Perched at the edge of civilized lands, the small town of Falcon’s Hollow has always had to rely on itself to solve its problems. Meanwhile, the uncaring lumber barons squeeze the common folk for every last copper, deaf to their pleas. Now the hacking coughs of the sick are heard throughout town. The plague has come to Falcon’s Hollow and the town’s leaders can’t be bothered to stop it.
Omen
As you arrive in town, you see a line of townsfolk pouring out of a building down the street. The violent sound of hacking and coughing can be heard coming directly from the small crowd of about twenty people. A woman dressed in clerical robes spots you at the corner of her eye as she steps out of the tavern on your left.
"Hey! You there! You might as well turn back 'round and depart this place. A wretched disease has struck the town, and that line of folks over there are looking to seek cures from plants rather than prayers."
She points over to the crowd lined up outside the building down the dirt road.
"Then again, it appears that you are woodsmen so perhaps you are more knowledgeable about the use of plant medicine than I. You might want to speak with Laurel, the owner of the shop whose business is booming ever since the taint arrived."
"My name is Lady Cirthana, cleric of Iomedae. If you have need of prayer or blessing, I will be at the church down the road."
She begins to depart and as she does so, she looks toward the small crowd down the road and slowly shakes her head.
Omen strides into town slowly and purposefully, his eyes taking in the town and its folk with long, slow gazes as he takes several deep breaths through his nose, smelling a staleness in the air. He turns his yellow eyes to Lady Cirthana, a low, rumbling, rolling "Hrmmmm" escaping his lips before he speaks.
"This place, hrmmm, there is a Rot in this place. How long, Lady, has this Rot been killing you and the people here?"
Lady Cirthana stops and turns towards you. Her eyes delay for a moment on the crowd and then are directed to you.
"It has been about a week since the plague hit. I have been doing all I can to try and assist. From prayers to using my healing magic, I have done what I can to no avail. This is a disease that requires advanced clerical healing to treat."
"The desperate are now turning to folk remedies and I'm afraid many of them are losing hope."
"I will do as you suggest, Lady, and speak with Laurel..." he glances toward the growing line of coughing townsfolk, "and it seems as if she will be easy enough to find. But tell me, who leads this pack without helping their packmates like this? You are not like the beasts scouring the Worldwound who devour their sick, or have things changed so much since last I was here?" He waves his hand out, gesturing toward the gathered sick. A wracking, blood-filled cough from somewhere in the growing line punctuates his question like a thunderclap before Cirthana is able to offer a reply.
Cirthana raises her eyebrows slightly and then lowers them as her attention turns from the crowd back to Omenkalas.
Her voice suddenly hushes down to a loud whisper as she steps towards you while occasionally eying the crowd.
"Magistrate Harg leads the "pack" as you say. I think he's in league with the lumber barons, and they of course have no interest in the poor townsfolk.
I do not recall seeing you around these parts before, but the barons have been a problem for quite some time. Perhaps the last time you were here the Consortium was on an extended operation in the Vale.
Either way, the Consortium has mostly avoided the town in fear of the taint. Good thing too, I say. We do not need their influence spreading around, especially with the sickness."
"Hrmmm... I see. Perhaps it is as you say, it has been some months since I last passed through this place. Though, it was Laurel who thought I might be able to help now." He pats a folded piece of parchment tucked into his belt. "Thank you, Lady, you have been most kind, both to warn me away and to share your words. You... hrmmm... have my thanks. I think I shall go and speak with Laurel now, for that line shows no sign of shortening in the near future."
Omen dips his head slightly and hesitates a moment to see if Lady Cirthana has anything else to say before he takes his slow and deliberate steps toward the growing line of coughing, hacking townsfolk. He'll speak, calmly, with those who will address him in line and try to determine their symptoms as well as any other points of note while waiting.
Gather Information: 1d20=6
"You are most kind for a half-orc. No offense, friend, but the half-orcs I have run across have taken a little too kindly to their lineage, if you catch my meaning."
Cirthana bows gracefully. "Farewell and good luck with Laurel. She's a bit on edge with the constant pressure to try to come to some sort of cure. Good day to you. At least, as good as it's going to get in this town!"
Cirthana simultaneously waves and turns to begin walking down the road towards the center of town where a church steeple slightly reaches up above the rest of the buildings.
Omen (Gather Information)
Others have died as well, bringing to total dead to about 5 this week.
