Ferguth follows the group in, sets down his gear, and watches as the other three start up the stairs.
As the two in front crest the stairs, they are met by a scene od utter carnage. Frozen blood lies all over the stone floor. Against the far wall like 4 gore covered skeletons in shreded clothing. Alongside the skeletons lie blood covered shortswords. While the blood looks like it froze before it dried, and the clothing, apart from being shredded, is in good condition, there is not a bit of flesh on the bones.
Catching sight of the bodies, Varn turns away and covers his mouth. Despite many years of travelling the wilds, violent death doesn't sit well with him, and he takes a moment to compose himself before continuing. 'Something bad up here' he says to those below, before stepping into the room with the corpses.
'What in the hell happened here?' he says to nobody in particular.
As the group heads up the stairs, Serin begins to spin, half seriously and half in jest, a lurid tale about rat kings, and how they long to gather elven hair to weave their tails more tightly together....
"Remind me to tell you the old elven tale about the bard who sang wolf."
Serin tries to hold down his gorge by rushing into business.
"Right; this is just the end of a story. A bad one, but... <gulp>. We think we know the beginning. What happened in the middle?"
Wincing a bit as he steps gingerly across the crimson snow, the skald inspects the scene.
His face ashen with the effort to hold composure, Serin pokes gently at the bones with his own shortsword to see what clues they may be hiding.
Notice:
Wild die:
Explosion for Notice die:
Total Notice roll: 9 (success with a raise).
The clothing is shredded so bad that it is difficult to determine it's type. Much of it looks like it was carried away as what is left is insufficient to cover the 4 bodies and keep them warm in the winter. There is some hair and blood on the swords, and they are close to the skeleton's hands. One even remains in it's bearer's grasp. The position of the corpses would seem to indicate that they were not laying quietly when whatever happened happened.
The shutters are closed, but there is sufficient gap that would let rats in. The vermin can squeeze through very tight cracks. The roof is conical, shingled with wood and the rafters that support it are bare above you.
As you examine the grisly scene, you come across a shred of cloth larger than the other tatters bearing the insignia of a D superimposed over two crossed barley stalks. The same symbol on the wagon below. No pouches or backpacks remain. Only blood, bone and a few shreds of cloth.
As you investigate the wind picks up, rattling the shutters. A few flakes of snow make their way through the cracks to settle onto the floor.
“Well lets get a fire going downstairs it looks like it's going to be a long cold night. I don't know what the funeral customs are for these people but maybe we could collect their swords and wrap them in this cloth to give to the good people of Dalsetter. As for the bodies, the ground is likely too frozen to dig a decent grave, we could use their wagon as a pyre if we can find a nice open spot away from the trees to set it alight.”
'Aye' agrees Varn 'let's get some heat going in here. Fire might come in useful for...other things' he adds giving Serin and Rindilnir a meaningful look. 'We can deal with the bodies tomorrow'.
Varn gathers together a few scraps of tinder and hunches over them with his flint and steel. He manages to get a small flame going, but whenever he tries to add some larger pieces of wood, they steadfastly refuse to catch. 'Can't even do this right' he mutters, looking suitably annoyed.
Ferguth stands beside Varn for a moment, watching him struggle with the fire. Finally, he puts his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Let me try." Ferguth squats down in front of the fire, takes a much smaller sip of wine than he did with the orcs, and exhales sharply exhales sharply. A small gout of flame exits his mouth and soon enough the fire is blazing.
Trying to force the grizzly scene upstairs out of your head, you determine it is best to leave the horses outside for the evening, and sleep downstairs. Suggesting that they all take turn watching, just in case of something coming to gnaw on your corpses, Ferguth volunteers first watch.
As you settle in for the evening, you toss and turn for a while, the wind howling outside, but you are warm enough inside.
When you awake in the morning, Serin reports that on his watch he heard the howls of wolves, but did not see any sign of anything. The morning is a crisp one. Snow still falls from the overcast skies, and the world is blanketed in silence.
