July 19th, 761
The Dreamlord Night-Terror surveyed the destruction before him. The walls of the Monastery were stout and strong, the fountain bubbled with cold, pure water from its subterranean spring. Date trees grew in the little garden, and the corridors of the Monastery were lit by rays of stray sunshine.
There was no ruin. There was no madness. There was no darkness. There was no fear. There was no nightmare.
“I shall make their end a storied one. I shall plunge them into a hundred nightmares as they sleep, I shall make their dreams a place of terror and madness.” Night-Terror muttered under his breath, the maddening tongue of Oneiros hissing sibilantly through the dreamscape. “They will scream a hundred times each night as their flesh is rended by beasts, as they plummet into an abyss of darkness, as serpents consume their limbs and force venom into their veins. I will drive them mad with terror, turn them to gibbering lunatics, I will have vengeance for this insult, I will…”
“…mumble ineffectual threats under your breath?”
Night-Terror whirled, a huge gargoyle with four arms tipped with razor claws, covered with an armored hide and lashing tail, a very picture of lethal efficiency in the bloodletting arts. His crimson eyes widened. “You…”
“Yes…?” The Lorelei drawled, reclining against a flowerbed and examining her nails. A beautiful, petite woman with luscious black hair and dark, liquid eyes, she looked utterly helpless beside the demonic monstrosity before her. “You seem to have had a bit of a set-back.”
“You arranged this.” Night-Terror hissed, flexing his claws as he took a step towards the treacherous she-fey. “Your murder-priest led them and your foul enchantments warded them till it was too late. You ordered him to destroy me! They would never have come so far were it not for your craft hiding them from sight.”
The water-fey only smiled for a moment, continuing to examine her black nails. They were long, and passing-sharp, though against Night-Terror’s scaled hide they would be useless in the extreme. Assuming, of course, that appearances had the slightest connection to power amongst the Faerie and their Dreamspawn kin. “Your point?”
“Dearest Night-Terror, I think you have greater problems than executing vengeance against my… agents.” The Lorelei gave the Dreamlord a small smile, quite friendly, and quite merciless. “You seem to have lost your hiding place now that Ronove’s shadow is gone, and I imagine the Colored Serpent will be… curious… as to your whereabouts.”
“The Rainbow Demon has long since forgotten me.” Night-Terror waved off the implied threat, disregarding the faint lance of unease that worked its way into his mind. There were advantages to being a freeholder Dreamlord. There were also disadvantages… “It has been thrice-hundred years, and we are a world away. I shall rebuild, hide once more, amass servants anew, long before it learns of me.”
The Lorelei plucked a small flower from the garden bed she rested in, gazing at the little rose as it swiftly decayed and rotted in her grip. Casually, she lifted the now-rancid blossom to her small, button-like nose and sniffed its sickly-sweet odor, before giving Night-Terror a coy little smile.
“You…” For a moment, the Dreamlord was near insensible with rage. Twenty-eight razor-sharp claws flexed, the nightmarish gargoyle preparing to leap upon the river-fey. Then he sighed, and surrendered, and his next words were spoken softly.
“What is the price of your silence?”
"So suspicious, Night-Terror..." The Lorelei said with a small smile. "I'm sure we can work something out..."
The Eye of Anubis: Cutscenes
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
July 17th, 761
Two books found in the library of the Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, in Sebua.
The first is a small, slim manuscript, its pages yellowed by time and crumbling around the edges. The handwriting was disjointed and barely legible, but somehow enthralling in its own way, something beautiful in the rich, dark-brown ink. There was no cover, and the pages were held together by a length of twine that had nearly fossilized with time.
It is entitled in a flowing, calligraphic hand (dissimilar to that inside): Derry Hazel 497-521 bc
A drawing of the Statue of the Faceless. Labeled Kadey, Southern Pharazia. And with a skull in the basin to catch blood.
Two books found in the library of the Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, in Sebua.
The first is a small, slim manuscript, its pages yellowed by time and crumbling around the edges. The handwriting was disjointed and barely legible, but somehow enthralling in its own way, something beautiful in the rich, dark-brown ink. There was no cover, and the pages were held together by a length of twine that had nearly fossilized with time.
It is entitled in a flowing, calligraphic hand (dissimilar to that inside): Derry Hazel 497-521 bc
- Who doth judge the flesh of man?
For there is no art in the judgment, no compassion, no intelligence, no meaning.
How many men can be stacked in the sea? I know the truth of it now; I have stared into the deep abyss. I feel the dreams of flesh descend upon me once more. The abbot suppresses them but cannot remove them; he cannot strip away reality, though he tries, like a knife peels flesh, it compresses on me like a vice. The art is in my blood, like the blood of the drowned men of the island, dragged under the waves by the blood of the other: V'hu-ehn n'kutgnath, fha'gnu n'aem'nh. V'naa-glyz-zai v'naa-glyz-zn'a cylth. I'a rhy'gezengrho.
He took the cow, took the calf
took a butcher and a half
took the church, took the steeple
took the priest and all the people
cow and a calf
ox and a half
church and a steeple
all good people
but he cannot reach here.
Am I cursed? If the art is in my blood, blood will drag me down. It flows clearly here. I bled the art
loose but the abbot forced it back into me. The blood is in him too, but it is not my blood.
they are waiting for me
they can see me
…
…
If on cold winter's longest night,
You seek the king of madness and might,
If your feet are nimble and light,
You'll find your way by candlelight.
You'll come across three strangers,
Upon a road of brass.
One is deaf and one is blind,
And one is broken glass.
And with them stands a figure blinding bright,
Enthroned on frozen throne of blue and white,
Who strips from you all grace and hope and joy,
All meaning doth he ruin and destroy.
Shed thy cold beams into my feeble mind,
And raise my thoughts, too broken and too blind,
To look upon the future, black and vile,
The folly and despair of all mankind.
Now I walk forth to the City of Dread,
East North-East West South-West North do I tread,
Don your cloak and your habit, says the god of the abbot,
With what are you laden? asks the green maiden,
You love her and kill her, says the King Silver,
You'll soon be my servant, says the red serpent,
Come forth to our feast, says the great faceless beast,
Now come to the pass, says the shadowy mass,
And bring me a book to read in my bed,
And bring me a dagger to clear out my head,
To write and to weep until every man's dead.
…
…
Along the sand the nightmares snake,
The twin god lives behind the break,
The shadows lengthen in Kamarn-Quse.
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is Great Kamarn-Quse.
Songs that the priest-lords shall sing,
To bloody virtues of the King,
Must die unheard in Bright Kamarn-Quse.
Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in Dread Kamarn-Quse.
…
…
I take my place in the great ritual and place my book upon the altar.
The actors take the book from me and perform their roles to arrive at the finale, predetermined.
What do they see in the labyrinth of cause and effect?
Do they see the fatal lies weaved around them?
Do they see the fake lies they were led to see?
Do they see the bright shining lies that must never be seen through?
The roles of the play keep shifting and changing.
My role is the guide. My role is destruction.
I take this role because none else desire it.
Their role is that of mere pawns.
That is why they are free.
The clock ticks because it is fate. An inevitable destiny predetermined by the world.
Which way does it tick? To the past or to the future?
The beauty of the world is only skin deep.
It is a stage set.
The abbot still bleeds from his severed feet.
His feet would shatter the glass stage he stands on.
Those who leave this place will perish, clinging to their illusionary world, with fake smiles upon their faces.
And yet I cannot escape this fake prison that consumes me.
I am too afraid to look beyond it.
But I shall destroy the boundary between eternity and fantasy.
This is my role.
If they desire it of me, a clock will tick to the past, filled with hate and love.
If they desire it of me, a clock will tick to the future beyond this world.
The clock is broken.
There was a young poet
And nothing he had,
And so this young poet
Was said to be mad.
He'd nothing to eat,
He'd nothing to wear,
He'd nothing to lose,
He'd nothing to fear,
He'd nothing to ask,
And nothing to give,
And when he did die
He'd nothing to leave.
- The Jackal Wars: The Rise and Fall of the Menetnashtean Dynasty and the Cult of the Jackal
- By Farhid Razavi
A drawing of the Statue of the Faceless. Labeled Kadey, Southern Pharazia. And with a skull in the basin to catch blood.
- “… The Menetnashtean Dynasty was the last of the great Akiri kingships, born from the ashes of the late Ahmosian Dynasty, and existing as a brief flicker of vitality before its destructions upon the blood-soaked fields of Dahnitae...
…For an empire that, at its height, united more of Har’Akir than any since that of Ra-Kharesh III, surprisingly little is known of the Menetnashtean Dynasty. The Late Akiri Kingdom was a strange time, when the glory days of the past were gone, and the weak Ahmosian Dynasty ruled over a disparate federation of kingdoms and tribes. All manner of strange cults and secret societies arose at this time, and the traditional structure of Akiri religion was fractured as partisans of the gods squabbled with each other and with foreign gods...
…Records on the early days of the Cult of the Jackal are sparse, destroyed intentionally by the secretive Cult itself and by the Alliance of the Gods. It is known that the mystery cult arose in the tiny desert city of Kamarn-Quse, and over the years of the Ahmosian Dynasty’s decline grew to the de facto domination of the city, even as the governorship of that city atrophied to nothingness…
…
…
The Cult of the Jackal first burst upon the world scene in the time of Ahmose XXI, judging by military reports. In the eleventh year of Ahmose XXI’s kingship, a military force was dispatched to Kamarn-Quse regarding a matter of unpaid taxes. A fragmentary account of the expedition survives.
- We departed the Fortress of Nefa with a force of six-score charioteers and thrice thousand retainers, as well as twice-hundred archers from the Southlands [A force of some thirty-five hundred men, total.]… It was on the seventh day of Amshir that misfortune befell. First came the plague winds, and men sweated and grew emaciated and died within a span of hours… thus did a third of our force die. That night, the shadows rose against us, and fell upon our men with hungry maws and poisoned bites… thus did the second third of our force die…
…At the gates of Kamarn-Quse, before the ugly, dingy walls of the desert-slum, did we face the Walker in Shadows, a figure in gold and bearing a sword of fog and shade. It was alone, a single figure in gold against a thousand survivors of the army. But it was not afraid, and raised its sword to the sky. And from the underworld it called daemons, hideous warriors part man and part beast, and they fell upon us with a maddened fury, and I felt a great fear sweep the force, and many men ran, only to be born down by the daemons. I too, was unmanned by terror, but escaped upon horseback.
…As far as the Walker in Shadows, this would appear to be one of the many epithets the Ahmosian troops coined for the great high priest and general of the Cult of the Jackal, Menetnashte. Little documentation remains, but this man must have been a truly marvelous figure, able to manipulate his troops and his foes alike, inspiring rabid fanaticism in the former and abject terror in the latter…
….
…
Unlike most prior conquerors, or for that matter the Great Prophet of Phiraz, the Cult of the Jackal were not traditional imperialists. Even when their empire stretched from the borders of modern-day Pharazia all the way to lands now long hidden in the Mists, the Cult of the Jackal and their emperor-priests, the line of Menetnashte, never attempted to incorporate their captured lands into an actual, cohesive nation-state,
Rather, the Cult troops would conquer a city-state, and would either sack it, or else extract a surrender treaty on quite ruinous terms. All the wealth of the captured lands would be funneled back into the tiny desert city of Kamarn-Quse, which during this time underwent a campaign of rebuilding the likes of which would not be seen till the days of Phiraz. Equally, the Cult of the Jackal took their pick of the young men of the city, who would become equally the rank-and-file soldiers of the Cult, though the elite core of the army would always remain the natives of Kamarn-Quse.
In exchange, the Cult of the Jackal frequently left the local government and religious organizations intact, preferring to rule at a distance rather than install governors and bureaucracies. The only interference the city-states had to brook in their day-to-day affairs was that of a Cult emissary, known as an Exarch of the Jackal, who would ensure that the various temples and priests of the old Akiri deities worshipped and respected the Cult of the Jackal’s double-god, Anuberith, as lord and master. Seeing as the Exarchs were uniformly mages of some strength, one must conclude they exerted no small influence. In fact, one of our very few records of the Cult’s religious ceremonies consists of a scribe’s account of the confirmation of the Exarch of Balnea, a city some two week’s journey south of Kamarn-Quse:
- …It was a fortnight after the elder Awi was slain that the new Jackal-Priest arrived with her entourage. She was an old, small woman, yet firm of back and with eyes that saw the soul. Her name was Ramla, and she was accompanied everywhere by a great dreadful beast, an ape wearing a mask of purest gold, though it was no ape’s face beneath the mask…
…Exarch Ramla spoke, and said that beneath the thunderstorm she would consecrate Balnea to the Twin God. And some few people laughed, those born after Awi, or who did not remember, for a thunderstorm happened but very rarely. But the Exarch took this all in stride, and said only that the Twin God will provide. And lo, the next day were dark clouds across Balnea, and lightning played through the streets, and the people were afraid.
But the Exarch was not afraid, and with her servitor went to the greatest square of Balnea. I was curious, and with others more curious than clever watched as she drew a nine-pointed star upon the ground, humming a toneless tune beneath her breath. She took a dagger of black obsidian from her robes, and cut lightly at her wrist, letting a single drop of blood fall at each of the star’s points.
Then the Exarch placed within the star an idol of dark obsidian, of a faceless man, a foot tall. Upon this statue she placed a fresh jackal-skin, still bloodied and raw, and at the points of the stars she placed coins of gold, silver, copper, electrum, brass, bronze, iron, lead, and tin. Each of these she anointed with a drop of jackal’s blood. Then the Exarch spoke, but it was in no language that I knew, though I am an educated man. And the shadows moved around old Ramla, and all was queerly silent. The Exarch stayed silent for an hour, in silent communion, and then spoke.
‘Balnea has accepted its Exarch. Let the Twin-God hold dominion, let Anubis and Berith join, for Balnea is Anuberith’s demesnes once more!’
And though I cannot prove it, ever after there was a shadow upon the stones in that square, even at noon of the brightest day.
In a way, the Cult of the Jackal was remarkably enlightened for its time, practicing a pagan dualistic religion that echoed the truth of Purity. And while the figure of the Prophet is as the sun to the stars of the various Hierarchs of the Jackal, this procession of charismatic figures, uniformly called Menetnashte, were nevertheless powerful symbols…
….
…
…Of course, all empires come to an end, and thus happened with the Menetnashtean Dynasty. In many ways, the end of the Cult of the Jackal came of their own success. Their economy, predicated as it was on constant expansion and conquest, couldn’t survive once the Cult had over-run all of Har’Akir. The conquest of desert tribes brought swiftly diminishing returns, and campaigns too far away from the heart-land brought difficulties in logistics and control that would be the foundering of many a campaign.
Likewise, as the Cult expanded, army mutinies began to plague the Dynasty. While the troops of Kamarn-Quse would remain ever loyal and ever fanatical, the conscript-troops of neighboring cities were always of dubious loyalty, and by the end of the Menetnashtean Dynasty, simply outnumbered the Cult’s troops by a factor of almost sixty-to-one. And now all these troops were trained in Cult tactics.
Still, these problems could’ve been managed, were it not for a third issue that arose. The old Akiri gods proved tenacious, even as the Cult actively promoted the worship of their dualistic deity, Anuberith. Eventually, a religious unrest would begin as the various disparate cults and groupings that were present before the Cult began to band together, setting aside doctrinal squabbles to overthrow their enlightened masters. In fact, we have some remnants of the Alliance’s religious anathemas, which are educational for the, admittedly rather biased, view they provide of the city of Kamarn-Quse and the Cult of the Jackal.
- ...the Empire of Menetnashte was an empire built upon sin. All virtue, reverence and tradition were forgotten in place of hedonism and selfishness. Arrogance, greed, sloth, blood thirst, and wicked lust were encouraged amongst even the common people, and the nobility took their depraved decadence to unimaginable depths. Painted women did business alongside of bakers and bricklayers, and often performed unspeakable acts of debauchery in public places. Every manner of demon and monster walked the streets openly alongside of man, and it is well known that many of these foul and black beasts held seats of the highest power. All those who rebelled against this loathsome empire were brutally put down and slaughtered...
..There was no place in the city where its wickedness was more evident than the Grand Colosseum. In this arena thousands of men and beasts were set upon each other to feed the bloodlust of the crowd, who would roar like animals at every drop of blood spilled. Even those who at first abhorred such foul displays of gore would soon find themselves caught in the maddened frenzy of the other spectators, screaming to urge on the orgy of violence and bloodshed...
...And there were none in this unrighteous empire more repellent than Menetnashte. Known as the Golden One to the sycophantic masses of the empire, this ungodly ruler delighted in every blasphemy and perversion possible. Tribute was extorted from every region to support the gluttony of Menetnashte's court, and the slightest perceived offense would incur the Demon Pharaoh's wrath. Every night throngs of nobles were called to Menetnashte's Golden Hall, where they performed every perversion possible. The tables were set with foul courses cooked from human flesh and blood. The harems were filled with beautiful youths, both women and men, torn from their homes to satiate the desires of the upper class. Those who gave into wickedness, regardless of fortunes, would gain the favor of Menetnashte and quickly rise in position, but such evil methods would not avail them for long. All manner of treachery was encouraged by Menetnashte, especially among those in power. Only the high priests were spared this murderous culling, at the price of their immortal souls, for the priests of Menetnashte openly bargained with demons, and their rites were naught more than reveling in the highest blasphemy to the true gods
Calling themselves the Alliance of the Gods, these rebels inspired great fervor in the common populace, unlike the elitist Cult of the Jackal. The triple-blows of a foundering economy, constant mutinies, and religious unrest were too much for the Cult of the Jackal to handle. At first, a few cities began to declare independence of the Cult, and then that trickle became a flood. Joined by the mutineers and the religious fanatics of the Alliance of the Gods, these rebels rallied themselves around a distant scion of the previous Ahmosian Dynasty, a figurehead who went by the name of Ahmose XXVII.
This is not to say that the Cult of the Jackal and their leader, Menetnashte (whom I believe to be the eleventh of that name), did nothing. Though egregiously outnumbered, the Cult still possessed a core of well-trained and well-equipped troops, and the overwhelming majority of the great wizards of that time were Cult Exarchs. Likewise, Menetnashte XI proved himself to be a very skilled general, using superior sorcerous skill and disciplined troops to route the Alliance of the Gods on numerous occasions through ambushes and night attacks. Menetnashte XI plundered all the tricks of his predecessors, and it was almost as if the Ahmosian armies were once again being defeated by a band of desert dervishes.
But it was not to be. The weight of numbers was simply too great, and eventually the Alliance of the Gods forced Menetnashte XI to an open battle on the field of Dahnitae, an area that I have yet to be able to find, despite copious research. Nevertheless, fragmentary accounts of the battlefield say that it must have been quite spectacular, with the wizardry of the Menetnashtean Dynasty finally being overturned by the combined divine magic of the entire Alliance of the Gods. Once Menetnashte XI lost the battle of wizardry, the demise of the Cult of the Jackal was assured. By all accounts, the Cult fought like demons, but with their high magics stymied, the Menetnashtean Dynasty was slowly ground into the sand…
…After the battle, the Alliance of the Gods embarked on a decade long campaign to expunge every mention of Menetnashte and the Cult from record. Thus we know very little of the this golden age of the Late Akiri Dynasties. Nevertheless, from the records, I can safely say that this must have been one of the finest hours of Har’Akir, a sophisticated, vigorous empire that ruled one of the greatest extents of land of the last two thousand years…
…
…
…After Dahnitae, there is a single curious footnote in history. According to one religious log, Menetnashte XI was captured by the Alliance of the Gods at the culmination of the battle. Unlike most captured rulers, however, Menetnashte XI was neither ransomed, nor paraded through the streets of captured cities in a show of might. Rather, it seems that the last of the Hierarchs of the Jackal was summarily put to death, or as the original document puts it rather strangely, ‘given up unto Anubis’… - We departed the Fortress of Nefa with a force of six-score charioteers and thrice thousand retainers, as well as twice-hundred archers from the Southlands [A force of some thirty-five hundred men, total.]… It was on the seventh day of Amshir that misfortune befell. First came the plague winds, and men sweated and grew emaciated and died within a span of hours… thus did a third of our force die. That night, the shadows rose against us, and fell upon our men with hungry maws and poisoned bites… thus did the second third of our force die…
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
July 17th, 761 to July 20th, 761
Perhaps after the Expedition is over. Pelletier thought with a smile. He’d have an eternity in which to experiment then. Perhaps he’d even track down old Jan of Vallaki’s spirit and bind it as some kind of advisor. Jean-Jacques toyed with the idea briefly but decided against it. After he became a Father of the Fraternity, he would have no need of the Barovian’s tiresome rituals.
Well, back to the business at hand. Maleagant was living entirely too long for someone with so many ideas above his station. Pelletier smiled to himself again. Samael had the pretensions of nobility, but Pelletier knew him for what he was, a disgusting little upstart who couldn’t stay in the underworld like he belonged. Why Count von Lovenhurst recommended the little man Pelletier would never understand.
The summoning of the Fetches should take place during the night, for it is when the world lies in shadow, and the Shadow is closest to our Living Material. Pelletier read the lines again, reminding himself of the proper incantations. That was when someone knocked on the door and interrupted the professor’s train of thought.
“At this time of night?” Jean-Jacques frowned, but stood. Very strange. Muttering a spell and holding it encased in his hand, the elder academic hobbled across the room to open the door, his other hand resting on his cane. “What is i---“
Jean-Jacques Pelletier never had a chance to complete those words, nor any others. The door burst open as he soon as he unlocked it, and the first blow lifted the older academic clear off his feet. It collapsed his chest inward, breaking ribs and collapsing his lungs inward even as the knife came to stop against his spine.
The spell went off by pure reflex, a spray of acid that covered the assailant, the doorposts, and a fair bit of the corridor walls. He didn’t even stop. The second blow came fast on the heels of the first, and then a third and a fourth, bone-shattering attacks that were quite lethal even without the sharp hunting knife encased in that fist.
Of course, Pelletier was dead after the first blow. But his killer was a believer in thoroughness in death.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disappointing. That was the thought that passed through Jervis’s head as he shook the late Professor Pelletier off his knife like an errant bit of fish-gut. A mighty wizard, Exalted Brother of the Fraternity, skilled illusionist and enemy within the Expedition, and he had died to a few quick stabs of a hunting knife. Disappointing.
First the bodak had turned out to be decidedly lacking in sport, now Pelletier didn’t even have the basic human decency to put up a good fight before he died. First two kills since those Confessors that night in Pharazia, and both fell almost instantly. Jervis was going to be disgruntled if he didn’t kill something more interesting soon.
Still, if the old fraud was sending monsters at them, then Jervis couldn’t very well have left him breathing, especially not if he was aiming at Samael. Briefly, the mercenary wondered why Samael hadn’t told him of Pelletier if that was the case, but Lia and Kuzan were reliable. Still, the mercenary was an uncomplicated man, and so he didn’t concern himself too greatly with such questions. Pelletier was a threat, ergo, Pelletier must die.
