Café de Nuit

Port d'Elhour, the Church of Ezra:

You were roused from your beds earlier than you might have expected. The whole Church was in a sudden uproar, the reason for which you were not told as a group of Anchorites respectfully - but firmly - marched you through the corridors. The reason became visible soon enough, however; doors to Anchorites' cells thrown open, showing you that some of their occupants had the faces of people haunted by nightmares as well as bleeding wounds that faded with the dawn. Others were being laid out, their faces contorted by terror, the wounds that slew them in their sleep not fading with the light.

The office of Sentire Lefebvre was no different from the last time you had been welcomed into it. It was still opulently appointed, full of lavish luxuries. But there was one thing different; a new piece of furniture had been added to chamber.

Dark and unlovely, the stone table stood in the very center of the room. Its top was carved around with runes of warding, and that was the only thing about it that was at all sophisticated. A faint hum seems to emanate from the table, only barely audible. The sound of power. Lying on the table's surface are... candles, partially burnt.

"I had this moved from the Church's store room," Sentire Lefebvre says once pleasantries and greetings have been exchanged. The high priest of Ezra for Souragne looks more haggard than he did yesterday, his eyes red with lack of sleep. "It is a thing confiscated from the house of a wizard who flouted the local laws against arcane magic and... disappeared." For a moment, the Sentire's mouth twists in distaste. In contract, Anchorite Greenleaf, who smirks with what looks like triumph.

"The table is warded to keep whatever power is innate to what is placed on it confined to the circle drawn by the runes," the Elf picks up from the Sentire. "It will be moved to a secure chamber in a while, but the Sentire wished for you to see this so you could be... informed." Now it is Greenleaf's mouth that twists in distaste.

"These candles were taken from several rooms after last night's disturbance," Lefebvre explains, tactfully saying nothing about the fact that people were dealt actual bleeding wounds in their sleep. "One of the Anchorites said he smelled something strange in the corridor outside your rooms, and... Well. We have analyzed your rooms top to bottom, as well as some other chambers." The Sentire breathes in deeply, then breathes out again. His eyebrows draw down in an unhappy expression. "It would seem that many of our candles have been laced with a magical poison. Someone attacked the Church of Ezra last night, and you suffered alongside us. Ten of my Anchorites are... dead. Another has succumbed to madness."

"I had thought to question the Church's Candle Knave," Greenlead says in a cool tone of voice, "but she appears to have vanished sometime early last evening. If I might wager a guess..."

Lefebvre raises one finger, but Greenleaf subsides, though he glowers at you for seeing him upbraided by his superior.

"This is a deliberate assault on Ezra's stronghold in Port d'Elhour," the Sentire says in a firm voice. "I must assume it means that whoever or whatever is behind the drought and the disruption of all magic to gather water intends to step up their plans to drive Ezra's faith out of Souragne. Please, I must urge you to therefore step up your investigation. A carriage awaits you in the courtyard, ready to take you to Marais d'Tarascon. I offer you this."

The Sentire hands you a sealed envelope, made of thick, creamy parchment, and sealed with the sign of Ezra in red wax.

"Give this to the chief Anchorite at Ezra's Church in Marais d'Tarascon," the Sentire says. "She is a woman of great faith and strength. Her name is Elisabeta Gugoine. It is my request to her to give you all the help she can. In the coach, you will also find a pouch containing fifty pieces of gold, to make purchases in Marais d'Tarascon as you require."

Very tactfully, the Sentire avoids mentioning the possible necessity of bribes.

"Unless you have any other requests to make of us," the Sentire says, bowing his prematurely greying head, "then please do so swiftly. I must see to the warding of our shrine, so that our dead Anchorites may be laid out in according with Souragnien law, but none may abuse their bodies. After that, I need to select a new Candle Knave. After that, I must review and revise the Church's security... There is so much to do, and so little time! Please, you must hurry."

Somewhere:

"You were told to keep a low profile. Using all of the poisoned candles at once is wasteful and serves no good purpose. You have achieved nothing and I can not afford to send you any new ones soon."

The voice issuing from the glowing mirror is cold and unemotional, controlled exquisitely by the mind that commands it. The voice of the person crouching before that mirror in the darkened room is far less so; it creaks and breaks with the strength of its emotion: "I had to! I had to! The fool called in help from the Core! Brigands, mercenaries, even a piece of Souragnien street scum! I have to hurry, so little time remains!"

"Control yourself," the voice from the mirror says. It is not contemptuous, but it is condescending. "There is no more help for Sentire Lefebvre, nor for any of his loyal Anchorites. Soon, they will be driven from this place in disgrace, and the experiment will reach its conclusion."

"But those mercenaries," the one in front of the mirror protests. "They could ruin everything, if they start poking around! Don't you see, I had to do something, had to hurry while they were still here, asleep in the Church. I need time, I need more time to make Her real! I have to! Have to!"

