The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

[purepolarpanzer]

Read in this voice. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aML4i3yO42E&list=PLy1RoYlej6xWqRRci7K_OuQWa-7UgG0uo&index=8)

Dreams. Dreams in the dark. All of you have been having strange dreams as of late. Some in the Vale say dreams are whispered by Pale Night into our ears on the wind. Dreams of glory. Dreams of violence. Dreams of power and debauchery. Each of you have been having troubling dreams. Whether they come from demons internal or external you are not sure, but each dream strikes a chord deep inside your minds and souls. And each dream ends in the same place- Dam'ess, a troubled village in the rural outskirts of the mountain kingdom of Harumvale. This is where the sacrifice begins. This is where the madness begins. This is where our tale begins.

The obelisk is crumbling, age wearing even it's black stone to dust. Long after Er'qel has been left abandoned, long after your family has left, long after the prime or even the nightfall of your own elven lifespan, you sit in the dust of the ruins you helped excavate, poring over the markings and carvings on the stone. But there is no more meaning here. You long ago extracted all you could from this obelisk. But still you study, even as your millennia old body begins to break down on you. Your chocolate hair gone gray, wrinkles and age spots forming on your face and hands, and the light of youth gone from your milky eyes, but still you study. A sudden cold wind brings a woman's laughter and blows your weary, patched, and torn hat from your head. But still you study, whispering and tracing the patterns and designs with bony fingers, hoping for more knowledge. More power. Greater understanding. The howl of a beast in the night doesn't cease your work, nor the sound of clawed feet behind you. It is only in your last few seconds of life, as the claws are tightening around your throat, that the obelisk, covered with worn images of stars, moons, and suns, reveals one last secret to you. An oddity in the shapes, a paradox in the patterns, a single line of ancient celestial right where the obelisk meets the ground. You'd always thought it was gibberish, barely discernible and easily written off. But as your parchment thin skin is pierced and your life's blood begins to flow, you suddenly recognize it for what it is. A number one, followed by a number two, separated by a symbol. Replace the symbol with "of" and you have "One of Two". There is another obelisk. This realization makes you smile, even as your corpse falls to the stone floor, and the beast begins to eat. Then you are awake in your tiny farmhouse, Periwinkle chirping at your frantically and Marigold flying around the room in a fury.

You've been here before. You've lived this before. The battle with the Horror of Yurl. Jonath tried to hold it off, but the dark, furry, scaled form ploughed him over, sending his sword flying. It hissed and gurgled as it struck Gnarl with it's mighty tail, sending him bouncing away as well. Burned by magic, slashed by blades, it was your arrows that angered the nearly dead Horror the most. It sprinted on six limbs up to you and reared up in the moonlight, reaching out at you in a lethal embrace. You scramble away, but one of it's mighty claws grips your arm so tightly that it rips through your flesh like a hot knife through butter. The pain. You remember the pain so vividly. The pain of your bones cracking, your flesh tearing, the terrible pain of knowing what is about to happen. Then Sara was there, smashing at it's freakish face with her mace, eyes alight with zealous fervor. The Horror howled in pain and tossed you away with a terrible ripping noise that nearly made you black out. It may have been more merciful if you did. Because the truest pain, the pain that resonated in your heart and soul, was the sound of Sara's scream being cut short as it's teeth closed on her neck, the sharp pop of her neck being broken, and the last gurgle as her life escaped her. Historically, this is when Jonath and Gnarl struck the beast from behind and slew it. But in this dream your fellowship is broken. Jonath has run. Gnarl's back broke when he struck that tree, and he has crawled away into the night. In this dream, all you know is the pain of your severed arm and the pain of hearing the Horror eat Sara. And the despair of knowing you will be next. But it is not the Horror, but another beast that approaches you from behind. It growls in your ear and takes an experimental bite from your shoulder. Apparently liking what it tastes, you feel teeth descend on your neck and feel the flesh give way. Then you are awake in your home in Dam'ess, with the sound of Sara's last short scream echoing in your mind.

Drum beats and bass voices echo in your mind. The voices of giants long dead. They chant the names of runes, and those runes flash like they are being freshly forged in your mind. Long ago at university you learned to drown them out while you slept, but they are particularly loud tonight. The rhythm is almost comforting at this point in your life. But then the rhythm stops dead, and the moans begin. Moans of pain. Moans of despair. Moans without hope. You open your eyes to see a barren, dry wasteland. Far to the west there are mountains, and closer to the east there are more. Before you, in this desert, are dozens of giants. Possibly over a hundred. All of different shapes and sizes, with fire giants, stone giants, frost giants, and more, all naked and chained to great wheels. The giants slowly but steadily push the wheels in an endless circle, even their mighty muscles straining with the effort. You see faces once proud and full of life gone grey and empty, with only the energy to push their wheels is Sisyphean torment and moan. You can hear machinery on a scale you could scarcely imagine under your feet, and the earth shakes and trembles like it too is afraid of what lies beneath. There is a sudden blast of wind and dry dust that makes you close your eyes, and when you open them again the giants are long gone, their skeletons still chained in their traces to the massive wheels. But the machinery is active now. The ground rumbles and shakes like nothing you've known before. The dry earth opens up in a perfect line before you and a pure black pyramid rises out of it, somehow darker than dark, as though it were eating the light of the sun, not reflecting it. The pyramid, a massive cycoplean structure covered in strange geometry that strains your mind as you attempt to understand it, floats into the air and begins to approach you. Nothing so large should move so fast, but it crosses the distance in the blink of an eye, crushing the wooden wheels and giant skeletons to dust in it's wake. It passes over you, eclipsing the sun, and heads towards what you know to be civilization. To the world of men and women, innocent and guilty alike. And you know it's purpose- to use the energy given by the toil of all those giants to bring ruin and madness to the world. Your own psyche threatens to buckle from staring at it, but you cannot look away. You are spared from madness only because a scything claw comes down from behind and nearly tears your head from your body. You hear and feel the unseen beast begin to eat. And then you are awake, at a small roadside tavern on the road to Dam'ess in Harumvale on a bright summer morning. And for the first time in your life since they first began speaking to you, the giants are silent.

