The overseer seems unhappy about the "mud" commment, but Jorsal merely looks to the speakers as they talk as he ponders their words. He looks to the officer, then back to the group (particularly Baz around the end.) "Over the past few years, Sir Ilivan's never been put himself forward as a sympathetic type; excellent in direction and always willing to slay the abyssal menace, but lacking in compassionate judgement. Not to say that such a quality is unheard of in many Mendevians at his level of service..." He pauses, thinking on his own words. "To what degree were the hordes there? Did identify any potential major threats within?"
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"Well, I mean..." Desmond scratches the back of his head as he tries to get his words right, "there was that dust - Baz or Luisila - did either of you figure out what that stuff was? Anyway, the dust sort of took over a few of us. Made 'em hear things, turn on each other - that sorta thing."
Desmond shurgs his shoulders and splays his hands. "But, you know - you've got a demon problem." He turns to Cmdr. Wardroxan, "The ones that had your crusaders? Well, one of 'em had a goat-head, and the other was sorta... lava-faced. I dunno...couldn't recognize their types. But they were nasty alright." The ranger nods his head emphatically at this final assessment, as if he were stating new information.
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"Gyuha! Nnnh! Achgh!" Noises spurt from his gaping maw, but he is unable to say anything.
Desmond thrashes himself violently across the room - knocking over chairs, tables, his companions... He flings himself onto the floor and is able to knock his hand away for a moment - just enough time to get in a gasp of air.
He grabs his wrist with his other hand, fighting to keep the evil thing from chocking him again.
He rushes forward, almost knocking over Baz. As he does so, he grabs the teifling's scimitar and begins the painful and arduous task of slicing his own hand off.
The hand takes hold of the throat again, but Desmond doesn't relent with his scimitar strikes, though he grunts in pain with each cut of the blade. Finally, a sickening crunch is heard as Desmond breaks the bones in his forearm and is able to separate the sentient appendage from his body.
He drops the scimitar and with his free hand he is able to pry the living death-grip from his throat. He flings the hand across the room. "Ha-Ha! Couldn't get me, could ya?"
The hand is still, apparently stunned from its impact with the stone wall. But it again comes to life and scurries across the room - straight for Desmond.
As the hand approaches, Desmond brings his leg back and then sweeps it forward in a great kick. Sending the hand into the fireplace. An unnatural squealing emanates from the midst of the fire as the hand burns away.
Desmond quickly with draws his wand of cure light wounds and heals the stump of his arm. As the wound closes up and heals, he glances up at the rest of his group.
"What? Couldn't any of you lend me a HAND with that?"
Sad trombone sound, followed by live audience applause.
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"Sir Ilivan's never been put himself forward as a sympathetic type; excellent in direction and always willing to slay the abyssal menace, but lacking in compassionate judgement."
Luisila looks sideways at what she gathers is a typical rear-echelon staff officer.
She turns to face the man, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Excuse me Sir, but I have a few thoughts on Sir Ilivan from my own worm’s eye view.”
Luisila's tone turn serious. “I am astounded that I have reached a position in my church’s hierarchy where ambitious young acolytes occasionally ask my advice about what makes a good leader.”
“I have worked under a number of Venture-Captains, High Priestesses and government officials, who are acclaimed for lofty titles, empty talk and wealth accumulated by exploiting others.”
“I contend that the true value of an individual comes from within. It is demonstrated by what they DO. Not by what they say or have. The battlefield is one way of gauging a person’s character – it is a harsh test, but a fair one.”
“In my view there is only one definition of a leader – someone who has followers.”
“If Sir Ilivan was still here, I would follow him into the bowels of the Abyss itself.”
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Omrax looks at Luisila with genuine shock and approval.
"Well stated, Lady Luisila. Sir Illivan sacrificed everything to save the lives of people he barely knew and had no reason to help. He did not hesitate to charge into the maw of evil, knowing he would not return. In the end he emulated every tenet of the Inheritor, and beyond that, what else matters? I will never forget him and the example he set for others to follow. That is leadership."
The overseer chimes in for the first time. "J... Jorsal, Sir? Should... should I..." he asks, looking at the door.
Jorsal merely smiles and shakes his head in the horizontal manner. "No, lieutenant. These people aren't soldiers; they're Pathfinders, and I've personally asked them to speak freely should they disagree with their leadership." He pauses, as he often does. "And I'm glad they did."
"You see, Pathfinders, Sir Ilivan was, in fact, a cutthroat individual when he came to us from Kyonin. Quick. Effective. Efficient. However," Jorsal continues as he looks over the party, "he never did play well with others, especially subordinates under his command. He was known for berating those who slipped up too badly or fell behind. Ensured that those who failed beneath him knew they failed. It's likely that's why he took the Rageweed incident so badly. Never was the same after that. Then again... nobody ever is."