Rested, although barely refreshed after a night in the tower, Varn adds a few more sticks to the fire, and makes a rudimentary breakfast of porridge and dried fruit for the others.
As they are eating, he says 'what do you make of that scrap of cloth near the bodies with the same symbol as on that wagon? Doesn't seem to fit with the state of the bodies. I'd like to have another look at what's on the swords too; can't tell much about the blood, but that looked like hair on some of them. How could animals have got in here and attacked them, and even if they did, what happened to all their gear...?'. He lets the question hang in the cold morning air.
As you sit on the stone floor of the tower, gathered around the fireplace, you all get a whiff of roast turkey, and feel very thankful.
Varn fingers the patch of cloth in his hands. It does indeed match the symbol on the covering of the wagon. Perhaps it is a shred of a uniform or tabard.
Looking at the swords again, you do see blood and some hair.
What happened to the remainder of their gear is a mystery.
”There is definitely something strange going on here Varn. The hair on the swords seems to suggest an animal but if it wasn't the rats that attacked the these people then where are the tracks? As for the gear, I could see the rats eating anything that had gore frozen to it but then there should be some remnants left behind.”
Rindilnir finishes his porridge, stands and stretches. ”Well we better be off. Thanks for the breakfast. Not bad... for human fare.”
'Hmmm, I'd still like to get to the bottom of this, but we've got a job to do' says Varn. 'I suggest we all keep our eyes open just in case' he adds.
After collecting up his things, the Saxa heads up the stairs and returns cradling one of the skeletons in his arms. 'Said we've do something about them, give them some sort of send off' he mutters. 'No way we're digging a grave in that earth, and I don't want scavengers running off with bits. Any chance of some of your flame for a pyre?' he asks Ferguth, before turning and retrieving the other remains
Ferguth nods. "Perhaps we can use the wagons for wood, and what we don't use for the pyre, we can replentish the warden's supplies for them." Ferguth picks up the axe standing beside the remains of the firewood and heads out into the crisp morning.
Within an hour, the wagons are chopped into firewood, the metal parts withheld. Between the two wagons and the broken barrels, there is plenty of wood for a funeral pyre, and plenty to restock the tower.
Once the remains are placed on the pyre, Ferguth pauses, "Should someone say something?" he says, bottle in one hand.
Serin kneels before the pyre and its grisly occupants, and his brow furrows.
"We do not know these men or their faith, so let us be explicit.
"Dargar, Eater of Dead, let these men's slaughter grant them easy passage.
Eira, Mother of Life, grant them your peace and tell Tiw they died well.
Eostre, Plantmother, ease their way as their ashes nourish your children.
Ertha, Earthmother, forgive this cremation but accept our praises.
Freo, Farseeker, protect these men on this their final excursion.
Hela, Black Queen, keep off your hands from these our honored dead.
Hoenir, All Knowing, record in your books that these men died well.
Hothar, Impartial One, judge them well and make us instruments of justice for them.
Kenaz, Firestarter, speed the flames that bear these men to Scaetha's Hall.
Maera, Threadspinner, if it is your will, help us divine what happened to these men.
Nauthiz, Thief Lord, these men's lives were stolen; grant their souls, then, your favor.
Neorthe, Turbulent One, grant a calm trip and safe harbor to these voyaging souls.
Niht, Nightlady, these men and their death are secrets; grant them, then, your favor.
Norns, Fateweavers, may the threads of these men's lives lead them to happiness.
Rigr, Guardian of Heaven, these men died watchfully; protect them, then, as your own.
Scaetha, Gatekeeper, judge them well and find their souls a proper home.
Sigel, Father of Light, may this pyre illuminate us in solving this dark mystery.
Thrym, Frost Lord, may this fire keep you and yours well away from these men.
Thunor, Everwind, blow warm on these men's smoke and lift them to freedom.
Tiw, Lord of Battle, they died in your service; bless them, then, in their judgement.
Ullr, Trueflight, guide them to their fair destinies and us to their killers.
