitsdsdtatdt." "Well there we have it. Any questions?" The councilman looks longingly towards the door as he asks.
+++ Kendra smiles warmly at Awnara, "Thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid I'm not quite in the mood for any food or drink at the moment."
Although Kendra seems calmed by the impromptu remembrances, most of the others attending the funeral still seem to be on edge. By this point the gravediggers have finished their work and swiftly depart with Father Darkwarren. The other guests file away shortly after - many offering a few last words to Kendra. Once she's said her goodbyes, Lamarimar's daughter leads you back to the the modest residence that she once shared with her father. "I must thank you all for attending and for your kind words," - she gives a nod towards Rego and Flit - "And although the funeral was a little more, er, eventful than I'd hoped, I do believe it wouldn't have been successful without you." Kendra is quick to offer refreshments, fetching anything you might currently desire in the way of light food or drink. "The reading of my father's will requires the presence of a councilman, however, Councilman Heartmouth has some business to attend to and should be here within the hour. In the meantime, please make yourselves at home. Obviously, I think it'd be best if you all remain here for the present. Word travels quickly here in Cravengro and many here are highly distrustful of outsiders. Especially with all that unpleasant business earlier."
After a few nervous glances between the smoking gun and the "werewolf" the mob finally looses its will to fight and ambles off; many half-hearted curses can be heard. Councilman Muricar cracks a wide grin and addresses Beatrix again. "Let's see here - a mystery man armed to the teeth, a trigger happy halfing, and a cat.. thing? Cravengro's absolutely going to love you lot." Meanwhile, to the scene arrives an older man clad in priestly garments a model of a tiny breathing mask around his neck (the holy symbol of Pharasthma). Accompanying him are two other men with robes and shovels, likely acolytes serving as gravediggers. "Kendra, what's going on? I heard a commotion?" "Nothing to worry about at the present Father Darkwarren. I must apologize to our guests for this unexpected disturbance - I feel it best if we just put this from our minds and continue the service." Kendra seems quite shaken now that the anger has left her voice and limply motions towards the burial plot. And so the procession proceeds without further hitch towards the burial plot, although many of its members seem to be consciously avoiding looking at the outsiders. Upon arrival, the coffin is slowly lowered into the waiting gravesite as Father Darkwarren quickly and quietly rasps the ancient burial rites known only to the followers of Pharasthma. The whole time Kendra watches motionless, staring blankly at the coffin. While the gravediggers cover the the late Professor with fresh earth, Bridgesse turns to the congregation. "Perhaps we might feel a bit better if someone here were to give a few remembrances or tell a story honoring the Professor? Perhaps one of you outsiders, er, newcomers would like to share? Just so that we might get to know our new guests and their relation to Professor Lamarimar a bit better."
"Hah, politically correct is the last thing on a frightened old man's mind!"
"Fine with me. By the way, unless otherwise noted, most areas in Sprucetalav operate under the 'emerging guns' rules."
Councilman Muricar gives a broad smile when Beatrix speaks to him. "Gibs will run at the first sign of trouble - he nothing to be afraid of. As long as the other back down we shouldn't have any trouble." Meanwhile, Flitter's words do seem to have a soothing effect upon the crowd - the farming implements are lowered and the mob seems as if it's just about to disperse until Jing steps onto the path. As soon as the old man leading the mob hears Jing he turns with a start and his eyes go wide when he sees the pantherfolk standing behind him. "WEREWOLF!" he screams as he flees off into the Restlands. About half of the remaining mob steps back in shock, while the others ready their makeshift weapons. Roll20 Link Initiative:
"As you know, I am always honored to provide any assistance to the Lamarimars," Councilman Murircar says with a deep bow and an almost overly dramatic air. He tucks his walking cane, studded with some sort of deep green precious stones, into his belt and picks up the pall beside Beatrix. "Myself as well." Bridgesse speaks much more mutedly and although she keeps a straight face, you get a sense of real pain just behind her voice. She takes her place just behind Rego. When none of the others step forward to take the coffin, Kendra begins to lead the somber procession down the path which winds through the Restlands. Within minutes however, about a dozen surly looking men converge upon the path ahead, blocking any further progress. In front of them stands a wiry old man with a scowl that's somehow been twisted into a face. He addresses Kendra directly, "That's far enough. We been talking, and we don't want a Lamarimar buried in the Restlands. You can take him upriver and bury him there if you want, but he ain't goin' in the ground here!" Kendra is swift to respond, her sadness swiftly transforming into anger. "What are you taking about?" she cries out. "I arranged it with Father Darkwarren. He's waiting for us! The grave's already been..." "You don't get it, woman. We won't have a necromancer buried in the same place as our kin. I suggest you move out while you still can. Folks are pretty upset about this right now."
"So who brought the snacks?"
"No one else is coming. Let's not wait any longer." Although Kendra's eyes are red and swollen and a dark veil obscures her face, this trim and attractive woman still presents herself with surprising grace. "I'm afraid I neglected to nominate any pallbearers beforehand. Perhaps some of those gathered here would be willing to volunteer?" The large coffin contains six handrails, although just four pallbearers would probably have sufficient strength to carry it.
Let's see what kind of stats your humble GM will have...
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