"Preposterous," the voice from the mirror scoffs. "It is impossible for mere hirelings to fathom the depths of the plans I have wrought in this pitiful little land. The plan is moving well ahead of schedule. Even with such token opposition as arranged by Lefebvre, I am unconcerned. Soon, the critical amount will be reached, and my plan will be completed."

"But what of my needs?" howls the one facing the mirror. Thin hands reach out and grasp the mirror's icy frame, shaking it as if they clutch at a living throat. "Once the Anchorites are all back in the Core, how am I supposed to finish my work? I cannot act as freely in the grand cathedrals of the Core, security is much tighter there!"

"The voyage over sea will provide you ample opportunities," the voice from the mirror says. "Better ones than the current situation. However, I am not wholly insensitive to your plight. Also, I have no desire for mercenaries to fumble their way around my stronghold. There is the off chance that they will blunder unto something dangerous, or that one of those weaklings will try to make use of them."

There is a brief silence, as the one in front of the mirror gulps at the air and occasionally sobs. Then, the cold voice from the mirror's depths speaks again: "I will send the first of the Failures to meet these mercenaries. At the very least, it will delay them a bit more. If the Failure manages to redeem itself, it will kill one or two of them."

"What should I do in the meantime?" the one before the mirror asks.

"Proceed as we have planned," the cold voice replies. "Kill the Anchorites and the Voodan by small groups. Do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself, but keep the rabble off-balance and afraid. Fear breeds the need for assurance, and the need for assurance is a door for dark faith. I have verified the theory, and it serves us both well."

The mirror goes dark, and the attitude of the one before it changes completely. From one moment to the other, the crouching and the spasms of emotion disappear as completely as if they never existed. A narrow hand brushes across the mirror, which starts to glow again. But this time, its glow is a deep scarlet, like a doorway into a forge. Or a Hell.

"He will send one of the Failures," the one before the mirror says to the one within the glass. "Here is what I want you to do."

Vincent mostly stares at the Sentire, with sleepy eyes. In his left hand a glass with some form of alcohol taken from the Sentire's cabinet. In preperation of the journey he packed and re-ordened his stuff. Being woken up early by overactive Anchorites has not improved his mood either. He managed to insult one of the Anchorites to the point where the man, already under a lot of stress, would have gone for his throat if not for his faith and standing next to the Sentire's room.

The horrible situation has not gone unnoticed on him. Many of the faces he has just seen were, probably, innocent men and women. Some will probably never recover. Nevertheless, Vincent shows absolutely no outward emotions upon witnessing the suffering, nor on the comments made by the Sentire. He sips his drinks and stares with sleepy eyes, yawning clearly now and again. He smiles at Greenleaf's reaction and looks at him.

At the last question of the Sentire Vincent feebly raises his free hand. "I have a question" he asks while yawning "would you have some kind of extra help available for me monsieur Lefebvre? I do not know how long we will be in the Marais, but I would very much appreciate it if someone could help me with my chest. It's quite heavy you see and I would like to bring it along. Especially after last night's ordeal I would feel better keeping my possessions closer to my own personal person. Me." He says with exagerated use of his free hand and sounding feeble.

He does not take the note the Sentire has written. Apparently he expects someone else to take it.

OOC: Yay, new topic.

Zumba looks very concerned as the group is led to the sentire's office.
"Dear maiden of the swamp, lady of beauty and compassion, help us all" he mutters to himself several times as he shakes his head in desbelief.

"Now I believe what has happened last night!" He looks at Goren, hoping to feel a kindred emotion. He listens very attentively to the sentire, fully aware of the brusqueness they are being dealt with. He understands the motives too.

He studies the elf, but fails to understand his motives. As the sentire mentions the Candle Knave, he notices that Greenleaf wanted to say something, so he adds when Lefebvre finishes

"this Candle Knave, what does she do? And when did you notice she was gone?"

He is ready to leave. He easily carries all his belongings on his person.

Edit: "how did you notice ---> when did you notice"

Goren listens to the Sentire. "Sweet Mother! So this Candle Maiden is responsible for my bizarre dream? How pitiful to work evil in this way.
Her time shall come, I am sure. Sentire, you are saying this Elizabeta is it? She will help us?"

Sentire Lefebvre listens to Vincent's request and nods graciously. "I understand. Gaston, please see to it," he says to the Elven Anchorite. Greenleaf blinks, his mouth twists, but he bows to the Sentire and starts to depart the room.

When Zumba asks his questions, however, the Elf stops and turns, eyes practically blazing. A smile graces his face, and Sentire Lefebvre sighs. "Her disappearance was noticed just this morning," he says, reluctantly, "after we realized that the candles were the source of the... disturbance of last night. I find it difficult to believe that Marri would be responsible for such an act. She always seemed a kindhearted girl..."