Go ahead and make a Knowledge (Nature) check. As you speak with the individuals in line, at least, those who are willing and able to speak in between the wet and dry sounding coughs, you examine their symptoms.
Go ahead and make a Knowledge (Nature) check. As you speak with the individuals in line, at least, those who are willing and able to speak in between the wet and dry sounding coughs, you examine their symptoms.
Knowledge (Nature): 1d20+4=21
Omen
On the outskirts of Falcon's Hollow, a creaky old wagon driven by an old and disheveled farmer and pulled by an equally old and disheveled looking mule rolled into view. The iron bearings wailed in protest on the rusty axles as the farmer pulled it to a stop where the road veered off into town. As he did so, a small figure lept from the back and slowly made his way to the driver's perch, munching nonchalantly on an apple. The gruff farmer nodded at the town. "Falcon's Holler."
The small young man didn't look. He reached into his cloak and removed some gold coins from a hidden pocket, then he handed them to the man with a nod of thanks. He strode up to the mule's head and whispered a few words in her ear. The mule snorted, and then accepted the rest of the apple that the man offered.
"Gods smile on ye, Rogan." The farmer said, and with a touch of the reins and a wail from the wagon he was on his way down the road.
Rogan removed his wide-brimmed hat and beat the dust of the road off of it, then used it to brush the dust from his mottled dark green and brown deerskin jerkin and pants. As he did so a gust of wind kicked up and played with his shoulder length, raven black hair. Invigorating it after it's apparently long confines in the hat. Taking a large bow from his shoulder, Rogan checked its tautness and play, nodded in satisfaction, and replaced it. Then he looked at the town.
Seeing the line of obviously sick and tired citizens, Rogan started to turn and call after the farmer, but he was now a fair distance away, and his hearing wasn't what it used to be. Rogan sighed, and his soft black leather boots made no sound as he walked into town.
As Rogan steps into town he finds the mostly dirt road free of any townsfolk aside from the twenty-some line of people outside a building with the sign, "Roots and Remedies" shoddily hung over the door.
The sounds of wet hacking coughs fill the surrounding area and a few of those standing in line sway side to side in a zombie-like state, moaning periodically after stopping to cough.
Near the back of the line, you spot a half-orc speaking with a young teenager as she pauses to quickly turn away and cough into her right arm. They cease their conversation as the young girl appears to wipe a tear from her eye as the line moves forward slightly.
As you approach, Rogan, the line continues to move as a few of the townsfolk step out of the building with small leather bags. They begin to walk down the road coughing along the way, apparently having obtained some sort of herbal remedy to try and quench their sickness.
The half-orc looks around while stepping forward and notices you as you approach.
Rogan walked cautiously down the street, giving the line and the obviously ill citizens exiting the building a wide berth. He looked rather conspicuously over his shoulder at the sick passers-by with a look mingling horror and pity. His eyes combed every building and alley as he walked, as though he were unsure what to do or where to go.
With his right hand he clutched the strap of a pack thrown over his shoulder. The other shoulder hosted a quiver full of arrows with black fletching. Nestled safely between the two containers was his bow - large, but simply made. The mottled deerskin jerkin and pants were a crude camoflage and stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of civilization. Even in a place like Falcon's Hollow. Strapped to his belt was a simple curved leather scabbard that housed what could only be a scimitar. A necklace of sharp teeth danced rhythmically against his chest.
His stature was to small to be human, and the grace with which he moved and the long, pointed ears under his broad hat betrayed his elven heritage. He stopped across the street from the end of the line and slowly scanned the breadth of it. He fixed his gaze for a moment on the half-orc at the end of the line, scanning his wardrobe and equipment, and staring for a moment into the yellow eyes. After a brief hesitation, he slowly crossed the street, placing himself so that the half-orc was between him and the line of plague. He came to a stop and rested his hands on his hips with his elbows slightly back.
Nodding once in greeting he said, "This is certainly not the scene that I was expecting. What plague has entered this place?"
Excellent. Convert away my friend! Feel free to keep the game going until then.
Omen watches stoicly as the elf approaches from the far side of the dirt lane.
"This is certainly not the scene that I was expecting. What plague has entered this place?"
"Hrmmmm.... You are right," he replies, in his low and rumbling tone, "this pack does have a Rot. It is a Rot I am familiar with, and one that... hrmmm... could be easily treated if only their packleaders cared to lift one of their... hrmmm... unnaturally fat fingers." The emphasis he places on the word "unnaturally" conveys a clear idea of disgust. "As things are now, this pack is far worse off than they should be, and the Rot will claim more of them... hrmmm... before it can be healed."
