Café de Nuit

You set off from the island and follow the band of zombies at a distance -- a prudent distance. Papa Doc seems to be no more eager to get close to the groaning corpses than any of you are.

The swamp glides by as you advance, and you all notice the silence. Especially Zumba knows that the swamp should be alive with sounds; insects buzzing, frogs croaking, unseen things splashing in the water. Instead, there is a silence that grows more oppressive by the moment, until it seems to press against your skulls. The faint sloshing of the oars and the awkward struggles and 'Aaaarrrww-ing of the zombies seem distant. Even the sound of your own breathing is like the pathetic scrabbling of a walled-in prisoner.

A fog starts to rise from the fetid water, increasing the sensation of pressure, that the world is growing smaller and smalle. You see the zombies as lumbering silhouettes now, which is probably a mercy considering their appearance. Leafless trees suddenly loom out of the mist like the reaching hands of skeletal undead. You only see a little part of the dark water - directly underneath and around the raft. The sky is hidden.

Is it so strange that you don't notice the others right away?

But in the end, you do. Oh yes, you do; where hearing fails, scent carries the day. The stench of rot, already heavy in the wake of the zombies you are pursuing, grows stronger. Two times, three times. Ten times.

Out of the fog and the silence, they shamble. Woodsmen cut down by accidents; limbs hacked by axes, backs bent and broken by falling trees, faces bloated and blackened by the poison of spider, snake or bug. Townsmen and goodwives, their wrinkled faces and white hair attesting to high age, the rotting whites of their eyes a testament to their deaths. Here marches a seinjeur, his fancy coat tattered and rotting along with his face. There plods a slave, his back a mass of scars, his stomach a mass of erupting sores.

They walk by your sides, they march along in your wake, they are in front of you. As you watch left and right, some of them break the surface of the befouled water. Dead alligators -- nowhere near the size of the 'bayou dragon' you saw before, but big enough -- float in and out of sight like monstrous logs. Smaller creatures ride their backs; rabbits with empty eye sockets; dogs with sagging, shredded bellies; predator and prey, united in death and torn out of death's embrace by foul magic.

'Aaaarrwww. Aaaarrwww. Aaaarrwww.' The moaning of the obedient dead overpowers the small sounds of the water, it overpowers the sound of your ragged breathing. It does not break the silence. Each voice is like a pebble, falling into a bottomless well. Black water is sucking at all of you, its depths deny your existence, your life -- and the zombies' undeath.

As you watch, as you advance, you see the zombies struggle more and more. Their limbs jerk, their bodies spasm, but they grow slower, weaker -- until he appears, striding out of the fog to your left. He must have been a powerful man in life, tall and strong. He is still tall, but rot has exposed his muscle, has stolen his face and sent all his hair flying to the four winds. Leather armour wraps around a figure that was much bulkier before its fat was gnawed by death beetles, and a black wand is clutched in a mostly skeletal fist.

"Aaaarwww~!"

The tall zombie's voice is more acute than the moaning of his 'kinsmen', more aware somehow. As the undead creature raises the wand, its end starts to pulse with a pale, ghastly glow. It reminds you of St. Elmus Fire, that light -- and the other zombies respond to it. Their stride becomes more sure, their voices grow louder, keener. As the tall zombie waves its wand, the undead start to gather in its wake. And as they gather, they also come closer to you.

So far, none of the undead have responded to your presence.

So far.

Lucien blanches at the nightmarish, surreal sight. For a moment, panic rushes through him, and he wishes that his father would come to his bedroom and consoling tell the crying child that this was all a bad dream and that dreams can't hurt us. With effort, he regains his composure, and he uses his senses to get a better idea of what is truly happening.

A moment later, all on the raft -- with the exception of Papa Doc -- hear the pedantic voice of the mysterious "Claude" once again. My apologies for startling you, gentlemen. We are clearly not a good situation, are we? Lucien has requested that I again reach out to you and offer my services for covert communication. Any utterance other than, oh, 'Urrrr' would likely make you more noticeable to the undead than you already are. If you wish to speak to anyone, concentrate and direct your message to me, silently. I will relay it to the appropriate person. Note that I have not included 'Papa Doc.' He may not appreciate my knack for subtlety.

______________________________
Rock: I may be stretching the use of Claude's telepathy slightly. If so, I hope you'll indulge me in this extreme instance.
Lucien expends 1 pp to manifest empathy. If the "leader" is outside the 30-foot range, let me know; Lucien will augment the power until it is in range.

(OOC: I have no trouble with indulging you, but as everything in Ravenloft, it comes at a price! Lucien, roll a Horror save, DC 15. You will get the following information regardless the result of your check.)

The wand-wielder is well within range. When he reaches his thoughts out to the undead creature to gauge its emotions, Lucien finds his mind assaulted by the most indescribable sensation of wrongness. It is like putting your hand in what you expected to be cool water, and to instead discover it is liquid sewage. The half-elf feels as if he has immersed his mind in filth, and darkness is clawing at his soul.