"She is a Souragnien native, much like yourself, monsieur Zumba," Greenleaf purrs. "Perhaps she has decided that her loyalties should lie with L'Homme Broché, rather than with the Church that fed, clothed and paid her for her services in buying, replacing and tending our candles. I certainly do not see a more likely suspect. And there was another interesting wrinkle, which I have reported to the good Sentire."

Greenleaf looks at Lefebvre, his eyes half-closed. "Surely these worthy men should be informed of what was discovered, Sentire," he says. "They are meant to be running an investigation, after all."

Lefebvre sighs, then nods with obvious reluctance.

"One of our Anchorites heard in the market that young Marri's grand-pêre worked for seigneur LaPasse as house servant," Greenleaf reports. "That nobleman's house was attacked by zombies, as you may recall. I have been to the local cemetary to enquire, and upon closer investigation, it seems that the old man was not among the dead. It suggests something, does it not?"

When Goren speaks, Sentire Lefebvre nods with more enthusiasm. "She is my counterpart in Marais d'Tarascon," he confirms, "the head of Ezra's church in that part of Souragne. The Home Faith has not seen fit to award her a title higher than Anchorite, but she is well-thought of by the locals, and I personally admire her faith and charity. You may rely on her, I promise you. Elisabeta Gugoine is a good woman and a worthy priestess."

Greenleaf mutters something under his breath.

(OOC: Listen check, DC 15.)

"It's good thing we're doing the investigation monsieur Greenleaf" Vincent says lazily without looking at him "and not you".

"You have only said one fact in your story. And that is if I take your word for it". He waits a moment and then turns around looking intently at Greenleaf "You're an elf right? I mean, you have the ears, you have the build and clearly the arrogance of one. Were you born here? Were you born in the church or in the street? Who were your parents? Where are they now? What does it matter whether the girl was born here or not? You have elf-blood" he says pointing at him "it means I can't trust you!" he adds.
He then turns to Zumba "oh wait" he exagerates in surprise, flailing hands in the air "i'm investigating this case with ..... a native!" his eyes big. "I cannot trust him" he adds theatrically.
He turns back to the Elf looking bored "you speak unwisely for someone who claims to be helping the people. Your more intent in condoning them. Which automatically means anything you say is biased, right?"

"One of your Anchorites has overheard in the market that her grand-père worked at the LaPasse résidence?" stressing certain words. "please come with facts, monsieur Greenleaf." he sighs.
"You trusted this candle-girl and now you don't trust her. Yet you seem to trust another member of the church. What, he or she isn't a native? Shouldn't everyone be under suspicion after the last events?" he adds. "Overheard a conversation at the market? Well" he drawls "the one place where the worst rumors in the world find their existance and you seem to accept it as fact, since you can't find her grand-père's tombstone on the graveyard and are pointing guilt in her direction.".
"Has anyone checked if she even has family?" he asks
"Don't get me wrong, monsieur Greenleaf, she might still be the one who did it, but you are already getting to conclusions based on the only fact, that you haven't seen her since this morning..."
Vincent gives monsieur Greenleaf a mock grin, and it looks as if he finally successfully vented some frustration of this morning's rough awakening and probably monsieur Greenleaf attitude since he's met him.

OOC: Listen 11

Zumba is going to respond at Greenleaf's sarcastic comments, but then Vincent interrupts and Zumba's eyes widen in amazement at what the noble says. At the end, he feels an enormous gratitude in his heart, surprised that under the foppish and vain appearance there seemed to be real mettle. Zumba turns to the elf and simply says, holding the staff fimrly on the ground.

"What the man said.", nodding at Vincent. Although the phrase doesn't make much sense, his attitude makes the meaning clear: he fully supports him.

Suddenly, Goren feels the magic of the Sentire's language spell fail. Luckily he has been learning this language, but is far from fluent
in what they call Mordentish. I will have to get by with what I am learning and with time, get by with the others. Maybe I can put some effort into learning this Souragne language as well. For now I look forward to meeting this woman the Sentire speaks highly of. If what he says is true, then with her aid we can proceed.

For a moment, Greenleaf's face goes red with fury... and then, abruptly, he smiles. "Oh, very good, monsieur," he says. "The Home Faith did send someone with an analytical mind, didn't they just? And to answer some of your questions, yes, I am an Elf. I come from Darkon. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall see about having your luggage stowed."

Chuckling quietly, Greenleaf departs the Sentire's study.

Lefebvre shakes his head at the Elf's back. "Gaston is a devout worshiper of Our Lady," he says once Greenleaf has departed. "He has taken this... this war against our presence in Souragne very badly. I must ask you to forgive him his attitude towards the Voodan and the native Souragniens. I will not go into details, but he has had some very unfortunate experiences with both. But still, he labours for the Church, helping us to spread Ezra's good message.

