Witches of Dryhope (IC)

[Ataraxian]

You finds the town different than you've remembered. Partly, you suppose, you've changed... but didn't the people used to be more cheerful, less tired-looking? Lunch in the inn is hard bread, a meat-and-turnip stew that seems to be mostly turnips, and a mug of sour, watery beer. The Crumsens, admittedly, were always skinflints, but such paltry fare suggests the harvests haven't been good lately.

What's more, neither Ezra nor his brother Eben are here to serve out the food (or, more to the point, greedily count up your silver). Linna Black is the one to let you inside and arrange for your bed and board-- an old friend of yours, as far as a knight's daughter can be friends with a farmer's. She's pleased to see you all grown up, and such a brave big sword and all, just like a real knight like you used to say you were going to be-- and what did you see in all them foreign lands? The king? Was he handsome? And so forth.

It's nearly ten minutes before she mentions where the Crumsen brothers have gone-- to make arrangements for their father's funeral. He died yesterday, after a sudden illness, and they're going to read the service over him tonight. "Master Eben said he was an old man and full time he'd left them both the money, but Master Ezra swore he was witched, ever since he turned Mother Hatch away from the door without food nor water at harvest-tide. It's true enough, the old man was hale enough beforehand, drank his beer like a champion, and then after that day he never was right anymore. Master Ezra said the Crumsens knew how to handle a witch, though. Are there witches in the west country, where you were?" And she's off again.

[Vladislav]

*Sigh* No, Linna, I haven't seen the King. He did humor me with a piece of correspondence once, the kind I don't wish upon my worst enemies.

Upon hearing news of the old man's death, Miralen feels something pinching at her heart. She could never tolerate the sons, but the father seemed a reasonably decent man - as decent as one can be while still making a healthy profit margin - and did a lot for the prosperity of the town. She wonders how things are going to be without him. Perhaps ... perhaps she should go and pay her respects? It's a small town after all, almost like a closely knit family.

Linna, she asks when the maid is back, do you know when is the funeral? I think I should drop by the house to say something. Might as well ask about those witches too. And, do you know if Ezra found a new object for his affections?

Miralen keeps her fingers crossed for a positive answer to the last question. Otherwise, she suspects it's going to a difficult afternoon. Regardless, she intends to head out for the funeral (if it's soon enough) or to the Crumsen house (if it's some time ahead).

[Ataraxian]

Getting Linna to gossip about the Crumsens hardly takes an effort... indeed, it would probably be harder to get her to stop. Ezra, unfortunately, hasn't managed to get himself married yet-- with his family's wealth, you'd have thought it would be easy, but his ambition always managed to outreach his influence, and of course there were... personal issues. While the Crumsens always used to live on the top floor of the inn, they're apparently moving up in the world. Linna tells you they bought Ryecroft farm last fall, after Rister Farrel was crushed by a haycart and his widow had to sell the property. Ryecroft is a good five miles from town, and with the evening coming on, you're better off heading straight to church.

The bell is tolling as you walk into the church. It's a modest stone building with little ornamentation besides the shattered statue of St. Dismar over the lintel, defaced by the Reformists when you were only a little girl. Inside, the spare wooden pews are filled with townsfolk, fidgeting and chatting about this and that.

Avram Crumsen is laid in a pinewood coffin in front of the altar. The Crumsens are sitting in the front row, as is Navar. The three strangers next to him must be Spectioners-- the brawny slab of a man wearing his sword inside the church has to be part of a militant order, his weapon a holy symbol that never leaves his side. His companion, short and bookish-looking, is presumably some kind of clerk. You can't place the third, a lean grey-clad woman with an ugly scar down one cheek.

As you take your place next to Navar, you can hear them talking among themselves. "Someone has to keep vigil for him," says Ezra Crumsen. "The witches killed him, and if they can take his body the first night he's buried, it'll be a powerful charm for them."
"Then you should arrange a guard yourself!" The clerk seems impatient. "We have other work for tonight."
"Surely you can spare just one--"
"Do you see an army of us? I would gladly send for more troops to clear this place of fiendish influences, but we are stretched too thin as it is. I need all the strength I can get tonight-- if there were any others in this village who knew which end of a sword was which, I would ask them to come with us."

The conversation is interrupted by Reverend Carter announcing the hymn-- "Amid the shadows light is sown"-- but you have the feeling it will start up again as soon as the service is over. And you can see the look on Ezra Crumsen's face as he notices you sitting next to your brother. It's not so much lust, you think, as pure, simple greed.

[Vladislav]

Ezra, unfortunately, hasn't managed to get himself married yet-- with his family's wealth, you'd have thought it would be easy, but his ambition always managed to outreach his influence, and of course there were... personal issues.
You don't say.


Linna tells you they bought Ryecroft farm last fall, after Rister Farrel was crushed by a haycart and his widow had to sell the property. Miralen nods politely at the story and makes a note of the event. Rich people have all sorts of accidents working in their favor sometimes. Maybe she's being paranoid this time... anyway, time to go. She tips Linna generously, but not too generously, as not to further emphasize the social gap between them.


Avram Crumsen is laid in a pinewood coffin in front of the altar. The Crumsens are sitting in the front row, as is Navar. Miralen hold her palms together and bows respectfully in front of the coffin before taking a seat.


The three strangers next to him must be Spectioners-- the brawny slab of a man wearing his sword inside the church has to be part of a militant order, his weapon a holy symbol that never leaves his side. His companion, short and bookish-looking, is presumably some kind of clerk. You can't place the third, a lean grey-clad woman with an ugly scar down one cheek.
So those are the legendary witch hunters. I wonder why three of them. Perhaps one who can write, one who can read, and one to keep tabs on the two smart guys.


And you can see the look on Ezra Crumsen's face as he notices you sitting next to your brother. It's not so much lust, you think, as pure, simple greed.Miralen shuffles through her memories, and confirms mentally to herself that, yes, she did in fact return the ring. So he has no case.

She sits, eyes half-closed during the hymn, allowing herself to sink into the so familiar music. For a moment, she senses that if she opens her eyes just at the right moment, her father and all her brothers will be sitting next to her. She tries to do so, to catch the moment, but it doesn't work. The right moment passed three years ago.

The conversation betweem the Crumsens and the newcomers intrigues Miralen, and she decides to interfere. She waits for the service to end, and when a socially appropriate moment arrives, she strides toward the brothers, and carefully avoiding Ezra's gaze, says, Hello Eben.

[Ataraxian]

You walk from the graveside with dark earth on your hands, the closing hymn still echoing in your mind... This night, all this night, each night and all; fire, fleet and candlelight, God receive thy soul.... You wonder what they sang over your father before his spirit started the long, cold walk to what you were always told was a better place. As you pass the church door, you look out for the Crumsens, still standing with your brother and the three strangers.

Eben Crumsen is not, perhaps, an ornament to the human race, but at least he tends to act like a member of it... which is more than you can say for Ezra.
"Miralen! You're back! I'm sorry we meet in such circumstances."
"Indeed," Ezra puts in. "It's such a pleasure to see you back. I take it you've finally finished with your childhood foolishness and decided to settle down and raise a family?"

You chat with Navar and the Crumsens for a moment or two before the bookish-looking Spectioner clears his throat. "Sir Navar?"
"Ah! I'm very sorry!" Navar must be tired and distracted-- he always used to pride himself on his gentlemanly bearing in the old days, and wouldn't have neglected to make introductions this way.

"Pell Barrow, clerk of the high court."
The bookish one bows slightly. "Most honored to meet you."
"Sir Ardish Peck."
The big knight looks you quickly up and down like a sergeant sizing up a recruit, then bows his head. "Your servant."
"Allida Cresset."
The woman in black. Her curtsy is light as a dancer's, and she says nothing.
"My sister Miralen, lately returned from the king's service in West Anderset."

Barrow turns to you. "As I imagine your brother has already mentioned, we are agents of the Church and His Majesty, charged with ridding this district of the infestation of witches and shadow's agents who have reduced it to its present miserable state. As it happens, we have intelligence of a devilish rite to be held on this very night, which we shall shortly ride to prevent-- I say no more, since I fear--" he glances quickly around himself-- "that we are not unobserved."
"The aid of one such as yourself would contribute much to our prospects of success. Would you honor us with your companionship?"

"No!" Ezra breaks in, heedless of his interruption. "We need you more! Miralen, you're just the woman to sit vigil over my father's grave! You've always been close to our family-- practically a member of it! Avram would have wanted it this way, and I would be especially grateful."
You've heard the legend, of course. Witches can use the fresh corpse of a murder victim-- especially one who died by magic-- to strengthen their unhallowed enchantments. Usually, of course, the watcher isn't anyone special and the vigil passes without event.
"Why not do it yourselves?" Barrow sounds impatient.
"It's... cold out," Eben says lamely. The brothers look genuinely frightened, although some people have always been superstitious about spending a night in the churchyard, fresh grave or no.

[Vladislav]

Miralen listens carefully to the Spectioners and does her best impression of entertaining their offer seriously. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. She will not be bossed around by those somber pious zealots. Besides, if they can't take care of a little devilish rite themselves ... then what the hell did her brother invite them for?!


Miralen, you're just the woman to sit vigil over my father's grave! You've always been close to our family-- practically a member of it! Avram would have wanted it this wayMiralen somehow doubts the veracity of the last statement. It is, however, flattering to be in such demand on her second day back in town.

Save your gratitude, Ezra. I'll spend the night in a graveyard, if you and your brother are too cowardly to pay your old man his last debt. Master Barrow, I'm afraid I'm under another obligation here.

Before leaving the church, Miralen, acting on a sudden impulse, pulls Navar to herself and gives him a bear hug, not caring the least how unappropriate it looks. When the farewells are done, she will take care of some logistic aspects for the upcoming night - purchase some sources of light, torches, sunrods or a good lantern; she then tends on her dog Grime, whom she left at the inn as not to have it make a mess in church. Seems like we have another starry night ahead, boy.

[Ataraxian]

Master Barrow, I'm afraid I'm under another obligation here.

The clerk looks shrewdly at you for a second. "Of course, your obligations here must come first. Have a pleasant night." His voice might carry a hint of sarcasm, or perhaps it's just his usual dry way of speaking.
"God keep you," adds Sir Ardish.

Navar returns your bear hug, but he looks worried as you finally let him go. "What if they're right?" he asks. "Are you sure this is safe, sis?" But spineless as ever, he certainly has no better ideas.


Seems like we have another starry night ahead, boy.

The early autumn wind is picking up a little by the time you and your dog return to the churchyard. It's a clear, chilly night, with only a few wisps of cloud between you and the immensity of the sky. The moon is full, copper-coloured, hanging so close to the horizon you almost think you could walk up and grab it if you wanted. Between it and the lanterns, you have a pretty good view of the churchyard-- the parts that aren't in shadow, anyway.

Dryhope has been burying people here for a long time. Most of the stones are simple slabs, upright or laid flat in the earth; nearly all of them mark the resting places of whole families-- there simply isn't room for any more individual burials. Three ornate monuments mark various branches of the Tamerlan family. The Crumsen plot is about forty feet from the nearest, a ten-foot block of weathered granite carved into the fading likeness of an angel. To your north is the church building, then the town. South of you is the granite angel, and perhaps a hundred feet beyond it the low stone wall of the churchyard, overhung by a dense thicket of pine. The shadows under the trees are impenetrable.

Unless you have anything particular in mind for this evening, all the Crumsens expect of you is to sit here until sunrise. Unless something happens, of course. You hear the quiet rustling of creatures in the undergrowth, hunting and being hunted by moonlight. Your dog stirs uneasily, then rests again. It's probably nothing.

[Vladislav]

Miralen strokes Grime's dirty-grey fur - the reason for his name - to calm him down. It's alright boy. The flickering lights of the lanterns she set on both sides of the grave illuminate a few nearby plots while keeping the rest of the graveyard shrouded in darkness. She sets about her watch seriously, pacing around the grave, trying not to think of the man within. From time to time, she stops to make a small doodle in the soft ground with the tip of her sword, only to erase it on the next round with her boot.

[Ataraxian]

All the hours you've spent on watch make it easy to keep yourself awake, pacing back and forward, scanning the treeline and the shadows between the graves. The moon travels slowly up the sky, and just as slowly begins to sink toward the other horizon.

And then a white shape glides across the moon. An owl, you can see. Hunting. Except... you follow it with your eyes... it's circling across the graveyard, around and around. You tilt your head to follow it, and as if it can tell it's being watched, it vanishes silently into the dark.

You listen for movement, but hear nothing. The owl was just an owl. Wasn't it? And then, through the shadow of the pine thicket, you see a flicker of lamplight. It's close to the western edge of the trees, working its way north through the trees toward the fence. Five seconds... six... and it vanishes, as if the lamp has been suddenly shrouded.

[Vladislav]

Who goes there? Miralen's voice sounds a bit less secure than she would like to, as she readies an arrow in her bow and draws the string.

[Ataraxian]

Nobody answers your challenge. Whatever they're doing, you still can't see or hear them doing it.

[Vladislav]

It's not me they want, it's the body in the grave. Miralen has to remind herself this to gather her courage. Well, let them come. I'll be ready. Grime, stay, she whispers quietly but purposefully.

Leaving the two lanterns to shed light on the grave, and the dog tied about it, Miralen retreats, away from the fence, into the shadowy area beyond their bright illumination, and crouches behind any gravestone that seems large enough for that purpose. Let's see if anyone shows up.

Hide [roll0]

as a reminder, Grime has scent (http://www.d20srd.org/srd/specialAbilities.htm#scent)

[Ataraxian]

There's a scream from the eastern edge of the trees. "Help! Help! She's going to kill me!" The voice is young and genuinely frightened-sounding.

You hear the rustle of panicky footsteps, and then the child is clambering awkwardly over the wall, weeping in fear. She's about ten years old, you figure, barefoot and dressed in a dirty white nightgown.

"Help! She's going to sac... saccafice me on the grave!"

You can't put your finger on exactly what, but something about this new development seems off to you.

[Vladislav]

Of course something seems off. There's a child in a nightgown running through a graveyard in the middle of the night, nothing normal about that. Still keeping an arrow readied in her bow, but pointing it away from the girl as not to spook her, Miralen steps out of the shadows to reveal herself.

Don't fear, child. I'll help you. Who, and more importantly, where is she?

Meanwhile, Miralen jogs her memory for any recollection of the girl. Did she see her before in Dryhope, either recently or three years ago? Was she in church today?

[Ataraxian]

The child runs clumsily toward you, trying to avoid the tombstones in the half-light and mostly succeeding.

"She-- over there," she pants, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the woods she's just left. "Has a-- a knife-- and an owl!" And it's true, the uncanny bird is back, gliding through the air about a hundred feet distant-- just out of range for a normal bow, you notice, as if it can recognize the weapon you're carrying.

You don't recognize the girl's face, not from three years ago and not from church this evening. But children age fast at that age, and you can't be totally certain she wasn't just sitting behind you.

[Vladislav]

What's your name, girl? Are you from Dryhope? Miralen doesn't wait for an answer, and focuses her attention in the direction the girl came from. Untie the dog, will you, dear. We may need him soon.

Miralen concentrates on Grime's muffled grunts, to makes sense of them. By sheer power of will, she needs to make him understand her words so they can work together ...


use Speak with Animals spell like ability

by the way, I'm not going owl-hunting right now, but 100' away is well within range

[Ataraxian]

The girl continues to run toward you, her steps growing more confident as she reaches the lamplit area and can see the tombstones in her way. Meanwhile, you focus your attention on the dog.

"snrf. Rrr, haff. Alpha! Bad. Bad things! Not scared, no, brave, help Alpha! Untie, untie!"

And the girl is nearing you, readying herself to do just that, and then suddenly she's speaking, her high, childish voice twisting into the cadences of a language that's painful to hear. You don't understand any of it, and you're glad of it, because you know just by the sound that this is the way they speak in Hell.

Light pours from her open hands, a harsh brightness that paints you and the dog in garish, nauseating color. You can hear Grime's barking-- "Bad things! Hurt!"

[Vladislav]

Engulfed by the blinding light, Miralen nonetheless stands her ground. I have eaten things more devious than you, witch, she grunts as she's ready to attack back. But she can't see Grime in all that flash of color - what happened to the poor dog?

I can only hope and assume 19 makes it ...

[Vladislav]

Clever hag, leaving your familiar behind as a distraction. Now taste my steel, witch. Dropping the bow, useless at close range, Miralen quickly closes the distance to the treacherous "girl". The world comes into focus, and she can't see anything except her target as the heavy sword swings through the air in a menacing arc...
free: drop the bow
Move: move up to the witch while drawing a sword
Swift: Stance of Clarity (+2 AC vs. the witch/girl, -2 AC vs. everyone else)
Standard: Initiaite Steely Strike [roll0] dmg [roll1]; until my next turn, -4 AC vs. anyone except the witch/girl

[Ataraxian]

It's been a while since you've swung a sword in anger, and if your old drill sergeant had seen your first clumsy slash, you would've been practising it till dawn. But your target is plainly even less skilled than you are, and your sword strikes home, opening up her chest and shoulder-- not quite the killing blow you intended, but close to it, and the witch stumbles backward, her disguise dropping away.

She's taller than the child she pretended to be, a bony adolescent of about sixteen in threadbare brown homespun. Her face flashes with abject terror before she masters her fear, glaring at you with hatred. You know her from somewhere-- it'll come to you in a moment. Unless you murder one another in the meantime.

Grimacing against the pain, she spits another curse at you and again, her hands flash with intolerable brightness.

[5-foot step, casting. Will save, please.]