Stepping over the late professor’s body, Jervis picked up the spellbook and looked at the open pages in question. For the summoning of those beings called Fetches… Jervis snorted. “Guess Lia was right after all.”
Slightly mollified that he hadn’t gone to the trouble of murdering Pelletier for no reason at all, the mercenary stepped back, surveying the scene of carnage calmly and considered what he had to do next. Jervis was an uncomplicated man, certainly, but he was not a stupid one.
First things first, get rid of these aggravating acid scars. They burned at Jervis’s skin, which was irksome, but soft caresses compared to Rodjan’s attentions when the old Demon had been angry. More importantly, however, they were tell-tale marks of Jervis’s guilt. The mercenary sighed. He hated magical healing, it always left the most unpleasant tingle.
“Salve Regina Ezra, Mater misericordiae. Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae. Ad te Suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.” Jervis recited quietly, sketching the Shield over his breast as he spoke. “Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte. O clemens, o pia, o dulcis Ezra.”
There, that was settled. Next was making sure that no one decided to ask Professor Pelletier who killed him. Jervis had been fast, and it had been dark, but the mercenary hadn’t lived to his ripe old age of thirty-one without being careful. Jervis knelt and grasped Pelletier by the collar, lifting him up and after a moment of thought, depositing the rather messy corpse on the table, resting his head on the spellbook. Then, rather methodically, Jervis took his knife and sawed the late professor’s head off.
Finally done, Jervis grasped the head by the hair and raised it up to eye-level. Pelletier’s last earthly expression was one of surprise, as though he hadn’t quite processed the fact of his death before it was too late. Jervis snorted quietly and bundled the head up in one of the bed sheets.
The mercenary took a long, final look at the room, checking for any evidence that was likely to get him into trouble. Didn’t seem to be anything. Taking his gory satchel with him, Jervis headed outside, making his way for the courtyard.
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The courtyard was abandoned when Jervis arrived in it, which did nothing to ease the mercenary’s disgruntlement. Nothing he had an excuse to kill. On the whole, the night had been an unmitigated disappointment, just a lot of necessary work. Well, may as well get it over with and go to bed. What a waste.
The mercenary waited in a dark corner of the courtyard for a few minutes, simply standing there, eyes lightly closed.
The flapping of wings was a soft, but familiar sound. Jervis actually found it rather comforting, in so much as the mercenary took much comfort in anything. Soon, the dusky-skinned man felt the faint pinch of talons on his shoulder, as a weight settled on the leather pads of his armor. Jervis opened his eyes.
The giant rook was a queer creature, to be certain. The size of an eagle, its black feathers were tinged with a bloody red that no earthly bird possessed. Glittering eyes looked at Jervis curiously, eyes filled with intelligence and sheer, unadulterated malice.
“Aya, good girl, good girl.” Jervis cooed, running two fingers across the bird’s head, gently putting right some ruffled feathers. The otherworldly crow accepted the mercenary’s attentions in good grace, fanning her tail-feathers and shifting on his shoulder. “No treat tonight. Got a job for you though.”
The red-black raven tilted her head and looked at Jervis curiously.
“Here, take this.” Jervis held up the bloodstained bed-sheets, the ones containing the head of Professor Jean-Jacques Pelletier, formerly the head of the Menetnashte Expedition, now merely a head. “Take it away, far. Bury it.”
The crow bobbed her head in acquiescence, and fluttered off, snagging the bed sheets with their grisly cargo in her talons. A few flaps of mighty wings took Aya well out of the courtyard, and soon the red-black bird was only a speck of darkness in the night. Jervis watched her go, then turned and went to bed.
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“Beauty is its own law…” Samael mumbled, tossing and turning upon the narrow cot. The Borcan was never a heavy sleeper, but for the moment, at least, his dreams were not the worry-filled nightmares of before. Maleagant turned in his bed, muttering softly. “Your decree, my Queen?”
“I’ll kill him.” Samael mumbled, half-conversationally. It must have been one in the morning. “I’ll cut his tongue out…”
“Kuzan…? What are you talking about? It’s the middle of the night, everything---” Samael stopped suddenly, waking up completely as a chill rushed down his spine. He looked around the rest of the sleeping dormitory, taking in the slumbering forms. Where was Jervis?
“All is well.” Samael finished curtly. If Jervis was up to something, the Borcan didn’t want Kuzan and the rest of that crew tramping all over the Monastery looking for him. Although if Jervis had done something, the cold gnawing at Samael’s gut warned him that it wouldn’t be so easy to cover up.
Somehow, Samael didn’t think this night was going to end well.
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“Jervis did what?!?” Lily did not scream. She did not curse. She did not use that sharpened fan of hers to slice something important off of Samael. It was also patently clear to the Borcan that this was liable to be a temporary situation.
“Ssssh!” Samael hissed. The pair was meeting discreetly after breakfast, though by now their relationship was likely an open secret in the Expedition. Which, admittedly, made planning sessions far simpler to arrange. More fun also. “He killed Pelletier last night. Figured out that the old man was trying to kill us.”
“We agreed to not tell him that. Because he might do something rash.” Lily D’Envers was not amused.
“Ah… about that…” Samael hedged for a moment, then admitted. “Kuzan and Lia figured it out and told him.”
“You’re joking.” Lily said flatly.
“Would I lie?” The Borcan said with an air of injured innocence.
“Yes. You would.” Lily waved off Samael’s slightly sulky glare. “We have to leave.”
“Plan was we’d drop them off in Muhar.” Samael pointed out.
“No time.” Lily said. “If Pelletier’s dead, the others will start poking around, and some of them are already getting too close for comfort.”
“I handled Charles, didn’t I?” Samael said. “Mists, he might try and cover for us if he does figure out that Jervis is the killer.”
“A point.” Lily admitted. “But it’s getting too tense. If something happens, we’ve waited too long. I don’t want to be forced to fight our way out.”
“Mmm…” Samael said, turning the idea around in his head. “Could work, actually. Monastery means that we don’t need to worry about them dying in the desert or something.”
“No.” Lily did not seem to be quite as pleased to hear of the others continued survival. “We don’t have to worry about.”
“I’ll set Guy and Khalil to getting things ready… Michel still has some of that soporific we bought in Phiraz…” Samael fiddled the ideas through his mind, speaking more quickly now. “Leave at night, drug the others, and be off at a full gallop by the time they wake up. They don’t have any guides, where will they go? They can stay here till some caravan picks them up five months down the line.”
“We’d need to hurry.” Lily said slowly, though she was concealing a smile. The Borcan was almost child-like, an erratic, mercurial soul given to boundless enthusiasm for whatever plan he had at the moment. “I don’t think Jervis is going to stay free too long if the others start poking their heads everywhere.”
“Jervis isn’t quite as dumb as he looks.” Samael felt compared to defend his half-brother. Still, even that was not something he could do for very often, so the Borcan hurried on. “I’ll get Guy and Loup to distract them for a bit. Have a trail peter out somewhere or other.”
“Then it’s off to the Tomb?” Lily asked.
“To the Tomb, to wealth, legitimacy, and a long and happy life as the idle rich.” Samael said grandly.
“I think I like that plan.” Lily said, a small smile on her lips.
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Her face, lustrous and beautiful in the moonlight. Perfect hands, petite and delicate, reached out. Edmund stretched out a hand, yearning, hoping, wishing. A touch, a moment of sudden shock, and…
Edmund Harris woke with a start in his bed, drenched in cold sweat. The guard captain sighed, but there was no help for it. Sleep, it seemed, was going to be hard coming tonight, with the nightmares thick and swift. He did feel oddly drowsy, but nothing too severe. Harris sighed disconsolately again and turned over in his cot in the Monastery.
Then he sat up promptly in the bed, looking all around himself. Where were Michel? Guy? Samael? Edmund looked this way and that, trying to force his fuzzy brain to understand what was happening. A distant sound interrupted his confused musings, a sound like a woman’s screech.
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Kejser’s scream made all of the conspirators stop, stock still in their actions, the sudden terror of discovery lancing through their hearts. All except Khalil, at any rate, who was swearing venomously in Akiri.
“Misbegotten son of a devil.” Al-Atim grumbled, clutching his bleeding hand. “Thrice-cursed beast, your grandmother was a camel…”
“Will you shut up?” Samael hissed, not entirely sure if he was directing his command towards the horse or the desert guide. “We’re attempting to be stealthy here.”
Jervis raised a hand suddenly.
Everyone fell quiet, the mercenary making his way quietly towards one of the stable doors. Samael had known his half-brother long enough to realize that Jervis’s senses were more acute than his, and the others followed his lead in this. Now, in the silence, he could hear it too, a soft breathing from the other side of the door.
Quick as a flash, Jervis opened the door and sprang upon Edmund. It was a short, vicious fight, but not one whose outcome was ever in doubt. Edmund was a big man, about a foot taller and at least sixty pounds heavier than Jervis, and it was all muscle. It was still over quickly. Jervis fought like a rabid weasel, barreling into Harris, hooking his feet out from under him, and following him down to the ground. Edmund tried to get a grip around the mercenary, turning events so as to play into his own, greater strength. But it didn’t work.
Jervis twisted around, getting his hands on Edmund’s shoulders, and began methodically beating his erstwhile superior to death against the walls. Blood sprayed from the back of Edmund’s head, but still Jervis kept going, even as Edmund ceased struggling, even as his foe went limp. He likely would have battered Harris to death, were it not for the sudden hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.
It was Guy. The ex-militiaman’s face was deathly cold, a striking contrast to the bloodlust of Jervis’s own visage. There was a tense moment, then Samael hurried over. The whole events took maybe a half minute.
“Good job, Vlad.” Samael told his half-brother, voice low and soothing. “But we don’t need deaths. Nothing will make surer that they’ll track us down.”
Jervis merely glared, but he let go of Harris, getting to his feet. Samael hid a sigh, and continued. “Alright, let’s get him tied up and stuff him into a closet.”
The Borcan took a look at the near-dead Mordentishman. “And Jervis? Heal Ed a bit first, alright? Don’t want him to expire before they find him.”
The mercenary gave an ill-tempered grunt, then place a hand upon Edmund’s brow, muttering in his gravelly voice. “Ezra, Regína cæli lætáre, allelúia.”
“Thank you.” The wounds mostly closed, enough so that Samael decided not to make a further issue of it. “Come on. Let’s get Kejser and get out of here.”
There was another sound now, the clanking of metal in the distance, approaching.
“Oh Mists…” Samael swore softly. “Forget the bloody horse. Jervis, Khalil, take care of whoever it is, then we ride.”
The mercenary and the desert-guide exchanged quick, unpleasant smiles, and skulked off into the shadows. Samael watched them go despite his misgivings. Well, no matter. Soon the violence and bloodshed would be rewarded. Amply rewarded.
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Mary Collins, quiet, unseen, watched the rest of the conspirators ride off into the night. She sniffed disdainfully, hefting the small satchel that had a few items of sentimental value, a spare suit of clothing, and a notebook in which she had been practicing her penmanship as Lily had shown her. No food or water or other supplies, however.
“Idiots.”
With that, Mary turned and started walking back to Phiraz.
- For the summoning of those beings called Fetches, being alternatively the beings of living shade and likewise spirits of the departed, unshriven souls, it is imperative to possess six artifacts, which are required in the wrenching of these entities from beyond the Shadow. They are, in the order of their use within the summoning of the Fetches, a single brass bell, which will be required to pierce the Shadow and alert them to the summoner’s call, four candles of beeswax, to create with their flickering shadows an amenable environment for the Fetches, and lastly a single piece of unleavened bread, daubed with a mixture of milk, honey, and blood, which shall entice them to depart the Shadow and answer the summoner’s call…
Perhaps after the Expedition is over. Pelletier thought with a smile. He’d have an eternity in which to experiment then. Perhaps he’d even track down old Jan of Vallaki’s spirit and bind it as some kind of advisor. Jean-Jacques toyed with the idea briefly but decided against it. After he became a Father of the Fraternity, he would have no need of the Barovian’s tiresome rituals.
Well, back to the business at hand. Maleagant was living entirely too long for someone with so many ideas above his station. Pelletier smiled to himself again. Samael had the pretensions of nobility, but Pelletier knew him for what he was, a disgusting little upstart who couldn’t stay in the underworld like he belonged. Why Count von Lovenhurst recommended the little man Pelletier would never understand.
The summoning of the Fetches should take place during the night, for it is when the world lies in shadow, and the Shadow is closest to our Living Material. Pelletier read the lines again, reminding himself of the proper incantations. That was when someone knocked on the door and interrupted the professor’s train of thought.
“At this time of night?” Jean-Jacques frowned, but stood. Very strange. Muttering a spell and holding it encased in his hand, the elder academic hobbled across the room to open the door, his other hand resting on his cane. “What is i---“
Jean-Jacques Pelletier never had a chance to complete those words, nor any others. The door burst open as he soon as he unlocked it, and the first blow lifted the older academic clear off his feet. It collapsed his chest inward, breaking ribs and collapsing his lungs inward even as the knife came to stop against his spine.
The spell went off by pure reflex, a spray of acid that covered the assailant, the doorposts, and a fair bit of the corridor walls. He didn’t even stop. The second blow came fast on the heels of the first, and then a third and a fourth, bone-shattering attacks that were quite lethal even without the sharp hunting knife encased in that fist.
Of course, Pelletier was dead after the first blow. But his killer was a believer in thoroughness in death.
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Disappointing. That was the thought that passed through Jervis’s head as he shook the late Professor Pelletier off his knife like an errant bit of fish-gut. A mighty wizard, Exalted Brother of the Fraternity, skilled illusionist and enemy within the Expedition, and he had died to a few quick stabs of a hunting knife. Disappointing.
First the bodak had turned out to be decidedly lacking in sport, now Pelletier didn’t even have the basic human decency to put up a good fight before he died. First two kills since those Confessors that night in Pharazia, and both fell almost instantly. Jervis was going to be disgruntled if he didn’t kill something more interesting soon.
Still, if the old fraud was sending monsters at them, then Jervis couldn’t very well have left him breathing, especially not if he was aiming at Samael. Briefly, the mercenary wondered why Samael hadn’t told him of Pelletier if that was the case, but Lia and Kuzan were reliable. Still, the mercenary was an uncomplicated man, and so he didn’t concern himself too greatly with such questions. Pelletier was a threat, ergo, Pelletier must die.
Stepping over the late professor’s body, Jervis picked up the spellbook and looked at the open pages in question. For the summoning of those beings called Fetches… Jervis snorted. “Guess Lia was right after all.”
Slightly mollified that he hadn’t gone to the trouble of murdering Pelletier for no reason at all, the mercenary stepped back, surveying the scene of carnage calmly and considered what he had to do next. Jervis was an uncomplicated man, certainly, but he was not a stupid one.
First things first, get rid of these aggravating acid scars. They burned at Jervis’s skin, which was irksome, but soft caresses compared to Rodjan’s attentions when the old Demon had been angry. More importantly, however, they were tell-tale marks of Jervis’s guilt. The mercenary sighed. He hated magical healing, it always left the most unpleasant tingle.
“Salve Regina Ezra, Mater misericordiae. Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae. Ad te Suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.” Jervis recited quietly, sketching the Shield over his breast as he spoke. “Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte. O clemens, o pia, o dulcis Ezra.”
There, that was settled. Next was making sure that no one decided to ask Professor Pelletier who killed him. Jervis had been fast, and it had been dark, but the mercenary hadn’t lived to his ripe old age of thirty-one without being careful. Jervis knelt and grasped Pelletier by the collar, lifting him up and after a moment of thought, depositing the rather messy corpse on the table, resting his head on the spellbook. Then, rather methodically, Jervis took his knife and sawed the late professor’s head off.
Finally done, Jervis grasped the head by the hair and raised it up to eye-level. Pelletier’s last earthly expression was one of surprise, as though he hadn’t quite processed the fact of his death before it was too late. Jervis snorted quietly and bundled the head up in one of the bed sheets.
The mercenary took a long, final look at the room, checking for any evidence that was likely to get him into trouble. Didn’t seem to be anything. Taking his gory satchel with him, Jervis headed outside, making his way for the courtyard.
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The courtyard was abandoned when Jervis arrived in it, which did nothing to ease the mercenary’s disgruntlement. Nothing he had an excuse to kill. On the whole, the night had been an unmitigated disappointment, just a lot of necessary work. Well, may as well get it over with and go to bed. What a waste.
The mercenary waited in a dark corner of the courtyard for a few minutes, simply standing there, eyes lightly closed.
The flapping of wings was a soft, but familiar sound. Jervis actually found it rather comforting, in so much as the mercenary took much comfort in anything. Soon, the dusky-skinned man felt the faint pinch of talons on his shoulder, as a weight settled on the leather pads of his armor. Jervis opened his eyes.
The giant rook was a queer creature, to be certain. The size of an eagle, its black feathers were tinged with a bloody red that no earthly bird possessed. Glittering eyes looked at Jervis curiously, eyes filled with intelligence and sheer, unadulterated malice.
“Aya, good girl, good girl.” Jervis cooed, running two fingers across the bird’s head, gently putting right some ruffled feathers. The otherworldly crow accepted the mercenary’s attentions in good grace, fanning her tail-feathers and shifting on his shoulder. “No treat tonight. Got a job for you though.”
The red-black raven tilted her head and looked at Jervis curiously.
“Here, take this.” Jervis held up the bloodstained bed-sheets, the ones containing the head of Professor Jean-Jacques Pelletier, formerly the head of the Menetnashte Expedition, now merely a head. “Take it away, far. Bury it.”
The crow bobbed her head in acquiescence, and fluttered off, snagging the bed sheets with their grisly cargo in her talons. A few flaps of mighty wings took Aya well out of the courtyard, and soon the red-black bird was only a speck of darkness in the night. Jervis watched her go, then turned and went to bed.
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“Beauty is its own law…” Samael mumbled, tossing and turning upon the narrow cot. The Borcan was never a heavy sleeper, but for the moment, at least, his dreams were not the worry-filled nightmares of before. Maleagant turned in his bed, muttering softly. “Your decree, my Queen?”
- Sam, are you trying to contact us? What's going on?
“I’ll kill him.” Samael mumbled, half-conversationally. It must have been one in the morning. “I’ll cut his tongue out…”
“Kuzan…? What are you talking about? It’s the middle of the night, everything---” Samael stopped suddenly, waking up completely as a chill rushed down his spine. He looked around the rest of the sleeping dormitory, taking in the slumbering forms. Where was Jervis?
“All is well.” Samael finished curtly. If Jervis was up to something, the Borcan didn’t want Kuzan and the rest of that crew tramping all over the Monastery looking for him. Although if Jervis had done something, the cold gnawing at Samael’s gut warned him that it wouldn’t be so easy to cover up.
Somehow, Samael didn’t think this night was going to end well.
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“Jervis did what?!?” Lily did not scream. She did not curse. She did not use that sharpened fan of hers to slice something important off of Samael. It was also patently clear to the Borcan that this was liable to be a temporary situation.
“Ssssh!” Samael hissed. The pair was meeting discreetly after breakfast, though by now their relationship was likely an open secret in the Expedition. Which, admittedly, made planning sessions far simpler to arrange. More fun also. “He killed Pelletier last night. Figured out that the old man was trying to kill us.”
“We agreed to not tell him that. Because he might do something rash.” Lily D’Envers was not amused.
“Ah… about that…” Samael hedged for a moment, then admitted. “Kuzan and Lia figured it out and told him.”
“You’re joking.” Lily said flatly.
“Would I lie?” The Borcan said with an air of injured innocence.
“Yes. You would.” Lily waved off Samael’s slightly sulky glare. “We have to leave.”
“Plan was we’d drop them off in Muhar.” Samael pointed out.
“No time.” Lily said. “If Pelletier’s dead, the others will start poking around, and some of them are already getting too close for comfort.”
“I handled Charles, didn’t I?” Samael said. “Mists, he might try and cover for us if he does figure out that Jervis is the killer.”
“A point.” Lily admitted. “But it’s getting too tense. If something happens, we’ve waited too long. I don’t want to be forced to fight our way out.”
“Mmm…” Samael said, turning the idea around in his head. “Could work, actually. Monastery means that we don’t need to worry about them dying in the desert or something.”
“No.” Lily did not seem to be quite as pleased to hear of the others continued survival. “We don’t have to worry about.”
“I’ll set Guy and Khalil to getting things ready… Michel still has some of that soporific we bought in Phiraz…” Samael fiddled the ideas through his mind, speaking more quickly now. “Leave at night, drug the others, and be off at a full gallop by the time they wake up. They don’t have any guides, where will they go? They can stay here till some caravan picks them up five months down the line.”
“We’d need to hurry.” Lily said slowly, though she was concealing a smile. The Borcan was almost child-like, an erratic, mercurial soul given to boundless enthusiasm for whatever plan he had at the moment. “I don’t think Jervis is going to stay free too long if the others start poking their heads everywhere.”
“Jervis isn’t quite as dumb as he looks.” Samael felt compared to defend his half-brother. Still, even that was not something he could do for very often, so the Borcan hurried on. “I’ll get Guy and Loup to distract them for a bit. Have a trail peter out somewhere or other.”
“Then it’s off to the Tomb?” Lily asked.
“To the Tomb, to wealth, legitimacy, and a long and happy life as the idle rich.” Samael said grandly.
“I think I like that plan.” Lily said, a small smile on her lips.
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Her face, lustrous and beautiful in the moonlight. Perfect hands, petite and delicate, reached out. Edmund stretched out a hand, yearning, hoping, wishing. A touch, a moment of sudden shock, and…
Edmund Harris woke with a start in his bed, drenched in cold sweat. The guard captain sighed, but there was no help for it. Sleep, it seemed, was going to be hard coming tonight, with the nightmares thick and swift. He did feel oddly drowsy, but nothing too severe. Harris sighed disconsolately again and turned over in his cot in the Monastery.
Then he sat up promptly in the bed, looking all around himself. Where were Michel? Guy? Samael? Edmund looked this way and that, trying to force his fuzzy brain to understand what was happening. A distant sound interrupted his confused musings, a sound like a woman’s screech.
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Kejser’s scream made all of the conspirators stop, stock still in their actions, the sudden terror of discovery lancing through their hearts. All except Khalil, at any rate, who was swearing venomously in Akiri.
“Misbegotten son of a devil.” Al-Atim grumbled, clutching his bleeding hand. “Thrice-cursed beast, your grandmother was a camel…”
“Will you shut up?” Samael hissed, not entirely sure if he was directing his command towards the horse or the desert guide. “We’re attempting to be stealthy here.”
Jervis raised a hand suddenly.
Everyone fell quiet, the mercenary making his way quietly towards one of the stable doors. Samael had known his half-brother long enough to realize that Jervis’s senses were more acute than his, and the others followed his lead in this. Now, in the silence, he could hear it too, a soft breathing from the other side of the door.
Quick as a flash, Jervis opened the door and sprang upon Edmund. It was a short, vicious fight, but not one whose outcome was ever in doubt. Edmund was a big man, about a foot taller and at least sixty pounds heavier than Jervis, and it was all muscle. It was still over quickly. Jervis fought like a rabid weasel, barreling into Harris, hooking his feet out from under him, and following him down to the ground. Edmund tried to get a grip around the mercenary, turning events so as to play into his own, greater strength. But it didn’t work.