The creature is more aware than a zombie should be; it actually has feelings, has a mind of sorts, though it is a crude one. Foremost in that mind is Urgency. The creature has something it Must do, and as soon as possible. Closely tied to that Urgency is something not unlike a homing instinct. It is not difficult to puzzle out that the undead must do something and go somewhere. There are flickerings of other emotions, even of desires -- anger, pride, the desire to inflict pain -- but they are secondary to the main task.

In the beginning Vincent was happily humming while following the trail of zombies. However, as the silence the gathers he stops humming. He still stands confident, loaded crossbow in his hand, keeping a watchful eye.
As the view of the masses unfolds itself Vincent doesn't move, his eyes hastily try to see, going swiftly left and right and down to the water.
His nose twitches at the incredilbly foul smell. "By Ezra" he thinks "this is too horrible a smell". He grabs his handkerchief in the vain chance it might help against the smell, but the moist of the handkerchief has taken hold of the smell already.

He looks around, knowing that if the horde changes its attention to them, they won't get out alive. He is shocked as again 'Claude' speaks to them and almost fires of a bolt. He had almost forgotten about this 'Claude'. Not a good moment. "No time for panick" he whispers to himself "relax" and lets out a long sigh.

Vincent focuses on the new arrival who seems to be 'motivating the zombies'. He slowly raises his crossbow, ready to aim and fire if things should go wrong, on, what seems to be, their leader. He looks to the others to see if they noticed.

Lucien's eyes go wide as he stares at the apparent leader of the undead horde. In your minds, you hear Claude's suddenly fearful "voice": Lucien... no! NO! Sever the contact!

The half-elf staggers back a step. Without looking, he reaches out and places a hand on Zumba's shoulder, as though desperately needing support. After a moment, he straightens up, but his eyes still have that wild, wide stare. It NEEDS to go somewhere.... You now hear Lucien's telepathic voice, apparently relayed by Claude. It has a mind, but it's overwhelmed by a need -- a desperate need -- to be someplace particular. Now. Vile... dark... disgusting... so disgusting.... You see Lucien shake his head, as though hoping to dislodge the sensations now burned into his mind.

Zumba sits mute and apprehensive as they row with the zombies. Then, when the fog falls and they finally notice the others, he is overwhelmed by a very deep sensation of fear. A kind of fear stronger than any he felt before. He had feared the lash, he had feared being caught in any kind of fault by his lord, or by the slave-master. He had known the anguish of escaping the huts at night to practice the dance and fight at the roda, knowing full well that if he was caught he would be killed on the spot... and he had felt fear, everytime the old wives told tales of the walking dead while he was young... or the tales of death on rainy days.

But now he felt the fear of being caught a hundred times! He sat deep on the canoe while rowing, trying to keep as silent and as mute as he had never been. There was no point in denying the fear, that is what proves men from boys, and heroes from cowards. He had no desire to be a hero, but sure as death, a coward he was not! This was the moment to keep his mind active and alert so that every energy could be brought together for the fight at the right moment.

Then Claude spoke, and he passively let the words register. He wouldn't let this Claude distract him from his concentration, but in his state of mind, he could easily accept his advice and let it merge in flux with his emotions. Already he heard the drums and berimbaus in his mind, already he recalled all the lessons and fights he had had since his childhood. Although he could see the old masters dancing in his mind's eye. When the moment would come, he would be ready.

A prayer raised in his mind to Ovun Burundir and the Maiden.

Goren is not nervous. Moreover, the priest is trying to control the urge he has to unleash himself on these foul undead. "Easy... easy.... breath... no sense in getting us all killed, man. Relax........." He mutters to himself, his fists clenched so tight, his fingernails nearly pierce his skin. When Claude speaks in his head he exhales loudly for that surprised him. In his head, he speaks to this Claude, for mental intrusion, to him, without his permission or even a warning was an intrusion to his own privacy or well, mind if it were.

Souragnien Claude. You speak mind, make me very non comfort zone. I appreciation if not do it unless ask me first through Lucien. Mine brain is mine private place. I not know you, I no know what else you see in my mind. I happy if you respecting my minds space, yes?

The wand-wielder utters his deathly, yet unpleasantly aware cries, and bit by bit, the other zombies form an eerie chorus of sorts.
"Uuuurrrww~," the leader croaks, and:
"Aaaaarrrww~," the rest of the zombies moan, their many voices coming as one.

Bit by bit, the other zombies fall in step with their leader as he marches on. Those ahead stop and part to let him through, then march behind him, every dead body moving perfectly in time -- and the surging mass of undead flesh is carrying you along. Zombies press in on your right, on your left, behind and in front, and the walls of grey, rotting flesh push the raft along. Papa Doc very cautiously and quietly lifts himself up from the canoe in front and comes scampering back to sit on the raft with the rest of you. None of the zombies gives any sign of realizing the old man is there - none of them give any sign of noticing that you are there; they just march.