[Vladislav]

Miralen's willpower is stronger that her swordarm, so it seems, and she shrugs off the bright lights before going on the offensive again. This time, she will need a little help. During her travels, she forged a connection of sorts with her bestial side. Glad none of her family and friends can see her, Miralen spouts hairs on her arms and face, and her posture becomes more ape-like as she swings her weapon.


5' step, activate Animal Devotion for +2 Str, initiate Stone Bones: if hits, DR 5/Adamantite for 1 round

attack [roll0]
damage [roll1]

[Ataraxian]

This time you land a solid blow, and the witch crumples to the ground, a gaping wound in her side. A good healer might be able to save her, but failing immediate help, she'll bleed to death in a matter of seconds.

[Vladislav]

Miralen stands over her vanquished enemy, and almost lets out a roar of delight ... no, she shouldn't. It's improper. I think I know her from somewhere... can't quite place it... where have I seen you, witch? You don't seem the churchgoing type, so where?

Despite of everything, her wretched life is worth saving, at least for now. Still reeling from the action, Miralen attempts to stem the flow of blood with her hands and to cut part of a dress (not her own, heaven forbid, the witch's) for a crude bandage.

Heal [roll0]

Meanwhile, the black hairs on her hands recede, and her posture straightens as she severs most of her ties with her animal self. Part of the connection, her ability to speak with animals, still remains. Grime, get up, boy! Must I do everything here? As for you, stinking bird, she bellows as she shakes a fist at the owl, or at least in the direction where it was last spotted, I got your crackers right here! Come and get them!

[Ataraxian]

You kneel beside the witch, vainly trying to stop the bleeding with some of the threadbare cloth from her dress. So far it's not helping.

Looking her over at close range, though, you find you do recognize her-- she's Tilney Farrell, Rister and Caddie's elder daughter, from Ryecroft. The last time you saw her, she was just turning thirteen... not very talkative, but better-dressed than this, and better-fed too. You remember Linna telling you that Rister died in a freak accident, and Caddy had to sell the land.

Grime's still breathing, but you can't rouse him yet. You see the owl turn and flutter off into the dark... apparently it doesn't feel like facing you alone.

[Vladislav]

Miralen was about to give up on the wretched slatten, figuring she's not worth getting blood on her ancestral armor, but then recalls something. Suddenly, the enemy has a face. It's not just an abomination from hell, it's Tilney! Oh my god, we used to play hide-and-seek, her and me and my little brothers! She redoubles her efforts until Tilney either dies or the flow of blood is somehow stopped.

[roll0]


If Tilney is kept alive, Miralen ties her hands behind her back and gags her. Those games of hide-and-seek were fun, but better safe than sorry.
taking 20 on Use Rope for a total of 23.
If she dies, Miralen stands up, shaking her head sadly, and puts a shroud of cloth to cover her enemy's face.

Having finished with that, she notices Grime trying to get back on his feet. We did good, boy. She pets him and points at the body. You were very brave. The bad witch didn't hurt you, did she? Now be a dear and fetch my bow, I dropped it over there. We may yet need it.

[Ataraxian]

Tilney's face grows paler and her breathing slows until you're sure you've lost her, but you keep holding the soaking cloth to her side and finally, the bleeding slows to a trickle. You've saved her-- and you celebrate your victory by tying her up as securely as you can.

[Vladislav]

Miralen leaves Tilney where she can see her, and resumes her rounds around the grave. She also takes a few practise swings with her sword, to test the strength of her arm, and regain her maneuvers. Grime, if I fall asleep, bite me on the ankle, will you?

Assuming nothing else happens during the night, at sunrise, unless Tilney wakes up earlier, Miralen throws some water in her face to wake her up so they can have a little woman-to-woman conversation. If this primitive attempt at revivification fail, Miralen sighs, hoists the unconscious girl on her shoulder like a sack of flour, and heads for town.

Is there a sheriff or other form of lawman in town? Miralen would rather hand her over to local law-enforcement and not the Spectioners

[Ataraxian]

Tilney coughs and sputters her way back to consciousness.

"Miralen? You're back!" She seems surprised, even a little pleased, to recognize you. Then the full bleakness of her situation begins to sink in and she looks away from you again, her expression a mixture of guilt and rage.

[Vladislav]

Miralen squints into the rising sun, then looks back in Tilney's eyes, or the back of her head, as the case may be.

Oh, now you recognize me. How nice of you. Guess you were too busy before. What happened to you, Tilney? You're supposed to be your mother's only light and joy, and instead you're skulking in graveyards, wielding dark magic!? And are the stories true? Did you really try to steal that poor sod's body for some ritual?

She stands up to loom above her captive. I guess the point I'm getting at is - what the hell is wrong with you?

[Ataraxian]

"Don't talk about my mother! Couldn't keep the land, couldn't keep the house, couldn't keep me, oh, no, best I was fostered with a responsible family, Shadow's blessing on those cheapskates, best I learn to work for my keep-- light and joy? You've been away a good long time, haven't you, and I wish you'd stayed longer! But you've learned things, learned to hurt people, haven't you, and I've learned things too-- ahh! The pain in my side, gods, it hurts, it's like a flame under my skin! You did no kindness to save me, you know, they're going to burn me, I'll curse you when I die, see if I don't-- I know the fashion of it now, they told me how. Yes, He wanted the body, there's power in such, His servants never lack for a warm bed or a bright fire-- hah! That's what I wanted, that's what I'll get."

[Vladislav]

Miralen, enraged at this tirade, lifts her boot as if to stomp the defenseless girl, but at the last moment regains control and limits herself to kicking dirt in her face.

At least you have a mother, ungrateful shrew. Do you know what I would have given to trade places with you? Well, obviously not in your present condition, but in principle. Some people just don't appreciate what they have...

Speaking of which, you have, at least temporarily, my attention. I can bring you to the Spectioners, and you can burn, or I can hide you somewhere and we can reach some kind of agreement. The choice is yours.

Miralen makes sure once more the bonds are secure, hoists Tilney on her shoulder, and starts walking to where the road forks - to one side, the village, where she might be able to negotiate with Linna for a place in the cellar, and to the other, Tamerlan manor with its ominous houseguests.

We can go left, or we can go right. Start talking. Who wanted the body?

[Vladislav]

Miralen, enraged at this tirade, lifts her boot as if to stomp the defenseless girl, but at the last moment regains control and limits herself to kicking dirt in her face.

At least you have a mother, ungrateful shrew. Do you know what I would have given to trade places with you? Well, obviously not in your present condition, but in principle. Some people just don't appreciate what they have...

Speaking of which, you have, at least temporarily, my attention. I can bring you to the Spectioners, and you can burn, or I can hide you somewhere and we can reach some kind of agreement. The choice is yours.

Miralen makes sure once more the bonds are secure, hoists Tilney on her shoulder, and starts walking to where the road forks - to one side, the village, where she might be able to negotiate with Linna for a place in the cellar, and to the other, Tamerlan manor with its ominous houseguests.

We can go left, or we can go right. Start talking. Who wanted the body?

[Ataraxian]

Tllney spits dirt and blood as you lift her to your shoulder. "Ah! Can you walk a little more gently?" She doesn't seem very appreciative-- until you mention reaching some kind of agreement.

"Well, there was Him of course-- the Other Man, he's always got more charms and spells to teach us, if we can get him the makings of them. And then there was old I Have Sworn To Keep Silent, But I Am a Loathsome Oathbreaker..."

Tilney stops in mid-recitation, slowly realizing her confession is not going precisely as intended. "I didn't mean to say that. I meant The Shadow Is Not Lightly Betrayed. Oh!" She breaks into frustrated sobs.

[Vladislav]

Miralen snickers at the last comment. That's funny. You're funny, Til. The shadow is not lightly betrayed, she imitates Tilney's somber tone, then switches to her normal voice. You almost sounded like you actually believed it there. That shadow is naught but a coward, sending a girl to do his job. Here, she stops for a moment and adjusts her load, so her shoulder is no longer pressing against the broken ribs, is that better? So, you were saying ... ?

[Ataraxian]

"Don't you understand, Miralen, I can't! I can't do it, it's Him, I swore an oath to Him and He won't let me tell you! I'm only raised to the first degree so far, I'm not even supposed to know who the rest of us are yet, only their witch-names, but I've guessed a few and when I try to say Your Life Is Forfeit, Oathbreaker-- see? Let me try another way. He's a man who lives by Do You Think I Am Stupid? um, well, he's good at doing... a thing? Like with those things like sheep, except taller? And-- ow!"

You don't think you pressed on her ribs that time, but she's gasping desperately for breath, "I won't, I won't, stop it, don't touch me, I swear I won't!" As her convulsion ends, you see the red imprint of a clawed hand spread over her throat, as if some unseen creature had been strangling her.

[Vladislav]

Miralen lays Tilney down on the grass beside the path and examines her wounds. She frowns upon seeing the mark. Och. What have you gotten yourself into? She considers her options. Handing Tilney to the Spectioners will likely kill her, and her old mother to boot. Strolling into town with a bleeding and bound prisoner on her shoulder is likely to raise more questions than she's willing to answer. Let her go? No, that's crazy. The girl is seriously messed up and can't be trusted.

Suddenly, a flash of an idea enlightens her clouded thoughts. There's someone who owes her a favor right now, and a rather large one. She turns toward the Crumsen farm, Tilney's former home. I'm going to drop you off somewhere familiar, I think you can be safe there. It's a long walk, don't die on me.

[Unless anything happens during the journey, Miralen and Tilney arrive at the Crumsens, hopefully in one piece.]

[Ataraxian]

It's getting on to be mid-morning by the time you get to Ryecroft, but you manage to slip between the sheds and outbuildings without any of the Crumsen's farmhands noticing you, your dog or your prisoner. After your last attempt to interrogate her, Tilney has slipped back into unconsciousness, but you can still hear her breathing, so she must still be alive.

Your quiet knock on the farmhouse door brings Ezra himself to open it. "Miralen!" he says, his ugly face breaking into a smile that somehow doesn't improve it much. "Just come from your night in the graveyard? How kind of you, yes, and how dutiful, too! Come in, come in!"

Ryecroft has a spacious kitchen with a long wooden table, currently littered with the remnants of the farmhands' breakfast, but empty other than you and Ezra-- work starts early here. "Have something to eat! Anything you like! Shall I call the cook?"

"And who's this? Little Tilney Farrell, still asleep? Little lazybones, her mother's the same way! It's why she couldn't keep the farm-- you have to work hard to match the Crumsens!"

[Vladislav]

She's not sleeping ... Miralen bites her tongue not to add "you nitwit".

She lays the girl on the table to reveal the bloodied hole in her side. Don't call anyone, please. There was an ... altercation. Anyway, your father's grave is safe, and that's what matters. A favor for a favor - I need you to stash her for a few days, and keep an eye on her. Can you do this?

[Ataraxian]

"An... altercation. Then there was a witch! And you kept my father's grave safe from her? Of course I'll keep her safe, Miralen, you know you can treat my house like your own! We'll put her in the back bedroom and bar all the windows tight-- no witches getting in there. And I want you to have this..."

He fishes in the pouch at his waist and withdraws a gold ring set with jet. "It was my mother's, and she told me it was a thing of some power, although I can't sense it myself. It should belong to the one who has done so much for our family, and will do so much more."

[Vladislav]

Miralen looks at the ring as it's pushed in her direction, clasped in Ezra's meaty fingers. Things didn't work between them before, and there's no reason they would now. But she needs his cooperation, and therefore tentatively takes the ring, not trying the least to hide her hesitation. Let's put her in that bedroom, shall we?

Miralen surveys the bedroom to check if the windows and door are secure. One more thing, Ezra. It's not only the witches getting in we need to worry about. I think Tilney was ... possessed. Yes. Possessed. That's what she was. Possessed by a witch. Or something like that. She can act strange, try to escape, or even try to cast a spell. That's why I had her bound. For her own, eh, safety. And gagged. Just hold her here for a few days, and let's keep it our little secret, shall we? Because she's basically a good girl, and the Spectioners might get the, uhm, wrong impression.

Miralen pats Tilney's pale forehead and whispers, Sleep well. We'll make everything right. I promise.

She intends to trek back to the manor and talk to Navar, but realizes she won't get far on an empty stomach. Might as well take him up on his offer ... So, how about that breakfast?

[Ataraxian]

Breakfast with Ezra is filling, but deeply awkward, and you're glad to finally plead your sleepless night as an excuse to leave. It's a pity you aren't actually headed for your bed at the inn, in fact, but you turn instead toward Tamerlan Hall and your brother.

Navar receives you in the front hall. "Is it urgent, sis? I was just making ready to go out." He heaves a deep sigh. "The Spectioners finally managed to catch themselves a witch, or so they say, and I suppose I believe them-- they came back slashed and beaten enough, for their pains. But it's Merrow Lappin they caught-- she was our stable-girl when we were children, she always had a gentle hand with the horses, and she taught me to hunt-- I can't understand why she would do such a thing. But I suppose I always did hear she had cunning-craft, and that can be a dangerous thing, they say."

He frowns. "Now I have to go tell her poor parents why she isn't coming home, and meanwhile she's down in the old cells under the east wing. Up until a week ago I was using them as a root cellar, for the Saints' names' sake... I don't know what the world is coming to."

"I hope your vigil went smoothly, at least?"

[Vladislav]

Eh. Miralen shrugs, putting as much content as humanly possible into this one syllable. It was fine. She adds, and does not elaborate further.

What's going to happen to Merrow? Can I come down and talk to her? I know I shouldn't ... but for old times sake?

Suddenly Miralen realizes how tired she is, having paced around the graveyard all night, carried a wounded girl on her shoulder several miles, and eaten breakfast with Ezra Crumsen, all equally tiring tasks. Unless Navar indicates that Merrow is in danger of being brought out to the stake in the next few hours, Miralen will ask for a room to collapse in for a few hours before proceeding with her investigations.

(if Merrow is about to be taken away soon, Miralen will conquer her tiredness and hobble down to the cellar without delay)

[Ataraxian]

Merrow's not going to be burnt anytime soon, Navar tells you. The Spectioners mean to question her for the names of other witches, and there will have to be a fair trial before anyone is executed. But Barrow, the lawyer, was sure they had the evidence to convict her. At any rate, they've all gone to bed now-- they were up all night, just like you.

So Navar points you upstairs, where one of the servants leads you to your old bedroom, draws the curtains and helps you out of your wargear. You collapse onto the bed, relaxed by the familiarity of home.

You're walking in the apple orchard with your eldest brother, the one who's dead now. He doesn't seem to mind. These things happen. It's a nice spring day, about noontime, and the trees are in bloom.

"Nice job out there, sis. You've come a long way since those first lessons I gave you!"

He pauses to look reflectively out toward the town. "It's a pity what's happening to the place since I left, though. Rister Farrell murdered, Avram Crumsen the same, Spectioners running wild..."

"Someone needs to put this place in order, sis, and I'm going to guess it's up to you. Navar sure isn't going to, and those Spectioners will harm more than they help. It's going to be a hard winter... long and cold." As if to underline his point, the autumn wind rustles through the trees, shaking down the last of the leaves.

"You can't trust anyone anymore," he says. "Tilney and Merrow, witches? Well, at least you've still got me, right? I can't help much, but there are things..."

[sense motive check please]

[Vladislav]

Miralen eyes her surroundings with awe mixed in suspicion. She haven't had such good dreams in a while. Usually it's war, death and devastation that visit her sleep. Murdered... she whispers. So the consecutive deaths of the two owners of Ryecroft farm were no coincidence, brother? Anything you would know about, from high in your celestial realm?

[Ataraxian]

"Oh, yes, I could tell a you a thing or two about Ryecroft... I can't tell you everything, of course-- there are rules and all that." He grins.

"Auburn Bury was loading the cart with Rister, and he said it was standing crooked, with one wheel on a slope. I'm sorry to say that wasn't entirely the truth, if you see what I mean. And all the Burys are notorious witches-- you should ask a few of the farmers how old Val keeps herself in wood and flour during the winter."

"But then, you might find witches nearer at hand than Ryecroft. It hurts me to say it, but our own family isn't entirely above suspicion... mother says strange things sometimes, and I wonder if her mind has fluttered as far away as people think."

"No, you've made a good start, but you'll have to learn sooner or later. This isn't knights and goblins anymore, sis. These people are deadly serious. You can't keep staunching their wounds and carrying them off to nice safe storehouses, or sooner or later you're going to find a knife in your back. They taught you how to use that sword in the west country, didn't they? Next time, you best use it how they showed you."

Your brother seems a little more... hard-edged than when you last saw him. Of course, being killed in battle might do that to a man.

[Vladislav]

Brushing a stray imaginary branch off her way, Miralen locks eyes with her brother. Ye gods, does our town ooze of witchcraft? Is it that bad? Something in his eyes seems different. Yes, he's dead and all, but that's not how she remembers her brother, and it is after all her dream ... or is it?

Tell me, she changes the topic innocuously, that dog you took to war with you, I think Fang was his name... whatever happened to him? Is he in the celestial realms with you?

She waits for his response with baited breath, knowing full well that her brother did not take any dogs to war with him, not Fang and not by any other names.

[Ataraxian]

You've left the apple orchard behind you, you realize. You're walking through a dark wood, the branches closing in around you. Your brother turns to face you. "I never had a dog named Fang," he says. "You know that."

He shakes his head. "I'm not him, though. You could say I know him. It's easier if you see me as a man, but I'm more than that. You're playing with the grownups now, Miralen. When you're ready to accept that, we can talk again... just say my name and I'll be with you."

He turns and walks away, and the branches begin to weave together behind him, erasing the path.

[Vladislav]

How much I would like to follow you, brother, you have no idea. But I have to take care of things in this world before I can truly enjoy my dreams.