Jervis twisted around, getting his hands on Edmund’s shoulders, and began methodically beating his erstwhile superior to death against the walls. Blood sprayed from the back of Edmund’s head, but still Jervis kept going, even as Edmund ceased struggling, even as his foe went limp. He likely would have battered Harris to death, were it not for the sudden hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.
It was Guy. The ex-militiaman’s face was deathly cold, a striking contrast to the bloodlust of Jervis’s own visage. There was a tense moment, then Samael hurried over. The whole events took maybe a half minute.
“Good job, Vlad.” Samael told his half-brother, voice low and soothing. “But we don’t need deaths. Nothing will make surer that they’ll track us down.”
Jervis merely glared, but he let go of Harris, getting to his feet. Samael hid a sigh, and continued. “Alright, let’s get him tied up and stuff him into a closet.”
The Borcan took a look at the near-dead Mordentishman. “And Jervis? Heal Ed a bit first, alright? Don’t want him to expire before they find him.”
The mercenary gave an ill-tempered grunt, then place a hand upon Edmund’s brow, muttering in his gravelly voice. “Ezra, Regína cæli lætáre, allelúia.”
“Thank you.” The wounds mostly closed, enough so that Samael decided not to make a further issue of it. “Come on. Let’s get Kejser and get out of here.”
There was another sound now, the clanking of metal in the distance, approaching.
“Oh Mists…” Samael swore softly. “Forget the bloody horse. Jervis, Khalil, take care of whoever it is, then we ride.”
The mercenary and the desert-guide exchanged quick, unpleasant smiles, and skulked off into the shadows. Samael watched them go despite his misgivings. Well, no matter. Soon the violence and bloodshed would be rewarded. Amply rewarded.
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Mary Collins, quiet, unseen, watched the rest of the conspirators ride off into the night. She sniffed disdainfully, hefting the small satchel that had a few items of sentimental value, a spare suit of clothing, and a notebook in which she had been practicing her penmanship as Lily had shown her. No food or water or other supplies, however.
“Idiots.”
With that, Mary turned and started walking back to Phiraz.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 13th, 761
Dear Aloise,
Guy Benoit put the pen down and stretched out his writing hand, looking down at the letter with a rueful smile. Every time he did this, he was forcibly reminded of just how bad he was at writing letters. Here he was in the middle of the Akiri desert, with a gang of bandits, swindlers, and probably at least one psychopath, and the best Guy can start with is 'hello, how are you.' The former militia captain scratched his jaw for a bit as he thought how to continue.
At Guy's feet, Loup whined a bit, either hungry or more likely just bored. It was late, and if not for the wax candles, Guy would have given up and gone to bed a long time ago. The ex-militiaman stared at the piece of parchment blankly for a few more minutes. Finally, deciding that it wasn't going to sprout writing on its own, Guy returned to the letter.
Loup gave a canine sigh and settled in for a long night.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 25th, 761
Though he had seen the feeding time before, Guy still watched the unfolding scene with a fascinated eye. Years of tramping through the swamps and forests of eastern Dementlieu hadn't prepared him for a creature like Aya, and so Guy watched Jervis feed his pet with the interest of a true enthusiast for the sport of falconry.
The object of his interest was currently perched on Jervis's shoulder, a huge bird the size of a golden eagle, with jet black feathers tinged crimson, and dark eyes like glowing coals. She was a spectacular bird, certainly, and very tame, coming to Jervis when called and resting on his shoulder during the long trips.
The mercenary pulled out a few of the chops of raw meat from his pack, even as Aya shifted slightly on her perch. The meat was perhaps not perfectly fresh, though the mercenary cast his magical preservation spell religiously every morning. Jervis took one of the chunks of raw flesh and with a whistle, threw it into the air.
Aya was off like a flash, her black-red plumage flashing in the desert sun. She snapped up the piece of meat at the top of its arc, grasping it in sharp, slender talons. Very satisfied with herself, she landed on a nearby rock, tearing the trophy to shreds with vicious claws and a cruelly hooked beak before gobbling one gibbet of raw meat down after another. In short order, she was ready for the next tidbit of her meal, looking at Jervis with an intent, beady-eyed gaze.
The bloody hunk of meat sailed through the air, and Aya launched herself into the air, talons opened wide and eager. She flew true, reaching the prize before it got very far off the ground, and reached out to snap up… empty air.
Loup landed back onto the desert sand, kicking up sand and discoloring his pale blue-white fur in the process. Not that the overgrown Alsatian minded. He was too busy wolfing down the snatched hunk of meat. It was an open question as to whether Aya or Jervis gave him the more irked glare.
"Heh, come Loup, Hier!" Guy chuckled. Obediently, the dog trotted over, very pleased with himself. "Let's go see what the others are doing before you lose an eyeball."
Further up ahead, Samael, Khalil, Fassahd and Michel were talking, Or mostly Michel was talking, in truth.
"My father will disinherit me." Michel grumbled mournfully under his breath, was grumbling mournfully under his breath, as he had been intermittently doing ever since the group had left the Monastery of Stilled Nightmares. "A disgrace to the name of de Angelis…"
"You should have thought of this before the demons of dice inhabited your soul, Effendi." Khalil retorted, the honorific made into a title of derision rather than respected. There was a limit to the amount of Michel's whining that even a patient man could stand, and Khalil was not all that patient a man. "The desert is a late place for second thoughts."
"I meant to win it back…" Michel said miserably. "Ezra, how did I ever get into this…"
"Hey, buck up." Samael intervened, casting a freezing glare at Khalil before turning to soothe Michel back into some semblance of courage and audacity. Or failing that, dull-eyed acquiescence. "No one is getting disinherited, no one is getting arrested, and no one is getting caught. Trust me on this."
It was a testament to Michel's gloom at the moment that he didn't even take the bait Samael had so obligingly laid out for him. The Borcan frowned. This was bad.
"Look, have I been wrong before?" Samael spoke quickly, earnestly, like a true believer. He might even have been one. "Stick with me, Michel, and we'll get out of this free, rich, and may even get a medal from the Dementlieuse government out of this. How do you think that would look on your mantelpiece?"
"Effendi, your words are written on the wind, and just as permanent." Khalil grumbled. He still had some reservations about Samael's plan.
"It's really very simple. Ever since Professor Pelletier's tragic and entirely unconnected death…" At this point Samael cast a dark glance at Jervis. It slid off his half-brother's hide like water off a duck, "…I am the ranking member of the Expedition that was appointed by Lord Balfour de Casteele. I'm the manager of the Expedition, I've the legal right to finish this Expedition… And to catalogue what we find."
Samael let a moment pause as this bit of information sank in. With a grin, he continued. "Say, Fassahd, how much treasure did you tell Lord Balfour and company was in the tomb?"
"A very great deal, Effendi." Fassahd said with a mysterious smile. "Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice."
"I've met Avarice, and she can dream pretty nicely." Samael dead-panned. "But really, what confirmation do we have that there's really that much treasure there? Just the words of an Akiri desert bandit. No offense Fassahd, some of my best friends are bandits."
"It is nothing Effendi." The aforementioned Akiri desert bandit smiled more broadly. "For wealth, I can overlook a great many things."
"And the University would believe that Fassahd was overexcited when he spoke of the Tomb. Sweet Ezra, they expect it." Samael continued with a wide grin. "So when we show up at the University with say… a fifth of what was in the Tomb, the things that would be hardest to fence, who'd doubt us? We'll quietly stash the rest of the stuff in Hazlan on our way back, I've already got a fair few buyers in Nova Vaasa and Hazlan who might be interested in genuine Akiri artifacts."
"And best of all, we don't admit to any crime. Despite tragedy and death, we forged ahead to the tomb and brought back the treasures of Menetnashte's Tomb." Samael was enjoying himself, that much was obvious. "And if it proved to be less than what Fassahd here claimed before… well… you know Akiri. It's your basic swindle, and I am a very good swindler."
"Until we are proven liars and rogues by the others when they return." Khalil grunted, not fully fond of the plan, but not quibbling over the point. "I still think a few accidents would have been better to arrange. Deaths in the desert… nothing more natural."
"A massacre, joy." Samael said without enthusiasm for the idea. "Look, we'll be back long before them, and even if they do get back in time, so what? Say they accuse us and take us to trial in Dementlieu. Can you imagine that farce?"
"We stick to the story that the others were getting too freaky and the situation was getting too dangerous." Samael continued. "Besides, can you see, say, Tomas explaining this trip to the judge? He's a nice kid, but a good lawyer will shred him. Maybe Carter, Lessard, and Martel can testify safely. And I'm nearly certain Martel won't testify."
"And if I'm wrong…" The Borcan shrugged. "This is Dementlieu. We find a judge or government minister to bribe. I'll even pay for it out of my own share of the loot."
"Effendi…" This mollified Khalil somewhat, but the idea of a trial still bothered him more than a little. "It will serve us little if we are cleansed of this guilt, then locked away for past crimes. Or are your hands so clean you do not worry of this?"
"They are." Samael grinned suddenly, reaching into a jacket pocket and passing Khalil the piece of parchment. The desert guide took it and read it in his halting Mordentish, his eyes widening as they passed over line after line of text. It was a copy of a banker's statement, stating that upon the seventeenth of July, a little over a week ago, six signed, unnamed pardons had been delivered to a banker in Chateaufaux, who certified them as genuine and signed them with his seal. Each one was good for all crimes committed up until the fifteenth of July, 761, in Dementlieu.
"How?" Khalil asked, honest amazement in his voice.
"Trade secret." Samael said with an impish expression on his face. He lived for such moments. "Not quite enough for everyone, so you and Fassahd might be best off not coming to Dementlieu with us, but we can probably work something out. Basler can pull some strings if you're wanted for anything in Hazlan, so you can always retire there."
"Effendi… "Khalil trailed off. He shook his head, a little impressed despite himself.
"Trust me Khalil." Samael draped his arms around Khalil's and Michel's shoulders, pulling them in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I've got it all planned out."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 13th, 761
Benoit finished the letter, then sanded it off and closed it carefully. He brought the piece of parchment up to brush his lips, sighing sadly.
"Damn you D'Honaire." Guy said to himself, a single tear forming in his eye. After so much time, it still hurt more than he could bear. "Damn you to the darkest hell. What did she ever do to you?"
Shaking his head clear of the memories, Guy picked up the letter, the handsome piece of parchment covered with his neat, concise handwriting. The ex-militiaman took it and held it up to the candle, watching the red-yellow flames lick the thick paper, watching it smoke and turn black and begin to burn. Watched the fire consume the letter, watched it destroy it utterly, and leaving only a few pieces of charred paper behind.
Only then did Guy go to bed.
Dear Aloise,
- I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. I'm sorry I haven't been able to write recently, but I doubt Charles would have understood. He's a good man in his way, but some things I decided not to trouble him with. Still, that's no excuse, so I am sorry. I promise to be a better letter-writer in the future.
Guy Benoit put the pen down and stretched out his writing hand, looking down at the letter with a rueful smile. Every time he did this, he was forcibly reminded of just how bad he was at writing letters. Here he was in the middle of the Akiri desert, with a gang of bandits, swindlers, and probably at least one psychopath, and the best Guy can start with is 'hello, how are you.' The former militia captain scratched his jaw for a bit as he thought how to continue.
At Guy's feet, Loup whined a bit, either hungry or more likely just bored. It was late, and if not for the wax candles, Guy would have given up and gone to bed a long time ago. The ex-militiaman stared at the piece of parchment blankly for a few more minutes. Finally, deciding that it wasn't going to sprout writing on its own, Guy returned to the letter.
Loup gave a canine sigh and settled in for a long night.
- Samael's scheme has finally passed the point of no return. Pelletier is dead, by Jervis's hand even if no one wants to come out and say it, and if Samael's little plan goes wrong, we'll all be outlaws from what passes for justice in Dementlieu these days. This bothers some of us more than others, in truth…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 25th, 761
Though he had seen the feeding time before, Guy still watched the unfolding scene with a fascinated eye. Years of tramping through the swamps and forests of eastern Dementlieu hadn't prepared him for a creature like Aya, and so Guy watched Jervis feed his pet with the interest of a true enthusiast for the sport of falconry.
The object of his interest was currently perched on Jervis's shoulder, a huge bird the size of a golden eagle, with jet black feathers tinged crimson, and dark eyes like glowing coals. She was a spectacular bird, certainly, and very tame, coming to Jervis when called and resting on his shoulder during the long trips.
The mercenary pulled out a few of the chops of raw meat from his pack, even as Aya shifted slightly on her perch. The meat was perhaps not perfectly fresh, though the mercenary cast his magical preservation spell religiously every morning. Jervis took one of the chunks of raw flesh and with a whistle, threw it into the air.
Aya was off like a flash, her black-red plumage flashing in the desert sun. She snapped up the piece of meat at the top of its arc, grasping it in sharp, slender talons. Very satisfied with herself, she landed on a nearby rock, tearing the trophy to shreds with vicious claws and a cruelly hooked beak before gobbling one gibbet of raw meat down after another. In short order, she was ready for the next tidbit of her meal, looking at Jervis with an intent, beady-eyed gaze.
The bloody hunk of meat sailed through the air, and Aya launched herself into the air, talons opened wide and eager. She flew true, reaching the prize before it got very far off the ground, and reached out to snap up… empty air.
Loup landed back onto the desert sand, kicking up sand and discoloring his pale blue-white fur in the process. Not that the overgrown Alsatian minded. He was too busy wolfing down the snatched hunk of meat. It was an open question as to whether Aya or Jervis gave him the more irked glare.
"Heh, come Loup, Hier!" Guy chuckled. Obediently, the dog trotted over, very pleased with himself. "Let's go see what the others are doing before you lose an eyeball."
Further up ahead, Samael, Khalil, Fassahd and Michel were talking, Or mostly Michel was talking, in truth.
"My father will disinherit me." Michel grumbled mournfully under his breath, was grumbling mournfully under his breath, as he had been intermittently doing ever since the group had left the Monastery of Stilled Nightmares. "A disgrace to the name of de Angelis…"
"You should have thought of this before the demons of dice inhabited your soul, Effendi." Khalil retorted, the honorific made into a title of derision rather than respected. There was a limit to the amount of Michel's whining that even a patient man could stand, and Khalil was not all that patient a man. "The desert is a late place for second thoughts."
"I meant to win it back…" Michel said miserably. "Ezra, how did I ever get into this…"
"Hey, buck up." Samael intervened, casting a freezing glare at Khalil before turning to soothe Michel back into some semblance of courage and audacity. Or failing that, dull-eyed acquiescence. "No one is getting disinherited, no one is getting arrested, and no one is getting caught. Trust me on this."
It was a testament to Michel's gloom at the moment that he didn't even take the bait Samael had so obligingly laid out for him. The Borcan frowned. This was bad.
"Look, have I been wrong before?" Samael spoke quickly, earnestly, like a true believer. He might even have been one. "Stick with me, Michel, and we'll get out of this free, rich, and may even get a medal from the Dementlieuse government out of this. How do you think that would look on your mantelpiece?"
"Effendi, your words are written on the wind, and just as permanent." Khalil grumbled. He still had some reservations about Samael's plan.
"It's really very simple. Ever since Professor Pelletier's tragic and entirely unconnected death…" At this point Samael cast a dark glance at Jervis. It slid off his half-brother's hide like water off a duck, "…I am the ranking member of the Expedition that was appointed by Lord Balfour de Casteele. I'm the manager of the Expedition, I've the legal right to finish this Expedition… And to catalogue what we find."
Samael let a moment pause as this bit of information sank in. With a grin, he continued. "Say, Fassahd, how much treasure did you tell Lord Balfour and company was in the tomb?"
"A very great deal, Effendi." Fassahd said with a mysterious smile. "Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice."
"I've met Avarice, and she can dream pretty nicely." Samael dead-panned. "But really, what confirmation do we have that there's really that much treasure there? Just the words of an Akiri desert bandit. No offense Fassahd, some of my best friends are bandits."
"It is nothing Effendi." The aforementioned Akiri desert bandit smiled more broadly. "For wealth, I can overlook a great many things."
"And the University would believe that Fassahd was overexcited when he spoke of the Tomb. Sweet Ezra, they expect it." Samael continued with a wide grin. "So when we show up at the University with say… a fifth of what was in the Tomb, the things that would be hardest to fence, who'd doubt us? We'll quietly stash the rest of the stuff in Hazlan on our way back, I've already got a fair few buyers in Nova Vaasa and Hazlan who might be interested in genuine Akiri artifacts."
"And best of all, we don't admit to any crime. Despite tragedy and death, we forged ahead to the tomb and brought back the treasures of Menetnashte's Tomb." Samael was enjoying himself, that much was obvious. "And if it proved to be less than what Fassahd here claimed before… well… you know Akiri. It's your basic swindle, and I am a very good swindler."
"Until we are proven liars and rogues by the others when they return." Khalil grunted, not fully fond of the plan, but not quibbling over the point. "I still think a few accidents would have been better to arrange. Deaths in the desert… nothing more natural."
"A massacre, joy." Samael said without enthusiasm for the idea. "Look, we'll be back long before them, and even if they do get back in time, so what? Say they accuse us and take us to trial in Dementlieu. Can you imagine that farce?"
"We stick to the story that the others were getting too freaky and the situation was getting too dangerous." Samael continued. "Besides, can you see, say, Tomas explaining this trip to the judge? He's a nice kid, but a good lawyer will shred him. Maybe Carter, Lessard, and Martel can testify safely. And I'm nearly certain Martel won't testify."
"And if I'm wrong…" The Borcan shrugged. "This is Dementlieu. We find a judge or government minister to bribe. I'll even pay for it out of my own share of the loot."
"Effendi…" This mollified Khalil somewhat, but the idea of a trial still bothered him more than a little. "It will serve us little if we are cleansed of this guilt, then locked away for past crimes. Or are your hands so clean you do not worry of this?"
"They are." Samael grinned suddenly, reaching into a jacket pocket and passing Khalil the piece of parchment. The desert guide took it and read it in his halting Mordentish, his eyes widening as they passed over line after line of text. It was a copy of a banker's statement, stating that upon the seventeenth of July, a little over a week ago, six signed, unnamed pardons had been delivered to a banker in Chateaufaux, who certified them as genuine and signed them with his seal. Each one was good for all crimes committed up until the fifteenth of July, 761, in Dementlieu.
"How?" Khalil asked, honest amazement in his voice.
"Trade secret." Samael said with an impish expression on his face. He lived for such moments. "Not quite enough for everyone, so you and Fassahd might be best off not coming to Dementlieu with us, but we can probably work something out. Basler can pull some strings if you're wanted for anything in Hazlan, so you can always retire there."
"Effendi… "Khalil trailed off. He shook his head, a little impressed despite himself.
"Trust me Khalil." Samael draped his arms around Khalil's and Michel's shoulders, pulling them in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I've got it all planned out."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 13th, 761
- …If it works, we'll have made fools of the University, of Lord Balfour de Casteele, of the entire Dementlieuse establishment. Samael hopes the pardons never come up, but it would be worth watching them deal with the fact that they were so completely wrong. Like they always are.
I'll bring you a souvenir from Menetnashte's tomb.
- Your loving husband,
Guy
- Your loving husband,
Benoit finished the letter, then sanded it off and closed it carefully. He brought the piece of parchment up to brush his lips, sighing sadly.
"Damn you D'Honaire." Guy said to himself, a single tear forming in his eye. After so much time, it still hurt more than he could bear. "Damn you to the darkest hell. What did she ever do to you?"
Shaking his head clear of the memories, Guy picked up the letter, the handsome piece of parchment covered with his neat, concise handwriting. The ex-militiaman took it and held it up to the candle, watching the red-yellow flames lick the thick paper, watching it smoke and turn black and begin to burn. Watched the fire consume the letter, watched it destroy it utterly, and leaving only a few pieces of charred paper behind.
Only then did Guy go to bed.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
July 17th, 761
“Marie, the jewelry box, please.”
Marie nodded a courtesy and passed into the other room; Madame Olga Darova, that grand dame of Port-a-Lucine society, examined herself critically in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. Marie had her faults—often sullen and occasionally given to back-talk—but her expertise with powder, paint and hairdressing more than justified her generous wage.
“The armaments of the salon,” Mme. Darova murmured, and half-smiled. “Ah, yes, Marie. Thank you.”
Opening the rosewood box and examining, by long habit, its contents for any missing or replaced item, she assured herself that everything was in place, then removed the rope of black pearls and the matching earrings. Simple, understated—the Comte was a man who could appreciate the finer things of life without having them thrust in his face.
A knock; the butler stood at the door, his normally imperturbable face bearing visible signs of discomposure. “Yes, Jacque? The Comte? I will attend him directly.”
“No, madame. A man who demands to speak to you on private business which he will communicate only to you. I am sorry, madame, he would not be turned away and became impertinent. He said to tell you, his message comes from Sebua.”
Sebua?...strange…
“Very well, Jacque, you did right to tell me. I will go down directly. That will be all, Marie, please take them back.” Another quick review of the jewels, then down the wide stairway, into the lobby, heart pounding at this unexpected and unwelcome news.
The man standing in the entryway was almost perfectly nondescript; clothes fashionable but not unusually so, wig neither elaborate nor ostentatiously simple, shoes near-new and well-made, but nothing out of the ordinarily. No jewelry, and the watch chain was what every gentleman was wearing these days—gold links, with an insignia or two.
But…well now. The lion of Dementlieu? A military man? The hands were gloved—white kidskin, nothing interesting there either—so no chance to see if the hands are callused from the saber or rapier. Now that she had observed the peripherals, Mme. Olga Darova turned her attention to the face, which gave her hardly any more grist for supposition. It was a rather angular face, rendered unhandsome by a subtle skewing of the features out of true; the mouth tight, drawn into the faintest of smiles, the nose long and narrow, the eyes carefully blank, the expression banal in the highest degree, but something in the posture expressing an ineffable air of mockery.
Bowing just a fraction too deeply and holding the bow just a fraction of a motion too long, the visitor spoke. “Madame Darova. I am pleased to find you at home.”
“Your business, m’sieur?” she replied, raising one eyebrow and assuming an expression of contempt which on one occasion caused a marquise to be taken in hysterics on the spot. “I am awaiting the arrival of the Comte du Blas-Gilbert; I therefore trust you will make the matter expeditious, as I am not accustomed to interrupting my toilette for the importunities of every stray jackdaw who caws at my door.”
Neither the eyebrow nor the rhetoric nor the title of her companion for this evening had the desired effect on this offensive mannequin, who merely smiled a trifle more broadly. With the air of a magician performing a favorite trick, he made the quickest of feints to his jacket and produces a sheaf of papers—six in all—each bearing the seal of Dementlieu on one corner. “I believe you will understand why I did not choose to entrust this matter to the hands of a servant—however capable—when you have observed for yourself what I have to give to you, madame.”