The sun beats down, unmercifully hot, as you travel across the desert. These dunes are familiar to you, but the road you once traveled north on is gone to ruin for your trip south. You recognize exactly where you are. You are on your way home. But anything familiar or comforting about this journey is dead. The great river that ran parallel to the road is gone to dust, with the remains of crocodiles and fish fossilized in it's bed. Where once thousands of people made their homes and their livelihoods you see empty homes and bones bleached white. As you make your way into the grand city that you called home, all is ruin. All is dead. All is dust. Even the vultures are skeletons in what once were great plazas of commerce and bustling life. The only sound is the metallic ping of the Coin, flipping through the air, landing in your palm with a SMACK, and then back into the air, not even bothering to stop and look at which side has come up before repeating the familiar gesture over and over again. You come to the palace where your brother, your father, and all his fathers before him ruled this land. The twenty six soldiers who always guarded the thirteen massive steps are desiccated bodies clad in glorious armor, still manning their posts even in death. pingSMACKpingSMACK Up the steps you go. You find the bones of courtiers, nobles, and servants, all long dead and dried, all through the palace as though they died suddenly and without warning, living their lives like it was any other day. pingSMACKpingSMACK. You enter the apartments the royal family occupied and find only more dust and death- mummified fruit in the bowl your mother purchased from a foreign trader, tarnished bronze on your father's Ramah above the hearth, and finally you enter your sister's rooms. There you find nothing. No bodies. No empty clothes. Nothing.pingSMACKpingSMACK. The Shadowkeeper laughs within your mind. "Dear, foolish Set. I spared them all my wrath. See? They are SAVED from the fate of shadows. You SAVED them all. But because I do truly, truly care about you, and in keeping with the spirit of our deal, I removed your sisters from this place and this fate. I promise you this- they were SAVED from the fate that befell your people. And even better, they are nearby. I do hope you find them before Pale Night does. I won't SAVE them again." Now, there is one last pingSMACK as the Coin flips and lands in your palm. It shows the Scarab- death. Picking it up between two fingers, you flip it. The Scarab again. More death. Only death. The Shadowkeeper laughs again as the foundations of your sanity begin to crumble, only to be rudely interrupted by a massive claw tearing you to the ground from behind. His laughs blend with your own as the teeth descend and the beast begins to eat you alive. Then you are awake, at a small roadside tavern near Dam'ess in Harumvale, far from home. In your mind the Shadowkeeper is silent, but you know what he is doing. Gloating. Biding his time. Waiting for just the right edge to give you a nudge towards and make you fall.

Music. Light. Dancing. It is Midsommer festival in Falcairn. The air smells of flowers and, like every year, the beer flows like water. You are in the town square, near the monument to Mother Willow, with a full, foaming tankard in your hand. Priscilla, that beautiful farmer's maid who would never even give you the time of day? She stands before you, a mug in her own hand, white smile flashing in the sun. "It's so good, this year, Jemriah! And your father said you made this batch by yourself! I know we haven't talked much... but your beer makes me want to dance! Will you dance with me?" Jaw hanging, you feel yourself nod yes, and without a moment's hesitation she pulls you into the square to dance with all the other couples, young and old. You spin, she dashes, you bow, she curtsies, and soon the whole town steps aside to watch you dance with the girl of your dreams. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is drinking. Red cheeked and without a doubt more than a little sloshed, everyone is cheering you on. Celebrating you. Celebrating your beer. When the dance ends, everyone begins to chant "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!". So you raise your glass high, ass does Priscilla, and the cheers grow louder. Looping your arms around each other, the two of you drink deep of your creation. Pride and joy are erased as you taste something bitter and foul that sticks to your tongue like thick tar, causing you to cough and sputter. Looking down at your tankard, the foam has cleared away to reveal thick, black ichor. Your blood, just as it was when it attacked the Sea Witch and took her life. Bubbling and reaching from the mug like it intends to grab you and pull you in. Looking around you can see it now- they are all drinking your blood. Thick, ebon, and alive with alien life and malicious intent. A cloud passes over the sun and all the people of Falcairn begin to change. Their skins ripple. Black tar drips from their noses and mouths. You feel a hand clutch your chest as Priscilla, still laughing and smiling, begins to crumple to the ground, black tar-like ichor bubbling from her ears, her eyes, her nose, her perfect pink lips. Her final laugh comes in a thick black bubble that bursts from her mouth and across your shirt. Everyone in the town follows suit, bodies changing, bones scraping, flesh rippling, all changing in fast motion to creatures from nightmares. But the blood... the blood boils from their every orifice and begins oozing, crawling, creeping at improbable speed towards you. You turn to run, but it is all around you. It spills over the square and stickily, ickily climbs up your body towards your head. You open your mouth to let out a scream and the blood surges, filling your mouth and drowning your scream as it enters your body. You can feel the changes coming on, your flesh revolting and metamorphosing into something strange and alien. You feel a presence in your mind, watching you cry and struggle with clinical detachment. "Subject. Acceptable. Begin. The. Change." But suddenly your torture is interrupted by a deep howl, and your savior comes. Claws and teeth begin to ravage your body as the beast that came from behind you begins to eat. You can't help but whisper the words "Thank you." Then you are awake, in a small roadside tavern on the road to Dam'ess. You feel that familiar presence in your mind, but it is silent, perhaps still sleeping.

"Again." You hear the voice of your second teacher, Kharlis Sunderriver, as he instructs you in a familiar lesson. Standing on one leg atop a rock, you have a full bucket of water in each hand and a wooden cup of water on your head. "Again, Fanlomen." You hear yourself reciting words that are intimately familiar to you. In the course of your training you probably uttered them a million times. "My mind is a blade. Like a blade, I will sharpen it. Like a blade, I will treat it with respect. Like a blade, it can cut the innocent if I am foolish, or the guilty if I am strong. My mind is my blade when all other tools are lost to me." In a flash you are older, muttering that same mantra under your breath. "SSSSSHHHHH!!!" You do not see Gamlen- he is far too skilled for that- but you hear him trying to shut you up. You are hidden in a bush, and he must be nearby for you to hear him so well. "Quit yer nattering! Here they come!" You see figures through the greenery, walking along a game trail. "That's who we're looking for. Guilty of poaching. Take em' down quiet like. I'll back you up." Manifesting your blades, you creep forward, ready to pounce. When the figures come close, you rush out of the treeline, ready to throw a blade and start the fight. You are mere inches away from releasing the blade when realization strikes you. It is your father, and a group of huntsmen from your tribe. The blade in your hand disappears in a wisp of psychic energy as he looks at you, your surprise mirrored on his face. Gamlen rushes forward to aid you in striking them down, but you stop him with an outstretched hand. You explain the life of your tribe, how they live and respect nature and the Green Faith, and how they are no threat. Gamlen is suspicious at first, but after a few minutes of conversation he is smiling and all of you are laughing about the misunderstanding. Your father steps forward and embraces you, saying you be welcomed home by the tribe. That is when you feel the pressure. The pain. The raw force of your psychic power rushing through your mind in an unstoppable torrent. "My mind... is a blade..." you try to whisper, but it comes out as a scream. Gamlen looks at you oddly, but your father remembers what happened to your classmates, and he orders his warriors to run. "My MIND is a BLADE!" You scream again as the pressure grows, the pain intensifies, and blood begins to leak from your nose, mouth, and ears. Your body begins to seize, unable to withstand the psychic power that has been strengthened, sharpened, and trained by your years with Kharlis. Your father and his warriors are running, but so slowly, as though the air were molasses. "MY MIND... IS... A BLADE!" The pressure feels like it will crack your skull like an egg, and light is beginning to emit from your eyes. Even Gamlen is running now, but like the others he is running in slow motion. "MY... MIND... BLADE!" Your body is seizing and shaking so violently now you bite your own tongue and the taste of copper fills your mouth. "MY... MIND?!?" All your years of training are ineffective at holding back your power. Like a flood, it spills from your skull, forming hundreds of razor sharp blades that flash out from your body, lacerating and impaling your father, your teacher, and the other hunters of your tribe. Your scream tears through the forest, causing birds to take flight and retreat from your agony. It happened again- your power could not be controlled. But this time it killed instead of maimed. The power drains away, and you fall to your knees. Looking around you see holes in the greenery for miles around. Animals, killed. Trees shredded. Your loved ones, destroyed. You let out another savage scream, this one filled with sorrow and remorse, but it is interrupted by a loud howl from behind you. Something crashes into your back and sends you tumbling. Before you have the chance to summon your blades or reach for your bow it is on you, from behind again. You feel your flesh tear as the beast begins to feed, and your final thought is "at least now I can't hurt anyone ever again..." Then you are awake, in your woodland campsite not far from Dam'ess. Your mind is your own again, but you can't help but imagine what it would be like if you lost control now, with how much stronger you have trained your talent.