Miralen stretches and wills herself into awakening, and soon the orchard is replaced with a familiar room, and the trees with blankets and covers. She quickly dresses, and peeks out the window to check the position of the sun in the sky. Late. Some indulgent spoiled brat you are. Quietly, as not to bother anyone, she strides into the corridor, about to turn left and down the stairs, but a familiar door to her right draws her attention; it's Her Ladyship suite. Miralen furrows her nose as she remembers the many arguments she had with her stepmother. But what's due can't be denied, the woman did raise her, and gave her three brothers. Seems like common the courtesy to say hello, at least, would be in order. Not without effort, Miralen pushes the heavy door and steps into the darkened room. Her eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness, she whispers, quietly, then a bit louder, Eunicia? Are you awake?

[Ataraxian]

Stepping quietly into the room, you catch a flicker of quick movement at your ankles. Your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. It's a cat, you see, a skittish little creature now looking nervously out from behind the heavy wooden wardrobe.

The room has the lived-in scent of too long without a good airing. You can't see your stepmother, but the curtains are drawn around the old-fashioned four-poster bed, and that's where she must be.

"Miralen? Is that you?" Her voice is clear with remembered authority, and you wonder why they told you she had lost her mind.

"It's time for your lessons, Miralen, dear. Don't dawdle, now, Mistress Parr is waiting." Parr hasn't been a tutor here since you were about seven.

[Vladislav]

Miralen jumps aside, startled by the cat, but is quickly calmed by the familiar voice. Yes, Eunicia, of course, how could I forget Mistress Parr?! I'm ready for my lessons. But it's so dark here I can't see my own handwriting; we really need some light. She pulls the heavy curtains away to let a healthy doze of sunlight into the room, hoping to do so quickly enough before Eunicia can even protest.

[Ataraxian]

You pull back the curtains, and the air sparkles with floating dust. Plainly the servants don't like coming up here much, and Navar, predictably, hasn't noticed or managed to do anything about it. There are bowls of water and food for the cat in several corners-- it looks like Eunicia doesn't always remember whether she's already fed the poor creature.

Eunicia herself is still shut away inside the inner curtains of the bed. "Good girl," she says, and proceeds to tell you, at length, why you need to know good deportment and protocol or you'll never marry well. It's almost like old times again, which is to say, it's annoying. "And," she finishes up, "You must concentrate harder on your moral instruction. I wish you would pay more attention to religious study, dear, a knowledge of the scriptures really is most invaluable for a young lady of your station. Why, one hears the most unspeakable heresies these days. Half the servants are still praying to the saints when they think I'm not listening, and even before the Reform I always said that was dreadfully common." These days? Could be yesterday, could be ten years ago.

[Vladislav]

Miralen decides it prudent not to tell her stepmother than she herself prays to the saints now and then; in fact, she's praying right now, for a bit of patience. Yes, I know, she repeats several times during the lecture, pacing around the room, picking up trash, airing the pillows, and generally tidying up a little.

When the room starts to look slightly less depressing, Miralen moves the curtains around the bed and kisses the old lady on the cheek. Ok. I have to run now, my tutor is waiting. Thank you for everything. I'll pay more attention to the scriptures.

She may be mad, but it's a good advice.

Miralen lingers for a moment at the door. Eunicia, would you like something to eat? I can tell the servants to ... she suddenly realizes she's sounding just like Ezra Crumsen. I mean, I can get you something to eat.

[Ataraxian]

Eunicia is surprised by your display of affection, but hugs you with unwarranted affection. She isn't hungry herself right now, but asks you to send up some meat for the cat, who apparently is always ravenous.

[Vladislav]

Her boots playing a rapid staccato on the wooden stairs, Miralen descends to the cellar of the east wing to check on the prisoner. If the Spectioners returned from their night operation slashed and beaten, she shudders to think, what does their catch look like? As she approaches the cell and the huddled silhouette within, Miralen fears the worst as she calls out Merrow's name. Hello, it's me, Miralen. Remember me? She tries to make her voice sound mature and serious, yet non-threatening.

[Ataraxian]

Merrow is huddled in the corner of the cell, her head in her hands. She looks up at you as you come near. Her left temple shows the characteristic mottled bruise pattern of magical healing, and there are raw scrapes at her wrists, where she must have struggled against a rope bond. Apart from that, she looks in decent health at the moment-- certainly better than your prisoner, you have to admit. Her eyes are swollen and red as if she's been weeping, but she looks up at you impassively.

[Vladislav]

Miralen kneels on the safe side of the bars, as not to look at her conversation partner from above. Imagine my surprise when I heard you were here ... Is it true what they are saying? Are you really a witch?

[Ataraxian]

"No! Miralen, how could you think that? Before God and the Saints I swear I'm not!" She pulls a wry face and rubs at her recently-healed head wound. "Of course, that's just what a witch would say, isn't it?"

"Can you keep a secret? I can tell you what I was doing in the woods last midnight, but... it's not something I'd like the Spectioners to hear. I have to trust someone, though, or I'll lose what little hope I have. You were always kind to the horses when you were younger, do you remember?" She shakes her head at the straws she's willing to grasp at.

[Vladislav]

Of course I remember, Miralen smiles at her youthful memories, you taught me that. I swear, she continues, that whatever you tell me will remain between the two of us. And after all, the shadow is not lightly betrayed.

She says the last part exactly like Tilney did, and carefully observes Merrow's reaction.

Sense Motive [roll0]

If Merrow's looks like she doesn't know what Miralen is talking about, Miralen quickly attempt to turn it into a joke. I mean, I won't betray you, whether a witch you be or not. And she bursts in a somewhat tense laughter.

[Ataraxian]

"Ugh! You too? I should have known, this town is rotten to the core."

She turns away from you and begins to mutter in a low voice, "God is my light and my help, whom shall I fear? God is my strength, of whom shall I be afraid. God is my light and my help..."

empty

[Ataraxian]

You sense no obvious deception.

[Vladislav]

Oh no, what have I done? Let's try that again, and this time, like papa used to say, honesty is the best policy.

Merrow, I'm sorry. I'm not one of them, I was just testing you. I heard that shadow quip from, uhm, someone else, and just decided to test your reaction. I'm sorry I mistrusted you. I shouldn't have. Will you trust me?

diplomacy [roll0], hoping for the best. in retrospect, need more social skills

If Merrow rejects her yet, Miralen runs up the stairs, red-faced, and checks the time while planning her next move.

[Ataraxian]

"You were testing me? Wise, under the circumstances... but I have to wonder whether I passed your test or failed. Well, one test deserves another."

"Not everyone in this town has given up on the Old Religion. I think the old ways are the best ways, and plenty of people agree with me." She looks up defiantly. "I'm no wonder-worker, but everyone knows I have a little of the Craft, and I went out last night to draw the moon down into St. Claris's Pool. It's said the Bright Lady aids those who seek what's hidden, and I won't believe she's a demon, whatever stories the churchmen might tell!"

"I won't tell you the rite. Bad enough I should tell someone who hasn't been sealed with the sign, but to tell it to a witch-- I would die first! But if you come back with a mark of the Lady's favor, we can talk again. There are ways... you'll be able to find them, if you are what you say you are."

"I warn you, though, if you accuse me of heresy, or send imps to plague my dreams, the Spectioners won't burn me alone, Lady Miralen. You might think your little 'quip' was funny, but they won't."

[Scraped a bare success on the diplomacy test.]

[Vladislav]

Well, she's sure a confident one. Jailed and can practically smell the bonfire, and still has the spunk to threaten me?

Nonetheless, whatever criticism Miralen may have regarding Merrow's negotiating tactics, she does not voice it out loud. We shall talk again soon, she says, bows politely and departs. If what she's saying is the truth, I will not let a fellow Lady of the Fountain worshiper to come to harm!

How much time is there till dark? I have a lot of stuff to take care of...

[Vladislav]

Miralens heads to the library, finding refuge for a short time amid the dusty tomes. She remembers strolling between those shelves as a child - they seemed so high to her then, she always needed a boost from Erica, the cleaning lady who was always there - dusting, what else. Now, she's tall enough to reach any shelf, and heavy enough to break Erica's back, if she was foolish enough to suggest her help again. She picks a few books, and sets to read up all she can on St. Claris's Pool - local folklore, myths, rituals, and what does it mean to 'draw the moon'.
Time: [roll0] hours, Knowledge (whatever applies) [roll1]
Religion (untrained) +1
Local or History +4
The pool itself, she intends to visit after nightfall, but as long as there's still light, she has another lead to pursue. Returning with Grime to the cemetary, she searches the fence where Tilney climbed last night, to pick any tracks of the young witch. She will then try to follow Tilney's trail in reverse, to find out where she came from, be it a secret meeting with 'the shadow' or her own humble abode.

Survival [roll2] to track
Grime (Aid Another DC 10) [roll3]

[Ataraxian]

The library: You start off with Coveringe's "Legends of the Blessed Saintes", which you had to read as a child and never quite got the point of. The archaic dialect doesn't help:
This goddesse on an hert ful hye seet,
With smale houndes al aboute hir feet;
And undernethe hir feet she hadde a moone,
Wexynge it was, and sholde wanye soone.
In gaude grene hir statue clothed was,
With bowe in honde, and arwes in a cas.
A womman travaillynge was hir biforn;
But for hir child so longe was unborn
Ful pitously Lucyna gan she calle,
And seyde, "Help, for thou mayst best of alle!"
So from what you gather, Claris is associated with hunting, childbirth and the moon. "Lucina" seems to be the same name as Merrow used, "the Bright Lady"; her beasts are the hart and hound, and her favored weapon is the longbow.

With the aid of a battered copy of Halpern's "Travels in the North Countrie", you can fill in some of the local details. Claris's Pool (you vaguely know the location from growing up here) is five or six miles outside town, in a thick patch of woodland. Before the Reform, the rites at the pool were conducted quite openly, although those who hadn't been initiated into the Saint's cult were excluded from parts. Halpern seems to have been "Sealed with ye Sign" as the old-fashioned typeface would have it, and provides a partial description of drawing down the moon: the invocant fills a wooden bowl with water from the pool and pours it in a circle around herself. The rite causes a mystical connection between the heavenly moon and its reflection in the water, allowing the moonlight to reveal "Things which are Hidden". The description is maddeningly unclear in places; Halpern doesn't seem to have wanted to reveal any of the mysteries reserved for initiates.

Although neither Coveringe nor Halpern seems uneasy about Claris's cult, a brief aside in Varenus de Castella does mention that witches are reputed to draw down the moon, causing... is that word "darkness"? So that they may... fly forth and...? Whatever. If you could ever read the ancient languages, you've forgotten how by now.

[In game terms, Claris has the animal, darkness and water domains. If you took the same English classes I have, you'll recognize yet another uncredited quote...]

[Ataraxian]

Tracking: You follow Tilney's footprints back from the eastern corner of the graveyard back along the edge of the pine grove. Lying on the grass behind the trees is a wooden broom-- the kind you'd find in any farmhouse-- a lantern that seems to have burned out overnight, and a shovel. From here, the tracks grow odder... there are no more footprints, but areas of taller grass are bent down in places, as if by a very focused gust of wind. A nearby blackberry bush has caught a few threads from Tilney's homespun dress, about four feet off the ground.

The strange track leads you south, away from town, through open fields where the last of the wheat has definitely been crushed by some heavy, formless pressure. You follow for a good four miles, becoming more and more certain that Tilney (or whatever made these marks) was coming from Spindle Top or one of the hills behind it-- craggy peaks of hard black rock, covered with gorse and heather. You lose the trail at the edge of the fields; the marks lead down into a small brook and you can't find where they come out. Although the trail was easy to follow in places, you haven't been moving very fast overall. If you start back to town now, it'll be past six when you arrive.

[500 XP]

[Vladislav]

Before leaving the manor, Miralen gives Navar an earful about the conditions in which his mother resides. Can't he at least air her room once in a while? If he's still absent, she leaves a message with one of the servants, as brief as it is terse. A short hop to the kitchen to borrow a wooden bowl, and she's on the road.

...

A couple of hours later, she's standing at the edge of the brook when Tilney's trail was lost, looking up at the Spindle Top, then at the broom, then back at the line of hills. Whatever lies beyond could be a subject for an expedition - on another day. She treks back to town, where she can eat a hearty meal at the inn and talk to her old friend again. She stores the broom in her room for further examination. Sure, it looks mundane, but why would a witch carry one on a nocturnal mission unless...

So, Linna, she says, speaking with her mouth full, making a mockery of Eunicia's past efforts to make a lady out of her, what news did you hear about the Burys? How did old Val do during this winter?

[Ataraxian]

A hearty meal... the inn can provide that, at any rate. Linna brings you a steaming bowl of leeks, root vegetables and mutton, and you dig in messily, trying not to get sheep all over your face. The beer isn't any better than last time; hasn't brewed right.

"Old Val, eh?" You can almost see Linna girding herself for another epic bout of gossip. Over the last several years Val Bury has supported herself mainly by begging, this despite her sizeable brood of children and grandchildren, "none of what will lift a finger to help her, mostly poor themselves and anyhow they never had much family feeling, hate each other near as much as they hate the Hatches." With some difficulty, you steer Linna away from the tangled genealogy of the younger Burys, at least two of whom have been driven out of town as thieves and heretics, and back to Val herself. "I gave her two loaves of bread myself a week back, and oh, she was all meek and thankful like, calling me Milady and thanking me for taking pity on a poor old woman such as can't feed her own self, but I've seen her when folk don't give her what she's asking for, and she's a tongue you could cut tanned hides with." Apparently she's been known to curse stingy or reluctant givers with everything from crop failures to the Shadow's bodily seizing them and carrying them off to where they belonged; while the latter has yet to occur, more than a few farmers blame her for their prize milkers drying up or their kitchen gardens withering. Linna won't say what she thinks herself, but you notice that by her account, despite the troubled harvests, she's been careful to give the old lady most of what she's asked for.

"Oh," she interrupts herself, "but we mustn't talk about that ugly old woman when you'll be wanting to tell me all your wedding plans! Mistress Crumsen's ring looks so well on your hand, but I'm sure Master Ezra will buy you others even better. You'd not be the first young lady to find silver meant more to you than a fine figure or a charming temperament, and I don't say you choose wrongly by it."

[Vladislav]

Linna, I didn't choose anything or anyone, leastwise Ezra. It's just a reward, I mean a gift, or rather a return favor. What I mean to say, there was this business of ...

Oh my God what have I done. Miralen blushes three shades of crimson at the same time and almost chokes on her stew. Having overcome the fit of cough, she composes herself somewhat. Relax. It's just Linna.

No matter what it may look like, it's not time for wedding bells in my chapel yet, she says sternly and gulps another spoonful of stew. Given Linna's propensity for gossip, she declines to elaborate.


And the whole thing with Val, she tries to direct the conversation to a more productive channel, seems to me like a bunch of coincidences, no? I mean, if she really had this kind of power, don't you think she could have used it for something more constructive then begging? Regardless, Linna, and this is serious, I don't think you should be talking to people about this too much. You know, with the Spectioners in town, someone could get the wrong idea. Don't you agree?

A doubt keeps pecking at the back of Miralen's mind. Wrong idea? Or is it?

[Ataraxian]

Linna chuckles indulgently at your flustered expression. "Don't you worry, now, it'll be our little secret." Given her time-tested record for keeping secrets, you wonder how long that'll last... but she seems sincere enough for the time being.

"As for Val, well, I don't mean to call anyone out of their right name, but I haven't said more than what anyone else in this town has said before me. Now, I don't know why witches don't get rich off their witchery, and be young and beautiful and sit around dining off gold plates like a load of kings and queens, but in the tales they never do... Mayhap they just aren't good enough at their craft-- I've seen a fair deal of cunning folk go hungry betimes, for all they knew of the stars and the herb-lore. Or maybe the Shadow doesn't teach them the right charms. Like enough it wants them killing folk and spoiling their crops and all manner of mischief. Any road, I'd stand out of Val Bury's way when she goes by. No need to buy trouble, I always say, when we have plenty enough already."

[Vladislav]

Well, I'll be sure not to cross her then. Miralen finishes the stew and wipes the corners of her mouth with a her sleeve - because she needs the napkin for something else. Before leaving, there's one more thing she needs to do. She goes up to her room and scribbles a brief note, addressing it to Navar. In the note, she apologizes for today's outburst, and expresses hope to see him again tomorrow. In an uncharacteristic outburst of sibling tenderness, she signs her name inside a heart. She asks the inn's errand boy, or street urchin, or whoever may be available, to deliver the letter if she's not back by noon tomorrow, and splurges a few silver pieces to that end.

She leaves the broom behind, and set up to the hidden pool equipped with her own battle gear, some lanterns and torches, Tilney's dagger, just in case, and of course Grime merrily follows along, wagging his tail. As if you have a choice, buddy.

[Ataraxian]

Dinner consumed, note stored for delivery, you set out toward the hidden pool. It's another moonlit night, warmer than last time. Your journey across the fields seems to pass quickly. You and Grime disturb a few flocks of sheep, and once you startle a fox, which scurries quickly back into the hedgerows, but other than that, nobody seems to be out here with you.

The pool is a few miles inside a large area of wooded parkland. Although there are a few knots of thickly-growing pine, the trees are mostly oaks and maples, growing taller and more widely-spaced, and letting more light fall between them. In places, the woods open into grassy meadows ringed with shrubs and bushes.

A crude hunting path leads you through the woods to the pool. It's a round pond fed by a natural spring. You can pick out the signs of a struggle here-- grass crushed to the earth by heavy footfalls and saplings slashed by errant sword blows. There was more than one pair of combatants, though you can't tell much more than that from the marks they left. Despite the violence that must have taken place around it, the pool looks deceptively tranquil tonight. As you expect, the moon is reflected in the water. The pool is deep and calm; you could almost be looking down into a second sky.