Unknowable One, let these men's names and deeds be known and sung as they ought.
Vali, King Rat, grant us the vengeance you love on the ones who did this deed.
Var, Glibtongue, as these men protected trade, speak on their behalf.
"To all you gods, choose you from these men those who worshipped you. If they gave service to many or all of you, know that they died well, and would be honored servants in any of your hosts. With respect to all you gods, and our praise for all these men, we consign them to the fire, and to the heavenly judgement."
Serin backs away from the pyre to give Ferguth room to work.
"Hear, hear!" Rindilnir exclaims, his soul stirred by the skalds reverent words.
Ferguth steps up to the pyre, raises his bottle. "This bottle I raise to you four." The elementalist takes a swing, and breathes on the dry wood. The heat from the gout of flame exiting his mouth is astonishing, and the pyre is alight in no time. He pauses for a moment, and then tosses the half-empty bottle into the flames. Turning, he addresses the others. [b]"We should away. The smoke will undoubtedly attract attention, and I'd rather not be here.
'Mmmph' mutters Varn in agreement.
He watches the pyre blaze for a moment, his eyes glazing as he gazes deep into the flames, seemingly in another world. With a sad shake of his head, the Saxa turns and heads back into the tower where he collects his pack, takes a last look around, then heads out to the wagon to wait for the others.
Serin leaps into his accustomed space in the back of the wagon, though he does seem to take particular care in placing his bow and quiver nearby.
"As I recall, it's only about another half-day's journey to Dunross. I wonder whether they'll have the grain ready, or we'll have to spend tonight there? 'Twould have been nice of Rodgar to arrange lodging for us, but my level of confidence in him is not high...."
Ferguth climbs in the back of the wagon, another bottle in hand, "To toast the departed." After the others have climbed on the wagon, Varn gets the horses moving in the direction of Dunross. You expect to be there shortly after the sun has reached it's highest point, which at this time of the year.
The first part of the morning passes uneventfully. Around mid-morning, as you are passing through a small copse of trees, you spy a mound in the show on the road, a couple of black-fletched arrows protruding from the white mound. The wind through the trees is the only sound you hear.
Serin perks up at what looks like yet another encounter with orcish arrows.
Notice:
Wild:
'Not again' mutters Varn, gripping the reins harder in case there is a repeat of the first incident.
Wild dice
Rindilnir draws his swords and looks around for orc assailants.
Once the wagon comes to a halt he jumps down to inspect the arrow riddled mound.
Seeing Rindilnir's approach to the larger lump, Serin decides to inspect the smaller. He leaves the bow and quiver in the wagon, taking the orcish sword and shield for his reconnoiter.
From his position on the wagon seat, Varn shouts to Serin and Rindilnir 'what is it? More bad news?'.
"Trouble, for sure. It looks like the Roadwardens' tower was not the only locale to be plagued by rodents."
Serin brings the note back to the wagon to share with the other travelers.
Notice:
Wild:
Common Knowledge (Smarts):
Wild:
"Since our wagon is empty, and may remain so for some time, I think perhaps we should bring this poor fellow back home to Dunross."
Varn listened to Serin's description with growing distaste. 'Damn orcs everywhere!' he said to nobody in particular.
When the bard brings over the letter, he took a while reading it, not being skilled in that way. When he finished, he breathed out a long exhalation.
'Doesn't sound good at all. Wonder if this rat plague has anything to do with those corpses? Might explain what happened to them, but how did rats get all the way out to that tower...?'. He leaves the question hanging.
Stepping off the wagon, he went to take a closer look at the area.
Wild dice
Healing
Wild dice
When he saw the corpse of the horse, he stood looking thoughtful for a few seconds. Turning round, he shouted back to the others 'why do you suppose someone would shoot a horse, then hack chunks of its flesh off with a sword? Taking it away to eat later? Never heard of orcs doing that before...'