Later that Day, in the Village of Dam'ess...

The Oaken Larder is the only tavern in Dam'ess. When special occasions arose, it was also the town meeting hall, or the feasting hall for a marriage celebration, or the wake hall for a funeral. Today it was just a tavern with a sawdust floor and barrels for bar stools. Horace, the proprietor, cleans a glass behind the clap board bar, looking nervously around the tap room. There were strangers about. Good for business, but would it be good for the town? A handful of regulars were in for an afternoon ale or cider and some of Horace's wife's apple pie. But it was true. For the first time in years, there were a plethora of strangers in the tavern. Sometimes one would show up, very rarely two, but to see this many outsiders here worried Horace. He imagined that they had responded to the Chief's call for aid in dealing with the darkness and malaise that had fallen upon the village these last few years. But that was "hero" business, none of his. He finished cleaning the glass and set it down. Clearing his throat, he coughed a bit and spoke up to the room. "Uh... anyone thirsty? It's... uhhhh... happy hour. Yes, happy hour. Drinks are buy... two... get one free. Drink, anyone?" The flyers that had been left up in the surrounding villages, towns, and taverns said to meet at The Oaken Larder for more information about the threat to the town, but no Chief has shown up as of yet to reveal more. Maybe word has not reached him yet of all the strangers. But it surely will soon. It is a small village, after all. "Anyone? A drink?"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Birel wakes up with a start. For the briefest moment she gives her nightcap the side-eye and then she's up and about trying to calm the birds down. "What's gotten into you? Calm down buddy." she says to Periwinkle, knowing most likely it was he who set Merigold off and not the other way around. And Merigold is just a bird and can't understand her. That too.
Several minutes later she's managed to calm her familiar and the other bird down, finally pulling the reason out of him that it was her dream that set him off.

Then finally, it had been so hard for her to resist the urge this like, she goes over to her spellbook and begins flipping through the pages looking for what she saw in her dream. To her delight, though she had known for sure it was so, the dream was right. Right there. One of Two. She was delighted. So excited. Something to look forwards to. A goal!
...
Though how to go about that goal? She couldn't just wander off into the woods by herself. Maybe she could.... send a letter to a bigger town to ask for help? But she didn't really have the funds to pay for it. Well, that was quite an issue.

After a while she got distracted pouring through her notes for more information this new line of thinking might unlock.

And having never found a good answer to the "how to get an expedition going" question, not that she had made herself rush to find one (because these days she didn't rush to do anything that didn't involve upset birdies), she found herself at The Oaken Larder. Like she did almost every evening. Admittedly she'd spent most of the day focused on the world in her book, rather than the world outside of it.

By the time she notices the tavern is more crowded than usual (by which is meant it's extremely noticeable that even one new person showed up), she's already had two ales and a meat pie and has begun work on a big slice of apple pie (Horace knows how she likes it, one slice that's a full quarter of the pie). ((See that picture? That's basically her situation right there, pre-eating of the meat pie.))

At Horace's words she looks him in the eye, turns around to look at all the new people, looks back at him and then pretends like she's trying to help him out by encouraging these folks to buy drinks. But they both know she's just taking advantage of getting a free drink she would have paid for any other night when she loudly answers, "Who could pass on such a generous and welcoming offer!? Two ciders my good man!" At her loudness, Periwinkle and Merigold start and flutter away a few feet, though slowly waddle on back over after a few seconds.

[Amnestic]

Restless nights weren't unusual for him, and hadn't been since the voices manifested for the first time, but the anxiety that grips Vargath now is one he's not tasted for years. He runs a hand over his face, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling. He wouldn't miss them if they were gone, but the eerie silence sounded like a message all on its own. The bright shining sun was little comfort. He was tired. So tired he could just sleep for another year, though if it meant more of that dream he might prefer to stay awake. He was trying not to think about what it meant. He'd had some instruction on prophetic dream interpretation at the university, and there was nothing he could read into it that said anything good.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. Muscles moan as they woke up to a new day and he starts the same way he has done since a child - an early morning workout. The motions were drilled into him by now, natural, but he was still sluggish this morning, and so added an extra two sets on top of his normal five to compensate. All in all, an hour is spent in the cramped room he'd rented, but by the end of it he's finally awake. Finally Vargath again. No longer whispers and dreams. It was as Kelly had said. Mindset. 'Change your outlook and you'll change yourself. Change yourself and you'll change your world.' He'd laughed the first time she'd said it. They were lofty words, but - for him at least - there was truth in them. Truth in experience.

He takes a moment to wash off in a basin before dressing and checking himself in a shard of polished metal that served as his mirror. His armour's comfortable, familiar, and he drapes his academics robes over the top of it, proudly emblazoned with his clan's icon - a blood red wolf's head. Running a hand over his stubble he wonders if he should let it grow out, like Dad's. If he was on the road for a while he might not have a choice about the beard.