[Vladislav]

Miralen gasps as she realizes the pastoral setting must have been disturbed with a struggle to the death not too long ago. With shaking hands, she lights the two lanterns, and carefully examines the scene for clues - were those humans or beasts, were there any survivors, and if so in which direction did they go, are there any signs of blood or victims, dropped items, or other clues.

Survival [roll]1d20+7[roll]
Grime Aid Another [roll0]

Search [roll1] (if the area is small enough, take 20 for 26)
Grime Aid Another [roll2]

If she finds nothing of note, Miralen gets to the point of her visit.

Stand back, Grime, this could get dangerous, not to mention wet.

After taking a refreshing drink, she fills the borrowed bowl with fresh pool water and, twirling around clockwise on one heel, pours it around herself. If nothing happens, she repeats the process, counter-clockwise.

[Ataraxian]

You're fairly certain, from what Merrow told you, that the fight involved her on one hand and the Spectioners on the other. Heavy footprints and powerful slashes are consistent with the presence of the holy warrior Sir Ardish; at any rate, one of the combatants was heavily armed and armoured. The rest of the combatants were more lightly equipped and made less of a mark on their surroundings. Merrow (if indeed she was involved) had help, but you can't tell how many people were involved, or what happened to them afterwards.

You pour the water around yourself and pause for a few seconds before repeating the process in the other direction. Nothing happens. You gaze at the pool, waiting for something to happen. More than a minute passes as you wonder whether Halpern omitted some key part of the ritual, and then your eyes wander from the pool back to your surroundings. You are standing in the sky.

Where before you were ringed with trees, standing on mossy ground, now you look out on a vast ocean of stars in every direction. You can feel, far below you, the tiny circle of ground you marked with water, mooring your wandering spirit to the earth. Hanging before you is the moon. You wonder whether this is what the rite is meant to do [yes] and feel a strange sense of certainty. So the Saint is reading your thoughts [yes].

[Vladislav]

Vertigo sets in almost immediately, and Miralen throws her arms around to grab on to something - but there is only air and whisps of clouds. How she manages to keep her balance is a mystery, perhaps the hand of divine providence. She looks around, with bits of advice, written and verbal, dancing in her head.

The Bright Lady aids those who seek what's hidden ... a mark of the lady's favor ... connection between the heavenly moon and its reflection ... reveal things which are hidden

She forces herself, with sheer effort of will, to look down, her heart pounding as fast as a hunted deer. Can she see any connection between the two moons, and anything revealed by the light? If not, Miralen closes her eyes to make sense of it all.

Well, I need the Bright Lady's favor. The Bright Lady aids those who seek the hidden. The Bright Lady herself is hidden. Ergo ... strange as it sounds, she has to admit it makes as much sense as anything else that happened to her recently.

Come to my aid, Claris. Give me a sign. She whispers.

If that won't work, there's always floating, she figures.

[Ataraxian]

Can she see any connection between the two moons [that's wrong], and anything revealed by the light? If not, Miralen closes her eyes to make sense of it all [you're doing better].

The Bright Lady aids those who seek the hidden [yes]. The Bright Lady herself is hidden [yes].

You feel the Saint's slight frustration in your mind, the mingled pride and impatience of a parent watching their child try to work out some complicated, adult thought.

Come to my aid, Claris. Give me a sign.

[there's only one moon it just looks like two]

You gasp in shock. Claris doesn't speak, doesn't even think in language-- her thoughts just spill into your mind, flood waters pouring into a quiet millpond.

[when you can't see it the moon is still there]
[nothing is really hidden only wrong ways of looking]
[can't show you what you want to see]
[only how to see it]

There's one moon. Here, in the sky, and down there, in the water. And somehow, you're looking at them both at once. Looking-- really looking-- at the pool, the trees behind it, the shadows under the trees. The white hart might have been there all along, you realize. Did its twelve-branched antlers blend into the shade of the branches? Did its ghost-pale fur merge into the shimmer of light on the water's surface?

[nothing is really hidden]
[but you have to hunt for it]

The stag turns, head held high, and walks into the trees.

[you have to hunt for it]
[go!]

[Vladislav]

Hunt? Am I sure this is the right course? That stag looked majestic. Oh, right, what am I thinking. Godess of hunting. Miralen was never one to kill for sport, pleasure, or the kill itself - although god knows she did kill, and not once - and has to force herself to float down from her celestial perch, connecting her soul to the body below. It seems more convenient this way, to hunt on the ground, rather than have her soul fly around bodyless.

As soon as her feet feel the ground beneath them again, she uses all her senses to locate the stag.

I'm not sure how far it went or what should I roll, but let's try
Spot [roll0]
Listen [roll1]
Survival [roll2]

If she still can't locate her quarry, Miralen will use Speak with Plants to ask the nearby trees if they've seen anything white and hart-shaped.

[Ataraxian]

Nothing is really hidden. You scan the moonlit forest, looking for clues. You can pick out a footprint in fresh mud, then a freshly-bitten branch, and further along, a tuft of hair caught in the thorns of a blackberry bush. And the plants remember the creature's passing, bent boughs and trodden ferns whispering to you that the trail you follow is fresh. An untrained searcher would be lost in these woods, wandering blindly in the dark. But for one who has learned to see, the right path can show up as clearly as the king's high road.

You can tell you're drawing closer from the low murmuring of the foliage around you, the slow vegetable discomfort of tender saplings being browsed upon. You can even hear the slow rustle of the leaves as it moves, and its quiet snort as it sniffs the wind. But when you finally see it, you realize you still have much to learn about how to see what you're looking for. The stag is barely fifty feet away from you. For the past several seconds, you've been looking past it, dismissing it as just another shadow while it was standing right in front of you.

Now it looks up, and for a split second, your eyes meet.

[If you want an action before it acts, roll initiative.]

[Vladislav]

As soon as she sights the beast, Miralen raises her bow, trying to claim her prey before it has a chance to disappear into the bushes again.

Initiative [roll0]

If she goes first, attack with Rapid Shot
[roll1] dmg [roll2]
[roll3] dmg [roll4]

[Ataraxian]

As the hart turns to flee, you raise your bow and fire. Your hasty shafts are ill-aimed; the first draws blood, but the wound doesn't seem critical. The second goes astray altogether.

The stag crashes away from you through the undergrowth. The dense forest here prevents it from running flat-out, but it still travels faster than you do, and is easily 160 feet distant by the time you are ready to react, the leaves and branches screening it somewhat from your fire.

[Your action.]

[Vladislav]

Grrraawrrrrgh. With a primal grunt, Miralen connects to her animalistic side. Translucent wings grow from her back, and she gives chase to the stag above the undergrowth, leaves and strands of spider webs brushing against her face. If she can see it, she launches another arrow.

Swift action: Animal Devotion
Move action: fly 40'
If I see the stag, attack [roll0], dmg [roll1], otherwise keep moving additional 40'

[Ataraxian]

You catch a glimpse of the stag, but without stable footing to balance you, your arrow flies wide of the mark. Flying between the tree trunks, below the canopy, you're about as fast as your target if you fly at full speed-- in fact, you feel as though you are gaining slightly. But full speed, in the dark, is likely to be difficult; you'll need courage and agility to avoid slamming into anything more substantial than spiderwebs.

[Here's my resolution: if you fly at full speed, make a tumble check at DC 15 to avoid hitting something, then a DEX check to see how fast you catch up. If you fly at half speed, you'll lose contact and have to find the stag again. By the way, have you left the dog behind? And what, if anything, are you using as a light source?]

[Vladislav]

*&!$%

Miralen swears at the miss and doubles her efforts to catch up, translucent wings beating behind her back. It's not easy, with the moon(s) as her only light source. The dog has been left behind, and she can hear his frustrated howl in the distance, as he's either trying to catch up, or just howling at the moon, it's hard to say.

Fly full speed
Tumble [roll0]
Dex [roll1]

If I'm back in range, [roll2], dmg [roll3]

[Ataraxian]

Your wings beat powerfully as you fly in pursuit of your quarry, looping and turning through the branches like a gigantic goshawk. Even two hundred feet distant, you catch a glimpse of the white hart, its fur shining in a shaft of moonlight, and you glide straight for just long enough to loose another arrow. This one flies home, striking the animal in the flank. That ought to slow it down enough for you to catch up...

Except that you look up from your shot and realize there's a tree right in front of you. And you haven't left yourself room to turn.

Rubbing your aching head, you hear the rustle of the stag escaping.

[Take [roll0] damage. You closed to 160 feet and fired, and the stag is now at 240. Please be specific about what range you will consider shooting at; you take -2 per 110ft range increment, to a maximum of 1100 feet(!).]

[Vladislav]

Just as Miralen thought things could not get worse on this pursuit, they do. Head spinning, she advances only slightly through the trees, a trickle of blood obscuring her vision. She shakes her head violently to remove the red droplets from her eyes, and takes aim again.

5' step, then Rapid shot with -4 for two range increments, total -6

[roll0] dmg [roll1]
[roll2] dmg [roll3]

[Ataraxian]

Standing on solid ground, you wait for a glimpse of the fleeing stag between the trees and loose two last shots at long range. One of them, you can tell, was a solid hit. But your prey isn't dead yet, and you've lost sight of it in the darkened forest. Of course, with the trail of blood it's leaving, tracking it should be easy, and you doubt it has the strength to run far.

[see the OOC]

[Vladislav]

Brief hope turning to frustration as the injured prey eludes her again, Miralen rushes headlong through the woods. She considers slowing down for a moment, not wanting another painful rendezvous with an even thicker branch, but apparently, the previous whack killed off or at least knocked out the part of her brain responsible for caution, and she plummets full spead ahead until she can catch glimpse of the animal again.

Initiative [roll0]
Survival [roll1]
Spot [roll2]
Tumble [roll3]

6 rounds of Animal Devotion left

[Ataraxian]

You race forward, eyes scanning the ground for traces of the stag. You have little trouble following it-- its dark blood is dripping steadily onto the leaves, and you could almost imagine you can smell it. You're learning to see... but apparently forgetting how to look where you're going, as once again you ram into an obstacle, this time a sturdy oak that must have been old when your father was a child.

You must have gotten close, though. Really close. In fact, you can hear the stag's exhausted breathing as it struggles against the pain you've inflicted on it, too tired to run any further. It's probably hiding behind this very tree.

You rise heavily to your feet, ready to put it out of its misery-- and hear the drum of hooves, moving not away from you but towards you. The sight of its tormentor rising to her feet seems to have driven it to one last, deadly effort.

You turn just in time to meet the lethal expanse of its antlers.

[Yeah, two natural ones... I'm going to be a little mean and give it a surprise round partial charge. [roll0] to hit, [roll1] to damage. You win initiative by a ton; your action.]

[Vladislav]

As the stag crashes against her, Miralen gasps for breath, antlers piercing her ribcage. Now she knows how Tilney felt. I need to get out of here before I get gored.

Mindful of the stag's counterattack, she retreats upwards into the canopy. She will continue the fight from above.

Withdraw action to fly up my full movement
5 rounds of flight left

[Ataraxian]

The stag looks up at you, eyes filled with incomprehension and blood rage. It slams against the tree nearest you, trying to shake something loose. It's a solid piece of timber, but it shakes alarmingly and dry leaves rattle down from above you.

[Vladislav]

Settling down on a comfy yet sturdy branch, Miralen lets loose another pair of arrows.

[roll0] dmg [roll1]
[roll2] dmg [roll3]

[Ataraxian]

The branch may be comfy, but it sways like a bucking horse under the impact of the hart's blow, and one of your arrows misses. The hart rears back and slams into the tree again.

Strength [roll0]

This time the blow is weaker, as if the creature's power is finally bleeding away.

[Vladislav]

I almost got him.
[roll0] dmg [roll1]
[roll2] dmg [roll3]

3 rounds of Animal Devotion left

[Ataraxian]

Your final pair of shots fly true, and at last the hart slumps to the ground, its mouth frothy with blood.

[Vladislav]

Miralen floats down from the tree, touching down gently by the stag. Her wings disappear as she finishes the hunt with a slit of his throat and a quiet prayer. As the flesh dies, the spirit returns to its hallowed ancestors. She lays her hand on the stag's forehead and closes his dead eyes.

Now what? She obviously can't lug the whole carcass. Miralen carefully saws off the horns at their base and hoists them on her shoulders.

unless it's some kind of sacrilege: Knowledge (Religion) [roll0]

She then gulps a potion of Lesser Vigor and, seeing her wounds at least partially close, sets out back to the pool to look for Grime. Where are you, boy? Talk to me!

Taking 10 on Survival to find direction to the pool

[Ataraxian]

As you kneel by the body of the fallen stag, you feel Saint Claris's thoughts within your mind one last time. This time, they feel more natural and comfortable, as if the experience you have just been through has brought you closer to the Bright Lady's godlike perspective.

[remember, there is only one moon]

Looking down at the white hart, you see it with the Saint's eyes. It is not just a mortal animal (though it is that also), but an aspect of her being. Just as the moon fades and reappears, so the hart must die, and so it will be reborn to run again.

Having learned something of how to see, you feel as if you will be able to reach these insights more often. And, you realize, the experience may have marked you for life. Most of your wounds itch with the unpleasant tightening sensation of skin knitting faster than nature meant it to. But one puncture, on your upper arm, has already sealed itself with a white scar the exact shape of the crescent moon.

You claim the hart's magnificent antlers as a trophy and begin to retrace your steps to the pool, where, no doubt, your faithful dog is waiting patiently for you.

[Vladislav]

You know, Grime, I could have used some help there. The dog is running around the pool, tail wagging happily. I'm fine, thanks for asking. Miralen kneels by the pool and helps herself to its fresh and replenishing waters, then sneaks another look at the moon. The only moon. It's time to head home. The road is long, and feeling still a bit worse for the wear, she uncorks another potion. These things are expensive, but Miralen doesn't fully trust her ability to tackle the challenges ahead with that pulsating pain in her side.

It should be about midnight when she arrives in town. Miralen's plan is to enter the inn quietly, shrug off any questions about the pair of antlers on her shoulders, and crash in bed. Before closing her eyes, she remembers the letter. No need of that now, she will speak to Navar in person. Slowly, she descends into the common room, where the errand boy is sleeping by the fire, and pulls the note from his pocket, hopefully without waking him and having to answer awkward questions.

And thus this day of adventure finally ends.

[Vladislav]

In her dream, Miralen sees her father. He's at the manor's library, reading a book. The boys are playing outside, rambunctious as ever, but this time Miralen didn't join them. She's standing next to her father, reading over his shoulder, her still slow and childish mind trying to keep up in vain. He is so close she can feel the smell of his pipe.

But I don't want to be a Goblin! A squeaky voice protests from outside.
You will be a Goblin, and you will like it! a slightly more mature one asserts, and the father smirks through his mustache.

Father, Miralen's childish self hesitantly asks, what's this book about?

[Ataraxian]

"This?" Father looks up from the pages for a second. "Not a very exciting book. Not a storybook. No wars, no spells, no wise lords in silk or brave ladies in armour. Not in the text. But there was blood spilled a-plenty over this book in its time."

He flips to the book's thick leather cover, embossed in gold. There is the sign of a crown and two words that you can sound out, but not recognize: "LEX REX".

"The law is king," says your father. "The king doesn't say what the law is, and even he has to follow it. There was a time when men and women could go to prison, be tortured, even killed out of hand, just because the king or one of his advisers ordered it. But we're a free people now, and we have our rights. It's what makes us better off than the goblin-folk, every one of them a slave to their Broodmother, and she can sell them like cattle if she's short of silver."

"Of course, that works out better in a book. With all the fighting over the mithral mines in the west, half the kingdom is ripe for rebellion, and the king seems to want to rack every spare man and copper out of the rest of us to keep them under his heel. So maybe it is a storybook after all. But we won't be slaves, will we, Miralen? You've never liked being a goblin." He smiles at you. "Show me those new sword strokes I saw you practicing in the courtyard."

[Vladislav]

Sure, daddy.

Miralen smiles and grabs her father's cane - he doesn't really need it, and only uses it for style - and starts to furiously thrust, parry, and lunge. Take that, evil tyrant! She then removes her little grey overcoat from her shoulders and starts showing off her cloak-and-dagger style. As the overcoat dances in front of Miralen's eyes, she suddenly wakes up and finds herself gasping for breath, wrestling with the blankets.

Time to wake up and face the new day. Miralen wraps one antler in a blanket into a rather large irregular-shaped parcel, hides the other under her bed, and sets off to talk to Merrow again. Hopefully, this time, she will find the prisoner in a more more receptive mood. Along the way, she catches the errand boy again.

Hey, sorry about that letter, I didn't need it delivered after all. But I have another job for you. Here's three silver, run over to Riester's farm and ask how their guest is doing. Find me back here or at the manor and report.

[Ataraxian]

Navar comes to meet you at the hall door. He's apologetic about the state of Eunicia's room, but, he explains, he keeps telling the servants to clean it up, and they never seem to do it properly. Apparently they're nervous about going up there, and a few of the more credulous have claimed they heard voices that weren't the old lady's. At any rate, he promises to tell them again, and make it stick this time.

You explain you're going to see Merrow. "Miralen," he begins, "now may not be the best..." But you're already headed downstairs. As you go, you pass an unremarkable-looking man in a cleric's gray vestments, and walking a pace behind him, Allida, the scarred female Spectioner. They're coming in the opposite direction, as if they've just been to visit their prisoner.

[Vladislav]

Miralen puts a finger on her brothers lips to stop him from apologizing and gives him a big hug. Having nearly lost her life in the forest made her somewhat more appreciative to what she has. I understand, brother. I know she can be difficult at times. I know you'll do what you can. Let's just all try to ... get along somehow, yes?