The old man gives you all an unreadable look and a nod, gazes all around you and... shrugs. He lies down, his thin body taking up surprisingly little space, pillows his head on his arms and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he seems to be fast asleep.

The ghastly nightmare of a day continues. The heat swelters, the air is foul with the stench of decay, and slowly the light starts to dim. But it occurs to you that the zombies do not need to sleep -- their lack of a need for rest, their inability to grow tired and slow down, means that you have actually been making good time. The nightmarish concept of having to go on like this, cushioned between moaning, stinking corpses throughout the night, occurs to you.

But then, the horde stops as one. There is a brief sussurus of sound, that passes through the zombies; a noise of faint surprise and terrible hunger. From somewhere ahead, you can all hear a hideous screeching noise followed by snarling, and suddenly the zombies start to move again.

Rather than march forwards in one giant body, however, the zombies start to make space between each other. You realize they are staggering their troops, for a reason that soon becomes obvious when you hear the zip and twang of archers firing. Brief streaks of light that come arching down from the darkness overhead turn out to be arrows dipped in flaming pitch. The zombies move forward, moaning hungrily. Their new formation means the raft is not being pushed along for the moment, and you are free to get off if you so wish; the muck is apparently only ankle-deep here.

It sounds as if a battle has erupted at the head of the column...

(OOC: Wisdom checks to the tune of 12, please. Those who make the check recognize the fun noises you heard just before it started raining arrows.)

Goren's face grows worried as he realizes just what the sounds they heard up ahead are. He touches Zumba on the arm and talks in a low but urgent voice. Souragnien "Zumba... is.... is noise of battling.... animal beast hybrids manimals. I think not safe go that way. You living here as Souragnien, Papa Doc listening to you speaks. We not good idée va la bas*"

*Idée=Idea/ Va la bas=Go over there

Zumba does not understand what the sounds mean, but when the first attack wave comes, he immediately becomes worried that they are in the middle of the targets.

"We have to avoid the arrows, we have to get in safety."

Then Goren tells him that the sounds may be coming from the hybrids they fought before.

"Manbeasts? Then we're as unsafe there as here...."

A sudden realization dawns on him

"These zombies... it's the Lord of Dead that is controlling them, it's Souragne that's defending herself!"

He approaches Papa Doc, tries to wake him up and tells him what Goren said. Then he adds his theory.

"We should help the zombies! Or maybe look for a way to Chicken Bone."

Papa Doc opens an eye and listens to Zumba with surprising calm.

"Sounds good," the old man says. "Makes sense. Nona'a dese dead'uns gots stitches in their face. So. What'chou got in mind? Charge'a da light brigade?"

There may be just a hint of sarcasm in his creaky voice as he raps his knuckles against his wooden leg, then against the raft. "This en't no magic carpet. Youse wanna 'elp da zombies or git past, youse needs ta be faster'n Papa Doc's ole raft. Youse goan' haveta git off."

It takes a while before Vincent puts the puzzle together as he hears the battle at the front. He looks at the others. It seems Goren understands.
Suddenly Vincent jumps off the raft into the water and stands still for a moment, looking at the passing masses. He lowers his crossbow and chooses a corpse that is walking by. "Monsieur" he adresses the corpse loudly and giving it a push. He awaits to see the reaction. His heart is beating, the adrenaline pumping. This could go completely wrong, but then again it might be just what they need to know.

The trudging zombie staggers from Vincent's push -- and stops. The walking corpse, once a cook or a butcher, judging by its stained apron and the thick jowls of its grey face, turns to regard Vincent. Its mouth opens, displaying rotting teeth and a blackened tongue.

"Hrrruuuurr," the undead moans, extending fat, black-nailed hands to assault the living man who attacked it -- and dots of light suddenly flare into life in its empty eyes. From somewhere ahead, you hear an imperious "Aaaarrwww~!"

For a moment, the undead pauses, mindlessly regarding Vincent. Then it turns back on its original course and plods on, showing you all its broad back and the stake knife buried in it up to the hilt.

As the dead butcher turns to him apparently ready to attack Vincent, he takes a step back to raise his crossbow, for a moment fearing he had made the mistake of his life. Adrenaline pumping, the excitement of the unpredictable situation, but the zombie is called to attention.

Vincent turns to the others with a broad smile on his face. "So, now we know." he says, his heart still pounding. Vincent is loving the excitement, which also helps him overcome the fear of the horrible scene around them.
"Since these mindless dead seem to be on 'our' side, as you suggest Zumba" he says in a normal voice. "My suggestion is that we hit these hybrid creatures now that they are distracted with this horde.". Vincent's left hand is opening and then closing finger by finger into a fist again. Opening and closing finger by finger, clearly excited.

Zumba nods grimly.

"Yes, I think this is the battle we must win. These creatures are harming Souragne, we must hit them and hit them hard. And this time, I'll get the man in white..." he adds in a trailing voice.

"Does anyone want to use this sword?" he then offers around the silver sword they had once taken from their enemies.