Omen takes note of Rogan's discomfort with regard to those coughing.
"You need not fear the Rot. Unless I am mistaken... hrmmm... they cannot spread the Rot to you."
Unless I am mistaken... hrmmm... they cannot spread the Rot to you."
"You need not fear the Rot. Unless I am mistaken... hrmmm... they cannot spread the Rot to you."
Rogan visibly relaxes and surveys the line once more. This time compassion is more evident than disgust.
"What is this... rot... and how is it healed?"
"What is this... rot... and how is it healed?"
Omen lets out a low rumble from deep in his chest as his gaze slowly sweeps over the crowd. Without looking back to the elf, he responds slowly, his tone matter-of-fact.
"The Rot you speak of is a plant, a fungus that if consumed in food or drink causes the cough you hear echoing through these lanes. I believe most who know of it refer to it as Blackscour Taint. Hrmmm. This pack could heal quickly with simple Emberwine, but since Laurel probably knows the Rot... hrmmm... then she would have given them Emberwine if there were any here to give. And as this pack is still sick with Rot, she has not done so, therefore there is no Emberwine. Another remedy... hrmmm... can be made, though the ingredients are slightly more," his soft yellow eyes finish their sweep over the crowd and return to hold the elf's gaze, "exotic."
"The Rot you speak of is a plant, a fungus that if consumed in food or drink causes the cough you hear echoing through these lanes. I believe most who know of it refer to it as Blackscour Taint. Hrmmm. This pack could heal quickly with simple Emberwine, but since Laurel probably knows the Rot... hrmmm... then she would have given them Emberwine if there were any here to give. And as this pack is still sick with Rot, she has not done so, therefore there is no Emberwine. Another remedy... hrmmm... can be made, though the ingredients are slightly more," his soft yellow eyes finish their sweep over the crowd and return to hold the elf's gaze, "exotic."
Rogan stands silently for a moment. He spits in the dirt at his feet and scuffs at it with his toe, dropping his gaze from Omen's to the dust. Then he speaks as if to himself:
"Were they a pack of wolves or a herd of deer, I would not hesitate to help them - in fact, I would consider it my duty to do so. I feel no such compulsion here. And yet, the more I consider it, the more I feel they are on the same level. I would help the wolf not simply because he is a wolf, but because he cannot help himself. I suspect these people find themselves in the same situation. They are not so far from the animals as they would like to think... And I suppose they are not so far beneath them as I would like to think."
When he raised his head again, he tilted it back slightly and peered at the half-orc from just beneath the brim of his hat. "My name is Rogan. I would like to know yours. And if you would be so kind, I wonder if you can tell me more about what we're dealing with here, and what we need to do."
Omen gazes at Rogan for several long moments before replying, and though it is not his intent, it is long enough for most to be made uncomfortable by the heavy silence.
"Rogan. Hrmmm... I am Omenkalas Nariah. Most simply call me Omen. Hrmmm... as far as what must be done to aid this pack, I hope to arrive at that answer after speaking with Laurel. I know what is needed to heal this particular Rot, but I do not know where to look for it. Laurel, I am hoping, does."
"And you are right. This pack cannot help itself because this pack... hrmmm... has more than one Rot. The fault is not theirs."
And you are right. This pack cannot help itself because this pack... hrmmm... has more than one Rot. The fault is not theirs.
Rogan looks down the long line headed into the building. "We've got some time. What other 'rot' has infected this pack?"
"It would perhaps be best, to discuss such things when there are... hrmmm... fewer eager ears and wagging tongues about. But you are right once more, we do... hrmmm... have time. Tell me, then, what brings you to this place at a time like this?"
Rogan chuckles. "Even the greatest of men grow tired of their own company after a while."
"Hrmmm.... Only those who brave looking at the man within. But those are often the men who better themselves. I do not think you will find many like that here."
"Such things are impossible unless one is isolated. I've spent the last 120 years in Churlwood, in northern Verisia. The only other companions one has there are animals -- unless you prefer the company of wanted men."
After asking the question, Omen will once again be scanning the crowd, although this time he is looking for specific things. If anyone in the line has tears or rips in their clothing, if any small children have tattered teddy bears or the like, anything along those lines that isn't major, he will offer to mend the article or item by utilizing his Mending orison. He will gesture for Rogan to follow and continue talking while he sets about his meager task.