Having bumped into the Spectioners in the hall, Miralen does her best to move along and avoid interacting with them. If they don't say anything, she most certainly will not. Her footfalls echoing through the underground corridor at a brisk pace, she wonders what have they done to Merrow...

[Ataraxian]

Merrow is sitting in the corner of her cell. Around her right wrist is a ring of flames. She is studying it quizzically, as if it causes her no pain.

"Miralen." She looks up. "Our friends have left me a present. Don't worry, it's not real." The charm is a good one; even knowing the fire is just in your mind, it takes you a few seconds to get past its lifelike crackle and the real feeling of heat it gives off. In reality, it's just a thin copper bracelet, but... you can still see it burning.

"They asked me for names. I didn't tell them any. So they decided to remind me of what was in store if I didn't cooperate. Pleasant people..."

"Of course, if you've come to tell me about the Shadow again, I can give them your name next time. Sorry. I spoke out of place... but being in here weighs heavy on my mind."

[Vladislav]

I don't think you will do anything of the sort, Merrow. I went to the pool last night and drew the moon. The only moon. The saint has revealed herself to me, and sent me her White Hart. Miralen unfolds the parcel to reveal the magnificent white antler, the place where it was cut from the skull still fresh and pulsing.

I can help you, Merrow. I'm on your side. But you have to help me too. Let me tell you, eventhough the Spectioners are looking at all the wrong places, the thing they are looking for is real. There are witches in Dryhope, and they are up to no good. I tracked one up to the Spindle Top before the trail went cold. What do you know about this?

[Ataraxian]

Merrow looks up at you, surprise erasing the worry on her face. "You-- but it takes months to prepare for initiation! You could have been killed!"

She stands up and puts her arms around you. "I'm glad you weren't, though. And I'm sorry I doubted you. Just don't tell anyone else about this, or they really will put you down here, and much as I'd like company... There are a few others who keep the faith, if you need them-- Kittery Sloan and Blind Tam the horse doctor-- but try not to draw suspicion onto them, I don't think they'd survive much rough handling."

"The witches are real enough," she nods in confirmation. "And I'm not surprised you tracked one to Spindle Top. I've seen strange lights burning by the Old Folk's houses up there, and I found a strange ring of sheep's bones once, with a horned skull in the middle that belonged to nothing I've ever seen before."

"As to who they are, though... I've heard all the same names you have, but I don't put much credit in gossip and tale-bearing, else I'd think every old woman in Dryhope was fiend-sworn. If you suspect anyone in particular, I can tell you what I know about them."

"Oh! And I almost didn't notice the pretty ring you're wearing! Ezra Crumsen isn't quite who I'd guessed you'd choose, but... there are wrong ways of looking, after all, and perhaps you see further than I do."

[Vladislav]

Merrow looks up at you, surprise erasing the worry on her face. "You-- but it takes months to prepare for initiation! You could have been killed!"And I almost have been. The Saint does not provide her favors painlessly, let me tell you. Miralen rubs the left side of her stomach, where the scar under her clothes is still burning.


She stands up and puts her arms around you. "I'm glad you weren't, though. And I'm sorry I doubted you. Just don't tell anyone else about this, or they really will put you down here, and much as I'd like company... There are a few others who keep the faith, if you need them-- Kittery Sloan and Blind Tam the horse doctor-- but try not to draw suspicion onto them, I don't think they'd survive much rough handling."Miralen etches the names into her memory. She knows those two, and isn't surprised to find them among the last of the town's free-thinkers. She vows not to draw attention to them and not visit them except in dire need.


"The witches are real enough," she nods in confirmation. "And I'm not surprised you tracked one to Spindle Top. I've seen strange lights burning by the Old Folk's houses up there, and I found a strange ring of sheep's bones once, with a horned skull in the middle that belonged to nothing I've ever seen before."Can you tell me about these Old Folk? I haven't been in these parts a while, and whatever I heared of them, if anything, I must have forgotten.


"As to who they are, though... I've heard all the same names you have, but I don't put much credit in gossip and tale-bearing, else I'd think every old woman in Dryhope was fiend-sworn. If you suspect anyone in particular, I can tell you what I know about them."Miralen bites her tongue before she mentions Eunicia, two floors above. I heard stories about Val Bury giving people the evil eye, do you know any of this? She shifts uneasily from one foot to another, then adds, and also Riester's girl, what's her name!? Tinley or Tilani, something like that.


"Oh! And I almost didn't notice the pretty ring you're wearing! Ezra Crumsen isn't quite who I'd guessed you'd choose, but... there are wrong ways of looking, after all, and perhaps you see further than I do."
It's not what you think, Merrow. A business transaction, is all. Miralen draws her face close to the bars, and in attempt to inject some levity into the situation, whispers in a low conspiratory voice, don't gossip about it while you're here, will'ya?

[Ataraxian]

Can you tell me about these Old Folk?

"The Old Folk? I don't know much about them but stories... and I'm sure you've heard the same ones-- wandering bards who get carried off for a night of revelry and come home a hundred years later, armies sleeping under the earth, waiting till the kingdom needs them. But the houses up on the hill are real enough-- dark little rooms cut into the ground. If they lived in them, they were gloomy people-- but they might have been graves, or temples, or storehouses for all I know. One way to stay out of the wet while you're up there, but they give me a prickly feeling, and I don't like to stay in them too long."


I heard stories about Val Bury giving people the evil eye, do you know any of this?

"Val Bury? She's been by here begging many a time. I don't like her, but I've always suspected she's just putting on a show to get people to feed her. Her grandson Auburn I'm not as sure about. I've seen him do little tricks-- mending tools, calling beasts-- and I think he uses the craft, but he didn't learn it from anyone in town that I know of, and I don't recognize any of his workings. His cousin Maida worries me too. I'm not sure if she has any cunning, but she can be vicious if she thinks you won't find out."


what's her name!? Tinley or Tilani, something like that.

"Farrell's girl? A witch? She's spoiled and thoughtless, if you want my honest opinion, but I doubt she'd hurt anyone."


A business transaction, is all. Don't gossip about it while you're here, will'ya?

Merrow laughs at your joke. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." At the word 'secret', her face tightens again and she twists the fiery bracelet nervously on her wrist. "I'm sure they have more important questions to ask me anyway."

[Vladislav]

I'll go to those Old Folk homes then. I think the witches have some kind of hideout there, and I'll try to survey whatever's going on, hopefully I can continue my tradition of not getting killed.

She considers the Bury family; they might be the hornet's nest here, and she doesn't want to disturb them too soon. Maybe scout on their house before leaving town?

Before leaving, Miralen takes a long hard look around the dark depressing cellar where the prisoner is kept. This isn't right. She could do something about it; she knows where the lord of the manor keeps his keys, or at least could easily find out. She could bust Merrow out somehow. But she shouldn't. All hell would break loose, Navar would get in trouble, all she herself will have to go on the run. No, now is not the time. Merrow will have to sit tight for now. If she's dragged out onto the fire while I'm gallivanting through the countryside, I'll never forgive myself.

I'll be back. Do not lose hope.

For her next step, Miralen goes to the library. She wants to read up on the Old Folks homes - location, details, related stories, etc., but before that, on a whim, she decides to search for the book her father was reading in his dream - LEX REX. If she does find it, she will leaf it briefly for anything interesting; if not, she will shrug at her childish fantasies - of course it was just a dream, silly girl!

Search for the book: take 20, unless the library is too large for that [roll0]; and if old Erica is there, dusting, ask her for help.
Research on Old Folk homes: Knowledge (Local) [roll1], for [roll2] hours

[Ataraxian]

You step into the library, and Erica is dusting the books, just as you'd hoped. You're less happy to see Pell Barrow, the Spectioner court clerk, sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair with a pile of books in front of him. (You recognize Varenus de Castella's book on witchcraft, but not the others.) He looks up at you, nods politely, "Good day," and returns to his studies.

Erica may be a champion duster, but she's not much of a reader; like many of the servants, she's literate but takes a while to sound things out, especially in old-fashioned blackletter printing. So her assistance as you comb the shelves consists mainly of looking wisely at you and making encouraging comments. It takes you a while to locate LEX REX, which is shelved at ankle level, next to Slateford's "Commentaries on the Laws of the Realm" and a few other volumes of legal writing. It's full of words like "disseised" and "disafforestation".

Barrow looks up at you again as you try to sound them out. "Interesting choice of reading material," he comments, his voice dry as always. "But rather hard going for a soldier, I would have thought?"

You proceed to prove this isn't your day for scholarship by spending three more hours looking for information on the Old Folk. Halpern's Travels mentions barrows and standing stones in the hills near Dryhope, but only to say the climb up is tiresome and they aren't worth seeing. A few other books tell you things you already know: the Old Folk used stone, gold and bronze for tools, but no iron; they lived on hilltops; they're gone now and nobody knows where they went.

Finally, you stumble on a chronicle by Bishop Eutomathes which says the Old Folk were giant trolls, three times the height of a human, who paid a tithe to the Shadow every year on Hallowmass. All their dwellings are accursed by their unholy sacrifices and it's extremely unwise to carry iron or steel inside them. If you crawl through the gap between two of their standing stones, you will bear a devil child, but if you find one of their flint arrowheads in a field and carry it with you, you will never feel cold or muscle aches.

Unfortunately, the good Bishop also says swallows suck the blood of sleeping children and sheep have no teeth, so you suspect he was somewhat credulous.

[Ataraxian]

You emerge from the library, and one of the servants tells you the inn's errand boy has come to deliver you a message. He's in the kitchen now, drinking a cup of milk and waiting for you to show up. He hands you a grubby slip of paper, congratulates you on your impending marriage to Master Ezra, and waits expectantly for a tip.

Ezra's seems to have been characteristically miserly in choosing the smallest scrap of paper and the bluntest quill in his possession, but with some effort you can make out what he's written. "shell probably live, still abed, sleeps badly, troubled with nightmares and says there are rats scratching in the walls which there arent when you going to take her off my hands again. love ezra."

[Vladislav]

It takes you a while to locate LEX REX, which is shelved at ankle level, next to Slateford's "Commentaries on the Laws of the Realm" and a few other volumes of legal writing. It's full of words like "disseised" and "disafforestation".
Wow, this is hard stuff. Painfully, Miralen gains extra appreciation of her father, and how smart he was.


Barrow looks up at you again as you try to sound them out. "Interesting choice of reading material," he comments, his voice dry as always. "But rather hard going for a soldier, I would have thought?"Miralen's muscles tighten, and she wonders if she should make an insightful comment about his choice of reading material, or skip the verbal sparring and go directly to punching his smug face for sitting in her father's favorite chair, but then takes a deep breath and decides on neither. Eh, it's fine. She replies evasively, while forcing herself to stop sounding the worlds. Why can't you just read quietly, silly girl?


All their dwellings are accursed by their unholy sacrifices and it's extremely unwise to carry iron or steel inside them.I'm not going there without my arms and armor. I'd rather take my chances with the curses.


He hands you a grubby slip of paper, congratulates you on your impending marriage to Master Ezra, and waits expectantly for a tip.Miserly weasel, Miralen mutters under her breath as she reads the note, although it's unclear whom does she refer to. She sends the boy off with another three silver, and heads to town to scout on the Bury residence from a safe distance.

[Ataraxian]

Val Bury lives in an ugly little hovel near the edge of town. It looks drafty and badly maintained. Outside is an unkempt herb garden and a rabbit hutch. Smoke trickles from the hole in the thatched roof that passes for a chimney, suggesting that Val is in this morning.

On your way here, you passed some housewives hanging washing to dry. But you can't see anyone else right now.

[Vladislav]

Passing by the Bury fence, Miralen stops for a moment, as if to tie an unruly boot lace. While kneeling and her fingers are fiddling with the laces, her face aquires an aura of concentration. Her nostrils widen, inhaling whatever passes for air in this part of town, her mind racing, sifting throught the multiple odors, trying to lock onto something familiar ...

Hunter's Sense stance - Scent

[Ataraxian]

You smell dry rot, wood smoke, rabbits and the mingled floral and medicinal aroma of a herb garden. Pretty much what you can see, in fact.

[Were you sniffing for something specific? You can try to figure out what's growing in the garden with a Knowledge (nature) check-- if you care.]

[Vladislav]

Copied over for reference

You can definitely make out sage, lavender, pennyroyal, thyme and rue. These are all used in cooking (especially sage and thyme). Several of them have medical uses against minor ailments. Lavender and rue can be used to drive away insects; oil of pennyroyal is a nasty poison, sometimes used to perform abortions.

Well, I can see now why old Val would find little supporters in this town. Most folk just don't appreciate a woman's right on her body. Miralen idly twists the ring on her finger, and shudders for a moment at the thought of her 'impending marriage' to Ezra. I just hope I don't ever need her help about that.

Having sniffed some lavender and rue, Miralen now has a cover story for her visit. She boldly strides to the hut and knocks on the door. If Val opens, Miralen will explain her inn room suffers from a cockroach infestation, and ask the old woman if she has something to drive the insects away. Just in case, she hides the ring in her pocket for the duration of the visit.

[Ataraxian]

You wonder whether the ring is safe in your pocket, but checking for holes, you find none, so you decide it will be fine to leave it there.

You have to knock on the hut door several times before hearing any acknowledgement, then wait even longer for the door to actually open. Val Bury scowls at you from the entranceway; she's bent nearly double over a gnarled wooden staff, and wrapped in several layers of clothing. She stares at you rudely for a moment, then invites you obsequiously inside. The small fire in what passes for a fireplace is uncomfortably warm and smoky; everywhere else is miserably drafty and smells unpleasantly lived-in.

"Ah, cockroaches, I know them well, Milady, nobody better at them than me..." You don't doubt her; Val seems practically gleeful at the thought of them. "Yes, yes, just take a moment, Milady, so glad to be of service." She hobbles around the narrow little room, grabbing a pinch of this and a handful of that, and occasionally pausing to sniff noisily at the mixture.

[Vladislav]

Miralen shifts her weight from one foot to another. The longer the old woman takes shuffling around the hovel, the more uncomfortable she feels. She takes a bit of time to look around, but knows that nothing she sees is likely to provide her with any amusement.

Spot [roll0] - anything suspicious?

So, you have many clients, I'd guess? she eventually make a feeble attempt at breaking the ice. Surprising even herself, she quickly adds, lot of folk in this town have pests need getting rid of?

She lets the ambiguous comment hang in the air as she waits for Val.

[Ataraxian]

You look carefully around the room, searching for anything suspicious. To a suspicious eye, though, almost everything about the place could cause misgivings... Some of the flowers drying over the mantle are foxglove, used in small doses for anxiety and in larger ones to cause a trembling panic that often leads to death. Traces in the corners suggest the place is infested with mice. You've heard of witches whose familiar spirits appear as mice. If you're going to be really thorough about it, Val has a twig broom propped in the corner. Just like Tilney's. And just like the ones in every other house in the village.

"Not many, Milady, no, nobody wants to come to poor old Val anymore," the old woman mutters vindictively, "It's all Mother Hatch this and Mother Hatch that. I've forgotten more herbal than she ever knew, the lousy old bat."

At your mention of "pests", she darts a quick glance at you. "If you're having any other problems, Milady, you just tell old Val, yes. If you're having a bit of a stomach upset, I can set you to rights in no time."

[Vladislav]

Come to think of it, Miralen does have a bit of an upset stomach, at least since having entered Val's house. And there are pests to be gotten rid of... But she declines the offer, managing to blush only very slightly. No, I ... I'm good. Was just curious, is all. Just the 'roach bane, please.

If Val is still working, Miralen shifts her weight yet again, not daring to sit down, then asks, so, how are the grandkids doing? Auburn and Maida, haven't seen them in years, I recall they were such nice kids, must be all grown up now.

[Ataraxian]

"Maida, ah, she's a pretty little thing, and remembers her old gran from time to time, not like that ungrateful wretch Auburn. I asked his ma to tell him come over and fix that fence, and the rabbit hutch, too, else all the rabbits'll get out, and never a hair of his head did I see. His father was always a sluggard too... I miss my Tandy, that they ran out of town all those years back-- she wouldn't've let her old mother starve all alone, yes, she was a good girl."

"And here you go, Milady." Val gives what would presumably be a curtsey, if she'd had a few more years of etiquette and a few less of scoliosis, and hands you several sachets filled with a mixture of dried plants and powders. "That'll clear the buggers out, and it won't cost you nothing but ten gold nobles." You're not sure what exactly she put in them, but unless it's crushed gemstones, the price is nothing short of highway robbery.

[Vladislav]

*gulp, cough*

Why, thank you. The price isn't right for this one, but Miralen isn't ready to take on the forces of Hell on their home turf yet, and she rids herself of the requested amount of gold. The King's profile, stamped on each and every coin, does nothing to relieve her angst. She stores the sachets in her backpack and leaves the hovel much quicker than she entered it. She puts her ring back on her finger as she walks to Auburn's house.

[Ataraxian]

As you walk down the muddy path away from Val's house, you catch sight of two of the Spectioners, Allida Cresset and Sir Ardish Peck. The lean grey-clad woman has a crossbow slung over her shoulder, a case of bolts at one hip balanced by a long knife at the other. The knight is on horseback, wearing a mithral breastplate that must literally be worth a prince's ransom-- the king certainly spilled enough blood taking the mines back from the rebelling Westerners. He's wearing his sword at his side; a heavy warhammer is clipped to his saddle. A brindled mastiff paces alongside. A few villagers stand by the roadside, gawking.

[Vladislav]

I wonder where they're going. To arrest another suspect, perhaps? They may need help. Well, someone is bound to need help. This may be an opportunity to get on their good side.