He looks to Luisila in particular. He speaks not in a tone of anger, but one of experience and placidity. "I know damn well what a leader is, and judging by what you're telling me, Sir Ilivan became one out there. I'm not sure how or what it was you all did to make it happen, but he finally emerged as a hero he's always been meant to be. But somewhere out there in that wasteland lies what is left of that hero and if any of you know anything, any minute detail that helps me assemble the team to retrieve whatever the abyssal hordes, I full well want to know full well what it is."
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"You see, Pathfinders, Sir Ilivan was, in fact, a cutthroat individual when he came to us … He never did play well with others.”
Is he kidding? That sounds like half the agents of the Pathfinder Society!
“… especially subordinates under his command. He was known for berating those who slipped up too badly or fell behind.”
… and about 75% of the VCs!
But Luisila just sits and listens to VC Jorsal with a carefully neutral expression on her face. She understands his intentions are good.
“But somewhere out there in that wasteland lies what is left of that hero … any minute detail that helps me retrieve what’s left of him, I full well want to know what it is."
Seriously? Does he need us to draw him a picture? Wait … maybe he does.
“Got a quill and some parchment, Venture-Captain Jorsal?”
Luisila tries to help one of her more skilled companions produce a rough map of the party’s path from the fort to the battlefield and the last place they saw Sir Ilivan.
“No the ridge was higher than that, Des! Was the quasit-swarm really that far away, Cleaver?”
Jorsal takes note on all info put forth, but presses the burning footprint statement further. "Glowing footprints, you say... do you know what left them? Perhaps a burning fiend, about the height of a gnome?"
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"There is a type of demon known as a Brimorak, whose hooves burn into the dirt which make them easy to track if caught in time. That said, they're also able to walk through the sky inherently, so following a pair is often just bait for a trap, so to speak." Jorsal takes a moment before speaking again, waiting for any more inquiries on the demon or anything else they faced today. "Given the predicament having him around was, I'm surprised whatever demon was leading the captured crusaders kept him around..."
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Desmond does his best to help with the map. He keeps his head down as the VC asks his questions, but his head snaps up when he hears something...
"What?! The size of a GNOME? No way man - that thing was easily eye-to-eye with me. Huh, gnome-sized my-" He catches himself before he says anything too inappropriate to the VC.
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Luisila nods in agreement with Desmond and Omrax.
“Uh huh. There was a big bat-winged demon with long fangs out amongst the quasits too. Maybe 250 feet from where we were standing would you say, Omrax?”
Luisila makes a quiet throat-clearing noise.
“Sorry, VC Jorsal. But I’m parched! It might be a good idea to refresh my voice if we are to continue. A mulled wine or hot, buttered rum might do the trick.”
She looks at her companions. ”The others probably feel the same way. Fighting demons is thirsty work.”
"They're growing. This is bad, but explains the *MYTHIC REDACTED FOR S5 SPECIAL SPOILERS*..." Jorsal says to himself. "In any case, much of our stronger alcohols were used as impromptu disinfectants or to ease the pain of the dying during the raid. If you're looking for some drink beyond some purified water, you're out of luck, though I'm sure some places in the Market District still have supplies."
The sober meeting progresses for the next half-hour until Jorsal states he "believes he has enough information to minimize risk." He ends the meeting, stating that "the search party leaves within the hour. If you wish to attend, I have no power to stop you, though you should rest. Best of luck in your future endeavors, Pathfinders."
It is no trouble finding the location where the battle took place (as well as the large splatter of carnage, which is almost entirely covered by the rolling sands by now), but the search party takes two-and-a-half weeks and is able to find a few pieces of what may have been part of a recently-killed humanoid corpse. Additionally, the party locates the Silver holy Symbol of Iomedae and a cold-iron lance that both belonged to the late Sir Ilivan. Commander Manaria is beside herself in grief, implying she's the one who caused him to die by sending him out here.
This state of being wears off over the next few weeks, given the fact that the demon siege grates on everyone's subconscious.
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To those who stay in the city, Jorsal sends word that Ilivan's service will be held at sunrise tomorrow morning.
The 4 on the walls are 4 of the saved crusaders, and the pall-bearers include the other two crusaders, Cmdr Manaria and an elf (with high-ranking badges) whom none of you have met. No speeches are given, but that is only because this is a time of war, which requires vigilance and focus.
Crowds gather along roadways in preparation to see the service.
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Desmond stays in town. He sends a message to Guaril Karela containing the information gleaned from Sir Ilivan regarding trade in Mendev. He manages to send it with other Society parcels headed to Absalom.
Desmond takes in the sights - such as they are - of the fair city. He attends the memorial service.
While in town, Desmond picks up some more cold iron arrows.