_____________


The Oaken Larder felt identical to the last three he'd stayed in on his path to Harumvale. Lots of wood, lots of sawdust, lots of watered down booze that was your only option because pure water was probably deadlier than any fighter or fiend you'd find on the road. He glanced down into his own drink - barely half finished. Being kept waiting was frustrating. He grabs the cup roughly and downs the remaining liquid in one gulp. The sweet but dull taste of the ale washed down into the warm pit of his stomach. The clan only really drank for celebrations, but he felt like he could down a barrel of this stuff without it affecting him at all. Using his empty cup as an excuse he approaches the bar, heavy booted footsteps shaking up small clouds of sawdust in his wake. His axe is covered inside his robes, though anyone who takes half a look at him will clearly see its outline. It's not 'concealed' so much as not on display.

He drops the cup onto the bar with a clatter, barely taking notice of the loud woman who was also there. "Another. Where is the Chief?" His voice has a natural growl to it, a deep baritone that in another life may have made him a singer. Waiting was frustrating - if this was all some fool's attempt to bring outside coin to a dying town it seemed to be working, but he didn't wish to become one of those fools.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen is covered in cold sweat as his mind awakens from his trance, heart pounding hard and fast as adrenaline surged through him. My mind is a blade ... my mind is a blade ... I am in control... Kharlis's mantras are little solace when he had just dreamt of losing control only moments prior, but he was desperate to prevent another outburst. Even if such an event hadn't happened in years, it wasn't a displeasure he wished on his enemies. He pushed himself out the front of his tent, chest heaving for more fresh air than the world could seem to provide. The smouldering campfire and the starlight above were the lone observers to his pained meditation as he does his best to calm himself. He could already hear the venerable elf rambling in the back of his mind. Keep your senses sharp. Count to 10. Find five things you can see. Find three things you can hear. Find one thing you can smell. The list came to him in reverse order. The campfire's burnt ash. The breeze shaking the leaves above him, the scurrying of a rodent in the underbrush, and the distant gurgling of a stream. The strange knot in a nearby tree he thought resembled a pregnant woman, the ring of stones he had arranged to make his campfire, an owl perched silently in a tree to his left ... and his waterskin carelessly laying next to him, likely tossed outside from his thrashing during the nightmare. As the list grew longer, his racing mind and heart slowed down enough that he could think clearly. Suddenly shaking from adrenaline exhaustion, he wanted to get back to trancing soon. This was uncomfortable, and he had a job to get done in the morning. No sense in arriving a nervous, unrested wreck.


The tavern seemed too small for its purpose today, and Fanlomen's feet were being pinched slightly when he didn't distribute his weight the right way. This is why he didn't like wearing shoes, but the sawdust floor certainly made the occasional pinch better than walking through the dirt that only 'civilized' people left behind. Seeing the barkeep's uncomfortable manner makes him more wary; it was a sign that the villagers here didn't deal well with outsiders. Nonetheless, he goes up to the man and orders bluntly, "One ale." Without any further words, he pays for his drink and enjoys a few sips at the bar itself. He mentally runs through a few excersizes to keep his senses sharp and his mind focused. This time the voice in his head was Gamlen's, a more scheming yet jovial tone than that of Kharlis. How many people are in the tavern? How many are sitting alone? How many weapons do you see? Who is paying with silver instead of copper? With nothing else to do but wait for the arrival of his potential employer, Fanlomen indulges his absent mentor's questions, attempting to nonchalantly find an answer to each question.

Perception to find out the answer to each question, if possible: [roll0]

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah woke up gasping for air with rapid, deep breaths. His mouth was dry and sticky, and he spit into his hand to confirm it wasn't actually tar, this time at least. He could see the moon above the horizon through the window. It was well before dawn, but he had no interest in sleeping again after that.

He'd packed up before going to bed knowing it would be an early morning. Donning his boots, he went out to muck the stalls, part of his arrangement with the innkeep that allowed him to preserve his coin. Jemriah was no stranger to a day's labor, and it gave him a sense of purpose, the monotonous push and pull of the shovel, the swaying motion becoming a cathartic rhythm rocking himself to a waking sleep. As the sun's light crested the trees, he said a grateful farewell to the owner and continued down the road toward Dam'ess.

The door to the Oaken Larder was wide open, no doubt to alleviate the dank heat of so many bodies, allowing Horace's words to echo into the street. A road-weary Jemriah steps in clutching a crumpled piece of paper. After consulting it to confirm the location, he tucks it into a pocket of his tunic and, unable to find an empty table, goes to the bar and waits for the shifty wood elf ahead of him to finish ordering while trying to not stare at his ears. "Just one for now, please. If I buy a second later can I still get the third free?" he asks Horace, placing a few coppers onto the counter. "Oh and a bit of dinner too if that's okay. I know you're busy. Need any help?"

He stands back from the bar near the wall and looks over the crowd as he starts to set his pack on the floor then thinks twice and puts it back on for now with a sigh and a stretch of the shoulders. He brings the foamy ale to his lips giving it a good sniff before sipping and wiping the creamy moustache from his unshaven face with a dirty sleeve. Malted barley, good quality grain. Not so sweet it loses the flavor. Nicely done.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

Horace shoots Birel a dirty look, as though she should know that his generous offer was meant for the newcomers, not her. Still, he couldn't exactly refuse her, so he grabbed two wooden tankards (the glasses he saved for those buying liquor) and filled them rapidly from a cask behind the bar. Horace was a middling aged man with a heavy set and thick arms and legs. He wore a stained apron, bore a ring of hair around his bald head, and one eye was a milky yellow. Birel knew from one drunken conversation with the bartender that he could still see from that eye, but only barely. He refused to say what damaged the eye, even when in his cups. Letting out a high whistle, his son Alephandro appeared from the kitchens behind the bar. "Take these to Birel, Alephandro. Quickly boy." Normally Horace only used his young teenage son for kitchen work, but the bar was particularly busy today. Alephandro, a simpleton by some cruel people's standards, nodded frantically and carried the two mugs of cider over to Birel, putting them down on her table before giving her a wide, honest, amazingly white smile and dashing back behind the bar.

Turning to respond to Vargath, Horace looked sheepishly at the outline of his axe through his robes for a few seconds before he shook himself and turned back to the casks. "Chief will be along soon, I assure you, master orc. He's a bit old is all. Walks with a cane. Might take him some time to hear about this many outsiders, might take him more time to collect himself and head over. We're a simple village, master orc, do forgive us out quaintness." He turns back around with another ale, notably taken from the same cask he filled your previous one from. For the locals and the humans he had been filling from another cask. It seems possible he is giving you weaker drinks on purpose. He also doesn't call you simply master or half-orc, but orc. This doesn't seem malicious, but does seem a bit bigoted.