While Grime and the mastiff are busy sniffing each other and asserting canine dominance, Miralen approaches the mounted knight. Speaking quietly (no need to advertise to the whole village), she says On your way to apprehend another witch? Sorry I couldn't join forces with you the other night, heard that girl gave you quite a fight before you brought her in. So if you need any help this time, I'm not doing anyhing special right now.

[Ataraxian]

Sir Ardish looks down at you appreciatively. "Bravely offered, and we could use another sword arm if things turn out badly. We have a warrant to arrest Valentine Bury for a witch-- on the evidence of her own family, in fact. They usually come quietly and trust to their master to rescue them later, but it's best to be prepared."

"What's more," his voice lowers further, "we intend to imprison the hag until we can try her for her crimes... but if the villagers get wind of what we're doing, they may try to take the law into their own hands."

"That would be no bad thing!" Allida Cresset breaks in suddenly. It's the first time you've heard her speak. "Witches can work their mischief from prison as sure as any place else."

[Vladislav]

Miralen's eyes round and her jaw drops, as her surprise is evident. Having regained her wits, she says Really? You're serious?! Valentine Bury? Most my years I lived in this town, and always assumed Val stands for Valerie. Well, here's to learning something new every day.

Well, a nice pickle I put myself into with my big mouth. Damned if I go, and damned if I don't. I wonder if they can be reasoned with and leave the poor woman alone. For the love of all Saints, it's just some lavender and pennyroyal! I guess I should just quietly ... nah, screw it, I'm done being a Goblin ten years ago.

Also, she says, while tugging on Grime's collar to prevent him from tangling with the mastiff, since you seem to be new in town, here's a bit of local information for you. The Bury family all hate each other. One woman's mother is another man's mother-in-law, as they say. Her kin are simply using you to avenge Val for some grievance, real or imaginary, that witchcraft has naught to do with.

However, I will come along, and throw my authority in case the mob tries something. Also, Lady Allida, she frowns at the last comment, does my brother know you place such little value on the lives of his subjects even before they were proven guilty?

[Ataraxian]

Her kin are simply using you to avenge Val for some grievance, real or imaginary, that witchcraft has naught to do with.


Sir Ardish looks concerned for a moment at your statement, but shakes his head. "We mean to discover the truth in all this, but we cannot do so by listening to rumours and gossip. We will question her and her accuser ourselves, with magical aid; it's the only way to see through the Shadow's deceptions. If the woman is innocent, she has nothing to fear."

Allida looks skeptical. "You really believe that, don't you? A woman of that age-- even the cold air of a cell will do her harm, and questioning leaves none scatheless." She raises a hand to touch her scarred face.

"But you can tell your brother--" she turns to you, "that if he had a proper care for his people, he would be as eager to root out the corruption as we. To let a witch free is to put a weasel in your hen house, and see murder done causeless and without measure."

Her accent, you notice, isn't local... from what you can tell, she comes from one of the southern provinces, where stories say the Old Folk lingered longest, and taught a little of their tongue to the people before they went.

You've managed to retrace most of the distance along the muddy path, and are once again coming in sight of Val's hut.

[Vladislav]

Miralen makes a mental note to have a small chat with Allida later. The woman is tainted goods, but she might know something I need.

Coming by Val's hut, Miralen asks the Spectioners to hold. I'll go in there and ask her to come peacefully. Perhaps it's best for all if she sees a familiar face. Less resistance, less bloodshed.

[Ataraxian]

"An excellent plan, if it works." Sir Ardish waves you forward. "If it does not, we will be ready to aid you."

"I'll come nearer the door, so I can hear if she tries anything," Allida says. She touches the mastiff gently. "Quiet, Cafall. Stay. Good dog." Sir Ardish is staying with the animals, just out of sight of Val's little hovel. Meanwhile, the two of you walk up to the hut; Allida conceals herself behind the fence (close enough to hear whether you are talking or fighting, but probably not what you're saying), while you knock at the door. Again, you suffer through the interminable wait as Val creaks her way out of her chair to pull it open.

"Back so soon, Milady? Have you forgotten something?"

[Vladislav]

Having some experience with bad news, Miralen nevertheless is not sure about the proper form to break them. Should she just lay it out, or go slowly and in a roundabout fashion?

Well, Val, I ran into some people as I was leaving. The Spectioners. They came here to arrest you. I'm sorry. I told them you will come peacefully, mostly because I don't want to see anyone get hurt. I guess, Miralen puts her arm on the hilt of her sword, but doesn't draw it yet, that if you can transform into a bat and fly out the chimney, about now would be a good time.

Shifting to Stance of Clarity as a swift action

[Ataraxian]

"They come to arrest me, have they? Old Val, who never did nobody any harm? Well, I'm not going to fly out the chimney, but I'd be beholden to you, Milady, if you was to let me out the back door and go tell them you couldn't find me."

"You know I never did nobody any harm, no, I didn't, and besides, if they was to question me too severe, I might tell them all sorts of things people don't want to get out, yes, all about people's little stomach upsets and what not. You might think you're marrying Ezra Crumsen in time--" you glance down and realize you've forgotten to take the ring off again-- "but I'll wager he don't want to play cuckoo for some other man's child. But old Val can keep a secret, yes, if you'll just let me out the back door, nice and easy."

There *is* another door, and from where she's hiding, Allida probably wouldn't hear you open it... if you were quiet.

[Vladislav]

I am not marrying Ezra Crumsen, there is no other man, and most certainly no child, so save your threats. Although it's nice the ring is so readily recognizable. Miralen sighs. The Spectioners aren't stupid, Val. They have everything covered. There's one eavesdropping on us right now. Also, out of curiosity ... if I let you, where are you to go?

I hope she doesn't intend to go to her family.

[Ataraxian]

"What ring? Oh," she peers closer, "aye, so he gave you that, did he? Anyway, I know I heard tell you were marrying him from someone, I forget who, but I didn't need the ring to know. Tell all the tales you like, but don't think I'm stupid, Milady, no, never think that... I may be old, but I still hear plenty of things. And I still have kin in this town, yes, they'll hide me."

[Vladislav]

No they won't.

Miralen bites her tongue before she destroys the old woman's last shred of faith in her family. She lowers her voice and steps close to Val. Val, they're on horseback, and have a tracking dog. Now, think. You can't even outrun me, and thus have been reduced to begging for mercy mixed with cryptic threats, what odds you have of outrunning them?

But, know what, if you believe in your lucky stars, and would rather take your chance against their swords and dogs, than come peacefully ... go. I can't help you though. Surely you, of all people, understand. Of, you can come with me, and I swear my brother and I will make sure you're treated fairly.

diplomacy [roll0]

Miralen takes a step away from Val. If the old woman goes for the back door, Miralen gives her a few seconds of head start. (1 round)

[Ataraxian]

Val looks longingly at the back door for a moment, but you seem to have convinced her that her chances of escape that way are unlikely. "I'll trust you," she says, "but you'd best not be trying something on me. I have my ways, now." She smiles at you. It's not a nice smile. She picks up her stick and a small cloth bag you imagine she uses for a purse, and hobbles through the front door.

[Vladislav]

If she wouldn't spend her life getting by with threats and just was a little nicer to everyone, maybe her family won't turn her in. I hope I don't get so insufferable when I'm old.

Stepping out of the door, Miralen nods to Allida. She's coming peacefully. She takes Val by the elbow and they slowly make the way to Sir Ardish and his horse. Not caring the least what Ardish may think about it, Miralen gives Val a boost onto horseback, next to the knight. If he objects, Miralen tries to explain, as calmly as possible, that the woman is old and can barely walk, and if they would like to make the way to the castle at the pace of her hobbling, then it's going to be a long day.

back to Hunter's Sense stance

[Ataraxian]

Sir Ardish doesn't seem to mind loading Val onto his horse, and though the animal itself looks suspiciously at the unaccustomed rider, he calms it with a gentle word. Val sits unsteadily, grasping at the knight with one hand and the saddle with the other.

As you round the corner into the village proper, you realize that there are quite a number of people here to watch you, including men you would have thought would be at work in the fields right now. Several of them must have come from the fields, in fact, since they're carrying hoes, pitchforks and other farming tools. Looking around the muddy street that leads between the inn, smithy and the village's few shops, you count about ten men and women standing in a loose clump directly in your path. Judging by the tankards they're passing around, they've stopped by the inn for some liquid bad judgement as well.

"So Val Bury's going to get what she deserves, then?" The man who speaks is one of the taller and brawnier of the farm labourers standing in your way. "Only I don't reckon she needs a trial. There's a faster way of finding out, and she doesn't get the time to weasel her way out like she's done before, or kill honest lads with curses while she sits in a cell. I say swim her, and we'll know for sure!"

The crowd seems happy with this proposal-- "Swim her!"
"Yeah, let's find out once and for all!"
"She cursed my pig! And my sister!"

Sitting atop a warhorse seems to have given Val some ill-advised courage. "Precious little difference between'em, too! And you, Lambert Hatch, you know better than to be calling poor folk witches! Them as live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones!"

You can smell the man's rage. "I am going to roast sausages over the fire that burns you, Val, and I'm not waiting for a magistrate to light it, either!"

Sir Ardish looks sidelong at you, hoping you can somehow quiet the storm before someone gets hurt.

[Vladislav]

The old woman seems to have a gift for tugging on people's strings.

Miralen is angry at Val, angry at the beligerent townsfolk - the ones she's supposed to be helping, angry at the overzealous and hardheaded Spectioners, but mostly angry at herself for being in this situation.

Val, with all respect, shut your trap. Ye gods, how did you manage to live to be your age?

Miralen quickly strides to stand between her little group and the townsfolk. Now look here. Not even the king is above the law, let alone you louts. The suspect is being brought to stand trial at the Tamerlan Manor, and none of you shall interfere.

She squints at the one named Lambert, who's apparently the ringleader of this pathetic circus. I don't recall you being so brave when my father was alive. He would have put you to order quickly. Make one more move, she whispers, fingers tightening on her sword, and you will find out that so can I.

She raises her voice again. All of you, good folk, please go home. The suspect is well under control, and you are in no danger. Let us keep it this way.

Diplomacy [roll0]

[Ataraxian]

Lambert turns to the crowd. "You heard the lady. Go home! It's all under control!"

He's a store-keeper, you remember, somewhat stout from his days leaning against a counter, but still muscular as well-- when you were a child, you saw him win the prize for wrestling at Midsummer Fair a few times. A popular man, it looks like, at least with people who are drinking at his expense.

"You're not your father. You've spent two whole days here. And you're going to keep us all safe. Where were you when it hailed in reaping season? When half our lambs died of redsickness? When they killed Maddie Lawsen? And Rister Farrell? And Avram Crumsen? We're going to keep ourselves safe. And you're not going to stop us, for the same reason you didn't stop the witches in the first place. Because you haven't got the stones."

He walks towards you. If you had to guess, he plans to pass menacingly close to you on his way to drag Val from the horse, but it's hard to be sure.

[Vladislav]

Where were you when it hailed in reaping season? When half our lambs died of redsickness? When they killed Maddie Lawsen? And Rister Farrell? And Avram Crumsen?
You dare ask me where I was, storekeep? While you were minding shop and drinking, I was at the silver mines, knee-deep in monsters. I was out in the northern fields, digging my comrades' graves in the frozen ground until my fingers bled. I killed a Grimlock and used his entrails to keep my hands warm, so I could lift my sword again when more came to avenge him. I have been cursed by a hag, cut off her head, and vomited on her corpse, all in an afternoon's work.

And I did all that so His Majesty can have the silver circulating, so your customers can have the coin to pay you with.

Miralen stands in Lambert's path and half-draws her sword from her sheath. Now that I have satisfied your curiosity ... you can satisfy mine. You're bigger than me, maybe stronger too. But are even one tenth as pissed off as I am?

[Ataraxian]

Lambert makes a brave show of it, but you saw him flinch a little at your gory exploits, and you can tell he's reconsidering his assessment of what you're willing to do to keep the peace. On the other hand... he's not going to look good if he steps back now. You can see him dithering.

"You tell her, Lam!"
"Come on, get the witch!"

The crowd is growing impatient. And then someone scoops up a rotting crab apple from the ground and throws it at you. And as if that's given them permission, the rest of the crowd hurl pebbles, gobs of mud, even a few larger stones that might do real damage if they were better aimed.

[spot check, and roll initiative]

[Ataraxian]

"Get down here, Val, and we'll make it easy on you!" Lambert shouts. It's not much of an effort. Events seem to have overtaken him for the moment, and she ignores him, just like everyone else.

As you duck the hail of trash flying towards you, you notice a rock just appearing in mid-air, with no visible thrower. A disturbing sight... and it's a suspiciously regularly-shaped rock, as well, you think, as your well-trained reflexes take over and you try to get out of the way.

[reflex and fortitude DC 15 vs deafness from the thunderstone (pass either and save); fortitude only for Grime]

[Vladislav]

Miralen ducks out of the way just in time. A good thing too, that explosion could have knocked her ears right into her skull. Grime is not so lucky - judging by his whimper and the way his eyes rolls in pain, he got the brunt of the explosion. While the poor dog is sitting back, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears, Miralen gets her sword ready ...

[Ataraxian]

In the split-second of silence after the thunderstone lands, you look around yourself, sizing up the opposition. Sir Ardish seems unhurt, but Val is clutching at her ears in pain... and you see the knight's warhorse rear up in panic, tipping the old woman from the saddle and onto the ground. Sir Ardish leans forward, trying to calm the animal before it tramples her.

The mob rushes forwards. A woman at an upstairs window is shouting encouragement, preaching some kind of rough-hewn sermon about killing witches. Three of the townsfolk head for you, trying to pin you down while the rest take care of Val. As you ready your sword, they glance at one another, then split, a tall, lean youth with a club attacking from the right while the other two, a middle-aged man with a pitchfork, and a hammer-wielding woman in a blacksmith's apron, circle around to your left. Lambert, taken off guard by the sudden violence, is still wondering what to do as his friends run past him. You dodge the first clumsy blow from the fork and swing your sword up to guard position.

Allida looks at you in panic. With your military training, it's clear what she's thinking-- with her knife and crossbow, she has no way to keep them from rushing her without killing them. She darts back a few steps, the mastiff Cafall at her heel, but unless you mean to slaughter the brawlers where they stand, you should probably let her run to take cover.

[The mob is going first. It's your action now, then Lambert, then the Spectioners, and finally Val. (Grime also moves on your action, but since he's deaf, you can't give him orders.) If you want to stay in Stance of Clarity, declare a target.]

[Vladislav]

Allida looks at you in panic.I recall someone saying not too long ago that the mob taking the law into their own hands is no bad thing. Well, I can only hope we all learned a valuable lesson today. And where did that stone come from!?

Stay back, fools! I don't want to kill you! Miralen considers summoning nature to her aid, but decides against it. Sprouting fur all over her body while defending a suspected witch is unlikely to endear her on Spectioners nor townsfolk. Using a trick she learned in the northern frostlands, Miralen swings her sword in a wide arc, catching two of the assailants at the same time; despite the crowd's beligerence, she is not ready to kill a human yet, and is aiming to strike with the flat of her blade.

Initiating Steel Wind, taking -4 to do nonlethal damage
vs. Mr. Club [roll0], dmg [roll1]
vs. Mrs. Hammer [roll2], dmg [roll3]
Free action, 5' step back
Move action, Listen check for the source of the thunderstone [roll4]
If Miralen hears any invisible creatures, she will draw attention to them
Also, back to Hunter's Sense yet again

[Ataraxian]

[Sorry if this is a double-post. I think I may have lost my last reply, so I'll summarize in case.]

Lambert swings (non-lethally) and misses, his blow blunted by your armour. Sir Ardish dismounts and stands over Val, blocking a quarterstaff with his sword and nearly managing to sunder it. Allida seems to have run for cover. Val curses the woman in the window, wishing for her to choke on her sermon and die. The mob surges around you and Sir Ardish, trying to draw you off-guard and get Val. The pitchfork wielder tries to trip you, but can't even touch you; the blacksmith and youth with the club combine their efforts to distract you, but fumble and miss. You can't sense anything invisible amid the chaos.

[Misses all round. Your action. You can use Martial Study to analyse Lambert's tactics.]

[Vladislav]

Miralen quickly homes on the most dangerous enemy. Lambert is an experienced warrior, and needs to be taken down quickly and efficiently, if she is to survive this. She sets her feet steady on the ground as she strikes; the power of the earth flows into her, filling her entire body, then unleashes itself in one mighty blow.

Initiating Mountain Hammer, attack [roll0], nonlethal damage [roll1] + [roll2]

[Ataraxian]

You hear Lambert exhale sharply as you slam the flat of your sword into his body. With a roar, he steps under your guard and grabs you around the waist, pulling you in close.

[You're being grappled. Make a grapple check.]

[Ataraxian]

Under the fat, Lambert is still viciously strong-- more, you realize, he's done this a lot more than you have. You can't break free; he slams his head viciously into yours, and your eyes swim for a second.

Held immobile in Lambert's grasp, you can't dodge the next swing of the blacksmith's hammer from behind, nor the next sweep of the pitchfork against your legs. You struggle to keep your feet.

Somewhere behind you, you hear Sir Ardish groan in frustration. He sounds like he's holding the mob off-- for now-- but Val seems panicked. "Don't you come near me! Don't dare!"

[12 non-lethal damage; 6 from Lambert and 6 from the smith. Strength or dex, DC 17, to avoid being tripped (if you succeed, pitchfork man has to drop the fork). Even though you can't give Grime orders, if you think he'd react to defend you, you can get him involved.]

[Vladislav]

Grime, still deaf from the explosion, does what comes naturally. He gets behind Lambert and bites his shins.