As you scan the crowd outside Roots and Remedies, you notice a young man around the age of 20 with tattered, dirt-stained clothing. From his appearance,it looks like he has been hard at work despite his sickness. His left sleeve appears torn, and he keeps adjusting it out of slight annoyance.
In front of him is a young woman with little girl who grasps at her mother's dress as they move forward. The line shifts up as an elderly couple step outside the building; the man wraps his arm around his wife as they begin heading down the road. You spot a stuffed doll with ragged yellow yarn for hair in the little girl's right arm. It's head is nearly ripped off and hanging by a few meager threads which reveal it's inner stuffing.
The line has progressed since you began speaking with the elf to where the young man along with the woman and her daughter are the only townsfolk between you and the door at this point, although several more townsfolk have arrived to step behind you in line coughing into handkerchiefs or their own sleeves in courtesy to those who are less sick.
Omen studies Rogan intently for a few moments before responding. "You do not seem very taken with the trappings of city life. We have that in common. Hrmmm... but your words make me wonder..." he trails off as he casts an Orison to mend the young man's sleeve.
"Hrmmm... You spoke highly of our brothers, the deer and the wolf, and... hrmm... lowly of our brother man. I wonder, now, whose company you think me to be in - that of an animal... hrmmm... or of a wanted man? Or perhaps... or perhaps you are an even more curious elf than that? Hrmm... curious elf... a curious elf..." his bass rumblings trail off again as he busies himself with mending the little girl's doll. When finished, he offers a gentle toothy grin and pats her on the head.
"...his bass rumblings trail off again as he busies himself with mending the little girl's doll. When finished, he offers a gentle toothy grin and pats her on the head.
The girl watches with wide eyes as your magic quickly mends the ripped neck of her favorite doll. Once it's head is fully restored, she looks up at you as you smile at her. With some reluctance she smiles in kind. "Th..th..tha..thank you!" As she speaks her mother turns to you, smiles and then nods. She looks down at her daughter who returns her smile and then they face towards the front of the line. The girl begins hugging and playing with her doll, only to stop occasionally to let out a cough.
"Hrmmm... You spoke highly of our brothers, the deer and the wolf, and... hrmm... lowly of our brother man. I wonder, now, whose company you think me to be in - that of an animal... hrmmm... or of a wanted man? Or perhaps... or perhaps you are an even more curious elf than that? Hrmm... curious elf... a curious elf..."
Rogan's head droops slightly. "I - I meant to make no direct comparison, and I certainly meant no disrespect. I left Churlwood because my Uncle told me for many years of the wonder that was the short-lived races. I have already lived two human lifetimes and have not achieved in them what many of them accomplish in two decades. I wanted to see that passion and ambition for myself.
My only exposure to other races has been the outlaw bands that have grown more and more abundant in Churlwood. There are many druids there, as well, but most of them are reclusive and prefer the company of animals.
I was lonely, so I came looking for the magnificent beings my uncle told me about. I am disappointed because I have found exactly what I left. If the cure for these ailments can be obtained through even moderate difficulty, why hasn't it been obtained? These people treat each other like the outlaws I have left behind me."
He scuffs his toe in the dirt again. "That is the root of my disgust."
Omen, still squatting on his haunches next to the little girl, turns and looks up at Rogan. He slowly stands, then with his left hand, strokes the middle prong of his beard two, then three times.
"Then the tree of your disgust is planted in the same soil as mine. This pack... hrmmm... it does not behave naturally. It is the second Rot. There are some here who think they are better or deserve more than others there. Over there... hrmmm... there are some who think they are better than the raven or the bull and yet less than the dragon or the giant. What makes them better than the raven or less than the dragon? The same thing that makes them better than those here. Hrmmm... Nothing. We are all the same. We are all alive. We are all brothers. The second Rot does not know this. The second Rot... hrmmm... is unnatural."
Omen pauses for a long moment, a deep, rumbling "hrmmm" reverberating in his chest. "You, Rogan, are right in your disgust."
The woman and her daughter head inside as a middle-aged man steps out of the building carrying a sack over his shoulder. Just a few minutes later they depart, the girl holding tight onto her doll. She looks back toward Omen and smiles as she waves the doll-carrying hand; it's now-secure head bobbing back and forth.
Next the young man enters and leaves almost as quickly carrying a small pouch along with a full waterskin.