Fanlomen's tankard is filled from the same cask as Vargath's, and with him it is all bows and " Here you are, master elf. Thank you, master elf." His deprecating behavior is a little hard to watch. Fanlomen's sharp eyes spot ten people in the tavern, aside from the barkeep and his son. Four local yokels are sitting together at a table and trying to hide their stares at all the newcomers while they play dice on bone carved pieces and exchange copper, while the rest of the bar appears to be of more exotic origins. Some of them are carrying weapons openly, some appear more subtly armed in other ways. (I'll leave everyone's description up to them)

Jemriah gets a warmer and more casual welcome from Horace, his mug being filled from the same cask as the yokels playing dice. "Oh, it's no trouble master. We may be busy, but we're more than able to handle the increased business. You sit down and enjoy your ale. I brewed this one myself. We'll have a slice of meat pie for you momentarily." He whistles that same high note again, and when the awkward boy leans his head out of the kitchen again he says "Alephandro, another slice of Mother's meat pie for our friend here. Be quick, son." The head disappears and a minute or two later the boy appears again with a large slice of pie on a wooden plate. He sets it in front of Jemriah and shoots him a smile, though it is much smaller and more reserved from the grin he gave Beril it is still a friendly and welcoming expression. Then he retreats back into the kitchen post haste.

[Awful]

Selissa's eyes snapped open to the sound of wood creaking. For a moment, she stared uncomprehending at the dimly lit ceiling where she lay. She looked down at her hands - she had been clenching her fists so hard the wood of her magical prosthetic had been groaning under the strain, and her nails on her remaining hand had dug four red sickles into her palm. She pushed herself upright back into a seated position, and for a long moment, looked down at her wooden arm, remembering. Her gaze traced over the knurled wood, the bulky, inelegant fingers, so different from her others.

Sometimes she could still feel the teeth.

What had that just been, however? Had she passed out while trancing? No answer presented itself.

Abruptly the air in her room was stuffy and overly hot. She pushed her way out the hanging curtain and opened her front door, ignoring the soft creak of one of the hinges. The cool night air hit her lungs, and she breathed in deeply. The smells of the village, of the nearby forest, of the herbs she'd burnt outside the door as an offering to the Green. Nothing seemed out of place, but a feeling of unease lingered round her shoulders like a ghost.

Above, the moon gazed down, quiet and ever-watching, and Selissa clutched her wooden arm and shivered.


----

The forest elf sat in the tavern, feeling awkward and ill at ease. She'd become far more used to strangers when she'd been adventuring, but five years keeping mostly to herself in this quiet village had caused her to regress. She clutched a mug with her false hand, while the other played with a strand of the dark green hair that cascaded in an unruly flood down to her back. Her gaze flickered between each of the people in the tavern, and she internally debated going over to Birel. She at least knew the other elf.

A half-orc. A human. Another... human perhaps? And...

A forest-brother. A wood elf.

Maybe he knew of her people? The tribes in the deep forest still had contact with each other, but it had been years since she'd had much talk with one of her own kind.

[Amnestic]

He'd seen his fair share of bigots at the university. Orcblood stuck out like a sore thumb when it wasn't be used for manual labour, but he'd proved them all wrong - one at a time, in some cases. He downs his tankard again, the watery brew smoothly going down. "Ancestors, I miss home." he thinks. His family, his clan, the smells and sounds. Even the simple things like the soft earthy scent of the buildings. Its dusty quality that 'civilised' buildings lacked. Even the university hadn't gotten it right - it was covered in bookdust, not stonedust. Totally different. Everything here smelled wet, dank, even in summer, and a wolf howl in the night wasn't comforting like it was in the clanhold.

His thick fingers grasped the empty cup as he ruminated on what to do. Finally, he made a decision, turning his cup upside down and placing it gently on the counter. He holds his hand there for a moment. "You shouldn't serve me differently because I'm not human." He simply says, his tone measured and without deliberate threat. Vargath gestures casually at Fanlomen with his free hand. "Nor them." Words wouldn't reach them, he knew. Words are air. Like with so many others, he'd have to justify his own existence through action. He suddenly feels tired again. Of speaking and trying.He releases his grasp on the cup and strides back to his table, to sit and wait, so he can stop waiting. The chair feet squeal against the floor slightly as he tugs it out from under the table, but he ignores any stares or looks. They didn't matter. None of them do.

"ᛊᚲᛁ ᛒᛖᚲᛟᛗᛖᛊ ᛖᚨᚱᚦ. ᛖᚨᚱᚦ ᛒᛖᚲᛟᛗᛖᛊ ᚹᚨᛏᛖᚱ. ᚹᚨᛏᛖᚱ ᛒᛖᚲᛟᛗᛖᛊ ᛒᛚᛟᛟᛞ. ᛒᛚᛟᛟᛞ ᛒᛖᚲᛟᛗᛖᛊ ᛊᚲᛁ." A whisper sounds in his head as he takes his seat. Too much to expect they'd be gone for good. Out of force of habit he gently traces the runic shapes into the table with his index finger, leaving no permanent mark but that in his memory. "Cryptic ghru." The worst part was it was impossible to tell when their cryptic babblings were useful or just the moans of the long dead.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set awoke with a yell, jerking slightly as his mind rejoined his body. He stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, consciously working to slow his breathing as the Shadowkeeper's laughter echoed through his mind. His Patron had never been above using His power to show Set all manner of grotesque and horrible things that had never and may never come to pass, but this felt entirely different. It felt real. His eyes watered and his gut twisted with the sickening feeling that his people might be gone.

He felt her presence next to him before looking over to see his Favorite. She'd rolled up his arm in the night and lay there, unmoving even through all the chaos tearing him apart a foot away. The sun hadn't yet risen and the room was cloaked heavily in shadow, but sleep seemed like just another battlefield rather than an escape. He rubbed tears into tired eyes with his free hand before rolling over, grabbing her and pulling her close as the only means of comfort on hand. His thumb traced down her spine absentmindedly as he considered what to do, his fingers reaching her butt as he found himself lost in thought.

He would do what was necessary, regardless. He'd already flipped the coin and sold himself for them, it was far too late to reconsider what he might do for his family. If there was even the remotest possibility that this wasn't a trick, a game of the Shadowkeeper's meant to finally make him crack, then what choice did he have? He would find his sisters. But if his Patron had saved them from his people's fate and they were nearby, where to start looking?

He pushed himself up, still gripping her in one hand as he climbed out of bed, dropping her butt to the floor and leaning his Favorite spear up against the wall. He uncrumpled a piece of paper by the door, re-examining it in the light of a new day. Suddenly helping the nearby village with a problem they were having didn't seem unnecessary.

***

He'd been waiting patiently by himself for a few minutes when the proprietor made his offer. Face hidden behind a shemagh, Set's head tilted to the side before he pulled a coin out of his pouch and flipped it. He realized as it flew through the air that he'd rather not partake of the local, and probably weak, beer right now, but the Ankh landed face-up in his palm. He stood slowly, pulling his shemagh down to reveal a twenty-something, clean-shaven human face, albeit one clearly not from around here.