"So are the orcs causing the rat plague, or just taking advantage of the situation? Hard to tell from what we see here. Rindilnir, maybe I shouldn't have spun that story about the king rat....
"In any case, it sounds like Rodgar's grain may not exist any more -- and, even if it does, I doubt they'll be keen to let us cart it away to Dalsetter! Nevertheless, I say we press on to Dunross, to help with the situation or at least to offer our wagon for the evacuation.
"Do we have a bit of canvas to wrap the messenger's body in?"
You have some canvass from the back of the wagon that would have been used to cover the flour. Youestimate it is probably another 2 hours to Dunross.
After reverently wrapping the body in the canvass, you load it into the back of the wagon. The snow has subsided, but the clouds still hang oppressively overhead. Ferguth examines the corpse of the horse while the others load the body, before crawling into the back of the wagon. He flips back the canvass to examine the body briefly before re-wrapping the body.
You are underway shortly. Following the branch from the road, you approach the village of Dunross in the early afternoon. Through the trees which line the hills, you spy thin columns of smoke, too small for major fires, but too thick to be those of chimneys.
Rounding a bend in the road, you spy the village. An earth rampart topped by a stout fence protects the village, broken by a double gate. The gate is currently closed. A stream runs alongside the road leading to the village. Chunks of ice bobbing up and down indicate someone is keeping the stream running.
As you approach, a group of burly guards jump down from barrels they were using as seats and call out for you to halt, leveling their crossbows to ensure you comply.
Serin hops up onto the middle of the driver's bench as Varn brings the wagon to a halt, and brings up a hand in the classical Chalcian orator's pose.
"Hail, friends. We are allies of Dunross.
"We bear in this wagon a fallen hero of your town, the messenger whom Mayor Umbold dispatched with news of your rat infestation. Alas, he was felled by orcish raiders before he could complete his mission, but we have borne his body home again, and hope you will hold him in as high honor as do we.
"We have, ourselves, encountered signs of both your foes. Yestereve we were attacked by a pack of orcs on the road. Ferguth Fire-Breath, here behind me, slew several with his mighty magic. Varn Spear-Ward, here beside me, defended both us and these horses and wagon that we bring to your beleaguered town. And here at my other hand is Rindilnir, the Bulwark of Blades, who cut down a bevy of orcs with his amazing elven swordplay. I am their humble chronicler, Serin Truth-Speaker.
"Yesternight we stayed in a tower of the Road Wardens which still stank with the leavings of this rat horde which plagues you. We have seen the evils these rodents visit upon both men and merchandise. Then earlier today we found your fallen messenger, and the news he bore of your plight.
"We have come to help you, whether by furnishing freight or offering arms. Please conduct us to Umbold ap-Rutger, so that we may properly present the fallen hero of your town."
Serin remains both posed and poised, waiting to see the reaction of the town guards.
Note: +2 is from Charisma bonus.
Persuade:
Wild die:
We can do better than that! I'll spend a bennie.
Persuade:
Wild die:
Meh. Still, that oughta sway them a bit. :-)
Rindilnir nods as if to say, yeah what he said.
Varn is only half listening to the bard, preferring to keep a close eye on the militiamen in front of him. But he starts to tune into the florid description Serin gives; when it reaches the part about 'Varn Spear-Ward' he tries so hard to suppress a snort, he ends up breaking into a coughing fit.
After several moment he waves his hand, as if to say 'I'm OK, carry on' although he appears to have taken a peculiar interest in something on the floor of the wagon...
The guard approaches the wagon during the tale, his hands on either side of his belt. "Thats a pretty tale there, boy, but what do ya think yer gonna do? Entertain the rats? Words are no good against the creatures crawling through our homes, carrying their diseases and eating our food. We need healers and rat-catchers. Your swords and spears may kill a rat or two, but 20 more come over the wall while you spend the time doing so."
The man pauses for a moment, "If ye got any healing ability and can prove it, I may let you in. Otherwise..." His gruff voice trails off into the afternoon air. It his hard to miss his rather clumsy attempts at subtlety as he fingers his coin pouch.