From within you hear a stern woman's voice call out, "Are there any more out there? If so, come on in!"
After hearing Omen's response and the stern voice of the woman inside the building, Rogan's demeanor shifts from shame to seriousness. Staring at the retreating figures of the young girl with the newly restored doll and her mother he says in a voice barely above a whisper:
"I will help you find whatever it is that these people need, if you will not mind my assistance. I may not know much of plants and medicines, but my bow may be of some value, depending on where you are headed.
"And once we have taken care of the first rot, I propose that we deal with the second as well." He steps to the side of the door and removes his hat, bringing sudden light to his smoldering green eyes. "Go in and find out what you can, Omen. I'll wait here and make sure you have some privacy."
He sets down his pack and leans his bow against the wall.
Omen takes a few moments to digest Rogan's words, his soft yellow eyes holding the elf's gaze. The half-orc's expression does little to betray how he will respond, looking just as likely to turn the elf down as to accept his offer. After several long moments, Omen offers a single word in reply.
"Agreed."
He then turns and passes beneath the shoddily hung sign and into the apothecary with his characteristically slow and purposeful steps. He leaves his short spear leaning against the exterior wall as he slips inside.
The smell of burnt earth and spicy incense chokes the air of the cramped, mud-tracked shop. Bunches of dried herbs hang from the ceiling, along with dangling pots, presses, alchemical apparatuses, and glassware of more arcane purposes. Pouches of rare plants, jars of colored glass, and all manner of dried, preserved, and jellied animal parts fill high shelves and tables doing double duty as displays and workspaces. In the shop’s rear, a rail-thin woman with severe-looking spectacles and hair pulled back tightly busies herself between an overpacked rack of herbs, a table covered in stray powders and measuring equipment, and a pot loudly bubbling over with thick gray froth. Over the din of her work and without looking up, the woman impatiently shouts,
"And what’s your problem?"
"Hrmmm... Blackscour Taint. Though it is only my problem because it was your problem first. Here, let me help with that." As he approaches the severe and impatient woman, he collects a few herbs and roots from the shelves along the way. Unless she stops him, he will stir the bubbling liquid and then begin to grind some of the herbs and shavings from the roots with an unattended mortar and pestle.
"Hrmmm... Blackscour Taint. Though it is only my problem because it was your problem first. Here, let me help with that." As he approaches the severe and impatient woman, he collects a few herbs and roots from the shelves along the way. Unless she stops him, he will stir the bubbling liquid and then begin to grind some of the herbs and shavings from the roots with an unattended mortar and pestle.
"What are you do..." Laurel looks up mid-sentence, her eyes glaring intensely over her spectacles. She pauses and her facial expression changes from intense irritation to one of relief.
"Omenkalas, you have arrived! I am at my wits end with these people. They keep pouring in here complaining of their symptoms, and all I can treat are their headaches and sore throats. I am most certainly not here to treat every scraped knee or cut they bring to me. I am not a physician!"
She wipes the sweat from her brow with her sleeve and then steps around the counter to greet you.
"I found an old book my grandmother left me which described some sort of concoction supposedly able to cure the taint, but I'll tell you that it sounds like pure hoojoo to me."
She leans up against the counter with her elbow and places her thumb and index finger on her brow, occasionally massaging her forehead.
"The book describes some herbs such as Elderwood moss, which I’ve never heard of, but granny says the stuff only grows on the oldest tree in a forest. A specially pickled root called rat’s tail, again, sounds like hoojoo to me. And seven ironbloom mushrooms, stunty little things that only grow in dark places thick with metal, a favorite among dwarves, or so I hear."
Omen nods slowly as Laurel speaks, listening patiently as the overtaxed herbalist confirms his suspicions. "Hrmmm... Your grandmother's book is right. Those things, steeped in simple hot water, will be a remedy."
"I wonder though... hrmmm... if it might be easier to obtain some Emberwine, for it too is a cure, and would probably be easier to acquire."
"But you have done well, Laurel. Your pack thanks you, I am sure. Now here," he adds the herbal mixture from the mortar into a small wooden bowl before continuing, "add some hot water to that and let it steep until it is cool enough to drink. It will... hrmmm... help to calm you. If you have any honey it might even taste good too," he adds with a small smile.
DM
Omen nods slowly as Laurel speaks, listening patiently as the overtaxed herbalist confirms his suspicions. "Hrmmm... Your grandmother's book is right. Those things, steeped in simple hot water, will be a remedy."