Set watches the half-orc curiously while approaching the bar, keeping his face neutral. There's a certain satisfaction that comes from watching an individual take complete ownership of a situation without so much as raising their voice, much less pulling what appeared to be a large axe. Looking around, he wasn't sure who would've stopped him.

He approached Horace and nodded, asking in polite and seemingly perfect, but accented common, "I will take you up on your offer. Two, please." Accepting both graciously, Set lays down a silver and makes his way over to the half-orc's table. He raises an eyebrow questioningly before dropping down into the seat opposite him and sliding an ale across the table. Taking a sip and grimacing slightly, Set voices his displeasure dispassionately. "If this is the strong stuff, I weep for this land. My brother dabbled in brewing as a young man before responsibility weighed too heavily on him. But I get ahead of myself. Introductions. I am Set," he says, raising his glass and then taking another sip.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

Horace raises his hands defensively when Vargath speaks to him, as though he is afraid the words will be followed by violence, but when the half-orc turns away he sighs audibly and slumps back against the casks for a moment, holding his chest. He looks at Fanlomen apologetically before stuffing the bung in the air hole of the weak cask of ale and turning the tap upside down, shutting down that barrel for the night. When Set approaches, Horace looks at him with naked awe. Vargath may be a half-orc, but this "human" wore such exotic clothes that Horace was mystified of his origins. He taps the good keg readily enough, filling the two mugs requested quickly. "Wel-Come Toooooo Ouuuurrr Villllage, Strrrannnger!" He enunciates each word slowly, stretching them out, even though Set spoke in perfectly understandable common to the barkeep. Again, when Set moves away from the bar Horace seems relieved. The bartender doesn't seem to have any ill intentions, but it is clear he doesn't know how to act politely when dealing with foreigners and non-human races. Birel and Selissa could testify that it took nearly a year before they were treated like natives, and because of her infrequent trips to the Oaken Larder Selissa still got treated oddly now and again. Horace wipes his forehead with a rag before taking a tour of the room to open up all the shutters, trying to air out the stiflingly warm tavern. While his father's back is turned, Alephandro sneaks out of the kitchen and eagerly stares at the newcomers over the bar, his smile wide and his eyes joyous as only an innocent boy seeing new and interesting things can manage.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

When Alephandro drops off her drinks she gives a warm smile and says, "Thank you Alephandro." It's clear this expression and the words are basically a rote action for her, having done that bit maybe hundreds of times by now.

As Horace proceeds to fumble, Birel mouths, "What are you doing?" at him and shakes her head.

Noticing Selissa, Birel gives a nod of her head in acknowledgement. She really wished the only other elf in town had warmed to her quicker or was just around more, but like her parents told her, "There's just no helping it that the wood elves will often rather rub their face up against bark than spend time with other folks."

While she was considering which of the more unusual new people to try and approach, they wound up approach each other. And by the look Selissa was giving the other wood elf, that outsider would soon have a conversational partner too. Which left her with the unfortunate looking boy asking Horace an unfortunate question he thankfully declined.

"Alephandro." she called out. "Please bring that one's order over to my table." She then switches to talking to the boy, "The only help Horace here needs is in keeping his patrons entertained. As you can see, my table has plenty of room and there's no sign of a bard about." she then makes a hand motion, beckoning him over and Perwinkle flies over and tugs at his sleeve to try and pull him over in Birel's direction.


For anyone looking, Birel plainly has a wand of some black stone-like material and a dagger.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

"Ye...ye...ye...yes, Miss Bir...Bir...Bir...Birel!" Alephandro's voice was slightly nasally, and his unmerciful stutter that had made him the butt of many village children's jokes was always more pronounced when he was excited. There was little wonder that the teenager was silent most of the time. He went over to Jemriah and joined Periwinkle in harassing the boy. "Th...th...the Lady wo...wo...would like you t...t...to join her! I'll ca...ca...carry your pl...pl...plate and mug, mu...mu...master!" One of the locals playing dice began to snigger, but Horace, who was at a nearby window, puts a meaty hand on his shoulder and meets his gaze. Despite the weak and vacillating behavior earlier, the barkeeps gaze is cold as sharpened iron when he leans in to whisper with the man. When the two separate, the dice player looks a bit pale, and when it is his turn with the dice he nearly tosses them off the table with shaking hands. Horace returns behind the bar, scruffing his son's mop of blond hair on his way by and shooing the boy back into the kitchen. "You need to practice your sums, son, if you're going to take over the family business."

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

While the sniggering man is distracted with Horace (and Horace distracted with him), Birel pulls her wand out and points it at the man's drink. There's a little starry glimmer from the black wand and then she puts it back. Satisfied that the man will soon be "enjoying" a nice refreshing mug of ale with the flavor of skunk spray.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

After the half-orc has a chance to introduce himself, Set can't help but comment on the ongoing situation unfolding around them. Having watched the xenophobic, but amiable barkeep finally show his mettle, Set had been sure that would be the end of it. The man opposite him who'd felt the need to belittle a simpleton seemed ready to dig his own grave and lie in it. But as he turned back to Vargath, Set caught the movement of a wand out of the corner of his eye.

He couldn't be sure what she'd done, but there was no denying it had been something directed at the very same man. Despite himself, the corners of Set's mouth curled upwards slightly. Looking to catch her eye, he nods politely at the elven stranger, raising a quick glass in her direction. Turning back to Vargath, Set adds to their conversation. "I do believe," he says, chair screeching slightly as he angles himself a bit towards keeping an eye on the man's table, "that what this place may lack in good beer, it may make up for in entertainment."

[Amnestic]

"Vargath Hubrecht, Bloodwolf Clan." He replies simply, his finger coming to an abrupt halt still fixed on the table. He can't say he's thrilled to be interrupted, but perhaps it would keep the voices quiet for a bit. He regards the newcomer with only mild interest. He seemed like a talker, which wasn't Vargath's favourite trait to find. "Is that why you're in this dismal place Set? Entertainment?" He tried not to sound accusatory or insulting, but it was hard for him not to find the levity offputting for what should be a serious situation. He matches eyes with Set, not touching the offered drink for now.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah pauses at Vargath's albeit reasonable demands, looking like he's ready to step between the two if needed, but relaxes as the burly half-orc steps away. He had nothing against strangers, he'd been one himself for so long, but there was no call for violence here.

As the attention turned to him, the tension returns to his body as he clearly tries to avoid being touched, though he seems far more concerned about Alephandro than the bird. When Alephandro reaches for the mug in his hand, Jemriah replies, "DON'T! ... I'll take the mug and you carry the plate. We'll do it as a team, okay?" His tone starts very stern then softens to a warmer, slower cadence.