Come, I will take you to the carriage if you have no further needs that must be met. Who will carry the introductory letter?"

Vincent frowns at Gaston's reaction and apparently even taken aback for moment. "That was odd" he mumbles.
He looks at the Zumba and Goren, a questioning look on his face. Wondering if they saw the same thing, that very sudden change in stance by Greenleaf.
"Oh well" he sighs "I might as well get some sleep in the carriage."he adds.
He turns to the Sentire "thank you for your hospitality" and he bows graciously.
Not thinking about the note and expecting someone else to pick it up, he leaves and heads outside towards the carriage.

Goren answers "Maybe ... one one .... who is of the worshipping Ezra.... one worships can lift.... no ... hold....
,,,,,,, put? Someone cleric ....... hold letter. Yes a priest hold letter."

Hearing Goren's reply, Vincent turns around before leaving.
"Impressive, talking that way in just a day. You must be talented."

"Anyway, you're a priest apparently. You take it. Try reading it, might help in your endeavors." he smiles and then walks away.

When he sees the others ignoring the note, Zumba stretches his hand to the Sentire, takes it and then leaves for the carriage.

"Let's go then, lots to do in Marais d' Tarascon!" he cries to the others.

Port d'Elhour ==> Marais de Tarascon:

The four-horse carriage with Ezra's sword-and-shield on the door, arranged for you by the kind Anchorites of Ezra is... It would be kindest to say that it is solidly built. An unkind person might use the phrase 'rolling coffin'. You have barely stepped into the vehicle before you feel sweat pouring down your backs. The air just does not circulate in here, and the windows are covered by thick curtains.

Your coachman - a slender man in a white cotton shirt and leather boots and breaches - is apparently in a hurry; barely have you closed the carriage's doors, or he cracks the whip and you're off! Those of you who know animals might take some umbrage to the pace the coachman sets; with this oppressive heat, this can't be healthy for the horses.

There is a bag of gold in the carriage, as promised by the Sentire. Indeed, the contents were almost all over the floor when the carriage took off like that. What is not there, unfortunately, is a chilled drinks bar. As the sun rises over Souragne, the sweltering heat only grows worse. Breathing is becoming too much like drinking soup.

If you look out the coach's windows, you can see the edge of the swamp to your right. The border of brush and waterside plants, usually verdant and green, is wilting in the unnatural heat. Without that screen, you can see the brown and green muck. Even for Zumba, it looks unhealthy. The water level is steadily receding, and there is one reason to be grateful that the carriage windows are closed; this way, you can't smell the bog.

(OOC: Goren, make a Spot check, DC 15.)

Marais de Tarascon ==> Port d'Elhour:

'Find them, find them!'

Over and over again, filling your mind.

'La Rue des Tristepas, find them, find them!'

From the moment Jazelle woke up, the Voice was there, hissing its orders. But did she really wake up? This did not feel like being awake.

'Find them, find them, then cometomecometomecometomeee~!'

The Voice, hissing, whispering, filling the front of her mind until her thoughts had no room. But as time went on, it grew steadily fainter. The rising sun, which managed to turn the sweltering of night into an even worse heat, finally made the Voice shut up. It drifted away like the feeble night breezes, a whisper that grew more and more distant until it was just... gone.

Jazelle finds herself back, not in the inn where she went to sleep, but crouched in the bushes by the side of La Rue des Tristepas, the long road that connects Souragne's three major settlements. The bricks are not as even as they used to be, and gloom hangs heavily over the cobblestones. It is as if the sorrow of all the workers who died to make this road is lingering like a ghost. To Jazelle's left, the great swamp festers. The stench is incredible; with the terrible heat slowly baking the water out of the swamp, things left long-buried are rising to the surface. Flies and mosquitoes cluster above the swamp already.

As if the departure of the Voice were a signal to these flying annoyances, they now start to buzz over to Jazelle. Their droning is almost enough to drown out the rest of the sounds in this sweltering morning world. Almost.

From somewhere ahead comes the rattling of carriage wheels. You can not see the vehicle yet, but you can hear its approach. There are other sounds as well, guttural murmurs from a little further ahead. A hulking shape starts to rise from the brush, but a dry voice, like the sound of snakeskin crumbling, calls it back.

(OOC: Jazelle, make a Listen check DC15.)

The heat quickly becomes too much for Vincent. The handkerchief he uses to dab his brow and neck is drenched. The heavy breathing and closed confinement give him a sense of being trapped.
"This is quite an unappreciated ride" he rumbles. His head has turned red from the heat. He reaches for the door to open it, even if it is still riding. "Some moving air should cool us a little bit."