Stepping forward and snatching the papers from him—if she’s going to carry it off with a high hand, it’s in for a penny, in for a pound, and besides, the fellow’s manner is quite unbearable—she took their contents in with a single glance and understood quite clearly who this tiresome fellow was.
What can they have been thinking? To send them here…no, he wasn't so foolish. Which means…
“Compliments of your sons,” the—officer, for he was no gentleman—drawled, confirming Darova's worst suppositions.
They knew. Somehow, they knew. And yet... sons? Perhaps they knew less than they thought.
Bowing automatically, Mme. Darova gathered up the shards of her self-composure and spoke her next line by rote. “Thank you very much, m’sieur, how kind.”
She ignored the ironic bow and the departure of the messenger, and considered instead the message. What she held in her hands would be either the key to ultimate success, or the sign of ultimate failure. On their face they promised success—but this is Dementlieu.
Rolling the precious documents together, Madame Darova collected herself. Regardless of what might have happened on the sands of Sebua or the halls of Port-a-Lucine, the façade must not crack. Squaring her shoulders and shelving a dozen nascent plans, Olga Darova put aside the questions that must be asked and answered tomorrow—for tonight, the show must go on.
“Marie, the jewelry box, please.”
Marie nodded a courtesy and passed into the other room; Madame Olga Darova, that grand dame of Port-a-Lucine society, examined herself critically in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. Marie had her faults—often sullen and occasionally given to back-talk—but her expertise with powder, paint and hairdressing more than justified her generous wage.
“The armaments of the salon,” Mme. Darova murmured, and half-smiled. “Ah, yes, Marie. Thank you.”
Opening the rosewood box and examining, by long habit, its contents for any missing or replaced item, she assured herself that everything was in place, then removed the rope of black pearls and the matching earrings. Simple, understated—the Comte was a man who could appreciate the finer things of life without having them thrust in his face.
A knock; the butler stood at the door, his normally imperturbable face bearing visible signs of discomposure. “Yes, Jacque? The Comte? I will attend him directly.”
“No, madame. A man who demands to speak to you on private business which he will communicate only to you. I am sorry, madame, he would not be turned away and became impertinent. He said to tell you, his message comes from Sebua.”
Sebua?...strange…
“Very well, Jacque, you did right to tell me. I will go down directly. That will be all, Marie, please take them back.” Another quick review of the jewels, then down the wide stairway, into the lobby, heart pounding at this unexpected and unwelcome news.
The man standing in the entryway was almost perfectly nondescript; clothes fashionable but not unusually so, wig neither elaborate nor ostentatiously simple, shoes near-new and well-made, but nothing out of the ordinarily. No jewelry, and the watch chain was what every gentleman was wearing these days—gold links, with an insignia or two.
But…well now. The lion of Dementlieu? A military man? The hands were gloved—white kidskin, nothing interesting there either—so no chance to see if the hands are callused from the saber or rapier. Now that she had observed the peripherals, Mme. Olga Darova turned her attention to the face, which gave her hardly any more grist for supposition. It was a rather angular face, rendered unhandsome by a subtle skewing of the features out of true; the mouth tight, drawn into the faintest of smiles, the nose long and narrow, the eyes carefully blank, the expression banal in the highest degree, but something in the posture expressing an ineffable air of mockery.
Bowing just a fraction too deeply and holding the bow just a fraction of a motion too long, the visitor spoke. “Madame Darova. I am pleased to find you at home.”
“Your business, m’sieur?” she replied, raising one eyebrow and assuming an expression of contempt which on one occasion caused a marquise to be taken in hysterics on the spot. “I am awaiting the arrival of the Comte du Blas-Gilbert; I therefore trust you will make the matter expeditious, as I am not accustomed to interrupting my toilette for the importunities of every stray jackdaw who caws at my door.”
Neither the eyebrow nor the rhetoric nor the title of her companion for this evening had the desired effect on this offensive mannequin, who merely smiled a trifle more broadly. With the air of a magician performing a favorite trick, he made the quickest of feints to his jacket and produces a sheaf of papers—six in all—each bearing the seal of Dementlieu on one corner. “I believe you will understand why I did not choose to entrust this matter to the hands of a servant—however capable—when you have observed for yourself what I have to give to you, madame.”
Stepping forward and snatching the papers from him—if she’s going to carry it off with a high hand, it’s in for a penny, in for a pound, and besides, the fellow’s manner is quite unbearable—she took their contents in with a single glance and understood quite clearly who this tiresome fellow was.
What can they have been thinking? To send them here…no, he wasn't so foolish. Which means…
“Compliments of your sons,” the—officer, for he was no gentleman—drawled, confirming Darova's worst suppositions.
They knew. Somehow, they knew. And yet... sons? Perhaps they knew less than they thought.
Bowing automatically, Mme. Darova gathered up the shards of her self-composure and spoke her next line by rote. “Thank you very much, m’sieur, how kind.”
She ignored the ironic bow and the departure of the messenger, and considered instead the message. What she held in her hands would be either the key to ultimate success, or the sign of ultimate failure. On their face they promised success—but this is Dementlieu.
Rolling the precious documents together, Madame Darova collected herself. Regardless of what might have happened on the sands of Sebua or the halls of Port-a-Lucine, the façade must not crack. Squaring her shoulders and shelving a dozen nascent plans, Olga Darova put aside the questions that must be asked and answered tomorrow—for tonight, the show must go on.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
29 June 761
- I take pen in hand again to communicate the latest in our picaresque-roman; an episode with little directly bearing on my responsibilities, but, nonetheless filled with incidents, many of them unpleasant. We arrived at the village of Kermanshah, virtually the only point of human habitation between Phiraz and our destination in Muhar (and environs), to discover it a curiously subdued place—its citizens dispirited and filled with ennui, despite the press of cares which normally chase such maunderings from the thoughts of those who must continually struggle to provide themselves with the necessities of life. The interference of the Anubite pointed us to a location beside the river Kerman, where we made the acquaintance (I am speaking in sober fact) of two fey spirits, named Spite and Malice. By conversation with these…ladies?...we learned that the fey declaring himself the ruler of that part of the world had made off with the souls of all and sundry. Having been presented with so signal an opportunity to do good, it became quite irresistible to certain members of the Expedition to see the matter through and liberate the village from its fey oppressors.
Without (much) further ado we repaired to the feet of an exceedingly sinister statue and attended the court of Faerie, where the Lord Featherflute allowed us to be the evening’s entertainment. We endeavored to give satisfaction in this matter, with mixed success.
After a variety of individual competitions, we began with a rather protracted riddle-game, in which the erudition of A. and quick wit of O. were shown to good effect, while C. was lucky to escape with his head. After a good deal of back-and-forth the fey riddler, a dwarf, was judged wrong in an answer and, as forfeit, gave C. the opportunity to strike of his neck. As the dwarf could be harmed by no earthly agency until the terms of his indenture to Featherflute were completed, this stroke was a spectacular failure. T. then interjected his representations to Featherflute on behalf of said dwarf, claiming that the terms of indenture had actually been met. Demonstrating the capriciousness for which his race is so famed, Lord Featherflute was persuaded; so ended the riddle-game.
Next was a trial by combat, in which the aforementioned Spite and Malice were set against the Expedition members there present. The business quickly became complicated, as the fey produced entangling fogs, giants made of clouds, and tempests to their aid, but all parties acquitted themselves well and our combined efforts were sufficient to meet the conditions which Lord Featherflute had set for victory.
Last was a bizarre ordeal by temptation, in which a water-spirit and oracle threatened the life of a child if we would not allow ourselves to be defeated. The standoff was ended when A. (displaying a rather striking affinity for enmeshing himself with extremely dangerous women which has been a hallmark of his interpersonal interactions throughout the Expedition) declared himself ready to serve the oracle as a prophet in exchange for the child’s life. The oracle declared herself willing, and this ended all—the village saved, the child well, and the fey pacified.
I am aware that this series of events has little or nothing to do with my assignment, but to omit it would, I think, create difficulties in future missives, as I expect the events of that night will reverberate throughout the remainder of this Expedition.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
17 July 761
- I venture to suggest that this latest tale of derring-do will only be credible if one has worked up to it by gradual stages; certainly I would have difficulty believing it if it were recounted to me at second hand.
At the end of the events which I recounted to you some weeks ago, we resolved to visit that fabled graveyard of ships, the Jackal’s Ruse. We had three reasons for doing so: first, it was not far out of our way, second because of an agreement made with the fey in Kermanshah that we “cleanse the Eye of the Ruse”, and third, morbid curiosity—at least, I believe such were Professor Pelletier’s motives in acceding to our request.
It is certainly a striking spot, littered with vessels from antiquity up to the present, preserved in the dry air of the desert as if in amber. We were forewarned and forearmed, to some degree, by having found a Miss Mary Collins who claimed to have been shipwrecked there; she told us the place was infested with the undead and was only made secure to any degree, however minimal, by an abbey of monks (of what strange religion Ezra only knows) who made it their business to rescue such sailors as they could.
We were, however, not so well prepared as to avoid being ambushed by a veritable army of the walking dead, who arose out of the very sand and attacked the caravan, killing a number of camels, while their compatriots fired on us using a still-functional ship’s cannon! After a first surge, the undead were rather handily dealt with, although they were certainly forcing a retreat from the field, for the sake of the camels if nothing else. Just as the retreat was well underway and the battle looked to be ending, C. struck out alone under cover of invisibility and dealt the captain of the ghoulish crew his quietus—a stroke which ended the melee once and for all, as, without any guiding intelligence, the various undead set upon one another and destroyed themselves without any further exertion on the part of the members of the Expedition.
The battle won, we regrouped and considered our options. It was decided to make a fortified camp at the edge of the Ruse and attempt to find out the lay of the land and contact the monks in some manner. On putting this scheme into action we soon discovered that a familiar antagonist—John Lancaster Cavendish—had thrust his finger into this pie, and was endeavoring to pluck out as many plums as his badness could manage. He had raised a small host of the undead (over and above those already native to the place) and was actually laying siege to the monastery.
In endeavoring to discover how we might circle around his besieging force and arrive at the monastery we happened across a female monk, Ianthe, who told us enough about the lay of the land and the politics (such as they are) of the Ruse to enable us to make plans to fall on Cavendish, rout his forces, and save the monastery (and cleanse the Eye and fulfill the fey bargain, in the bargain). As is only to be expected, the undead creatures already in residence in and around the Eye were unhappy with the disruption of their political economy by this interloper, and were soon persuaded to fall upon Cavendish in concert with us and chase him from the field.
Cavendish was apparently using the Eye as the focus of an arcane ritual of tremendous power, and we disposed our forces so as to be able to disrupt the ritual while engaging his other forces in a way such that he would not immediately detect our intervention. After a pitched battle of no inconsiderable size and length, he was forced to quit the field. Just before he did so he conjured a vision of a great city of some ancient time, dominated by the figure (or the apparition) of a black-robed figure in a jackal mask, and informed all and sundry that he would soon cause this vision to appear over the ashes of Port-a-Lucine. Whether or not this is mere braggadocio remains to be seen, but the farther I venture into the mare’s-nest the Expedition has revealed itself to be, the less far-fetched I find it.
I am pleased to report a “break in the case”, of which the gist has become already apparent. The faction headed by Dr. Pelletier has splintered definitively, and the larger part of them have agreed to throw in their lot with us, in exchange for the considerations already discussed (and, I presume, provided, as Maleagant has not returned to upbraid me, slit my throat, or poison my porridge).
I am hopeful that this new collaboration will prove fruitful going forward, and enable us to work more effectively against the organization Pelletier represents. Professor C. has also made (separate) arrangements to make common cause with the group attempting to prevent the misuse of any of the wealth of the tomb of Menetnashte, making him effectively an ally as well.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
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NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
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23 July 761
- There comes a time when, no matter how clever a man considers himself, he must confess that he has been made a fool. That moment has its place in this narrative, but I will now proceed to heighten suspense by saying only that, having won the day against Cavendish and his minions, we were welcomed with open arms by the monks of the rescued monastery, who received us graciously (as well they should have, after our efforts) and made us at home with them, the Abbot in particular thanking us and urging us to consider us among friends. We were housed in two groups at some distance from one another, with Professor Pelletier requesting and getting a room of his own.
Our good feelings were somewhat vitiated by the eerie nature of the Abbey and certain unnatural apparitions detected by various members of the Expedition during the day, and were dampened further after one group of Expedition members (were assaulted by wandering dream-spawn. After a brisk interval, A. convinced the leading dream-spawn that we were not suitable prey by the bizarre expedient of pretending that he was involved in driving us insane and that the dreamspawn was an unwanted interloper who was jogging his elbow. I confess it a clever gambit, but it has been difficult to look at A. in the same way since.
Any lingering sensation of success was exploded entirely when morning brought the news that Professor Pelletier had been murdered in an extremely brutal fashion during the night. The unfortunate professor, had his shade been present to view proceedings, would probably have been quite incensed at the general lack of sorrow this event occasioned. For my own part, I (and several others) pitched on Jervis as the all-but-certain culprit, but no-one seemed willing to say so; I, for one, was not particularly sorry to see the old gentleman pass on, and still had thoughts of preserving amicable relations with the party headed by Maleagant. (I presume the murder was not carried out with his (Maleagant’s) knowledge before the fact; I find it a little difficult to believe he would intentionally complicate his position in so spectacular a fashion. Apparently his brother learned that Pelletier had been behind several attempts on Maleagant’s life and acted at once to cut off the trouble at the source.) At any rate, a cursory “investigation” of the murder occupied much of the morning.
We also found some interesting and relevant material to the overarching goal of the Expedition in the Abbey library, and received guidance from A.’s patroness which led to a meeting with the Abbot in which he explained exactly why Cavendish would come to so forsaken a place, and why he had murderous dreamspawn perambulating in the corridor by night. He explained a fiend (yes, another fiend) had been entrapped beneath the monastery, and its fitful slumber allowed certain manifestations which would be impossible in other places. After some consultation we declare that we had already done a fair bit of business in the fiend-destroying line and would not be averse to trying our hand at it again; after some equivocation the Abbot provided us with the means to arrive at the demon’s present location, in the Land of Nod, and to end its existence (a kris representative of the demon’s soul, on the evidence of the Abbot).
Entering the Dreamland through the guidance of a monk, we found ourselves atop the demon—a creature the size of a small mountain. (I can only presume this was some distortion of the creature’s interaction with the Nightmare Land, as it is impossible to imagine a creature of such size going about in the real world. Even reclining it was thousands of feet in “height”.) After a nervous few hours of climbing and spelunking (once again I apologize for the incredibility of the narrative, but I am simply reporting events as they occurred) we found ourselves at the demon’s heart.
The aforementioned dream-lord reappeared, greatly incensed with A. for having deceived him, and warned us away; nothing daunted, we took the fight to the enemy and, after a short but sharp battle, succeeded in thrusting the specified krist into the demon’s heart and being immediately ejected from the Dreamland into the waking world. Unlike most nightmares this one left physical marks; I suppose I will carry the scar the kris left as it burned away to my dying day.
Having achieved another famous victory, we slept the sleep of the justified; and, alas, the sleep of the dupes. De A. had introduced a soporific into the evening meal, and we awoke in the morning to discover Maleagant, his paramour, his brother, de A., B., Kh., and the all-important Fassahd had done a bunk—seriously injuring H. as they left, and taking everything not nailed down (except for Kejser, brave fellow, who resisted his would-be thieves and left his mark on at least one of them) with them in their flight.
In a word, yes, they have got the pardons, and will not be furnishing the promised co-operation. We are, of course, by no means without expedients in the present case; I would recommend that you make representations to their Port-a-Lucine branch as to the advisability of future co-operation, for example. All the same, I feel a fool. No honor among thieves, and so forth, and yet I trusted him.
You will know far better than I what measures ought to be taken to maximize our strengths in the present case. It seems very probable that they do intend to return to Dementlieu at some point (otherwise, why bother with obtaining the pardons?). If they do not, of course, the matter becomes one for the Foreign Office and our own branch of the service, but at least at present Maleagant seems to consider it worth his while to pretend to be acting under color of law—that is, as he was designated second-in-command of the Expedition, and its leader is dead, he is the rightful and legal director.
This is well and good as far as it goes; however, it is hardly unimpeachable. Even with pardons in hand Maleagant and his cronies are exposed to the law for all events occurring after the date of issue, including the murder of the erstwhile leader of the Expedition and assault on the person of an officer of the commonwealth.
I would therefore approach Mme. Darova with the offer of co-operation, which has, after all, been bought and paid for by the promise of the good will of the state. If, by chance (for we have not given up the hunt ourselves), Maleagant survives the desert and his companions (an unwholesome crew, with the exception of Benoit and possibly de Angelis), and wins through to the tomb before we do to get the treasure, and prevents his companions from murdering each other and him over who shall receive the choicest portion—if he achieves all these Herculean tasks, and returns laden with the wealth of kingdoms, he and his cronies will not allow more than a reasonable share to stick to his fingers in handing them over to the state.
If he does not come nicely up to scratch in the matter, the legal mills will begin to grind—and it takes very little imagination to see de Angelis, for example (and quite possibly d’Envers) turning state’s evidence against the rest. (The Dilisnyas themselves are probably proof against such tactics, as they are notorious for their clan solidarity; Benoit may be too honest, and too embittered against the state, to be susceptible; and, given that only six pardons were granted, I suspect the Akiri conspirators will simply remain in their country of origin. There is little that can be done about them, unless you can convince Mme. Darova that, being impervious to the pressures which can be brought on the rest, they are fundamentally untrustworthy.)
All of these eventualities may not come to pass, of course, but I think it desirable to use the pardons as an entrée into the conspiracy through Mme. Darova, in order to position ourselves for later actions as they seem appropriate. A more elaborate scheme and countermeasures can be devised as more facts present themselves. (Mme. Darova being at present the key to future interaction and negotiation, it goes without saying that such measures as will keep her close to home should be implemented post-haste.)
Yours in chagrin, tempered with outrage, and flavored with a soupcon of wry amusement,
- C. Martel
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
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NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
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21 August 761
- I last wrote at the time of our abandonment by our erstwhile guide and his cronies; from the tenor of Maleagant’s communication I am quite certain that he expected us to remain at the Monastery until a passing caravan could take us back to Phiraz. We were not so helpless as he imagined; between the magecraft of L. and certain advice from the Abbot and other sources we set off in a different direction, hoping to find a “key” which would give us access to the Tomb of Menetnashte and thereby steal a march on our competitors (as I suppose we must regard them at present).
After some weeks of travel we found ourselves at the fabled city of Kamarn-Quse. You may, with some justice, object that it cannot be so fabled as all that, as few have ever heard of it in the present time, but it was once the center of an empire that spanned most of what is now the Burning Lands. The civilization over which it presided was famed for its decadence, its intermittent but dramatic cruelty, and, above all, its association with fiendish power—largely mediated through worship of the divinity known as Anuberith, a weird composite of the Akiri god Anubis and the demon Beyrath (whose name has appeared in these missives before).
The city was actually underground—I do not know if it was built there, or was somehow immured after its final conquest by its enemies. The city’s defenses were still active, and dismantling them was rather a tricky business; having managed it, we endeavored to find a place where we might spend the night in relative safety. Electing not to trust ourselves to any building not of our own choosing, L. invoked a spell providing shelter for the whole group.
From the time of our entry all of us noted a strange oppression of spirits; all of us soon began to be fearful and unquiet in our feelings, and there were a series of incidents in which various members of the Expedition were overcome by the strain. S., the elf-maid, fled the group and had to be found and persuaded to return; R. went so far as to shoot M.R., who had mistreated him once too often, and thereupon fled himself, enmeshing himself in a mansion full of death traps (a charming people, the inhabitants of Kamarn-Quse) and threatening to kill himself and all of us with him. M.R. (having been healed by K.) persuaded him to hand over his gun, whereupon M.R. shot him (R.) and activated the trap himself! (Apparently M.R. had become convinced that we represented a plot by his famous aunt to dispose of him.)
Having, at length, escaped the sinister death-trap, we discovered that D. had met with the Anubite and gone with her to the temple. On pursuing them there, we found that something had taken advantage of D.’s presence to attempt to use him as a level with which to overthrow the natural order of the world. (If this sounds confusing and more or less flatly incredible, I hasten to say that I thought the same thing at the time. Unfortunately, it kept on happening regardless.) Having succeeded in “closing the gate”, and finding the Professor none the worse for wear, we found ourselves in the presence of the Anubite, who, as it resulted, was none other than Menetnashte herself!
Having thus learned that the Tomb of Menetnashte should instead be referred to as the Cenotaph of Menetnashte, we then learned that we had proved our mettle sufficiently by resisting the stresses of Kamarn-Quse to be entrusted with a still more dangerous task—the destruction of the demon Beherith (also Beyrath), who had once been Menetnashte’s servant...and perhaps her master as well. Menetnashte revealed that she herself was the “key” we had come to seek, and informed us that she would accompany us to the Tomb, there to lay the demon Beherith to rest once and for all.
Besides such a thing my original purpose seems of rather secondary importance; besides, at present there are no members of the “organization” present to distress us, A. having given up his membership in more or less spectacular fashion at the Monastery after Maleagant’s party decamped. If even a tenth part of what I have seen and heard is true, Cavendish and the “organization” must not be allowed to reach the Tomb and bring whatever it contains to Port-a-Lucine. Such an outcome would be worse than disastrous—it would be cataclysmic.
- C. Martel
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
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NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 26th, 761
Night falls ... and after darkness has consumed the land of Har'Akir, Lia rises early from the table. Already, she is taking her newly acquired flute out of her sleeve, and blowing idle notes into it as she heads to her room. Charles had left the table even earlier--he had eaten almost nothing. He is in his own room, writing. A very quiet tap comes at Charles' door.
"Come in?"
"No," Comes a whisper from a familiar voice, "you come out. It is time now."
"Very well." There is a mutter; the door opens, closes, and an unseen hand taps Lia's shoulder and tugs slightly in the direction of the stairs. Lia follows without comment, initially. When they approach the door, however, she halts. "I wil require your assistance," she whispers, "in hiding. I must conserve my obfuscation spell for combat." Harris was sitting in the main room, not doing much of anything, just sitting and staring into space. Below him, at the foot of the stairs, two extremely bored looking Falkovnian guards sat on duty. The door was shut and barred for the night. Behind the mask, Lia's eyes narrow dangerously when she sees the guards. Then she flexes her fingers and whispers a spell, which ends with her pointing a finger at Harris.
"Do not startle, do not exclaim, just listen to my voice. This is Lia speaking. If you understand, cough once." Harris raises his eyebrows, but gently clears his throat. "I need you to distract the Falkovnian guards from the door most thoroughly so I can slip out. Can you do that? If so, cough once. If not, cough twice."
Harris eschews the instructions in favor of inclining his head gently, and standing up, heading down the stairs. "Hide me now, please," Lia mutters to Charles. "It's on." A whispered "Ablepsosin" and Lia disappears as well, Charles keeping his hand on her shoulder to indicate his position. Lia moves after Harris as quietly as she can, and Charles follows, doing likewise.
"Please try and keep them distracted for a long time," Lia sends to Harris as she shadows him invisibly. "I shall return tonight." Then she lets the military man get on with it.
