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Randall quickly unlocks the chests. Each contains some clothing and an additional blanket. In the bottom of one chest, hidden in the clothing, is a small leather bound book. It is tied shut with a small cord but otherwise has no marking s on the binding or cover. Árón laughs, "I see you found my client journal... wait! Did you open it? It didn't go off, did it?" he exclaims.
Árón comes into the bedroom behind Muraisa. The rotund man takes one look at the dead dwarf and rubs his chin, "How in the hell did he get up here? Looks like he's been dead a while, probably right after this whole cataclysm thingy..." He looks at Kayin, bent over the body. "How did this happen any way? I couldn't divine anything of its origin, and certainly nothing coming from the Tower."
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Kayin takes a long look at the copy of the tattoo he drew upon the parchment. It looked close enough to the oracle, and a smile krept upon his face as he examined it. His mind spins with thoughts of conspiracies and secrets, but at least his drawing looked like an exacting copy. Further down the hallway, the barbarian calls out for Árón. Turning the corner and looking into the scribe's room, Muraisa sees him neatly making the bed. The black stained sheets now clean and the mandrill no where to be found. Árón looks up at her. "Oh, sorry. What?" he says, his thoughts else where it seems. "No... no. There is no basement, and just my storage room up here," Árón points to the still open hidden panel. He pats the bed one last time and picks up a sack lying on the floor next to him. He walks over to the panel and closes it with an audible click. "Let's go," he says to Muraisa and heads down the hallway to join the others in the back bedroom muttering to himself. The barbarian takes another look at the concealed door that Árón closed. It is barely visible, she notes. The same natural wood color as the well preserved floor. Muraisa: As she begins to turn to follow, Muraisa looks back at the floor. The hole is gone as though it had not ever existed.
Seventeenth of Selefis! Dam... two months to the day." Árón says shaking his head. When Muraisa describes the bodies in the main hall, he just sighs. "Likely my apprentices... that's terrible. Go ahead and check the rest of the place. I'll get my things and follow you back." He ducks through the opening back into the hidden room beyond the concealed panel. "And who made the hole in my floor, dam it!!" he yells back.
"The name is Árón... Árón of the clan of Cairbre... and this is my shop," he murmurs without looking up from the mandrill. He raises his right hand towards the head of the bed and closes it as if gripping something floating, invisible in the air. He drags his clenched fist down, and the heavy winter blanket folds upon itself and covers Máire's corpse. "At least, it was my shop before everyone starting turning into the undead minions of Kiravor!" He spits on the ground, before slumping his shoulders and using his overgrown boot to wipe the phlegm from the wood flooring. "Dam!" "Did everyone at the shop turn into one of them... undead?" Árón asks with a slight hiccup. Covering his mouth, the scribe looks a little flushed with color in his cheeks. "Sorry. I've been stuck in there for several weeks, since the whole place started shakin'... which, by the way, what day is it?" he scratches his chops with both hands. "And what in the world happened anyway?"
Sautekh, followed by the others, steps into the bedroom to see a rotund man with blonde hair and rather bushy muttonchops standing over the mandrill. His hazel eyes glance towards the doorway before quickly returning to the dead monkey. "She made it clear that I didn't own her. But we were friends. I suppose you're responsible for this, eh?" His voice was calm but his eyes told the story of his grief. His features were a little off for most of the Broanin. His ears were slightly elongated and his eyes more almond shaped. Elvish blood had found its way into his family generations ago. He, more than most, bore the unmistakable signs. |