"Thanks, m'lady," he says to Birel with a nod, slipping the pack heavily onto the floor and sliding one leg through the straps in a practiced motion. "Quite the full house tonight - feels good to sit a moment." Birel may notice his eyes linger curiously on her wand after she tucks it away. Once the food is set down, he digs in hungrily and hastily with a nod of thanks to the simpleton. "Afraid I'm not much of an entertainer," he comments between too-large bites, adding cheerily, "But with this many colorful folk about I'm sure someone can play a tune until the Chief arrives. That why you're here too?" he asks of his tablemate.

"Oh, I'm Jemriah," he adds as an afterthought, extending a closed-lip smile to avoid showing the food inside but not extending a hand.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"This one's a bit skittish." Birel thinks to herself, observing Jemriah's behavior.
Once he sits at the table Perwinkle settles down on it too and the two birds just walk around the table, picking at crumbs and waddling around doing cute bird stuff.

"Chief? Ah, so there's a reason all these people are here on the same evening. That would explain it. No, I just live in the area and this is the only place in this town to spend time with other people. Well that's interesting. And convenient for me." Birel replies and then pauses realizing she hasn't introduced herself. She blames the lack of an offered hand for breaking traditional rhythm for that kind of thing, but really she was just out of practice (or more like was never in practice) with dealing with other people in any formal way.

"Oh. Right. I'm Birel Amastacia, the local wizard... or witch if that's the term you're more familiar with. Though I'm mainly an archeologist with an extremely specific focus. Though I imagine I could learn something of interest from any old ruin. Not that there's anything to study here. Which is why your conversation is the entertainment I could use right now. So tell me about yourself young Jemriah, you've seen like you've seen a bit of the world in your few years." She finishes, clearly indicating that she took notice of his facial scars. Though at least she doesn't seem to be staring at them. After a second she offers a finger to Merigold who hops on and then lifts her into the air a bit and then tosses her off to flutter around the room for a moment. Then she takes a long drink of her cider as she await Jemriah telling her a tale.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen turns to watch the curious half-orc return to his table after the even more curious speech had been given. The strange antics of the tavern's proprieter hadn't particularly bothered him; even good manners were wasted on the wood elf. He goes back to his drink soon enough, though it seemed another had their eye on him. A wood-elf maiden. He tried his best to glance away while still keeping her at the edge of his vision. He hadn't spent much time among his own people since he had left Kharlis's training. The clans were secretive and prone to isolationism. Nonetheless, he felt his gaze continue to fall back over her. He didn't think he recognized her, but his exile was almost a century ago. Was it posible that his story was being told as a warning to children in his clan? In other clans?

Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, he takes a deep breath before walking over to the table she was sitting at. In Elvish, he greets her in the traditional manner. "Greetings, Sister of the Wood. May I join you at this table?"

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

The ale is raised to the lips of the shaken sniggerer, who takes a long pull to calm his nerves. This man is a local farmer by the name of Lowbe, a regular around the Larder who often times gets too drunk and ends up sleeping there. When the ale touches his tongue his eyes go wide and he does a spit take, soaking the man across from him, who reaches across and gives Lowbe a smack across the gob for his offense. "NO FIGHTING!" Shouts Horace in a booming tone. Lowbe looks down at his ale in shock, then shoots a venomous glare at Beril. Standing up, he strides for the door with one hand on his reddened face, pointing the other hand accusingly at the wizard. "You'll get yours, witch! You've overstayed your welcome in Dam'ess! Me and my friends will be seeing you soon!" He storms out of the tavern, quickly followed by the three men who were sitting with him. Each one of them shoots Beril a glare on their way out as well, one of them slowly drawing their thumb across their neck. The archaeologist has earned some enemies this night.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Before the four men can leave, Birel shouts after them. "That's fine with me. Two hours for you to go fetch your weapons or pack your things and leave town. If you're men at all, I'll see all four of you at the village square. If you don't come find me there, I'll find you each by your own later. Given you threatened my life in front of all these witnesses, I don't think the Chief is going to care what happens to you."

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah looks down at his food, the raised edge of the first scar visible in the lower corner of his vision. "We call 'em witches where I'm from. But i don't know if they have one these days... been a while since I was back." The spit take. The glare. As Lowbe threatens Birel, Jemriah stands chivalrously, again ready to take action if needed... though clearly not as Birel shouts after them.

"Good riddance," he says sitting back down to finish his meal as the men leave. "I'm sure it's just all the extra commotion," he rationalizes giving them the benefit of the doubt. "Lots of new folks in town. And the problems in the woods. Folks are just scared of the dark," he says knowingly. "Is this the first time y'all have gotten into it with each other? How long have you lived here?" he asks, diverting the conversation away from himself.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Oh. It's been the typical suspicious looks. Snide comments. Me taking their money at dice more than they've taken mine. A few punches thrown when people were too into their cups. That kind of thing. You're probably right about the extra agitation, they haven't gone that far before. I don't expect they'll actually show, but at least after they don't they'll be too ashamed to burn down my home or something stupid like that." Birel replies, not really noting that she is certainly included in people who have been too into their cups.

"Just been here the last few years. I used to live in a nearby town until it stopped being one. So, back to you." Birel replies, both failing to notice Jemriah's attempt to shift the topic and failing to be pulled away from it for very long.

[Awful]

Selissa looked up at the other wood elf, then nodded.
"<Please sit, woods-brother.>"
She too spoke in Elvish, the flowing cadence of the wood elf dialect of Elvish almost musical compared to the Common being spoken around them.

She paused to frown slightly at Birel's interaction with Lowbe and his friends, but said nothing about it. Birel would deal with it, or she wouldn't; likely the chief would get involved before anything more than someone's pride was hurt. Either way, it wasn't her business to involve herself. She glanced back to the other wood elf.

"<Selissa Betula. Of the Blossomdance tribe.>"
She tapped two fingers against her head then heart in the traditional greeting wood elves used amongst each other, though she used her right hand rather than the traditional left of her prosthetic.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set's already tight smile flickers before disappearing as he regards Vargath, his eyes betraying a healthy curiosity that doesn't seem to be matched by his non-drinking companion. The half-orcs words roll around in Set's head for a moment before responds.

"My people," he says, his left eye twitching as he reconciles those words with his dream, "have a saying. 'He who thirsts accepts such water as is offered.'" Set's eyes flick down to the untouched flagon of ale in front of Vargath before returning to meet his gaze. Staring back at the half-orc with a neutral expression, Set continues. "I didn't travel the desert road north seeking water anymore than I came to this place for entertainment, but when it was offered, I still drank my fill and then some." Set's eyes narrow a touch, head tilting slightly as he pauses for a moment, considering his words. He decides to be blunt, knowing full-well he has yet to really answer the half-orc's own question.