[roll0] vs. flatfooted, dmg [roll1]
(although Miralen is grappled and doesn't provide a flanking bonus to Grime, he can provide one to her)

Meanwhile, its mistress, feeling the shopkeeper's rancid breath on her face, heavy sword made useless in close-quarters fighting, tries to draw Tilney's dagger from her belt. If successful, she will try to stab Lambert in the shoulder, if not, just punch him in the eye.

move action: attempt to draw Tinley's dagger with a grapple check [roll2]
swift action: recover maneuvers
Standard action: attack [roll3] with dagger (no longer putzing around with nonlethal damage; if failed to draw, just unarmed strike) (includes -4 for grapple, +2 for flanking; the -4 penalty for prone canceled out since he's prone as well)
damage [roll4] or [roll5]

[Ataraxian]

You reach for the dagger at your belt, but Lambert knocks your hand away, and your punch is equally futile. He grabs your wrist and locks it, and you wince in pain.

Two of the villagers attacking you turn away as Grime comes to your aid. The one with the pitchfork swipes at him, and you hear him yip as the attacker lands a glancing blow, but again, the club-man swings over-enthusiastically and slams his weapon into the ground. The blacksmith's apprentice, meanwhile, tries to help Lambert by striking into the melee, but can't find an opening.

At least, you realize, the preacher's sermon from on high has been cut off in mid-sentence.

[Lambert deals 6 more non-lethal. Grime takes 3 non-lethal. Your action]

[Vladislav]

Hearing Grime, as reliable as he is fearless, come to her help gives Miralen hope. 'sic 'im, boy!

Black hair sprouts on her arms and face, and her muscles tighten. She heaves and strains against the shopkeeper's sweaty body, trying to wiggle a hand free, then strikes again.

Miralen
Animal Devotion (+2 Str)
Trying to draw dagger again vs. Lambert's + whatever he has
Mountain Hammer [roll2] dmg 1d4+4 or [roll3] plus [roll4]

Grime
[roll5] dmg [roll6] vs. Lambert's flatfooted

[Ataraxian]

You finally manage to get a fist free and hit Lambert in the jaw so hard you can hear his teeth click shut. His grip goes slack-- you've managed to knock him out.

The villagers continue the fight, two of them striking at you while the other tries unsuccessfully to hit Grime. Even lying on the ground, you somehow manage to wriggle away from their weapons. It helps, you think, that they're still just trying to pin you, and not out for blood. Although perhaps the ape-like fur you've just sprouted will give them other ideas-- you see fear flicker in their eyes as they wonder what will happen to them once you get up.

[Vladislav]

Freeing herself from Lambert's limp grasp, Miralen grunts, told you I was pissed off. Grasping her sword firmly in both hands, she her attention to his friends. Despite the weapons trained on her, Miralen stands up, and swings her weapon again. Grime darts around, teeth snapping in the air, harmless but menacing enough to possibly distract the pitchfork wielder.

Grime
Aid Another vs. Pitchfork

Miralen
Stands up (provokes AoO)
Initiating Steel Wind, nonlethal damage
dmg 2d6+6 vs. Pitchfork (for this attack, Grime is flanking, additional +2 if Grime hit AC 10 above)
dmg 2d6+6[/roll] vs. Club

[Vladislav]

Didn't take improved strength into account, it was AC 13 vs. Pitchfork (15 with Grime's help), and damage is [roll0]

[if Pitchfork guy is down]

Run while you can, fools!

[Ataraxian]

[AoO [roll0] (because you're prone) lethal damage [roll1]]

As you rise to your feet, the man with the pitchfork stabs at you, fear getting the better of caution as he finally aims to draw blood. You are more merciful, slamming the pommel of your sword into his head so that he drops to the ground, retching. Swinging the sword around, you miss the youth with the club, but he drops his weapon and flees. The blacksmith takes a few steps back, seemingly willing to stop the fight if you are.

[Btw, you'd have hit anyway, but rechecking your Mountain Hammer above, did you forget there's a -4 non-proficiency penalty for unarmed, and *also* a -4 for attacking in a grapple?]

[Vladislav]

[Rangers are proficient with all Martial and Simple weapons. Unarmed Strike appears in the SRD as a simple weapon, so I should be proficient.]

Miralen sneaks a quick look behind her, checking on Val and Ardish. If no one is in immediate peril, she'll snarl at the blacksmith, keeping her guard, but no longer attacking.

Recover maneuvers just in case

[Ataraxian]

You look around. Of the four peasants attacking Sir Ardish, one is lying on the ground cradling a swollen wrist, one is backing slowly away, and as you watch, the knight reaches out, grabbing the third one's club away from him and dashing it to the ground. The last fighter circles around behind, drawing a dagger... but as he moves in to strike, a crossbow bolt whistles past him, burying itself in the ground at his feet.

"Time to go home..." It's Allida's voice, coming from the window where the sermonizing woman was standing moments before. "Go on, get out of here, or the next one won't miss."

And indeed, the fight does appear to be over, as the few members of the mob left standing size you up and make the obvious assessment of their chances of winning. Sir Ardish is looking down at Val; neither of them look particularly hurt from where you're standing. If you act quickly, you might be able to end your ape-like transformation without either of them noticing it, although Allida certainly has, along with the three villagers you were fighting, and who knows how many of the others?

[End of combat timing; act as you please.]

[Vladislav]

Ah, so that's where she went.

Sword dragged by hairy fingers, Miralen lumbers toward Val and Ardish, with each step her posture becoming less stooped and more humanlike. By the time she gets to them, her hairline recedes to its normal dimensions. I don't know if you are a witch or not, she spouts at Val, but I hope you enjoyed this little spectacle in your honor. Next time, you may not be so lucky, so I suggest a measure of humility.

Let's get out of here, she adds to Ardish, then remembers there's one other thing, did you see who threw that thunderstone? It appeared out of thin air.

Miralen brushes the dirt off her clothes, massages off her aching wrist, and gets ready to move on; if no one brings up the topic of her transformation, neither will she.

[Ataraxian]

Val stares at you in incomprehension, and you realize that, unfortunately, your suggestions will have to wait until she regains her hearing.

Sir Ardish looks back at you, seemingly puzzled for a second by your posture but willing to shake it off. "The thunderstone? No, it came from the middle of the crowd; I had assumed one of them threw it."

"No," Allida has returned to ground level, "I saw it too. There was something going on here for certain... another witch, more than like. Such Shadow's limbs fall out often among themselves, and serve their grudges by having each other burnt."

[Vladislav]

Trickery and deceit at every step!

Miralen paces around with her right hand supporting her chin. She saw her father do it a lot, and figures it'll give her some air of intellectualism. Whoever threw that stone wasn't up to help Val. They were up to add to the chaos and pit us and the townfolk against each other. Well, their success was very partial, I'd say. She looks around the former battlefield and sniffs the air. I could try search for tracks, if there weren't so many different ones ...

[Unless she senses something with her scent or the Spectioners have some investigating of their own to do at the scene, Miralen is ready to move on]

[Ataraxian]

As you surmise, the ground is too disturbed to notice any tracks in particular, and you don't smell anything out of the ordinary.

[Vladislav]

Miralen surveys the fallen enemies. Although, from a purely moral standpoint, she feels she deserves to loot them, as the winner in battle would, but that would be akin to stealing from her own people, so she lets them be.

She asks the Spectioners, Should we continue to the castle? They might be back, and waves toward where the blacksmith and her pals retreated.

[Ataraxian]

Although, from a purely moral standpoint, she feels she deserves to loot them, as the winner in battle would, but that would be akin to stealing from her own people, so she lets them be.

From a more practical standpoint, pawing through the villagers' clothing like a mugger in an alleyway is likely to be as unprofitable as it is demeaning.

You collect Val and the animals and make your way back to the manor. The entrance hallway is unexpectedly busy this morning. While Sir Ardish and Allida lead Val off toward the cellars, no doubt to install her next to Merrow, you also see Barrow, the other Spectioner, escorting Maida Bury toward one of the upstairs sitting rooms-- whether as witness or as suspect, you aren't sure.

Several maids are rushing about on various errands, one headed for the library with a duster, one to the cellars with a breadbasket, and one upstairs with a raw lamb chop in a dish. Navar is watching all this with a harried look on his face, as if once again the demands of the estate are getting the better of him.

[Vladislav]

Along the way, Miralen is itching to give Val a piece of her mind, but by the time the old woman's hearing returns, Miralen's anger has subsided to manageable proportions, and she no longer feels the need to vent it out. Once they enter the hall, she realizes Val is going to be in a position to evesdrop on any conversation she may have with Merrow, and makes a note to do something about it.

Allida, may I ask to have a word with you in the library once you placed the prisoner? She asks, as she parts paths with the Spectioners.

Having exchanged polite bows with Ardish and Allida, and no pleasantries whatsoever with Val, she takes Navar by the elbow, and pulls him to the library, whisering quickly in the little time they may have. Brother, I need a favor. After they are done placing the prisoner, can you make sure the two women, Val and Merrow, are held as far as possible, in different parts of the basement? Use any excuse you can ... the cell is too cold, or too hot, or there's a water leak, or the suspects are to be kept apart so they can't conspire with each other, or so they can't curse each other, anything. Just move them apart, please. Oh, and why is Maida here? Is she the one ratted out Val? Can't believe it, the old woman spoke so highly of her.

[Ataraxian]

Allida nods to you as you part, and perhaps you see her harsh expression soften somewhat-- what it would take to coax an actual smile out of her, you can't guess. "You fought well," says Sir Ardish. "Let us know if there is any way we can aid you in return."

You head off to the library with your brother. He's somewhat confused by your request, and warns that space in the cellar is likely to be tight if any more prisoners are taken-- the Tamerlans of days gone by may have been less civilized than the current occupants, but even they didn't usually hold more than one or two captives at a time. But with just two down there, it should be possible to keep Val and Merrow well apart, unless the Spectioners insist otherwise. "Oh, and Maida? Barrow didn't tell me exactly why she was here, but yes, reading between the lines, I think you must be right." He shakes his head. "The Burys have always been... difficult people."

"Now that I have you in private, sis, I do have some business to discuss with you... I know mother never really got on with you, and tried to cut you off from the estate when you wouldn't marry Ezra Crumsen. But I'm the lord of the manor now, and I'll decide what to do with it, not her. And I say you should get your fair share. We can arrange a more permanent settlement later, but if you need ready money, I can give you a thousand gold nobles now, and write to the trading houses in Corinton to let you have more on account."

He pauses, as if wondering whether what he's about to say is wise. "If you think you need to marry Crumsen for his money, don't-- the estate may not be as rich as it was when Father was alive, but it's still enough for both of us. Put him aside before you commit yourself too deeply."

[Vladislav]

Navar, Miralen squeezes her brother's hand, but is immediately forced to let go, sharp pain in her wrist serving as a vivid reminded of the recent scuffle, I appreciate your kindness, but you know me, I'm stubborn like a Wildland mule. Ezra is just ... annoying, and I won't marry him, not for all the gold in the kingdom. But thank you, my Lord, for this gift. She does a rather clumsy curtsy, almost falling down on one knee, and a tear comes to her eye. Look at him ... my baby brother, Lord Tamerlan. A real Knight. Father would have been proud.

[Ataraxian]

Navar looks a little awkward in the face of your effusiveness; he tries to sound lordly as he tells you you are most welcome, but it doesn't really work. "Also," he adds, "if you are having second thoughts about marrying him," (a possibility that plainly relieves him), "you ought to make up your mind and let the man know. Breaking an engagement is serious business."

[Vladislav]

Why does everyone assume that ...

Miralen puts her hands on her hips. Second thoughts? There were no first thoughts to begin with. There is no engagement, Navar. The ring? It's just a gift for guarding his father's grave from ... eh, for guarding his father's grave. And just as quickly as she exploded, she calms down. But if you think it's not right for me to wear it, I'll return it. People have been talking too much to my taste.

[Ataraxian]

"Look, calm down. I didn't mean to offend you. But if that's how you feel, you probably ought to return the ring, just to be sure."

[Vladislav]

Miralen smiles. I will return it. Although it will make for interesting conversation. Thank you for the advice, and everything else.

She figures her brother has a lot of things to take care of, and doesn't delay him further. If he leaves, she idly walks between the shelves while waiting for Allida.

[Ataraxian]

Allida slips into the room promptly enough that you imagine she's been waiting for Navar to leave. She leaves the door half-open behind her, and stands against a nearby shelf. It's a relaxed-looking pose, but one that you notice leaves a straight line between her and the exit.

"My lady." She dips briefly in a curtsey.

[Vladislav]

Please, Allida, just call me Miralen. I'm not the lady of anything. Miralen is embarrased by this show of respect, but gets down to business quickly. You're from the south, right? I can tell by your accent. Do you know anything of the Old Folk?

[Ataraxian]

Allida looks surprised for a moment. Whatever it was she thought you wanted to talk about, it wasn't this.

"Indeed, I know a little concerning them."

[Vladislav]

There are local rumors of Old Folk homes up on Spindle Top. People speak of strange lights during the night, and circles of bones set as if in a ritual. I intend to go there and look for witches. Miralen struggles with herself for a heartbeat, thinking of Merrow, then her tongue gets the better of her. Real ones.

She motions at the bookshelves, I couldn't find much helpful here, so any advice will be appreciated.

[Ataraxian]

"Real ones, Miralen?" Your name sounds different coming from her, more liquid somehow. "Why, I myself seek no other kind. But it is hard to tell sometimes who is and is not, isn't it?"

"Little surprise your books will not help you... ny wdant wy pydyd peridyd pwy." The words sound like a quote. "The Old Ones were not witches, I do not think, though they were perilous enough without being so. I have heard of witches using their altars and temples, though there is little wisdom in doing so... power there is still, sometimes, but never safe to draw upon."

"Tell me... you who would fight armed men for the life of Val Bury. Do you truly think her innocent? Do you think, even, there is any way to find out?"

[Vladislav]

Miralen smiles and runs a hand through her hair, as if trying to remember. Really? There were four of them? I must have lost track in all the commotion. Now that you mention it, it was a tad stupid. Almost had my arm broken. Stubbornness more than anything, I'd say. Then she gets serious. I don't know if she's a witch, but she does not deserve to be burned alive by a mob before her guilt was proven. As for finding out - why are you asking me? Isn't this your job, finding out those things?

But since you asked... there was someone else in that skirmish, that we could not see. Someone who threw that thunderstone, and started the fight. Now, if Val is a servant of the Shadow, that would be a mighty odd way of helping her. I reckon, whoever it was, is the real enemy, playing us and the townsfolk and Val all against each other.

[Ataraxian]

Isn't this your job, finding out those things?

"It is my job. But I am not good at it. Swimming the witch in water? Weighing her against the Book of Reth? Examining her body for the fiend's teat? Legends. No truth in any of them. We ask, we threaten, we work charms upon them... and still, if they have power enough, they lie to us. We will never know for certain whether Val Bury is a witch. But there is testimony against her, and so she must burn, lest innocents die."


Now, if Val is a servant of the Shadow, that would be a mighty odd way of helping her.

"The Shadow is evil! Its playthings may rise for a time and glory in borrowed power, but when their use has ended, it will laugh to see them suffer and die as their victims did."

"You act as one who knows little of witches. Once you suffer as I have, you will yet learn to fear them."

[Vladislav]

Like I suspected, tainted goods. I wonder how she was before those atrocities were commited on her. Quite normal, I suppose.

Miralen looks away from Allida. The other woman's presense in this house disgusts her, and Miralen's no longer interested in any advice she can dispense. Well, thank you for your time. We all do what we must. She replies coldly and exits.

She leaves Grime to recuperate at the trusted hands of the castle's stableboy, and heads back toward town. Originally, she intended to be heading to the Spindletop at this time, but recent events changed her plans. Her bruised and battered body tells her she's in no condition for a wilderness trek, and the newly-acquired gold in her pocket whispers "spend me". She heads for a store where she can replenish some equipment; before entering, she takes a look at her reflection in the window. Black eye, scratched neck, messy hair, dusty clothes. I wonder if anyone thinks the same about me ... "oooh, she was normal once".

She doesn't really want to enter the store, but business is business. After struggling for minutes at the entrance (and gulping a potion of Lesser Vigor as precaution against possible hostilities), she takes a deep sigh and steps in to face the storekeeper.

Hello, Lambert.

[Ataraxian]

The store isn't open. Hard to imagine that it would be, really... it's not more than an hour or two since you beat the storekeeper unconscious and left him lying in the muddy street just outside.

A second-story window opens, and you hear Lambert groan something from inside. A woman leans out, thin, light-haired, a bit older than you. "It's Lady Tamerlan."

There's another mumble from inside. "Store's closed," she relays, "and far as you're concerned it may well stay closed."

[Vladislav]

[I assumed he's tough enough to have gotten better. Wrestling prizes and all...]

Mrs. Hatch, please tell your husband to stop whining. Tell him I got over it, so he might as well too. But you know what, if he insists making such a show from a little scuffle, here, I have something to make him better.

Miralen holds up her last potion of Lesser Vigor as a peace offering. It's my last one, so I'm not very keen on throwing it. Do you want to come downstairs and get it?

Diplomacy [roll0]

[Ataraxian]

The woman leans back inside to confer for a minute, then looks back out. "Changed his mind," she says, "you just wait there."

A minute or so later the door opens. Lambert sports a nasty set of bruises. He may be a wrestling champion, but the Midsummer Fair is a friendly match, with rules-- most of the moves you were using this afternoon would have gotten you both disqualified, if not arrested.

He grabs the potion from you and gulps it down, then waves you into the shop. Lambert runs a general store-- it sells most things that the local farmers and householders can't make themselves, but need often enough that they can't just get them on their rare trips to Blacklaw or Corinton on market day. The shelves are crowded with things like lanterns, boots and coils of rope, as well as luxuries like jars of spices and cakes of sugar. There are a few shelves of magical goods near the back, mostly potions and ointments enchanted by journeyman magisters trying to earn their tuition, plus a few odder bits and pieces from further afield.