Well, this is a tough crowd! Serin thinks to himself.
"Healing, my good man? But of course! Varn Herb-Master and I both have skill in the medical arts. Show us your injured."
Serin's face is a mask of pleasant gentility. Inside, though, he seethes. We took this job because we don't have any money ourselves. Whaddaya want me ta do, spit in yer coin pouch?
'Aye' says Varn, suddenly finding his voice. 'I've some skill with herbs and such. I'd be glad to do what I can. Is there a healer in town I can speak with?'.
Thinking on for a minute or two, he adds 'do you know where these rats are coming from? My friends and I might help you find their nest, then we can see about dealing with them'.
Rindilnir defers to to his comrades with healing expertise.
The grizzled guard calls back, "Wulfric, step up here." He turns back to you, "Wulfric decided to try to stomp him some rats. Rats din't take kindly to that." The second man approaches and is a mass of sores. Some appear to be wounds from bites and scratches, some appear to be something else.
Turning to Varn, “Started appearing a week ago now: just a few at first, then more and more each day. We’ve tried everything to get rid of them, but nothing works. Little sods seem immune to poison and the ratcatcher is working overtime. Don't have no idea where they be comin' from.” Gesturing to Wulfric, "If ye be half a good a healer as ye claim, ye'd be wantin' t' speak t' Flora Godwinsdottir."
'If you let us in, I'll go and see her straight away' says Varn
The grizzled guard crosses his arms across his broad chest. "Well now I cannae be lettin' just anyone in. Ye say ye be healers, I need some kind of proof. For all I know ye be bandits, tryin to swindle a poor town in its hour of need." The guard ponders a moment, looking back and forth between the three of you, before uncrossing his arms and drawing his knife. With a quick motion, he makes a slash across his left palm. Blood wells up from the wound. "Show me yer healin' skill or be off with ya!" He holds out his hand, blood dripping into the muddy snow at his feet.
Like a flash Serin's hand is outstretched over the fresh-made wound, and he warbles:
"I sing sweet balm
For wounded palm.
The blood will still,
For 'tis my will.
This slash, made to test us? No challenge at all.
This gash will not best us: we answer your call."
The skin of the guard's palm curls and knits together like a pair of singers practicing a duet, tentatively at first, but increasing in vigor and tempo until no sign of the injury is left but a faintly rosy crease.
The magic done, Serin continues in musical verse:
"My songs, for wounds, poison, disease,
Serve only fresh ailments like these.
But Varn's herb-lore is good and strong
For those whose pain has festered long.
You hurt yourself to try to test us;
Delay, and real wounds will have missed us.
Though rats and plague both gnaw upon you,
Your distrust stands to further ruin you.
So make our way! No further bother!
Show us to Flora Godwinsdottir!"
The grizzled veteran looks down at his hand and then back up at Serin. Turning back to the others he calls, "Let these men through. They have important business with Flora Godwinsdottir and the mayor!" Turning back he doffs his hat and mumbles an apology for holding you up.
The men step out of your way and allow you entry into the town, giving you directions to the mayor's home as well as that of the healer.
As you move through the streets, you realize the guards were not joking at all. Rats swarm all over the streets like a black carpet, crunching under the wagon wheels, nipping at your legs as you pass. There is no sign of any cats, and the visious, snarling terriers are too few to really deal with the horde.
The smoke columns you saw are the results of bonfires fueled by rat corpses.
Ferguth leans against the back of the seat and murmurs, [/b]"We're gonna need more wine...."[/b]
"Alot more wine!" says Rindilnir bewildered.
"What on Rassilon, is going on?"
'Have we entered hell?' whispers Varn when he sees the plague of rats. 'I've never even heard tell of such a thing before, have any of you?'.
He urges the horses on to their destination, occasionally taking a swipe with this axe at a rat that tries to climb onto the cart. 'Can one of you light some torches?' he asks over his shoulder. 'Fire might keep them at bay'.