"Good evening," Harris says to the two guards on duty. The pair nod back, looking friendlier than usual at the chance to do something besides stand silently and look intimidating. "Just looking for a breath of fresh air," Harris explains, opening the door. There was a slightly bemused smile on his face as he did so.
The instant Harris opens the door, Lia slips past him, pulling on Charles' wrist as she goes. Once well outside and away from the nearest Falkovnians, she changes their respective position, clasping one arm under the secret agent's armpits, the other across his shoulders - and her wings beat strongly.
You could hear Edmund's voice growing fainter as you flew off into the night. "By the way, do you know when the kitchen closes for the night? I haven't eaten yet, but I'm not feeling hungry right at the moment-"
As they alight outside the wall, Charles whispers, "Thank goodness for Harris...a good sport, he is. Off we go then--I think we can get there before we'll be seen by anyone looking."
"I hope so," Lia mutters in response, following Charles' lead. "And I also hope old one-eye sleeps at the store."
At night, the town of Muhar is quite definitely still. Not a shadow moves, not a sound is to be heard, save only for a few men with better night-vision than most and loaded crossbows pacing the walls of the compound. Lia eyes the armed Falkovnians with distaste, but says nothing. Her fingers clench and unclench, though, even the ones in contact with Charles.
"It seems likely that he does," Charles says quietly, as soon as they are well away and traversing the quiet streets. "Why spend money for lodgings when you're already esconced? Not to mention being on the scene to chase off robbers."
Lia just makes a huffing sound at this, as she tries to keep up.
===============================================
The pair's spells of invisibility wear off before long, though thankfully only after they were firmly hidden amongst the shadows outside of the square. Walking through Muhar at night is easy as could be desired, though it the village was quite a maze. It takes the two some half an hour to finally find Faruq's shop. It is shuttered and closed, and the table of goods is missing.
"When in doubt, knock?" Lia suggests, releasing Charles. "You address the gentleman while I keep lookout, please." Putting action to words, Lia stands back-to-back with Charles and watches the darkness of Muhar with suspicious, glowing red eyes.
Charles concentrates and gestures slightly with one hand; there is a knocking sound, followed by the suggestive clink of coins, inside the building. "Faruq! Business!"
There is a brief silence, and then after a few moments a light appears through the cracks of the shuttered window. A familiar voice calls out, "Who is it?"
Lia keeps her eyes trained on the darkness, feeling rather ... on edge. Her voice calls out softly, however: "Old acquaintances who mean you no harm, oh prince of merchants."
"Ah, the foreign Effendis!" Faruq opens the door and looks out. His appearance was... a shock. The Pharazian merchant is dressed in an off-white robe, but more than that, he is missing his eyepatch, revealing only a hideous, gaping absence, a mass of scar tissue missing an eye. "It is so good to see you! Please, come in, come in!"
Lia does as Faruq suggests, but walks into the shop backwards, red eyes scanning the darkness until the very moment she is inside.
"Er, thanks," Charles says, ducking inside quickly.
The shop is, as before, small and outrageously cluttered, with almost a third of it being taken up by the massive stuffed crocodile. Knick-knacks and boxes, crates and freestanding things are everywhere. Faruq puts down his lamp on the back of the crocodile, spreading his arms wide and bowing. "Effendi, you honor me. How may I help you this night?"
Lia returns the bow with grave dignity. "There are a few ... items we would like to purchase, oh prince of merchants," she says. "Things whose importance only occurred to us after we had left your company."
"Is that crocodile bigger than the last time I saw him?" Charles asks, glancing at it.
"Ah... no Effendi, I fear Mustali grows no more." Faruq shakes his head sadly. It’s disconcerting, that missing eye. "Now then, Effendi, how may I help you? What is it that you would seek to purchase this ill-boding night? It is very dangerous to be out and about after curfew, Effendi..."
"Yes," Lia agrees, "it is. But you yourself are a very brave man, oh prince." Again, she bows gravely.
"And besides...you are not out after curfew!" Charles points out, smiling.
"No, Effendi, I am not." Faruq agrees. "Though I must yet ask what is so important that you would wish to be out after it?"
"A salve, an ointment for the eyes," Lia replies, "made of saffron, mushroom powder and fat. An essential component for a spell known as True Seeing. Do you perhaps know of it? And ..." Lia glances briefly at Charles.
"And ... maybe you have a scroll which documents the incantation known as Discern Shapechanger?"
"Ah, the ointment of Al-Muladi!" Faruq cries happily. How he avoided waking a nearby house, you did not know. "This I can sell to you, for only three hundred coins of gold a dosage. As for the scroll..." Faruq looks up at the ceiling. "I fear I cannot help you there, Effendi."
"Tsk," Lia sighs, shaking her head. "Such a shame, and you a powerful master of the arcane, too."
"I am so very sorry, Effendi." Faruq agrees. "But I have many other spells you may be interested in... scrolls that let you see the past, scrolls that summon mighty elementals... many things!"
"Marvelous!" Charles says, nodding. "What kinds of things do they let you see in the past?"
"That which is known of it, Effendi." Faruq says with a bright grin.
"Eh?" Charles says. "You mean, if you already know what happened, you can look for it? That seems...less than useful."
"It's a shame," Lia says, shaking her head. "All I truly wish to see is the face of one evil, grubby little shapeshifter who has sowed death and despair across the world.
”The spell will tell you tell you all that is known of it, by any holders of great legends." Faruq says. "All for a mere 2,200 solars..."
Charles has found the jacket he was admiring earlier again and is fiddling with the collar. "You say the previous owner of this one died of plague? That's a shame, it had rather caught my fancy."
"It was not a contagious disease." Faruq says mildly. "And it would look most handsome upon you, effendi.'
"Oh?" Charles says. "Well, I do rather like the style, but it seems unlucky, rather, in its provenance. Er...if I may?" He mutters a word and subjects the cloth to magical examination; it’s impossible to say if he likes what he sees.
"You are a most discerning gentleman, oh prince of merchants," Lia says, eyeing first the fabric of the coat and then Faruq himself. "Such an instinct for business." (Faruq preens, which is moderately horrible. People without eyes shouldn't preen.)
"Yes," Lia says, "which other merchant would have known there would be business for him here, in Muhar, at this time? Oh, the salve is - where?"
"Here it is, Effendi." Faruq pulls out a series of vials. "How many would you prefer?"
"Four of them, please," Lia says, "with the compliments of Falkovnian credit." She smirks in an ugly fashion behind the mask. "Falkovnians," she mutters sourly.
Charles says, "It's a marvel, really it is. Spellbindings complete, and exquisite scrollwork here on the cuffs, isn't it?" Sighing, he puts it aside. "I doubt I could afford it."
"Ah, effendi, for you, and for your courage.... shall we say at…let me see…12,800 solars?” Faruq says to Charles.
"Oh! How fortunate!" Charles says. "What with the generosity of the Kommandant I think I could just scrape it together. As for this other business, it's practically lagniappe, don't you think? 13,800 solars for the two?"
"For something this important that you depart curfew for it? Perhaps 14,300 is a better goal. After all, Effendi, it was important enough for you to come in the first place." Faruq smiles broadly as he makes the counteroffer.
"Well. Hard to argue with that."
"Excellent, Effendi," Faruq smiles. "Please, take these with my blessing! And come again!"
"Now then, Faruq," Lia says, "there was one more thing ... Oh, yes! We have seen your portrait. A very good likeness."
"Oh, Effendi?" Faruq opens the door, pausing. "Where?"
"In Karnam-Quse," Lia replies, pocketing the salve and moving not an inch towards the door. "It is quite a thing, to be named an enemy of Menetnashte, is it not?"
"Not every customer is so understanding as you, Effendi." One-Eyed Faruq smiles, and it is an altogether different smile from his usual broad grin. A calm smile. "Good night, and good luck."
”Is there anything," Lia asks, still not moving, "you might like to tell us about that?" She spreads her hands peacefully. "I mean you no harm. And I bear no love for Beherith, or whatever its name is.”
"That, Effendi, is a story far too unbelieveable even for you." Faruq shakes his head. "And a good merchant does not choose sides." The Akiri inclines his head towards the door. "Good night, Effendi."
"We hope to do business with you again," Charles says. "Of one kind or another. Shall we, m'selle?"
"I regret that this is so," Lia sighs. "But I should like to talk to you again in the future, Foe of Menetnashe." The mage leaves, nodding to Charles.
The door shuts closed behind you with a certain grim finality.
===============================================
Charles puts on his new jacket and plucks at the chest, settling it into place and putting the other under his arm. “Well. Not a bad night's business, although I'm afraid he caught me just a bit flat-footed with the business of the salve."
"Disappointing," Lia muses, "in more than one way. And it may not even reveal Cavendish," Lia sighs, shaking her head - then freezes. "Hold up. He just said ... A merchant does not choose sides," the Mage says. "He might be doing after-hours deals with ... Look, I know I am often paranoid, but what if Faruq also trades with that scut Cavendish?"
Charles shrugs. "It's possible. Certainly he deals with Vedarrak, and that's two sides already. Let's keep moving, though."
"If Faruq dealt in information," Lia grumbles, "we'd be in very deep water, indeed." She does keep up with Charles, but seems disturbed.
"How so?"
"Well, then he'd now know we're making purchases to winkle him out," Lia says, shrugging.
"If he does deal with Faruq, and if Faruq tells him," Charles notes. "Given that we had no-where else to make the purchase, I think this potential pitfall was unavoidable."
"I had better hopes for Faruq than this," Lia says, shaking her head.
"You hoped he would introduce us to his wide-ranging brotherhood, dedicated to the downfall of Beherith?" Charles asks, half-smiling.
"It seems I am to be disappointed whenever I hope to find a support base outside our little band," she says morosely. "At least this time I did not betray us to a sociopath. I think."
"Oh, I doubt it," Charles says. As he goes he keeps his eyes peeled, searching the dark streets for signs of...well, anyway, really.
===============================================
Given some time, the two make their way to the square once more, emerging into the shadows of the Temple of Horus, opposite the Falkovnian compound. There are some guards on the walls, but otherwise, nothing... nothing readily apparent, at any rate.
Lia pauses in the shadows of Horus' temple, again eyeing the Falkovnian guards with narrowed eyes.
Charles touches Lia's elbow and points toward the stakes. "I heard something...over there," he mutters, voice low. Lia growls under her breath, "Hold." She then turns her red eyes to the stakes, attempting to pierce the darkness.
The corpse farthest from the Falkovnians is moving. Hidden safely from sight by distance and darkness, the half-decayed body reaches out with decrepit hands to grasp the stake in its chest. Slowly, laboriously, it begins to pull itself off the stake.
"It is being animated," Lia says in a strained voice. "The corpse furthest from the walls is animating into a zombie or something!"
There was a soft thud as it finally works itself loose of the stake, falling to the ground. One of the Falkovnians on the wall turned to look out across the square, but could make out nothing in the gloom.
The undead monstrosity didn't movve like anything living, but instead began to scuttle forward, like a crab or some kind of hideous insect, across the square, pausing whenever a Falkovnian guard showed too much interest in the sounds. It was as though the shadows flocked around the thing, hiding it from sight. It was heading for the Temple of Osiris.
Lia snarls, one hand already pointing at the zombie, fingers twitching as if to start arcane gestures.
"Wait." Charles says quietly, and made a small gesture himself.
Suddenly, a horrible scraping and groaning emerge from near the creature.
Lia makes an eager, moaning sound, muscles twitching, the air around her already sizzling with arcane energy. The corpse fell limp suddenly, as though the strings were cut from under it. It lay, a dead body and nothing more.
"Cavendish," Lia breathes softly. "Watching ... listening ... now ..."
"Yes," Charles whispers. "Invisibility, yes?" Suiting deeds to words, he mutters the enchantment.
There is a sudden commotion on the walls as one over-eager guard shoots a crossbow bolt. Torches light, and dozens of voices are heard in the compound. The corpse lies unmoving. In short order, the gates begin to open to the Falkovnian compound, and a half-dozen soldiers, armed with swords and crossbows and torches, come out.
Lia mutters the word of a spell before she seizes Charles and lifts off, flying over the walls, guards and all. Her eyes scan the world below as she goes, and she glances at Osiris' temple also. Lia snarls again, wordless, in mid-air, but then quietens down and flies for the door that will lead them back inside. The last the two adventurers see, the guards had found the corpse, still and lifeless, and were establishing a perimeter around it, even as more of the Falkovnians soldiers sortied forth.
Harris is out in the courtyard, distracted by the sudden commotion. The door to the barracks has been shut again.
"Get to the door of our compound, make sure no-one's watching, then we 'come out' to see what's going on?" Charles says, as near-conversationally as one can in such circumstances.
Lia lands near Harris; a small puff of sand marks the spot where she and Charles touch down.
"I'm back," she whispers to Harris. "Please let us return inside, this spell will not last forever."
The captain had sharp enough eyes to spot it. "We're allowed out and around the compound, Miss," he said, looking slightly amused. "But given they didn't see you come out, I suppose they shouldn't see you come in."
"I have no desire to see or be seen by Falkovnian soldiers even at the best of times, honourable captain," Lia whispers, "and these times are far from optimal."
Edmund knocks, twice, on the barracks door. The guards inside promptly unbar it and look out.
"You are all right?" one of them asks, leaning out through the doorway. "Is very cold nights in Muhar. You should stay vhere is warm."
Charles squeezes Lia's arm once and then whispers a phrase…and finds himself inside, at the foot of the stairs. Checking quickly to see if he is observed, he steps up quietly and becomes visible, then clatters down.
"I suppose I should," Harris agrees, moving into the door to force the guard to lean back. "I just needed to clear my head. I suppose I have a woman I'm thinking on as well."
"Ah... damn the officers and their crazy ideas," the guard laments. "Four months to the wedding and I am half-vay across world..."
"I say, what's all the noise about?" Charles says in a friendly way as he comes to the door. "Oh, Harris, out and about! Do you know what's going on?" Going to the door himself, he hold it wide for a moment, as he looks curiously toward the source of the noise. "It's all right if I go out, isn't it?” he asks one of the guards. All three men at the door looked up at Charles.
"I'm afraid not," Harris says, shrugging. "There was a bit of a stir, but it died down."
"Probably no import, if they haven't raised alert for compound," the younger of the two guards says. "No alarm, so you can go. Just knock vhen you come back."
"Is cold out," the other guard sniffs. "Don't stay out too long, you'll freeze."
"Quite right," Charles says. "I brought an extra jacket, just in case!"
So saying, he proceeds across the yard to observe what is being done with
Lia is next to come down the stairs. "What is the reason for all this racket?" she asks, sounding disgruntled. All three men shrug. Shrugging herself, she goes to the gate of the compound, Charles and Edmund in tow, where they are stopped by a Falkovnian guard who gives them a dour glare. Before any trouble can escalate, however, Lieutenant Schiffer enters the compound, looking somewhat sleep-deprived and otherwise annoyed. "What are you three doing up in the middle of the night?" Lebrecht asks, brow raised.
"What is going on out there?" is Lia's counter-question. She does not sound very aggressive, merely curious.
"Some of the locals tried to get one of the bodies back off the stakes." Lebrecht says. "Made an awful racket though, and dropped it when we got out to investigate. I'm going to ask the Kommandant that we have the bodies burned in the morning. Too much temptation."
"Why wait?" Lia replies bluntly. "Stand aside and allow me."
Lebrecht quirks an eyebrow slightly, then shakes his head. "Because I doubt anything is going to happen till morning, and I'd rather get the Kommandant's opinion on it before I burn our local examples."
"If people are coming to reclaim the bodies, however," Lia argues, "their value as examples has devolved into affront and cause for resistance. The Akiri feel strongly about the proper treatment of the dead. It is best to get it over and done with."
Harris shifts slightly. "It'd be insubordination if he overrode the chain of command like that, Miss," he murmurs softly.
"Huh...did anyone see the locals moving the body?" Charles asks. "Not to heap fuel on the fire, but we've excellent reason to believe a necromancer is in the vicinity, after all."
"Not that I can tell. Dark as a tomb out there." Lebrecht said with black humor. "Though I think one of the guards said they spotted someone moving around the edges of the square... weren't sure who.”
"Suspicious!" Charles says, nodding sagely.
“Hrm... hadn't thought of that." Lebrecht says. "If that was the necromancer..."
"See if there are pieces of the corpse's hands all over the stake," Lia suggests bluntly. "If it tore the skin pulling itself off, you know it was necromancy and the corpses need to be dealt with."
"That's a nasty thought," Charles says. "How would one go about pulling oneself off a stake, anyway? Where would you get the leverage?" He makes a face, as if reluctant to follow this line of thought any further.
"By not feeling pain or weariness," Lia replies.
“But still, no leverage.”
"Definitely ought to burn them in the morning." Lebrecht says firmly. "Do you think there's any immediate danger?"
"I don't know," Charles says. "I'd keep the area well-lit, though."
"Yes," Lia replies, over the top of Charles’ reply. "Unless your men are trained to recognize necromantic spells taking place."
"Well, a corpse pulling itself off a stake is pretty recognizable," Charles points out.
"Zombies are not the worst thing you can make out of a corpse," Lia argues. "Some undead could just rip up the stake and start swinging."
"Right. Which would also be very visible. And recognizable as...not-normal corpse activity."
Schiffer, for his part, doesn't dally around long, giving several terse orders to the captain of the watch. Harris, for his part, just watches the pair go back and forth with a stolid expression on his face.
"Not outside of Darkon, at any rate." Lebrecht says with a grim smile. "I've had some torches put out and about the bodies, they'll be watched till morning. Now, unless there's anything else, I am going back to my bunk. Of all the idiotic things to wake up in the middle of the night for..."
"Yes, well, Darkon," Charles says. "Well, better to wake up for this than waking up dead, isn't that so, Lieutenant?"
"Can't argue with that." Lebrecht stifles a yawn. "Well, you'd best be off to bed as well." Lia nods her head to this, and turns to head back to the barracks.
Harris waits until Lebrecht was long gone, then leaned closer to Charles and says quietly, "Just so you know, Sheriff Finhallen would have had you both in the stocks by this point."
Charles grins. “Oh? Well, lucky he's not here."
Night falls ... and after darkness has consumed the land of Har'Akir, Lia rises early from the table. Already, she is taking her newly acquired flute out of her sleeve, and blowing idle notes into it as she heads to her room. Charles had left the table even earlier--he had eaten almost nothing. He is in his own room, writing. A very quiet tap comes at Charles' door.
"Come in?"
"No," Comes a whisper from a familiar voice, "you come out. It is time now."
"Very well." There is a mutter; the door opens, closes, and an unseen hand taps Lia's shoulder and tugs slightly in the direction of the stairs. Lia follows without comment, initially. When they approach the door, however, she halts. "I wil require your assistance," she whispers, "in hiding. I must conserve my obfuscation spell for combat." Harris was sitting in the main room, not doing much of anything, just sitting and staring into space. Below him, at the foot of the stairs, two extremely bored looking Falkovnian guards sat on duty. The door was shut and barred for the night. Behind the mask, Lia's eyes narrow dangerously when she sees the guards. Then she flexes her fingers and whispers a spell, which ends with her pointing a finger at Harris.
"Do not startle, do not exclaim, just listen to my voice. This is Lia speaking. If you understand, cough once." Harris raises his eyebrows, but gently clears his throat. "I need you to distract the Falkovnian guards from the door most thoroughly so I can slip out. Can you do that? If so, cough once. If not, cough twice."
Harris eschews the instructions in favor of inclining his head gently, and standing up, heading down the stairs. "Hide me now, please," Lia mutters to Charles. "It's on." A whispered "Ablepsosin" and Lia disappears as well, Charles keeping his hand on her shoulder to indicate his position. Lia moves after Harris as quietly as she can, and Charles follows, doing likewise.
"Please try and keep them distracted for a long time," Lia sends to Harris as she shadows him invisibly. "I shall return tonight." Then she lets the military man get on with it.
"Good evening," Harris says to the two guards on duty. The pair nod back, looking friendlier than usual at the chance to do something besides stand silently and look intimidating. "Just looking for a breath of fresh air," Harris explains, opening the door. There was a slightly bemused smile on his face as he did so.
The instant Harris opens the door, Lia slips past him, pulling on Charles' wrist as she goes. Once well outside and away from the nearest Falkovnians, she changes their respective position, clasping one arm under the secret agent's armpits, the other across his shoulders - and her wings beat strongly.
You could hear Edmund's voice growing fainter as you flew off into the night. "By the way, do you know when the kitchen closes for the night? I haven't eaten yet, but I'm not feeling hungry right at the moment-"
As they alight outside the wall, Charles whispers, "Thank goodness for Harris...a good sport, he is. Off we go then--I think we can get there before we'll be seen by anyone looking."
"I hope so," Lia mutters in response, following Charles' lead. "And I also hope old one-eye sleeps at the store."
At night, the town of Muhar is quite definitely still. Not a shadow moves, not a sound is to be heard, save only for a few men with better night-vision than most and loaded crossbows pacing the walls of the compound. Lia eyes the armed Falkovnians with distaste, but says nothing. Her fingers clench and unclench, though, even the ones in contact with Charles.
"It seems likely that he does," Charles says quietly, as soon as they are well away and traversing the quiet streets. "Why spend money for lodgings when you're already esconced? Not to mention being on the scene to chase off robbers."
Lia just makes a huffing sound at this, as she tries to keep up.
===============================================
The pair's spells of invisibility wear off before long, though thankfully only after they were firmly hidden amongst the shadows outside of the square. Walking through Muhar at night is easy as could be desired, though it the village was quite a maze. It takes the two some half an hour to finally find Faruq's shop. It is shuttered and closed, and the table of goods is missing.
"When in doubt, knock?" Lia suggests, releasing Charles. "You address the gentleman while I keep lookout, please." Putting action to words, Lia stands back-to-back with Charles and watches the darkness of Muhar with suspicious, glowing red eyes.
Charles concentrates and gestures slightly with one hand; there is a knocking sound, followed by the suggestive clink of coins, inside the building. "Faruq! Business!"
There is a brief silence, and then after a few moments a light appears through the cracks of the shuttered window. A familiar voice calls out, "Who is it?"
Lia keeps her eyes trained on the darkness, feeling rather ... on edge. Her voice calls out softly, however: "Old acquaintances who mean you no harm, oh prince of merchants."
"Ah, the foreign Effendis!" Faruq opens the door and looks out. His appearance was... a shock. The Pharazian merchant is dressed in an off-white robe, but more than that, he is missing his eyepatch, revealing only a hideous, gaping absence, a mass of scar tissue missing an eye. "It is so good to see you! Please, come in, come in!"
Lia does as Faruq suggests, but walks into the shop backwards, red eyes scanning the darkness until the very moment she is inside.
"Er, thanks," Charles says, ducking inside quickly.
The shop is, as before, small and outrageously cluttered, with almost a third of it being taken up by the massive stuffed crocodile. Knick-knacks and boxes, crates and freestanding things are everywhere. Faruq puts down his lamp on the back of the crocodile, spreading his arms wide and bowing. "Effendi, you honor me. How may I help you this night?"