[What are you looking for, in particular?]

[Vladislav]

Miralen idly walks between the shelves, looking at items that may help her with tracking witches during the night ... or any other time of day. Also, her supplies of healing need to be replenished.

[things I'd like to buy:
- masterwork Survival kit (+2 Survival for 50 gp)
- potion of Bloodhound (SpC, 25 or 50 gp)
- potion of Living Prints (SpC, 25 or 50 gp)
- wand of Cure Light Wounds (750 gp)]
After some time, she stops and addresses Lambert. You have martial training, don't you? Saw you pulling some interesting moves back there. She mimics the moves of an imaginary weapon to trace a Stone Bones maneuver. My drill sergeant, he said it takes real dedication to master those moves. Guess I proved him wrong... learned by shear stubbornness and repetition. No dedication up here, she taps her temple and smiles, just hard-headedness. What about you?

[what's she's actually asking is: "crusader or warblade?"]

[Ataraxian]

Lambert gathers your purchases together, his expression beginning to warm as he realizes you're buying one of the most expensive things in his store.

"Practice makes perfect," he agrees with you. "Not much for noble causes myself, I just do what it takes to get ahead." He smiles. "Guess I still have some moves, eh? Not too bad yourself, though."

[Vladislav]

Well, I bashed a skull or two as well. So, Lambert, Miralen gathers her purchases on the counter, I remember Val screaming something at you in all this mess - something about a glass house. She's in the cellar now, you know, being worked on by the Spectioners, no doubt singing like a hummingbird. Do you have anything to worry about?

[Ataraxian]

Lambert looks serious for a second. "It'll my mother. There's been bad blood between us and the Burys as long as I can remember. But just because she's a wise woman and does some fortune-telling, people will always whisper her power comes from the Shadow. They can't deal with a woman who has a little money when they don't-- feel like she must be cheating them somehow."

"You may hear a few things about me, even. But I worked for this store, and if I'm a bit better off than some people in this town, it's because I've done more for myself than they have."

"Won't stop Val and her brood from trying to have us all questioned, though. I know we had a bad start--" he looks towards the muddy street outside, "but try not to let her drag my mother into this business."

[Vladislav]

I see. It's unpleasant to have people speaking ill of your mother, and I understand why you would do anything to protect her. But still, why the enthusiasm to destroy Val today, before the gets to stand trial? She lived in this town for eighty years, surely a few more days will not make a difference?

She also casts her gaze about the store for good bows, as her bow became a bit too soft for her taste, doesn't provide the needed pull.
[seeking to upgrade her +2 Composite Longbow into a +3, nominal cost 100 gp]

[Ataraxian]

"She's a witch... even a few days are enough for her to work some evil charm on us, and I don't think chains or walls are strong enough to stop that kind of power. Or she might try to save her skin by manufacturing evidence against us... I've heard in these trials, they sometimes pardon a few repentant sinners. Even if she can't save herself, I'm sure anything she tells them will only be another way to strike at her enemies."

"If she were dead now, I'd sleep a lot easier."

[Vladislav]

Wow, even pardon repentant sinners. What is the world coming to!?

Miralen bundles up her purchases and pays the thousand gold, leaving her old bow as well. With a few trained motions, the practices the pull and aim of the new one. Wishing swift recovery to the shopkeeper and good health to his mother, she leaves the store and considers her next move.

Along the way, she scouts for a shadowy spot that offers a direct line of sight toward the shopkeeper's door or window, from several hunders feet away. She'll need it later tonight. Despite Lambert's assurances, his enthusiasm for Val's blood left her feeling uneasy, as the llist of peope she can't trust grows ever wider. She goes back to Tamerlan manor to speak to some of the few she can; first, she descends to the basement to see Merrow, possibly under the pretext of bringing her food.

[Ataraxian]

As you step out of Lambert's shop, you notice that the wind is beginning to pick up a little, and the sky is streaked with wisps of cloud. It's likely to be a chilly night, perhaps with a few showers of rain, though visibility should be decent overall.

It would be easy to spy on Lambert's shop while hiding in the shadows of neighbouring houses, although it's possible other villagers might notice you if they are alert enough and walk by at the right time. Linna would probably let you keep watch from inside the inn-- the view isn't perfect, but you're sure nobody would find out. Or you could hide somewhere harder to get to, like on top of a roof, or inside someone else's house.

You return to the manor a few hours past midday. The kitchen staff are glad to give you food for Merrow (and yourself, if you want it). They suggest a nourishing soup, something fit for an invalid; the Spectioners have begun to interrogate her more harshly, and the servants who have been cleaning up downstairs say she's not feeling well.

A dark circle is scorched into the floor of Merrow's cell, with the remnants of runic symbols chalked around it. Outside the cell sits a chair, its back and legs notched. Merrow must have been tied to it, you think, and strained against her bonds.

Merrow herself is lying on her side, sleeping fitfully, but she sits up unsteadily as you arrive. She stares through you like an exhausted soldier stumbling away from the killing field. "Didn't say anything," she says, her voice flat. "Asked me again what I was doing at the pool. Names of other witches. Whether I knew Val Bury. What I had to hide. Why I tortured Maida Bury in a dream. Said the flames only burn liars, but I think..." She unbuttons her shirt, briefly, and you see the mottled pattern of fresh healing, spreading across her chest and shoulders. "I think they overstate their accuracy."

[Vladislav]

Merrow, I can ... Miralen lowers her voice and makes sure Val was moved away as intended, I can bust you out of here. It's not right what they're doing.

[Ataraxian]

"I can stand it if I need to... in the end we all die. Not that I'm looking forward to it. But I don't know if you should risk your life for mine; they know we talk, and I'm sure they'll suspect you if I go missing."

[Vladislav]

No, I can't leave you here. I have gathered some gear, I will be back tonight, and then we'll go to Spindletop together and see what's what. Get some rest. Oh, and I'm going to raid my brother's armory while I'm at it, I think. Need anything special?

[Ataraxian]

Merrow looks at you for a long moment. "If you're sure," she says at last. "Find me some warm clothing-- I have a feeling I'll be sleeping rough for a while, unless you have a better idea. I have a hunting bow and a studded jerkin in the stables, and if you're headed to the armoury, I know how to use a short sword or a quarterstaff as well."

[Vladislav]

[I was harboring some hope she'd say "get me a spell component pouch, holy symbol, full-plate armor and morningstar, and I'm ready to kick ass", but hey, nobody's perfect]

Miralen nods, and heads upstairs. If she can recall the name of that old servant who was trusted with the bundle of keys for all the manor's rooms, she will looks him up, otherwise she'll go back to her brother, hoping he is in some Spectioner-free area.

[Ataraxian]

Erica still keeps the keys for most of the living spaces, but Osric the steward has the keys to the small, dusty room where the Tamerlans keep their ancestral weaponry. Osric is a busy man-- there are rents to collect, sheep to be driven to Blacklaw market, a horse for sale that somebody needs to inspect-- and Navar has told him to treat you as lady of the manor. So you have little trouble getting the key, as long as you agree to give it back.

[Vladislav]

Miralen thanks Osric, and fetches a shortsword and a quarterstaff from the armory. Navar will be able to bear the loss. She wraps the weapons in a burlap sack, and, together with Merrow's gear hidden in the stables, stashes it outside the manor, in the bushes near the old oak tree (once her favourite spot to launch a surprise Goblin attack from). She then makes sure Grime is well-rested, and takes him to the kitchen to feast on some bones and leftovers off the floor.

In the final stage of preparations, Miralen goes to her room and riffles through her old clothes. Some will, no doubt, fit Merrow. She takes special interest in a large black full-body-covering cloak, which she used to wear during that dark time in her life when the world seemed out to get her, and no one could possibly understand what she was going through (in other words, at the age of 16) - it can be used to disguise Merrow.

[Do I have the cell keys or just the armory key?]

[Ataraxian]

You visit the "armoury"-- a stately name indeed for a dingy closet full of worn-out ironware. There's an old-fashioned suit of plate armour here, inheritance of some long-gone Tamerlan lord, and for a moment you imagine Merrow's slight body enveloped in this monstrous shell, brandishing a morningstar as she puts her enemies to flight. An amusing thought, but you doubt even you could wear this thing comfortably. Amid the stacks of pikes and halberds, the barrels of crossbow bolts and clothyard arrows, you pick out a serviceable short sword and a stout staff; that'll have to do.

In the stables, you find the little loft Merrow sleeps in. Her bow is quite well-made, though not as powerful on the draw as your own much larger weapon; the leather jack looks comfortable enough, but unlikely to afford its wearer too much protection. As you collect Grime, the stable-boy looks over to you. "Will you be taking him yourself, then? The lady Spectioner told me you wanted this put in his water-bowl tonight." He holds out a vial of clear liquid. "But if you're going out with him, you'll have to see to it yourself."

Your old clothes look wearable enough-- you skip over the ruffed and padded gowns that your stepmother chose for you, pulling out some sturdy riding habits instead.

The cells under the east wing are just a converted root cellar, after all, and the ancient padlocks Mad Lord Alistair used to keep his prisoners have long since gone to rust. So the Spectioners are using their own locks-- Osric doesn't have the keys, and you'll need to find your own way in.

[Vladislav]

Miralen sniffs the clear liquid, wondering if it's a healing potion, a "natural remedy", or something entirely different, then muses over her options. As tempting as a frontal assault may sound, she's going for a more subtle approach. She passes through the corridors and halls, under the pretext of helping her brother with castle chores and arrangements, overseeing the cleaning work here, and ordering the staff there. What she's really interested in, however, is the location of the three Spectioners. Once she has establishes all are busy with there questioning or in the library or whatnot, and aren't anywhere near their rooms, she tries her luck sneaking into one of the rooms with baited breath. If it's locked ... she'll cross that bridge when she gets there.

[Ataraxian]

Pell Barrow is in the front hall, greeting a visitor who looks to be another Spectioner-- a short, plump man who looks at his surroundings with disdain, despite Navar's courtesy. Barrow introduces him as Master Roseburne; although diplomatic as usual, he seems less than enthusiastic about his presence.

Sir Ardish seems to be in his room; the door is closed, but you can hear murmured prayers. Allida has gone out-- you can't find her anywhere in the manor, but the stable boy says she collected her mastiff Cafall an hour ago and went off with him.

Maida Bury is being settled in one of the second-floor bedrooms; Roseburne's things are being carried toward another, although the man insists on taking some of his bags himself, rounding sharply on the servants who attempt to assist him.

Allida, paranoid as always, has locked her door (she must have brought the lock herself; the manor's bedrooms don't have them built in). You aren't an expert at lockpicking, but you imagine you could get in given time. Barrow's door is unlocked.

[Vladislav]

Dear god, not another one. Miralen's lips are stuck in a smile, but she mentally frowns at the arrival of another inquisitor.

Making sure there's no one in the hall, Miralen stealthily sneaks through Pell's door and takes a look inside for anything that might resemble a key.

Move Silently [roll0]
Search [roll1]

[Ataraxian]

As the household bustles about, getting the new guests settled in, you slip into Barrow's room unobserved and pull the door shut behind you. You rifle efficiently through the man's drawers, chests and messily piled papers, making sure to leave everything just as you found it.

Barrow has two books in his room, one titled "The Most Strange and Admirable Discoverie of Seven Witches at Lansdowne Arraigned and Convicted, and the Shadow his Workes Laid Bare" and another a volume of Slateford's Commentaries that seems to have been taken from the downstairs library-- it's "XXIV: On the Great Writ". Topmost of the papers on his desk is a draft letter, to Sir Thomas Marcliffe, requesting him to sit in judgement on the suspected witches once more evidence is gathered, and hinting that a spectacular trial will increase his reputation with the King.

There is a locked chest marked with the staff and serpent of an apothecary-- probably healing supplies and potions. Propped in the cupboard is a finely-made rapier in a sheath of black leather, plus several doublets and tunics, soberly coloured but nonetheless clearly stylish and made of excellent fabrics; Barrow's black travelling cloak, you notice, is trimmed with ermine.

There's a small pouch hanging from the sash of the cloak, and the keys are inside, along with various small silver, a vial of ink, a signet ring with the device of an open book and a candle, and a few other bits and pieces.

[Vladislav]

Miralen pockets the keys, and leaves the room as quietly as she came in, trying not to dusturb anything. Halfway down the stairs, she makes a mental note to make sure the book is returned to its rightful place in the library, if she survives the ordeal, and drapes the black cloak over herself. Huddling the wings of the cloak to her body as if it's a chilly evening (and it really is), she makes her presence in several rooms of the ground floor, making sure the servants, and possibly a spectioner or two, see her wearing this cloak.

Best not spend too much time prancing around, though. If nothing unexpected interferes, Miralen descends to the cellar, and, with a baited breath, tries the key in the lock...

[Ataraxian]

She makes her presence in several rooms of the ground floor, making sure the servants, and possibly a spectioner or two, see her wearing this cloak.


You wander around the ground floor for a while, making sure to greet Erica ("Don't you have a better cloak than that, Milady? I could find one for you."), passing through the kitchen ("Chilly night, eh? Glad I'm close to the fire!") and a few other servants, including yet another maid bound for Eunicia's room with a raw lamb chop for the cat.

Still wearing the cloak, you sit down for a desultory dinner with Navar and the three original Spectioners. The conversation is cheerless; apparently Roseburne, who is still settling in, has a reputation that even his comrades aren't comfortable with.

"Perhaps his methods are extreme," Sir Ardish says, "but he means well after all."
Barrow snorts. "You would think that. I've had the... pleasure of working with Roseburne before, and I can tell you the man doesn't give a tinker's curse about the truth. He enjoys what he does. And when he enjoys himself too much, people die before they can be tried, and the whole thing has to be hushed up."


If nothing unexpected interferes, Miralen descends to the cellar...


Halfway down the staircase, you freeze at the sound of voices coming from below.

"Another one of you? Well, I'm not telling you anything either." Merrow sounds defiant, but her voice isn't perfectly steady.
"No? Just as I'd hoped." The other voice is smooth and pleasant-sounding, but with a tone of subtle eagerness in it. "I do like a challenge. Yes, we're going to have such fun together..."

[Vladislav]

So that's the dreaded Roseburne. Let's see what he's got.

Miralen treads softly down the last few stairs. She doesn't really need the element of surprise, but appearing behind the Spectioner unexpectedly will provide her with extra authority, she hopes. If she manages to sneak on Roseburne, she will take a few heartbeats examining him from behind before launching her introduction.

Move Silently [roll0]

I don't believe we have been introduced. I am Miralen, the lady of this house, and you, sir, will be ...?

[Ataraxian]

As you climb down the last few steps to the cellar, you see Merrow bound to the chair again. Roseburne is standing over her, stroking her cheek gently with a long, cruel-looking dirk. Around her burns a ring of fire. The flames aren't natural-- they flicker uncannily, bits and pieces of the circle flaring up and darting towards her, only to veer off at the last moment.

Roseburne has his back to you. He's wearing a long black robe, with a scroll case tucked into his belt. At his feet is an open leather case.

He starts nervously at your greeting before regaining his self-possession and turning to face you. "My name is Malachi Roseburne," he says. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do sit down; I am sure the witch's confession will be most entertaining, when she is finally... persuaded... to make it."

The east wing cellar is L-shaped; you are in the long arm of the L, about forty feet long and twenty wide. Behind you is the staircase you came down; in front of you, the short arm leads off to the left, another twenty feet long and still twenty wide. There are cells to your left and right, each barred with an iron gate; the right cell is the one Merrow was in, and is currently unlocked. Val Bury is locked in the third cell, at the end of the short arm. At this distance, she is unlikely to hear conversation, but will probably notice loud noises.

Merrow:

The circle of flames is produced by Zone of Truth, a divine spell available to moderately-skilled clerics. Roseburne cast it from a scroll. The flames will attack you if you tell a direct lie, or occasionally for no good reason. The burns it causes are superficial, inflicting no lasting wounds, but nonetheless agonizing.

Roseburne's leather case contains an assortment of knives, needles and hooked implements which he seems quite disturbingly proud to own.

[Vladislav]

Miralen walks over to put one hand on the cage bars, and the other on the hilt of her sword. She's not standing directly between the Spectioner and his quarry, but close enough to be in his field of vision when he looks at Merrow.

I am not here for entertainment. I am here to see Lord Tamerlan's subject is treated fairly and lawfully.

[Ataraxian]

"But of course. Interrogation is entirely within the law in cases of witchcraft, so long as no permanent harm is done. And you will tell us everything long before that, won't you, my dear?" He taps Merrow affectionately with the dirk. "Yes, I would be glad to have you watch. I am sure you are most experienced with the law."

He seems confident in what he is saying.


Merrow:

You can't tell if he's lying outright, or just shading the truth, but he's trying to mislead you somehow.

[Vladislav]

Merrow shakes her head furiously at Roseburne's speech.

The law? This is not the law. This is ... a twisted mockery!

Emboldened by this, Miralen takes another step forward. Experienced enough to know it would never endorse torture. Put this implement away. I will have none of that in my house.

[he taps her with the dirk again, and I'm going to find out how many hit points he has, the hard way, I swear to god]

[Ataraxian]

"The hospitality of House Tamerlan is most gratifying. I hope someday to have you as my guest, Lady Miralen. I assure you we will have a wonderful time."

"But if you object so passionately to the instruments of persuasion," he turns to Merrow, "surely you have decided to make them unnecessary! So I will proceed directly to my questions, since I take it you have decided to confess in full."

"What, precisely, were you doing on the night my colleagues apprehended you?"