"I wonder though... hrmmm... if it might be easier to obtain some Emberwine, for it too is a cure, and would probably be easier to acquire."
Laurel sighs. "Yes, Emberwine would be the perfect solution. Unfortunately one would have to travel to Carpenden to the east or Oregent to the south, a good 120 miles or so a piece. Unless you have teleportation abilities, by the time you return most of the sick will be dead."
"But you have done well, Laurel. Your pack thanks you, I am sure. Now here," he adds the herbal mixture from the mortar into a small wooden bowl before continuing, "add some hot water to that and let it steep until it is cool enough to drink. It will... hrmmm... help to calm you. If you have any honey it might even taste good too," he adds with a small smile.
Laurel smiles slightly, and you get the impression it is forced but genuine. "Thank you, friend druid."
Omen
"Hrmmm... Yes, you are right, it would seem that the Emberwine is too far from this place. Hrmmm...," he glances up at Laurel and takes a few steps to investigate the contents of one of her shelves.
"Before we go to fetch these items... hrmmm... we need to make sure this Rot does not spread to anyone else in your pack. The Rot enters the body through food or drink... perhaps a herd of cattle ate the Rot or... hrmmm... maybe this pack shares a well?"
He turns toward Laurel, his right eyebrow arched inquisitively.
... maybe this pack shares a well?"
He turns toward Laurel, his right eyebrow arched inquisitively.
Laurel nods. "Yes, friend druid, you are both knowledgeable and perceptive. I was able to locate the source of this malady to Brookman's well, a small spring on the edge of town. It is where I discovered the blackscour fungus. I destroyed all of it I could find and we further banned the use of the well for now."
Laurel places the outside of her right index finger on her chin as if to ponder something. "...As for the location of these strange components, that will be the difficult part. I have not a clue where the oldest tree within the Wood might be. As for the rat's tail, my first guess would be to track down Ulizmila the witch. The cruel old thing would probably know where to find one, if'n she doesn't have one already. She knows all sorts of strangeness. As I said, though, she's a mean thing, and would probably charge you a pretty set of crowns to obtain it.
As for the 'shrooms; way north, toward the mountains, people say there used to live a bunch of dwarves. They’re not there anymore, but I’d bet their forges are. If you can find ironbloom anywhere around here, that’d be your best bet.
Unfortunately I cannot be of much help in locating these places. I've never set foot within the Wood, nor to I have a lick of desire to do so.
You might be able to get some information from Milon Rhoddam. He'll be at the Consortium lumber camp to the east."
Omen's eyes cloud over at the mention of a lumber camp. "Hrmmm... I did not pay much attention to this place when you met me. I was not aware there was a den of slaughter nearby. Hhrmmm..."
His features flash concern for a brief moment before returning to a more stoic and less readable countenance.
"This Rot is fouler than I thought. Hrmmm... most unnatural. I will go to this place... hrmmm... for you and your pack. Is there anything else I should know before we depart?"
Omen's eyes cloud over at the mention of a lumber camp. "Hrmmm... I did not pay much attention to this place when you met me. I was not aware there was a den of slaughter nearby. Hhrmmm..."
"Den of slaughter?" Laurel flashes a look of inquisitiveness. "Oh. Yes. I understand."
"This Rot is fouler than I thought. Hrmmm... most unnatural. I will go to this place... hrmmm... for you and your pack. Is there anything else I should know before we depart?"
"Other than to keep your guard up for whatever woodland creatures might dwell in the Wood or around. Don't worry about the Consortium. They are just typical men who care little for the welfare of others."
Laurel steps around the counter and then takes a kettle and pours some steaming hot water into the wooden bowl containing the herbal mixture.
"Take care, friend. It appears the taint is beginning to claim lives at a greater rate. More than thirty have the disease and at least twice as many as that think they have it. It's keeping me busy. Whatever you can do to help, I'm sure the town would be most appreciative."
She stirs the mixture and then lowers down to inhale a whiff through her nose. "Smells wonderful. I think the scent is calming in itself."
Omen nods once and says, "May the Seasons smile upon you then, good Laurel," before turning away and steping back outside. He stands for a moment, looking over the town and then picks up his short spear once more. He turns toward the east and says, "Come, Rogan. We must go to a place of death and... hrmmm... find one named Milon if we are to help this pack."
With that he begins walking to the east, the charms dangling from the spear head rattling with every deliberate step.