Lia returns the bow with grave dignity. "There are a few ... items we would like to purchase, oh prince of merchants," she says. "Things whose importance only occurred to us after we had left your company."
"Is that crocodile bigger than the last time I saw him?" Charles asks, glancing at it.
"Ah... no Effendi, I fear Mustali grows no more." Faruq shakes his head sadly. It’s disconcerting, that missing eye. "Now then, Effendi, how may I help you? What is it that you would seek to purchase this ill-boding night? It is very dangerous to be out and about after curfew, Effendi..."
"Yes," Lia agrees, "it is. But you yourself are a very brave man, oh prince." Again, she bows gravely.
"And besides...you are not out after curfew!" Charles points out, smiling.
"No, Effendi, I am not." Faruq agrees. "Though I must yet ask what is so important that you would wish to be out after it?"
"A salve, an ointment for the eyes," Lia replies, "made of saffron, mushroom powder and fat. An essential component for a spell known as True Seeing. Do you perhaps know of it? And ..." Lia glances briefly at Charles.
"And ... maybe you have a scroll which documents the incantation known as Discern Shapechanger?"
"Ah, the ointment of Al-Muladi!" Faruq cries happily. How he avoided waking a nearby house, you did not know. "This I can sell to you, for only three hundred coins of gold a dosage. As for the scroll..." Faruq looks up at the ceiling. "I fear I cannot help you there, Effendi."
"Tsk," Lia sighs, shaking her head. "Such a shame, and you a powerful master of the arcane, too."
"I am so very sorry, Effendi." Faruq agrees. "But I have many other spells you may be interested in... scrolls that let you see the past, scrolls that summon mighty elementals... many things!"
"Marvelous!" Charles says, nodding. "What kinds of things do they let you see in the past?"
"That which is known of it, Effendi." Faruq says with a bright grin.
"Eh?" Charles says. "You mean, if you already know what happened, you can look for it? That seems...less than useful."
"It's a shame," Lia says, shaking her head. "All I truly wish to see is the face of one evil, grubby little shapeshifter who has sowed death and despair across the world.
”The spell will tell you tell you all that is known of it, by any holders of great legends." Faruq says. "All for a mere 2,200 solars..."
Charles has found the jacket he was admiring earlier again and is fiddling with the collar. "You say the previous owner of this one died of plague? That's a shame, it had rather caught my fancy."
"It was not a contagious disease." Faruq says mildly. "And it would look most handsome upon you, effendi.'
"Oh?" Charles says. "Well, I do rather like the style, but it seems unlucky, rather, in its provenance. Er...if I may?" He mutters a word and subjects the cloth to magical examination; it’s impossible to say if he likes what he sees.
"You are a most discerning gentleman, oh prince of merchants," Lia says, eyeing first the fabric of the coat and then Faruq himself. "Such an instinct for business." (Faruq preens, which is moderately horrible. People without eyes shouldn't preen.)
"Yes," Lia says, "which other merchant would have known there would be business for him here, in Muhar, at this time? Oh, the salve is - where?"
"Here it is, Effendi." Faruq pulls out a series of vials. "How many would you prefer?"
"Four of them, please," Lia says, "with the compliments of Falkovnian credit." She smirks in an ugly fashion behind the mask. "Falkovnians," she mutters sourly.
Charles says, "It's a marvel, really it is. Spellbindings complete, and exquisite scrollwork here on the cuffs, isn't it?" Sighing, he puts it aside. "I doubt I could afford it."
"Ah, effendi, for you, and for your courage.... shall we say at…let me see…12,800 solars?” Faruq says to Charles.
"Oh! How fortunate!" Charles says. "What with the generosity of the Kommandant I think I could just scrape it together. As for this other business, it's practically lagniappe, don't you think? 13,800 solars for the two?"
"For something this important that you depart curfew for it? Perhaps 14,300 is a better goal. After all, Effendi, it was important enough for you to come in the first place." Faruq smiles broadly as he makes the counteroffer.
"Well. Hard to argue with that."
"Excellent, Effendi," Faruq smiles. "Please, take these with my blessing! And come again!"
"Now then, Faruq," Lia says, "there was one more thing ... Oh, yes! We have seen your portrait. A very good likeness."
"Oh, Effendi?" Faruq opens the door, pausing. "Where?"
"In Karnam-Quse," Lia replies, pocketing the salve and moving not an inch towards the door. "It is quite a thing, to be named an enemy of Menetnashte, is it not?"
"Not every customer is so understanding as you, Effendi." One-Eyed Faruq smiles, and it is an altogether different smile from his usual broad grin. A calm smile. "Good night, and good luck."
”Is there anything," Lia asks, still not moving, "you might like to tell us about that?" She spreads her hands peacefully. "I mean you no harm. And I bear no love for Beherith, or whatever its name is.”
"That, Effendi, is a story far too unbelieveable even for you." Faruq shakes his head. "And a good merchant does not choose sides." The Akiri inclines his head towards the door. "Good night, Effendi."
"We hope to do business with you again," Charles says. "Of one kind or another. Shall we, m'selle?"
"I regret that this is so," Lia sighs. "But I should like to talk to you again in the future, Foe of Menetnashe." The mage leaves, nodding to Charles.
The door shuts closed behind you with a certain grim finality.
===============================================
Charles puts on his new jacket and plucks at the chest, settling it into place and putting the other under his arm. “Well. Not a bad night's business, although I'm afraid he caught me just a bit flat-footed with the business of the salve."
"Disappointing," Lia muses, "in more than one way. And it may not even reveal Cavendish," Lia sighs, shaking her head - then freezes. "Hold up. He just said ... A merchant does not choose sides," the Mage says. "He might be doing after-hours deals with ... Look, I know I am often paranoid, but what if Faruq also trades with that scut Cavendish?"
Charles shrugs. "It's possible. Certainly he deals with Vedarrak, and that's two sides already. Let's keep moving, though."
"If Faruq dealt in information," Lia grumbles, "we'd be in very deep water, indeed." She does keep up with Charles, but seems disturbed.
"How so?"
"Well, then he'd now know we're making purchases to winkle him out," Lia says, shrugging.
"If he does deal with Faruq, and if Faruq tells him," Charles notes. "Given that we had no-where else to make the purchase, I think this potential pitfall was unavoidable."
"I had better hopes for Faruq than this," Lia says, shaking her head.
"You hoped he would introduce us to his wide-ranging brotherhood, dedicated to the downfall of Beherith?" Charles asks, half-smiling.
"It seems I am to be disappointed whenever I hope to find a support base outside our little band," she says morosely. "At least this time I did not betray us to a sociopath. I think."
"Oh, I doubt it," Charles says. As he goes he keeps his eyes peeled, searching the dark streets for signs of...well, anyway, really.
===============================================
Given some time, the two make their way to the square once more, emerging into the shadows of the Temple of Horus, opposite the Falkovnian compound. There are some guards on the walls, but otherwise, nothing... nothing readily apparent, at any rate.
Lia pauses in the shadows of Horus' temple, again eyeing the Falkovnian guards with narrowed eyes.
Charles touches Lia's elbow and points toward the stakes. "I heard something...over there," he mutters, voice low. Lia growls under her breath, "Hold." She then turns her red eyes to the stakes, attempting to pierce the darkness.
The corpse farthest from the Falkovnians is moving. Hidden safely from sight by distance and darkness, the half-decayed body reaches out with decrepit hands to grasp the stake in its chest. Slowly, laboriously, it begins to pull itself off the stake.
"It is being animated," Lia says in a strained voice. "The corpse furthest from the walls is animating into a zombie or something!"
There was a soft thud as it finally works itself loose of the stake, falling to the ground. One of the Falkovnians on the wall turned to look out across the square, but could make out nothing in the gloom.
The undead monstrosity didn't movve like anything living, but instead began to scuttle forward, like a crab or some kind of hideous insect, across the square, pausing whenever a Falkovnian guard showed too much interest in the sounds. It was as though the shadows flocked around the thing, hiding it from sight. It was heading for the Temple of Osiris.
Lia snarls, one hand already pointing at the zombie, fingers twitching as if to start arcane gestures.
"Wait." Charles says quietly, and made a small gesture himself.
Suddenly, a horrible scraping and groaning emerge from near the creature.
Lia makes an eager, moaning sound, muscles twitching, the air around her already sizzling with arcane energy. The corpse fell limp suddenly, as though the strings were cut from under it. It lay, a dead body and nothing more.
"Cavendish," Lia breathes softly. "Watching ... listening ... now ..."
"Yes," Charles whispers. "Invisibility, yes?" Suiting deeds to words, he mutters the enchantment.
There is a sudden commotion on the walls as one over-eager guard shoots a crossbow bolt. Torches light, and dozens of voices are heard in the compound. The corpse lies unmoving. In short order, the gates begin to open to the Falkovnian compound, and a half-dozen soldiers, armed with swords and crossbows and torches, come out.
Lia mutters the word of a spell before she seizes Charles and lifts off, flying over the walls, guards and all. Her eyes scan the world below as she goes, and she glances at Osiris' temple also. Lia snarls again, wordless, in mid-air, but then quietens down and flies for the door that will lead them back inside. The last the two adventurers see, the guards had found the corpse, still and lifeless, and were establishing a perimeter around it, even as more of the Falkovnians soldiers sortied forth.
Harris is out in the courtyard, distracted by the sudden commotion. The door to the barracks has been shut again.
"Get to the door of our compound, make sure no-one's watching, then we 'come out' to see what's going on?" Charles says, as near-conversationally as one can in such circumstances.
Lia lands near Harris; a small puff of sand marks the spot where she and Charles touch down.
"I'm back," she whispers to Harris. "Please let us return inside, this spell will not last forever."
The captain had sharp enough eyes to spot it. "We're allowed out and around the compound, Miss," he said, looking slightly amused. "But given they didn't see you come out, I suppose they shouldn't see you come in."
"I have no desire to see or be seen by Falkovnian soldiers even at the best of times, honourable captain," Lia whispers, "and these times are far from optimal."
Edmund knocks, twice, on the barracks door. The guards inside promptly unbar it and look out.
"You are all right?" one of them asks, leaning out through the doorway. "Is very cold nights in Muhar. You should stay vhere is warm."
Charles squeezes Lia's arm once and then whispers a phrase…and finds himself inside, at the foot of the stairs. Checking quickly to see if he is observed, he steps up quietly and becomes visible, then clatters down.
"I suppose I should," Harris agrees, moving into the door to force the guard to lean back. "I just needed to clear my head. I suppose I have a woman I'm thinking on as well."
"Ah... damn the officers and their crazy ideas," the guard laments. "Four months to the wedding and I am half-vay across world..."
"I say, what's all the noise about?" Charles says in a friendly way as he comes to the door. "Oh, Harris, out and about! Do you know what's going on?" Going to the door himself, he hold it wide for a moment, as he looks curiously toward the source of the noise. "It's all right if I go out, isn't it?” he asks one of the guards. All three men at the door looked up at Charles.
"I'm afraid not," Harris says, shrugging. "There was a bit of a stir, but it died down."
"Probably no import, if they haven't raised alert for compound," the younger of the two guards says. "No alarm, so you can go. Just knock vhen you come back."
"Is cold out," the other guard sniffs. "Don't stay out too long, you'll freeze."
"Quite right," Charles says. "I brought an extra jacket, just in case!"
So saying, he proceeds across the yard to observe what is being done with
Lia is next to come down the stairs. "What is the reason for all this racket?" she asks, sounding disgruntled. All three men shrug. Shrugging herself, she goes to the gate of the compound, Charles and Edmund in tow, where they are stopped by a Falkovnian guard who gives them a dour glare. Before any trouble can escalate, however, Lieutenant Schiffer enters the compound, looking somewhat sleep-deprived and otherwise annoyed. "What are you three doing up in the middle of the night?" Lebrecht asks, brow raised.
"What is going on out there?" is Lia's counter-question. She does not sound very aggressive, merely curious.
"Some of the locals tried to get one of the bodies back off the stakes." Lebrecht says. "Made an awful racket though, and dropped it when we got out to investigate. I'm going to ask the Kommandant that we have the bodies burned in the morning. Too much temptation."
"Why wait?" Lia replies bluntly. "Stand aside and allow me."
Lebrecht quirks an eyebrow slightly, then shakes his head. "Because I doubt anything is going to happen till morning, and I'd rather get the Kommandant's opinion on it before I burn our local examples."
"If people are coming to reclaim the bodies, however," Lia argues, "their value as examples has devolved into affront and cause for resistance. The Akiri feel strongly about the proper treatment of the dead. It is best to get it over and done with."
Harris shifts slightly. "It'd be insubordination if he overrode the chain of command like that, Miss," he murmurs softly.
"Huh...did anyone see the locals moving the body?" Charles asks. "Not to heap fuel on the fire, but we've excellent reason to believe a necromancer is in the vicinity, after all."
"Not that I can tell. Dark as a tomb out there." Lebrecht said with black humor. "Though I think one of the guards said they spotted someone moving around the edges of the square... weren't sure who.”
"Suspicious!" Charles says, nodding sagely.
“Hrm... hadn't thought of that." Lebrecht says. "If that was the necromancer..."
"See if there are pieces of the corpse's hands all over the stake," Lia suggests bluntly. "If it tore the skin pulling itself off, you know it was necromancy and the corpses need to be dealt with."
"That's a nasty thought," Charles says. "How would one go about pulling oneself off a stake, anyway? Where would you get the leverage?" He makes a face, as if reluctant to follow this line of thought any further.
"By not feeling pain or weariness," Lia replies.
“But still, no leverage.”
"Definitely ought to burn them in the morning." Lebrecht says firmly. "Do you think there's any immediate danger?"
"I don't know," Charles says. "I'd keep the area well-lit, though."
"Yes," Lia replies, over the top of Charles’ reply. "Unless your men are trained to recognize necromantic spells taking place."
"Well, a corpse pulling itself off a stake is pretty recognizable," Charles points out.
"Zombies are not the worst thing you can make out of a corpse," Lia argues. "Some undead could just rip up the stake and start swinging."
"Right. Which would also be very visible. And recognizable as...not-normal corpse activity."
Schiffer, for his part, doesn't dally around long, giving several terse orders to the captain of the watch. Harris, for his part, just watches the pair go back and forth with a stolid expression on his face.
"Not outside of Darkon, at any rate." Lebrecht says with a grim smile. "I've had some torches put out and about the bodies, they'll be watched till morning. Now, unless there's anything else, I am going back to my bunk. Of all the idiotic things to wake up in the middle of the night for..."
"Yes, well, Darkon," Charles says. "Well, better to wake up for this than waking up dead, isn't that so, Lieutenant?"
"Can't argue with that." Lebrecht stifles a yawn. "Well, you'd best be off to bed as well." Lia nods her head to this, and turns to head back to the barracks.
Harris waits until Lebrecht was long gone, then leaned closer to Charles and says quietly, "Just so you know, Sheriff Finhallen would have had you both in the stocks by this point."
Charles grins. “Oh? Well, lucky he's not here."
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 27th, 761
“Abjuration... rigid auras, unyielding, sometimes encompassing large areas...” Remy paced back and forth across the floor, scanning his notebook and talking softly to himself. “Um... sometimes pulsing slightly due to detection auras, sometimes contain holes in the aura when the spells have a trigger to bypass the ward... um... Conjuration... slightly compressed auras...”
He could feel the professor's eyes burning into the back of his head. Remy swallowed hard. He was glad the professor was concerned about him, he really was, but the things that Professor Theroux and Kuzan said had made things... awkward. The two had rarely spoken since the aftermath of the near fatal poisoning, and events in Muhar were not conspiring to improve things. Upon discovering the state of the city, the professor’s demeanor had turned to ice. No longer did he banter with his colleagues, or question Remy on the various intricacies of Akiri grammar. He simply brooded over his books, as tense as a wound spring, ready to lash out at anyone who disturbed him.
Remy gave his notes one final review before accepting he was as prepared as he was going to get, then took a deep breath to steel himself. "I'm going," he said, softly, half-hoping that the professor wouldn't hear him.
"Remy," Professor Marchand-Renier said hoarsely, his voice an unspoken command. Remy slowly turned. The professor looked him straight in the eye and frowned sternly. "You shouldn't be doing this,” he said, in a way that would have been gentle if not for his feverish gaze. “Thomas can take your place."
The student tensed. Professor Marchand-Renier and Professor Carter had been arguing about it ever since the idea had been broached, and it seemed his mentor intended to cut the other man out of the decision entirely. "Sir, we discussed this," he replied, his voice wavering slightly. "We need Professor Carter here in case they decide to check on us. I can do this," he protested, then turned slightly pale. "Sir."
The professor's frown deepened. Remy flinched.
Then, just like that, the professor gave in, turning back to his books with a blank expression on his face. "Please be careful," was all he said.
"I'll be careful," Remy thought to himself. "Screwing up gets my head put on a pike." But he didn't say anything aloud, simply walked out into the hall and shut the door behind him. The two Falkovnian guards nodded to him as he walked by; Professor Devereux waved from where he stood beside them. Remy cautiously waved back, wondering what the uncanny professor had done to them. Whatever it was, it was certainly coming in handy.
“Are you ready for this?” Professor Carter asked, leaning out from his room. Remy nodded sharply. The archaeology professor made a few sweeping gestures, interspersed with mutterings in both Zherisian and Draconic, and what sounded like half a Rajian prayer to Garuda. It didn’t look like anything that should have worked, but Remy felt his body lighten until he was no longer bound to the floor.
“Good luck,” Professor Carter said, his eyes lined with worry. The two professors ducked back into their rooms.
The student closed his eyes, focusing on the lessons that Professor Theroux had taught him. "Uranun caripe baglen ol," he chanted softly, feeling the power start to concentrate in his hand. "Visible only by my will, I make blind all who may see me." He drew the energy into his fingertips, letting the mystic words take hold in his flesh. "A darkness shall cover them like the ocean, and forgetfulness will envelope their minds." He drew his hands up slowly, touching them to his closed eyes, then drawing them swiftly across. "Amonons pare das niis kures." With the final word, Remy opened his eyes, and vanished from human sight.
The student allowed himself a thin smile. Invisibility was something that came easily to him. There was just something about him that made him easy to overlook. Professor Carter knew some arcane tricks to make it seem as if Remy was still there, if it became necessary, but Remy doubted it would. Vedarrak just didn't have the resources to keep a heavy eye on a linguistics student, and he didn't seem to care about Remy regardless.
Remy's smile grew wider as he drifted right past a pair of guards, without either batting an eyelash. That was a mistake, and one that would cost Vedarrak dearly.
No time for that. He needed to hurry.
Remy flew through the building, counting down the seconds he had left before his magic began to wane. He had gone over the route before with Professor Devereux’s pocket watch, carefully timing how long it took him to traverse each leg. Six seconds from the guest rooms to the inner courtyard. Fifteen seconds through the courtyard gate. Eleven seconds to clear the barracks. Nine seconds through the main courtyard. Twenty seconds around the inner wall. Remy came to a stop outside of Vedarrak's window with time to spare.
Vedarrak was in his office, Remy noted with some satisfaction. That meant the professor's heart would be in its desk drawer. He drew closer to the window, stiffening slightly as he realized the Expedition was there as well, asking about his very whereabouts. The student ducked against the wall, trying very hard not to panic. If they pushed Vedarrak too far, things would become very unpleasant for everyone.
Fortunately, after the Falkovnian brushed them off a few times, they let the matter drop. Remy sighed heavily, counting his blessings that the walls were less than a foot thick. He’d be able to do what he came for without the chance of Kuzan spotting him. The irony that he was hiding from his own allies didn’t escape him, but chances were he’d be mistaken for someone less friendly, and by the time he was uncovered and the error discovered it would be too late to prevent everything from becoming very ugly. The student wondered, not for the first time, if it was even possible to get everyone out of this alive, or if their efforts to do so were self-sabotaging and leading them to an even worse conclusion. The professors seemed to think it was the latter case, and yet here they were, going through the motions.
Remy shut his eyes again, pressing his two forefingers to his forehead. "Give me sight," he whispered, and the world burst into light.
The window was warded. Remy had expected that. Remy leaned his head against the wall, looking through it to see around the room, his eyes still shut. The box was low to the ground, in Vedarrak’s desk; the student could see the protective spells circling around it. Some of the other drawers were warded as well, and Vedarrak himself lit up like a candle, but the student wasn't interested in that. He quickly jotted down as much as he could in his notebook, trying to record any detail that might help the others later.
Something had happened. Vedarrak pulled the box out of his desk drawer, dismissing the Expedition and escorting everyone out of the room. Remy frowned as the magical auras surrounding the box faded from sight, blocked by too many walls for his spell to detect it any further. That was it for that, then. He’d just have to hope it was enough.
With a few soft words to prolong his magic cloak, the student was off again.
Remy glided towards the courtyard wall, trying not to revel in his total anonymity as he flew past the guards. It was such an easy spell, invisibility, such a simple thing, and yet it opened the door to such possibilities. There was a twisted, dark glee in the feeling, the same feeling he had felt back in Kamarn-Quse, when the entire expedition had run past him without even noticing...
Remy shuddered and pushed the thought away. He’d get himself killed if he ever started thinking like that. He was a harmless, unarmed linguistics student, and it would only take one misstep to become a dead harmless unarmed linguistics student. He was over his head and out of his league.
Remy drifted upward, peering down at the ground below him. Most of the Expedition was with Vedarrak, and Remy had no intention of going over there. He’d be dead before they even knew who he was. He descended, intending to go to the barracks where the Expedition was quartered, when he spotted Sarari in the far corner of the courtyard. The woman was gazing around the walls with her sharp eyes, and Remy had a sneaking suspicion she was counting Falkovnians. He saw her ears twitch slightly as he approached her.
“Sarari!” he whispered. The elf turned to stare directly at him, looking slightly surprised. Remy quickly pulled the folded letter from his pocket and tossed it to her.
Sarari caught it effortlessly, turning it over and scanning the message written on the outside, then deftly unfolding it and reading the letter. Without a word, she folded it back up, tucking it safely into her arm-guard, and set off across the courtyard toward the main group.
Remy slowly turned around, willingly flying back into his prison. The magic would be wearing off soon, and if he was found missing there’d be hell to pay...
“Abjuration... rigid auras, unyielding, sometimes encompassing large areas...” Remy paced back and forth across the floor, scanning his notebook and talking softly to himself. “Um... sometimes pulsing slightly due to detection auras, sometimes contain holes in the aura when the spells have a trigger to bypass the ward... um... Conjuration... slightly compressed auras...”
He could feel the professor's eyes burning into the back of his head. Remy swallowed hard. He was glad the professor was concerned about him, he really was, but the things that Professor Theroux and Kuzan said had made things... awkward. The two had rarely spoken since the aftermath of the near fatal poisoning, and events in Muhar were not conspiring to improve things. Upon discovering the state of the city, the professor’s demeanor had turned to ice. No longer did he banter with his colleagues, or question Remy on the various intricacies of Akiri grammar. He simply brooded over his books, as tense as a wound spring, ready to lash out at anyone who disturbed him.
Remy gave his notes one final review before accepting he was as prepared as he was going to get, then took a deep breath to steel himself. "I'm going," he said, softly, half-hoping that the professor wouldn't hear him.
"Remy," Professor Marchand-Renier said hoarsely, his voice an unspoken command. Remy slowly turned. The professor looked him straight in the eye and frowned sternly. "You shouldn't be doing this,” he said, in a way that would have been gentle if not for his feverish gaze. “Thomas can take your place."
The student tensed. Professor Marchand-Renier and Professor Carter had been arguing about it ever since the idea had been broached, and it seemed his mentor intended to cut the other man out of the decision entirely. "Sir, we discussed this," he replied, his voice wavering slightly. "We need Professor Carter here in case they decide to check on us. I can do this," he protested, then turned slightly pale. "Sir."
The professor's frown deepened. Remy flinched.
Then, just like that, the professor gave in, turning back to his books with a blank expression on his face. "Please be careful," was all he said.
"I'll be careful," Remy thought to himself. "Screwing up gets my head put on a pike." But he didn't say anything aloud, simply walked out into the hall and shut the door behind him. The two Falkovnian guards nodded to him as he walked by; Professor Devereux waved from where he stood beside them. Remy cautiously waved back, wondering what the uncanny professor had done to them. Whatever it was, it was certainly coming in handy.
“Are you ready for this?” Professor Carter asked, leaning out from his room. Remy nodded sharply. The archaeology professor made a few sweeping gestures, interspersed with mutterings in both Zherisian and Draconic, and what sounded like half a Rajian prayer to Garuda. It didn’t look like anything that should have worked, but Remy felt his body lighten until he was no longer bound to the floor.
“Good luck,” Professor Carter said, his eyes lined with worry. The two professors ducked back into their rooms.
The student closed his eyes, focusing on the lessons that Professor Theroux had taught him. "Uranun caripe baglen ol," he chanted softly, feeling the power start to concentrate in his hand. "Visible only by my will, I make blind all who may see me." He drew the energy into his fingertips, letting the mystic words take hold in his flesh. "A darkness shall cover them like the ocean, and forgetfulness will envelope their minds." He drew his hands up slowly, touching them to his closed eyes, then drawing them swiftly across. "Amonons pare das niis kures." With the final word, Remy opened his eyes, and vanished from human sight.
The student allowed himself a thin smile. Invisibility was something that came easily to him. There was just something about him that made him easy to overlook. Professor Carter knew some arcane tricks to make it seem as if Remy was still there, if it became necessary, but Remy doubted it would. Vedarrak just didn't have the resources to keep a heavy eye on a linguistics student, and he didn't seem to care about Remy regardless.
Remy's smile grew wider as he drifted right past a pair of guards, without either batting an eyelash. That was a mistake, and one that would cost Vedarrak dearly.
No time for that. He needed to hurry.
Remy flew through the building, counting down the seconds he had left before his magic began to wane. He had gone over the route before with Professor Devereux’s pocket watch, carefully timing how long it took him to traverse each leg. Six seconds from the guest rooms to the inner courtyard. Fifteen seconds through the courtyard gate. Eleven seconds to clear the barracks. Nine seconds through the main courtyard. Twenty seconds around the inner wall. Remy came to a stop outside of Vedarrak's window with time to spare.
Vedarrak was in his office, Remy noted with some satisfaction. That meant the professor's heart would be in its desk drawer. He drew closer to the window, stiffening slightly as he realized the Expedition was there as well, asking about his very whereabouts. The student ducked against the wall, trying very hard not to panic. If they pushed Vedarrak too far, things would become very unpleasant for everyone.
Fortunately, after the Falkovnian brushed them off a few times, they let the matter drop. Remy sighed heavily, counting his blessings that the walls were less than a foot thick. He’d be able to do what he came for without the chance of Kuzan spotting him. The irony that he was hiding from his own allies didn’t escape him, but chances were he’d be mistaken for someone less friendly, and by the time he was uncovered and the error discovered it would be too late to prevent everything from becoming very ugly. The student wondered, not for the first time, if it was even possible to get everyone out of this alive, or if their efforts to do so were self-sabotaging and leading them to an even worse conclusion. The professors seemed to think it was the latter case, and yet here they were, going through the motions.
Remy shut his eyes again, pressing his two forefingers to his forehead. "Give me sight," he whispered, and the world burst into light.
The window was warded. Remy had expected that. Remy leaned his head against the wall, looking through it to see around the room, his eyes still shut. The box was low to the ground, in Vedarrak’s desk; the student could see the protective spells circling around it. Some of the other drawers were warded as well, and Vedarrak himself lit up like a candle, but the student wasn't interested in that. He quickly jotted down as much as he could in his notebook, trying to record any detail that might help the others later.
Something had happened. Vedarrak pulled the box out of his desk drawer, dismissing the Expedition and escorting everyone out of the room. Remy frowned as the magical auras surrounding the box faded from sight, blocked by too many walls for his spell to detect it any further. That was it for that, then. He’d just have to hope it was enough.
With a few soft words to prolong his magic cloak, the student was off again.
Remy glided towards the courtyard wall, trying not to revel in his total anonymity as he flew past the guards. It was such an easy spell, invisibility, such a simple thing, and yet it opened the door to such possibilities. There was a twisted, dark glee in the feeling, the same feeling he had felt back in Kamarn-Quse, when the entire expedition had run past him without even noticing...
Remy shuddered and pushed the thought away. He’d get himself killed if he ever started thinking like that. He was a harmless, unarmed linguistics student, and it would only take one misstep to become a dead harmless unarmed linguistics student. He was over his head and out of his league.
Remy drifted upward, peering down at the ground below him. Most of the Expedition was with Vedarrak, and Remy had no intention of going over there. He’d be dead before they even knew who he was. He descended, intending to go to the barracks where the Expedition was quartered, when he spotted Sarari in the far corner of the courtyard. The woman was gazing around the walls with her sharp eyes, and Remy had a sneaking suspicion she was counting Falkovnians. He saw her ears twitch slightly as he approached her.
“Sarari!” he whispered. The elf turned to stare directly at him, looking slightly surprised. Remy quickly pulled the folded letter from his pocket and tossed it to her.
Sarari caught it effortlessly, turning it over and scanning the message written on the outside, then deftly unfolding it and reading the letter. Without a word, she folded it back up, tucking it safely into her arm-guard, and set off across the courtyard toward the main group.
Remy slowly turned around, willingly flying back into his prison. The magic would be wearing off soon, and if he was found missing there’d be hell to pay...
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 27th, 761
Carter weighed his options.
He was not going to ask Devereux where he had gotten the heart. He just wasn't. Devereux would only tell him, and Carter wasn't sure if there was any possible answer that would let him look the gangly professor in the eye ever again. He was already fighting down urges to back out of the room and lock the door behind him. Devereux was grinning horribly as he held out the heart out to Carter - it reminded the archeologist of a cat he'd seen in a rather disturbing children's book.
"...Yes. Thank you, Charles," Carter said, gingerly taking the gruesome thing, doing his best not to drop it, Sweet Ezra, it was squishy, "That should work... nicely?" he finished, weakly.
"It is a bit larger than Andre's," Devereux admitted, looking slightly disappointed about the fact.
"That's... alright," Carter vaguely replied, concentrating on the motions of his gestures so he wouldn't have to think about what it was he was doing. "I don't think Vederrak will notice, if we can get it past the wards."
He uncorked the bottle of holy water he had taken from his pocket, pouring it slowly over the heart, as he tried to recall ancient inscriptions he had read years ago...
"Hotep di nesu Osir, hotep redhi Gebeb, hotep Pesedjet a'at..." He made a face as he mangled the phrase, vividly recalling Professor Marchand-Renier's quiet reprimands over his pronunciation. "Neter a'a neb Abdju... sweri di'i net... Ankhu. Ded medu in Osir."
To his amazement, the heart pulsed in his hand, throbbing back to life before his very eyes. It made him sick to his stomach to watch.
"When I read the Akiri Rites of the Dead, I didn't think I'd ever be using them," Carter murmured, trying to soften the horror at what he'd just done.
"Having second thoughts?" Marchand-Renier asked from where he lay on his bed. Carter turned to look at him. The darkly-clad professor was staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest, as if he was laid out for his wake.
"It's a bit late for that," Carter said.
A soft "Mm" was the only reply. Carter frowned, carefully put the heart in the bag he had prepared for it, and walked over to the bedside. The linguist was not in a good way. Carter wondered how much of that was Vederrak's doing, and how much of it was lingering scars from that cursed city. Whatever the cause, Sebastian rarely spoke these days.
"Save for when he's around Vederrak," Carter thought, grimly. "Then he speaks too much."
"Thomas," Professor Marchand-Renier said, jolting the other man out of his reverie. "Please reconsider my offer."
Carter winced. He'd hoped that Sebastian wouldn't bring that up again. His own death wasn't the issue; chances were they'd end up on stakes no matter what they did. But it wasn't just him, and making the wrong decision meant he took Charles and Remy down with him...
Sebastian pounced on the moment of weakness. "He's suffered enough," he hissed roughly, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes burning. Carter didn't have to ask whom he meant.
"And he'll suffer all the greater if he leaves you here," Thomas replied, bolstering his resolve. "Forget about it, Sebastian. Our chances aren't much better either way."
"Such confidence in ourselves," Marchand-Renier said, smiling and shaking his head slightly as he lay back down on the bed. "Don't blame yourself, Thomas, no matter what happens. This was my idea, I take the responsibility for it. When we all find ourselves skewered in the main square, you may say you told me so."
Carter managed a weak smile in return. "Alright, but if we pull this off, you'd better rub it in my face." He picked up the bag and put it in his hat, hoping desperately he wouldn't need to conceal it further. "We should get back to our rooms."
Sebastian just nodded, his eyes closed.
Carter and Devereux carefully peeked outside before emerging, gently shutting the door behind them. "No trouble?" he asked Remy, who was keeping watch just outside his professor's doorway. "Any guards around?"
"Only them, sir," Remy said, gesturing to where the two Falkovnians were still standing, staring into space. Devereux looked very pleased with himself.
Carter nodded. "Alright. Get some rest," he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. Remy nodded back. He looked worried, and frightened, which Carter couldn't blame him for, but the professor was pleased to see a spark of determination in the student's eyes. He wondered vaguely if Remy had been listening in on them. It wasn't unlikely.
The archeologist carefully crept back to his room, hoping the guards would snap out of whatever Devereux had done to them before anyone else came by. He tossed the heart in a corner and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the bag grimly. People had sometimes told him the hardest thing about these things was the waiting, and Carter had always replied that they had no idea what they were bloody talking about. Still, he doubted he would be getting any sleep tonight.
Carter weighed his options.
He was not going to ask Devereux where he had gotten the heart. He just wasn't. Devereux would only tell him, and Carter wasn't sure if there was any possible answer that would let him look the gangly professor in the eye ever again. He was already fighting down urges to back out of the room and lock the door behind him. Devereux was grinning horribly as he held out the heart out to Carter - it reminded the archeologist of a cat he'd seen in a rather disturbing children's book.
"...Yes. Thank you, Charles," Carter said, gingerly taking the gruesome thing, doing his best not to drop it, Sweet Ezra, it was squishy, "That should work... nicely?" he finished, weakly.
"It is a bit larger than Andre's," Devereux admitted, looking slightly disappointed about the fact.
"That's... alright," Carter vaguely replied, concentrating on the motions of his gestures so he wouldn't have to think about what it was he was doing. "I don't think Vederrak will notice, if we can get it past the wards."
He uncorked the bottle of holy water he had taken from his pocket, pouring it slowly over the heart, as he tried to recall ancient inscriptions he had read years ago...
"Hotep di nesu Osir, hotep redhi Gebeb, hotep Pesedjet a'at..." He made a face as he mangled the phrase, vividly recalling Professor Marchand-Renier's quiet reprimands over his pronunciation. "Neter a'a neb Abdju... sweri di'i net... Ankhu. Ded medu in Osir."
To his amazement, the heart pulsed in his hand, throbbing back to life before his very eyes. It made him sick to his stomach to watch.
"When I read the Akiri Rites of the Dead, I didn't think I'd ever be using them," Carter murmured, trying to soften the horror at what he'd just done.
"Having second thoughts?" Marchand-Renier asked from where he lay on his bed. Carter turned to look at him. The darkly-clad professor was staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest, as if he was laid out for his wake.
"It's a bit late for that," Carter said.
A soft "Mm" was the only reply. Carter frowned, carefully put the heart in the bag he had prepared for it, and walked over to the bedside. The linguist was not in a good way. Carter wondered how much of that was Vederrak's doing, and how much of it was lingering scars from that cursed city. Whatever the cause, Sebastian rarely spoke these days.
"Save for when he's around Vederrak," Carter thought, grimly. "Then he speaks too much."
"Thomas," Professor Marchand-Renier said, jolting the other man out of his reverie. "Please reconsider my offer."
Carter winced. He'd hoped that Sebastian wouldn't bring that up again. His own death wasn't the issue; chances were they'd end up on stakes no matter what they did. But it wasn't just him, and making the wrong decision meant he took Charles and Remy down with him...
Sebastian pounced on the moment of weakness. "He's suffered enough," he hissed roughly, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes burning. Carter didn't have to ask whom he meant.
"And he'll suffer all the greater if he leaves you here," Thomas replied, bolstering his resolve. "Forget about it, Sebastian. Our chances aren't much better either way."
"Such confidence in ourselves," Marchand-Renier said, smiling and shaking his head slightly as he lay back down on the bed. "Don't blame yourself, Thomas, no matter what happens. This was my idea, I take the responsibility for it. When we all find ourselves skewered in the main square, you may say you told me so."
Carter managed a weak smile in return. "Alright, but if we pull this off, you'd better rub it in my face." He picked up the bag and put it in his hat, hoping desperately he wouldn't need to conceal it further. "We should get back to our rooms."
Sebastian just nodded, his eyes closed.
Carter and Devereux carefully peeked outside before emerging, gently shutting the door behind them. "No trouble?" he asked Remy, who was keeping watch just outside his professor's doorway. "Any guards around?"
"Only them, sir," Remy said, gesturing to where the two Falkovnians were still standing, staring into space. Devereux looked very pleased with himself.
Carter nodded. "Alright. Get some rest," he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. Remy nodded back. He looked worried, and frightened, which Carter couldn't blame him for, but the professor was pleased to see a spark of determination in the student's eyes. He wondered vaguely if Remy had been listening in on them. It wasn't unlikely.
The archeologist carefully crept back to his room, hoping the guards would snap out of whatever Devereux had done to them before anyone else came by. He tossed the heart in a corner and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the bag grimly. People had sometimes told him the hardest thing about these things was the waiting, and Carter had always replied that they had no idea what they were bloody talking about. Still, he doubted he would be getting any sleep tonight.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 27th, 761
"-arms shall be cut off like that of a bull, your neck shall be twisted off like that of a bird, your office shall be taken away before your face and be given to your enemy, your house shall belong to the fire, all your works shall perish in fire, you shall be without heir, your heart shall always be discontent, your remains shall have no tomb for them, your god shall not accept your prayers-!"
Reinhardt spared an annoyed glance as the soldiers finally dragged the frothing woman out of the courtyard. He hated the people of Muhar. He hated Muhar in general. The city was a chaotic mess, built in the middle of a worthless dustbowl, and the endless heat grated on Reinhardt's nerves. He glared until the deranged raving could no longer be heard, and then turned his full attention back on his post. Reinhardt was always very diligent in his duties. His diligence would be well rewarded by the completion of the mission, when they could go back home.
The beaky little man was peering out of his doorway again. Reinhardt blinked, then frowned deeply. The commotion had attracted the little man outside, and now Reinhardt had to deal with it. Kommandant Vederrak was still trying to pretend there was some veneer of civility between the prisoners and himself - as if they wanted to be here - so Reinhardt couldn’t do the sensible thing of locking the professors in their rooms. Instead, he stepped in front of the open doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest and hoping the man got the hint.
The man didn't. Instead, he just tilted his head in a strangely bird-like manner, and looked up at the Falkovnian. The two men stared at each other.
The "little" man wasn't actually that small, but he had a strange, half-stooped posture, with his neck leaned forward and his knees stock straight - it made him look shorter than he actually was, like a heron with its neck folded in on itself. He was also dressed in the worst outfit that Reinhardt had ever seen, even taking normal Dementlieuse fashion into account. The frayed, patched coat he wore was a terrible shade of light green, and the sleeves of it were slightly too long, causing the cuffs to dangle around the tips of the man's fingers. The frills and folds on his collar had reached ludicrous proportions, looking more like puffy chest feathers than an actual shirt. He was an absolutely ridiculous caricature of a Dementlieuse popinjay, but there was something about his eyes that bothered Reinhardt. They were a strange, unnatural shade of violet, and they never seemed to blink.
"I, er, thought I heard something," the unblinking man said, in Mordentish. "Is anything wrong?"
Reinhardt grunted. His Mordentish was passable, but he hated speaking the soft, susurrous language. "Everything is fine," he replied, with a thick accent. "Nothing for concern."
"Oh." The unblinking man paused for a moment. "Well, if you'll excuse me..."
The strange man tried to duck past Reinhardt and out the door. Reinhardt casually stepped in front of him again. The popinjay had done this before, to other guards, and knew perfectly well they were under orders not to let him leave. The fact that he persisted in trying infuriated Reinhardt, but the little man never did anything that would justify laying a hand on him to the commander. Damn the Kommandant’s sense of propriety...
"I am afraid you must stay here, for your safety," Reinhardt said, trying not to grind his teeth. "I can bring you anything you may require."
The popinjay bobbed his head slightly, looking back up at Reinhardt with those disturbing, unblinking eyes. "No, no, I need to go out, to find my... my friend. Tomas Eisenwald? I... need to talk to him. It's very urgent." He licked his lips in an almost nervous manner, craning his neck around the Falkovnian to look down the hallway as he spoke.
Reinhardt frowned at him sternly. "That is impossible. The city is too dangerous for you now, even with escort." He thought for a moment, then added, "I can send messenger to Herr Eisenwald," in the vain hope it would silence any further protests.
"It's very important I see him in person," the unblinking man replied, completely ignoring everything Reinhardt had just said. The popinjay leaned in closer, his voiced lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. "He's a god, you know. He holds the spark of life and death within his chest, and his wrath is the ruin of nations." He nodded, as if this all made perfect sense, tapping a forefinger against his amused smile. "I don't want him to be worried about me," he added, in a more reasonable tone.
Reinhardt rolled his eyes. He'd heard about this from the other guards as well. Last time the popinjay had tried to convince them that Doktor-Professor Theroux had the blood of the immortals in his veins, and was the Arch-hierarch of the First Goddess, mother of all civilization, who had given life to the world and would one day reclaim it. It had been a tale that had inspired great mirth around the barracks, but Reinhardt had no time for these frivolous insanities.
"I have orders," Reinhardt said, with finality.
The unblinking man nodded, once, then began to fish around in his coat pocket. Reinhardt tensed with wary anticipation. If he had a weapon, the guards would have to subdue him through whatever means were necessary, and Reinhardt was starting to find the thought of that highly appealing.
Instead, the unblinking man withdrew a Lamordian pocketwatch, a simple, elegant little thing on a long chain. It looked worn with age, but well taken care of; far better than the roughly treated coat that the man was wearing. "I'll give you this," the unblinking man said enticingly, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim hallway. "If you let me go."
"Reinhardt, what are you doing?" Hermann, the other guard, called out, walking over from his post further down the hall. "Stuff the bird-man back in its cage and get back to your station."
Reinhardt sneered at the audacity of the other guard to tell him his duty, but kept his eyes on the unblinking man and his glittering watch. "I do not take bribes," he said, allowing some of his annoyance to show through. "Return to your quarters."
"It's worth a lot of money, you know," the unblinking man said, swinging the watch back and forth in front of the guards as if to taunt them. "They're very complex. Very hard to make. Why, the pair of you could probably retire off the proceeds."
Hermann laughed. "He has a good point, eh, Reinhardt?" The other guard slapped Reinhardt on the shoulder, but Reinhardt didn't react. "Hand it over."
"That's not how it works," the unblinking man said, as if speaking to a child. "You have to let me go. Then I'll give you the watch."
"Maybe I'll just take it from you, little man!" Hermann growled. But he made no move to do so. His eyes were fixed on the swinging watch, moving back and forth, back and forth...
"No." Charles Devereux grinned. "You won't."
"-arms shall be cut off like that of a bull, your neck shall be twisted off like that of a bird, your office shall be taken away before your face and be given to your enemy, your house shall belong to the fire, all your works shall perish in fire, you shall be without heir, your heart shall always be discontent, your remains shall have no tomb for them, your god shall not accept your prayers-!"
Reinhardt spared an annoyed glance as the soldiers finally dragged the frothing woman out of the courtyard. He hated the people of Muhar. He hated Muhar in general. The city was a chaotic mess, built in the middle of a worthless dustbowl, and the endless heat grated on Reinhardt's nerves. He glared until the deranged raving could no longer be heard, and then turned his full attention back on his post. Reinhardt was always very diligent in his duties. His diligence would be well rewarded by the completion of the mission, when they could go back home.
The beaky little man was peering out of his doorway again. Reinhardt blinked, then frowned deeply. The commotion had attracted the little man outside, and now Reinhardt had to deal with it. Kommandant Vederrak was still trying to pretend there was some veneer of civility between the prisoners and himself - as if they wanted to be here - so Reinhardt couldn’t do the sensible thing of locking the professors in their rooms. Instead, he stepped in front of the open doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest and hoping the man got the hint.
The man didn't. Instead, he just tilted his head in a strangely bird-like manner, and looked up at the Falkovnian. The two men stared at each other.
The "little" man wasn't actually that small, but he had a strange, half-stooped posture, with his neck leaned forward and his knees stock straight - it made him look shorter than he actually was, like a heron with its neck folded in on itself. He was also dressed in the worst outfit that Reinhardt had ever seen, even taking normal Dementlieuse fashion into account. The frayed, patched coat he wore was a terrible shade of light green, and the sleeves of it were slightly too long, causing the cuffs to dangle around the tips of the man's fingers. The frills and folds on his collar had reached ludicrous proportions, looking more like puffy chest feathers than an actual shirt. He was an absolutely ridiculous caricature of a Dementlieuse popinjay, but there was something about his eyes that bothered Reinhardt. They were a strange, unnatural shade of violet, and they never seemed to blink.
"I, er, thought I heard something," the unblinking man said, in Mordentish. "Is anything wrong?"
Reinhardt grunted. His Mordentish was passable, but he hated speaking the soft, susurrous language. "Everything is fine," he replied, with a thick accent. "Nothing for concern."
"Oh." The unblinking man paused for a moment. "Well, if you'll excuse me..."
The strange man tried to duck past Reinhardt and out the door. Reinhardt casually stepped in front of him again. The popinjay had done this before, to other guards, and knew perfectly well they were under orders not to let him leave. The fact that he persisted in trying infuriated Reinhardt, but the little man never did anything that would justify laying a hand on him to the commander. Damn the Kommandant’s sense of propriety...
"I am afraid you must stay here, for your safety," Reinhardt said, trying not to grind his teeth. "I can bring you anything you may require."
The popinjay bobbed his head slightly, looking back up at Reinhardt with those disturbing, unblinking eyes. "No, no, I need to go out, to find my... my friend. Tomas Eisenwald? I... need to talk to him. It's very urgent." He licked his lips in an almost nervous manner, craning his neck around the Falkovnian to look down the hallway as he spoke.
Reinhardt frowned at him sternly. "That is impossible. The city is too dangerous for you now, even with escort." He thought for a moment, then added, "I can send messenger to Herr Eisenwald," in the vain hope it would silence any further protests.
"It's very important I see him in person," the unblinking man replied, completely ignoring everything Reinhardt had just said. The popinjay leaned in closer, his voiced lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. "He's a god, you know. He holds the spark of life and death within his chest, and his wrath is the ruin of nations." He nodded, as if this all made perfect sense, tapping a forefinger against his amused smile. "I don't want him to be worried about me," he added, in a more reasonable tone.
Reinhardt rolled his eyes. He'd heard about this from the other guards as well. Last time the popinjay had tried to convince them that Doktor-Professor Theroux had the blood of the immortals in his veins, and was the Arch-hierarch of the First Goddess, mother of all civilization, who had given life to the world and would one day reclaim it. It had been a tale that had inspired great mirth around the barracks, but Reinhardt had no time for these frivolous insanities.
"I have orders," Reinhardt said, with finality.
The unblinking man nodded, once, then began to fish around in his coat pocket. Reinhardt tensed with wary anticipation. If he had a weapon, the guards would have to subdue him through whatever means were necessary, and Reinhardt was starting to find the thought of that highly appealing.
Instead, the unblinking man withdrew a Lamordian pocketwatch, a simple, elegant little thing on a long chain. It looked worn with age, but well taken care of; far better than the roughly treated coat that the man was wearing. "I'll give you this," the unblinking man said enticingly, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim hallway. "If you let me go."
"Reinhardt, what are you doing?" Hermann, the other guard, called out, walking over from his post further down the hall. "Stuff the bird-man back in its cage and get back to your station."
Reinhardt sneered at the audacity of the other guard to tell him his duty, but kept his eyes on the unblinking man and his glittering watch. "I do not take bribes," he said, allowing some of his annoyance to show through. "Return to your quarters."
"It's worth a lot of money, you know," the unblinking man said, swinging the watch back and forth in front of the guards as if to taunt them. "They're very complex. Very hard to make. Why, the pair of you could probably retire off the proceeds."
Hermann laughed. "He has a good point, eh, Reinhardt?" The other guard slapped Reinhardt on the shoulder, but Reinhardt didn't react. "Hand it over."
"That's not how it works," the unblinking man said, as if speaking to a child. "You have to let me go. Then I'll give you the watch."
"Maybe I'll just take it from you, little man!" Hermann growled. But he made no move to do so. His eyes were fixed on the swinging watch, moving back and forth, back and forth...
"No." Charles Devereux grinned. "You won't."
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
-
NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 27th, 761
It was only in the desert that you could truly appreciate how dark it was at night. The city of Muhar was black and silent, the few candles and lamps hung outside swallowed by the vast desert sky. Only the moon offered any respite from the surrounding darkness, and tonight it was no more than a sliver.
Sebastian Marchand-Renier sat in the pitch-blackness of his room, letting his eyes adjust. He folded his hands on his crude wooden desk and waited, alone with his thoughts.
Doubtless Remy would be ill at ease to see his professor behaving as such, which was why Marchand-Renier had no intention of letting him find out. Ever since Devereux had done whatever he'd done with the guards, Remy had been nervously hovering about. Marchand-Renier had firmly sent the boy away over an hour ago, citing fatigue and a desire to sleep. Remy had promptly obeyed, as he usually did, but he had done so with a genuine concern that Marchand-Renier wasn’t sure he liked. Kamarn-Quse, and its aftermath, had turned their relationship decidedly unprofessional.
Not that there was anything to be done about it now. If Kamarn-Quse had opened the door, then Professor Theroux had blown it off its hinges, and Kuzan had leveled the house just for good measure. If there was one thing that Marchand-Renier and Remy could easily agree on, it was that they would never speak of anything that had been said that day again. That fateful conversation had all the delicacy and finesse of a blind man swinging a claymore.
But though they’d smashed the proverbial house to pieces in the process, they had hit their mark squarely enough. Sebastian did care for the boy, much more than he’d wanted to admit to. Perhaps he hadn’t when the expedition had began, but months with the student as his only adherent had created a certain fondness. Remy was sharp witted, yet sincere, not conniving. A quick study, brimming with potential. And he also believed in heroes, and had distressing loyalty to people who didn’t deserve it.
Sebastian’s expression turned as black as the night around him. Karman-Quse had certainly cured the boy of the former. Just as it had given Marchand-Renier a long, cold look at the monster he’d become.
“Poor Louise...” he spat. Jaufres had always been convinced that his aunt truly loved him. Perhaps she had, in a way that Marchand-Renier didn’t want to contemplate too deeply. Perhaps that was why she’d reacted as she did, when Sebastian had convinced his brother to leave her. Sebastian had always assumed it had been out of spite; in his mind, love tended to preclude the possibility of murder. At least, he had thought as much... until he’d been holding the smoking gun.
It had seemed a mercy at the time. The thought of Remy in the grasping clutches of his aunt, of what Remy would be transformed into under her tender care, was still a thought that Marchand-Renier couldn’t bear. Better death, then that. And as always, Remy’s opinion seemed like a minor concern in the matter. It was only after his head had cleared, in the dark rooms of Marchaosis’ torture chamber, that he’d realized how utterly wrong he’d been about everything.
But wasn’t that always how it was, with his family? Ever convinced they knew everything, never caring what others thought of them. It was an attitude that had led many a relative to a violent end, and despite the contempt he had endured while growing up, Sebastian had proven himself as much of Renier blood as anyone.
“We have teeth and we have tails,” Marchand-Renier whispered to himself, the old family nursery rhyme fountaining up from his memories, as if to mock him. “We have tails, we have eyes...” A slight movement in the darkness caused him to stop. Carefully, so as not to startle anything, he knelt down on the floor, removing a piece of flat bread from his coat pocket. “Yes, I do have eyes. I see you there. Come out, I won’t hurt you.”
The little mouse peeked its head out from under the bed, cautiously making its way toward the proffered morsel. Sebastian watched it eat, taking a few more items from his desk - half an apple, a few more pieces of bread, and a handful of rice. “A veritable picnic,” he told the mouse, settling himself down on the floor. “I do believe I’ve seen you before. You’re a fool to come back, you know. Those who give are always those who want the most.”
The mouse ignored his sage advice, turning its attentions to making a sizable dent in the apple. Sebastian smiled, gently petting it with a finger. Ever since Jaufres had died, Sebastian had been wary of the black rats of Richemulot, whose beady red eyes were a little too intelligent. The mouse, however, was nothing like that, instead small and sandy colored, slightly prickly to the touch, and overwhelmingly simple in its desires. Marchand-Renier found it comforting.
“Well then,” he said to the mouse, pulling one of Carter’s neck-ties from his pocket, “shall we get down to business?”
He could not speak to rats as most of his relatives could. That gift had passed him by, along with many others. But some strange aspect of his heritage meant that rodents were rather fond of him, and Marchand-Renier was skilled at getting his point across, when he wanted to. The fact that he could not speak to them made things trickier, but he had long ago learned how to communicate in other ways.
The little mouse scurried off on its way. Sebastian sat in his chair and waited. He would not have been surprised if it did not return - it had been given a rather complex request. Several others had failed before it, but Marchand-Renier was not accustomed to losing, and he saw no reason to become so now.
“We are small but we are many... we are many, we are small,” Marchand-Renier murmured to himself, now for the challenge of remembering it more than anything else. “We were here before you rose, we will be here when you fall.”
How did the rest of it go? Something about nerveses? Which was cheating, in Sebastian’s opinion, since nerveses wasn’t a word. He’d always hated the thing when he was a child, but now it seemed so deliciously applicable. Vedarrak was worried about Professor Theroux and Professor Carter, not the lunatic and the vermin he kept in his cages.
There was a slight scraping noise. Sebastian was pulled out of his thoughts, quickly kneeling on the floor to search for the source of the sound.
The mouse had come back, and it was holding something thin and metal in its mouth. Sebastian held out his hand, curbing his enthusiasm so as not to frighten the little creature. The mouse obligingly let him pick it up. He offered it the rest of the food, which it showed some mild interest in, and picked up what it had dropped as it nibbled on a piece of bread.
“Clever little thing.” Sebastian smiled darkly. It had sniffed out Carter’s lockpicks, just as he had asked. Vedarrak had confiscated them, along with anything else he had thought might be dangerous, but it seemed there were some things he wasn’t able to defend against. The mouse had only been able to carry one back, but for someone as skilled as Carter, even the handle would be enough.
Sebastian twirled the piece of metal in his fingers, letting the moonlight glint off of it, petting the mouse gently as he chanted softly to himself. “We have eyes and we have nerveses, we have tails, we have teeth... you’ll all get what you deserveses, when we rise from underneath.”
“Oh yes, Vedarrak,” Marchand-Renier whispered harshly. “You’ll get what you deserve.”
It was only in the desert that you could truly appreciate how dark it was at night. The city of Muhar was black and silent, the few candles and lamps hung outside swallowed by the vast desert sky. Only the moon offered any respite from the surrounding darkness, and tonight it was no more than a sliver.
Sebastian Marchand-Renier sat in the pitch-blackness of his room, letting his eyes adjust. He folded his hands on his crude wooden desk and waited, alone with his thoughts.
Doubtless Remy would be ill at ease to see his professor behaving as such, which was why Marchand-Renier had no intention of letting him find out. Ever since Devereux had done whatever he'd done with the guards, Remy had been nervously hovering about. Marchand-Renier had firmly sent the boy away over an hour ago, citing fatigue and a desire to sleep. Remy had promptly obeyed, as he usually did, but he had done so with a genuine concern that Marchand-Renier wasn’t sure he liked. Kamarn-Quse, and its aftermath, had turned their relationship decidedly unprofessional.
Not that there was anything to be done about it now. If Kamarn-Quse had opened the door, then Professor Theroux had blown it off its hinges, and Kuzan had leveled the house just for good measure. If there was one thing that Marchand-Renier and Remy could easily agree on, it was that they would never speak of anything that had been said that day again. That fateful conversation had all the delicacy and finesse of a blind man swinging a claymore.
But though they’d smashed the proverbial house to pieces in the process, they had hit their mark squarely enough. Sebastian did care for the boy, much more than he’d wanted to admit to. Perhaps he hadn’t when the expedition had began, but months with the student as his only adherent had created a certain fondness. Remy was sharp witted, yet sincere, not conniving. A quick study, brimming with potential. And he also believed in heroes, and had distressing loyalty to people who didn’t deserve it.
Sebastian’s expression turned as black as the night around him. Karman-Quse had certainly cured the boy of the former. Just as it had given Marchand-Renier a long, cold look at the monster he’d become.
“Poor Louise...” he spat. Jaufres had always been convinced that his aunt truly loved him. Perhaps she had, in a way that Marchand-Renier didn’t want to contemplate too deeply. Perhaps that was why she’d reacted as she did, when Sebastian had convinced his brother to leave her. Sebastian had always assumed it had been out of spite; in his mind, love tended to preclude the possibility of murder. At least, he had thought as much... until he’d been holding the smoking gun.
It had seemed a mercy at the time. The thought of Remy in the grasping clutches of his aunt, of what Remy would be transformed into under her tender care, was still a thought that Marchand-Renier couldn’t bear. Better death, then that. And as always, Remy’s opinion seemed like a minor concern in the matter. It was only after his head had cleared, in the dark rooms of Marchaosis’ torture chamber, that he’d realized how utterly wrong he’d been about everything.
But wasn’t that always how it was, with his family? Ever convinced they knew everything, never caring what others thought of them. It was an attitude that had led many a relative to a violent end, and despite the contempt he had endured while growing up, Sebastian had proven himself as much of Renier blood as anyone.
“We have teeth and we have tails,” Marchand-Renier whispered to himself, the old family nursery rhyme fountaining up from his memories, as if to mock him. “We have tails, we have eyes...” A slight movement in the darkness caused him to stop. Carefully, so as not to startle anything, he knelt down on the floor, removing a piece of flat bread from his coat pocket. “Yes, I do have eyes. I see you there. Come out, I won’t hurt you.”
The little mouse peeked its head out from under the bed, cautiously making its way toward the proffered morsel. Sebastian watched it eat, taking a few more items from his desk - half an apple, a few more pieces of bread, and a handful of rice. “A veritable picnic,” he told the mouse, settling himself down on the floor. “I do believe I’ve seen you before. You’re a fool to come back, you know. Those who give are always those who want the most.”
The mouse ignored his sage advice, turning its attentions to making a sizable dent in the apple. Sebastian smiled, gently petting it with a finger. Ever since Jaufres had died, Sebastian had been wary of the black rats of Richemulot, whose beady red eyes were a little too intelligent. The mouse, however, was nothing like that, instead small and sandy colored, slightly prickly to the touch, and overwhelmingly simple in its desires. Marchand-Renier found it comforting.
“Well then,” he said to the mouse, pulling one of Carter’s neck-ties from his pocket, “shall we get down to business?”
He could not speak to rats as most of his relatives could. That gift had passed him by, along with many others. But some strange aspect of his heritage meant that rodents were rather fond of him, and Marchand-Renier was skilled at getting his point across, when he wanted to. The fact that he could not speak to them made things trickier, but he had long ago learned how to communicate in other ways.
The little mouse scurried off on its way. Sebastian sat in his chair and waited. He would not have been surprised if it did not return - it had been given a rather complex request. Several others had failed before it, but Marchand-Renier was not accustomed to losing, and he saw no reason to become so now.
“We are small but we are many... we are many, we are small,” Marchand-Renier murmured to himself, now for the challenge of remembering it more than anything else. “We were here before you rose, we will be here when you fall.”
How did the rest of it go? Something about nerveses? Which was cheating, in Sebastian’s opinion, since nerveses wasn’t a word. He’d always hated the thing when he was a child, but now it seemed so deliciously applicable. Vedarrak was worried about Professor Theroux and Professor Carter, not the lunatic and the vermin he kept in his cages.
There was a slight scraping noise. Sebastian was pulled out of his thoughts, quickly kneeling on the floor to search for the source of the sound.
The mouse had come back, and it was holding something thin and metal in its mouth. Sebastian held out his hand, curbing his enthusiasm so as not to frighten the little creature. The mouse obligingly let him pick it up. He offered it the rest of the food, which it showed some mild interest in, and picked up what it had dropped as it nibbled on a piece of bread.
“Clever little thing.” Sebastian smiled darkly. It had sniffed out Carter’s lockpicks, just as he had asked. Vedarrak had confiscated them, along with anything else he had thought might be dangerous, but it seemed there were some things he wasn’t able to defend against. The mouse had only been able to carry one back, but for someone as skilled as Carter, even the handle would be enough.
Sebastian twirled the piece of metal in his fingers, letting the moonlight glint off of it, petting the mouse gently as he chanted softly to himself. “We have eyes and we have nerveses, we have tails, we have teeth... you’ll all get what you deserveses, when we rise from underneath.”
“Oh yes, Vedarrak,” Marchand-Renier whispered harshly. “You’ll get what you deserve.”
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
It was an idyllic vision, the little room lit only by a single candle, and the moonlight spilling from a small window. From the room below, Mandisa’s father snored away, and insects chirped outside the window, sounds that provided a counterpoint to the rustling of pages. Mandisa lay on her bed, reading a somewhat dog-eared old book, occasionally licking a finger to turn the pages. On the outside, it was peaceful, calm, normal…
…on the inside, however, Cavendish’s mind was nowhere near so pleasant. The creature that wore the Akiri girl’s form possessed a mind like a pile of broken glass, a twisted mind at once beautiful and unmistakably broken. Had he been inclined to the arts, Cavendish could have been famed throughout the Core. Had he been inclined to humanitarian causes, they would have named hospitals after him. But Cavendish’s fractured, sharp-edged mind focused elsewhere, and so the necromancer considered himself one of the foremost artisans of practical horror, despite some rather stiff competition.
It was while on page 219 that one of the twisted mirrors of Cavendish’s mind lit up, reflecting the flow of healing energy into the hapless girl. The impostor put aside his book and focused on the spell-connection in his mind. Quite aside from letting Cavendish enjoy his victim’s throbbing pain despite being physically quite distant, it also had the practical effect of informing him that Mandisa had been found and magically healed. How those imbeciles had managed to acquire cloaking magic as powerful as they did, Cavendish couldn’t fathom. But there were ways to work around it, and… yes, healing magic indeed.
This was the wonderful thing about heroes, Cavendish had found. They were so very predictable. The thought that by healing the poor, tortured girl they’d just informed their worst enemy of their location and status likely never crossed their mind.
I would have preferred to have had more time to work on Tomas, but no help for it. Cavendish shook his head regretfully and closed the book. He’d have to find out if the mad barber got away with it later. The necromancer sent out the call to his minions. Awaken, my slaves, and hurry to your places. It’s… showtime.
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The necromancer was almost out of the door when he was interrupted. Of all the times…
“Mandisa? Where are you going?” Mandisa’s father asked, wondering why his somewhat air-headed daughter was running off in the middle of the night.
“I’m running away.” Cavendish said coldly, with malice aforethought. “I’m tired of living here, and I’m tired of you. One of the soldiers asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
“What?!?” The old man looked as if he was about to drop dead of apoplexy. Cavendish was pleased when he didn’t. Live people were more fun to torment. “You would dare sell yourself out to one of those… those butchers?!”
“Is it my fault Franz treats me better than you ever did?” Cavendish asked, making up the name out of thin air. “I’m leaving, father, and you can’t stop me.”
While Mandisa’s father was still sputtering, Cavendish ducked out of the door and ran for an alleyway. By the time the old man came rushing after his wayward daughter, the Necromancer had disappeared from sight.
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A few blocks later, Cavendish chuckled to himself. It was the little things in life that were important, the necromancer figured. Certainly he knew that many of the grand monsters of the Core would find sabotaging the relationship between a girl and her family beneath them, but really, if one couldn’t savor the small joys of life, what point was there to living?
Cavendish had walked only two steps when an even better idea entered his twisted, torturous corkscrew of a mind. What if… he were to murder Mandisa’s father, then transform him into a Lebendtod? Then when she returned… give the girl control of her parent. Who was no longer alive, but looked alive, and who would obey her every command but be unable to give her any love, any affection.
Even chance the girl would commit suicide, or else go utterly mad trying to recreate her old life. Possibly if she was particularly strong-willed, she might destroy her monstrous parent. Cavendish almost turned around and headed back, until reality intruded. Lebendtod took days to create, and the necromancer was on a time schedule. Curses… well, this is what I get for not planning ahead.
Still, it was too good idea to drop. Perhaps when he got back to the Core he could run some experiments. How did people react to having their family and loved ones turned into placid, undead drones, and then being granted control of the aforementioned mockeries of all that they once loved? Cavendish made a mental note to investigate the possible human reactions in this. Didn’t the Lamordian with glasses have a wife somewhere…?
Either way, something to do later. Cavendish put it from his mind, and hurried through the night-time streets.
…on the inside, however, Cavendish’s mind was nowhere near so pleasant. The creature that wore the Akiri girl’s form possessed a mind like a pile of broken glass, a twisted mind at once beautiful and unmistakably broken. Had he been inclined to the arts, Cavendish could have been famed throughout the Core. Had he been inclined to humanitarian causes, they would have named hospitals after him. But Cavendish’s fractured, sharp-edged mind focused elsewhere, and so the necromancer considered himself one of the foremost artisans of practical horror, despite some rather stiff competition.
It was while on page 219 that one of the twisted mirrors of Cavendish’s mind lit up, reflecting the flow of healing energy into the hapless girl. The impostor put aside his book and focused on the spell-connection in his mind. Quite aside from letting Cavendish enjoy his victim’s throbbing pain despite being physically quite distant, it also had the practical effect of informing him that Mandisa had been found and magically healed. How those imbeciles had managed to acquire cloaking magic as powerful as they did, Cavendish couldn’t fathom. But there were ways to work around it, and… yes, healing magic indeed.
This was the wonderful thing about heroes, Cavendish had found. They were so very predictable. The thought that by healing the poor, tortured girl they’d just informed their worst enemy of their location and status likely never crossed their mind.
I would have preferred to have had more time to work on Tomas, but no help for it. Cavendish shook his head regretfully and closed the book. He’d have to find out if the mad barber got away with it later. The necromancer sent out the call to his minions. Awaken, my slaves, and hurry to your places. It’s… showtime.
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The necromancer was almost out of the door when he was interrupted. Of all the times…
“Mandisa? Where are you going?” Mandisa’s father asked, wondering why his somewhat air-headed daughter was running off in the middle of the night.
“I’m running away.” Cavendish said coldly, with malice aforethought. “I’m tired of living here, and I’m tired of you. One of the soldiers asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
“What?!?” The old man looked as if he was about to drop dead of apoplexy. Cavendish was pleased when he didn’t. Live people were more fun to torment. “You would dare sell yourself out to one of those… those butchers?!”
“Is it my fault Franz treats me better than you ever did?” Cavendish asked, making up the name out of thin air. “I’m leaving, father, and you can’t stop me.”
While Mandisa’s father was still sputtering, Cavendish ducked out of the door and ran for an alleyway. By the time the old man came rushing after his wayward daughter, the Necromancer had disappeared from sight.
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A few blocks later, Cavendish chuckled to himself. It was the little things in life that were important, the necromancer figured. Certainly he knew that many of the grand monsters of the Core would find sabotaging the relationship between a girl and her family beneath them, but really, if one couldn’t savor the small joys of life, what point was there to living?
Cavendish had walked only two steps when an even better idea entered his twisted, torturous corkscrew of a mind. What if… he were to murder Mandisa’s father, then transform him into a Lebendtod? Then when she returned… give the girl control of her parent. Who was no longer alive, but looked alive, and who would obey her every command but be unable to give her any love, any affection.
Even chance the girl would commit suicide, or else go utterly mad trying to recreate her old life. Possibly if she was particularly strong-willed, she might destroy her monstrous parent. Cavendish almost turned around and headed back, until reality intruded. Lebendtod took days to create, and the necromancer was on a time schedule. Curses… well, this is what I get for not planning ahead.
Still, it was too good idea to drop. Perhaps when he got back to the Core he could run some experiments. How did people react to having their family and loved ones turned into placid, undead drones, and then being granted control of the aforementioned mockeries of all that they once loved? Cavendish made a mental note to investigate the possible human reactions in this. Didn’t the Lamordian with glasses have a wife somewhere…?
Either way, something to do later. Cavendish put it from his mind, and hurried through the night-time streets.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."