"Why are you here, Vargath?"

Having been distracted with his own thoughts and his response to Vargath, Set missed the initial spit-take, but it was hard to miss what followed. Insults, accusations, and threats in equal measure, though where some threats rang hollow, the witch's seemed to be made of harder stuff. There was history there, obviously.

Set's focus was split between two very different curiosities. Social interaction of the sort that held a thin veil over the threat of violence had always been fascinating to him. Vargath's soft-spoken words to the barkeep were intriguing in their own right. Had there even been a threat there? Set still wasn't sure, even after approaching the half-orc to get his measure. The witch's threats couldn't have been more plain as she clearly had no use for veiling them. Then again, subtlety almost certainly would've been lost on those four. Set catches himself before drifting any further into his own thoughts, eyes darting around eagerly while his face remains impassive.

[Amnestic]

"I am beset by voices." Vargath rumbles in response. He'd often been warned against telling this to people straight, but it usually came out eventually regardless. With a meaty finger her taps the side of his temple. "Since a young age, the voices of giants long dead have spoken to me. One of the professors at my university advised 'practical experience' in dealing with them and pointed me in this direction. So far it's been a lot of poor drinks and smelly taverns." He sniffs the air to punctuate his point. "And the only practical experience I've received is in waiting." He finally takes a drink. wetting his lips, before continuing.

"If not entertainment then what did call you here?" He pays no attention to the tables around him, his focus is on Set - and the cryptic whispers. People who were overly friendly to him tended to want something, and he was still trying to work out what it was. He didn't have the focus to think about three things at once.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen mentally flounders for a moment before returning the gesture with the proper hand. It's been far too long, he muses before gathering the courage to potentially ruin his reputation. "<Fanlomen Fogspyre, from the ... the Owlwatch tribe.>"

There. It was out, and now it was a question of whether or not she knew the connection. He mentally braced himself for the worst, taking a long drink from his rapidly emptying tankard, awaiting her response.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

"I uhh..." he pauses a moment to take a pull from his mug, debating how much truth to share so soon. "There's something... wrong... with me. It protects me but it... I think it's just protecting itself. I can control it most of the time, but it's... hungry. I don't really know how else to describe it." He finishes the mug, again wiping the final drops from his post-pubescent beard. As his sleeve shifts back, Birel catches a brief glimpse of a rough, textured patch on his forearm. It almost looks like stone. "I figured if Dam'ess was asking for help there'd be folk here who might know about stuff like this. Curses or what have you. Thought maybe I could find some help too."

The silence at the table hangs for a moment before Jemriah takes a deep, cleansing breath to renew his positivity. "Think I'll be needing that second drink after all! Can I get you anything?" he asks standing and collecting his dirty dishes (and hers if she allows it) to bring up to the counter once she responds.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Two people with unusual presences attached to them? Fascinating!" Birel thinks, overhearing the half-orc's conversation as well.

"No, thank you. I'm fine I think." Birel replies with a smile to the offer of more, thinking she doesn't want to actually be drunk if she does wind up having to fight four irate fools.

After a moment to consider she says, "Your situation certainly is something be to concerned with. Things like curses and possessions are outside my area of expertise unfortunately. I suppose we'll have to ask Chief if he knows anyone who might be able to help."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set's eyes go wider for just a second as he struggles to maintain his composure. Thankfully Vargath's deep baritone rumbles on, explaining the nature of the voices that plague him. Set relaxes a bit, releasing his white-knuckled grip on the tankard of ale in front of him. He can't tell if he's just remembering the echo of his Patron's laughter from this morning or if the Shadowkeeper is actually listening in, but a quick glance at Set's shadow doesn't reveal anything. He was probably just being paranoid.

Where Set's focus had been split, it now resides solely with Vargath. Despite the fact that the half-orc's explanation for the voices in his mind sounded entirely unrelated to the voice of Set's Patron, he couldn't relax entirely. Perhaps these giants Vargath struggled with were a different entity entirely, but related in some way. He hadn't seemed to indicate he was under their control, however. But then, he wouldn't admit that openly even if it were the case, would he? They would speak in Giant, no doubt, but perhaps also in an older tongue? A test, maybe.

"My people have another saying, if you'll forgive the string of proverbs. This one is much older, spoken in a language my people haven't used in some time," he lies. "<What master do you serve?>" set asks in Deep Speech, watching carefully for a reaction that might indicate Vargath understands. Regardless, he forges on, pretending as if the question is perfectly natural and related to what he says next. "It means, 'Truth reveals itself to those who walk the hard path.' I do not know what these voices want from you Vargath, but I know of no reason not to believe your professor. Perhaps this path will lead to understanding."

Taking a long pull from his beer, Set collects himself for a moment before continuing. Ignoring the question entirely might lead to more. "I am on a great hunt," Set reveals, using a story he's told more than once. The best lies are well-practiced and have at least some truth to them. "My people revere those who walk the sands and beyond seeking out the abominations this world puts forth to test us. Few wander as far as I have, but then, very few have a...thirst for such things," Set says, draining the last of his beer.

[Amnestic]

The half-orc listens to the man speak, including his drop into a babble of language he couldn't discern. If it had come up during his studies, he certainly didn't remember it, but then he had been rather focused on his own area. Supplementary lessons had been discarded as much as possible. He's a little bit surprised at how easily Set had accepted his hearing the whispers, but perhaps it wasn't unusual where he came from - though he doubts that many have his particular variety. It would've come up sooner. "I hope you're right. I would hate to spend so much time away from home for nothing."

"Hunting foes is a worthy task." He offers, tilting his cup in approval before taking another drink. "Among the Bloodwolves, there is a rite - the Va Kronadul. To become an adult of the clan you must perform a task to prove your worth. Most choose a hunt." Another drink, as he savours the memory of his own Va Kronadul. Days hidden in the undergrowth sucking leaves for liquid as he lay in wait for his prey. The heat. The stench of the mud he covered himself in. The thick solid grip of his spear. The anticipation. A simpler time. "There are few things more worthy than offering your life for your people," He casts a dirty glance around the rest of the tavern, "though I'm not sure many here hold to that creed."

He'd seen plenty of it at university, the selfishness that permeated so many. Backstabbing and politics - working against instead of for each other. Though...there were a few exceptions. He looks deeply into his quickly draining cup. He didn't normally warm to people this quickly, but it might just be the alcohol. "If we're stuck waiting for this Chief, may as well trade some tales. Got any stories from your travels you can share?"

[Awful]

Selissa nodded; she didn't recognise the name, but the tribe, at least, was familiar.
"<I am told our peoples were closer in the past, but it was not while I was among them. Some grudge or injury some time previous. >"
She paused for a second. 'Some time' for elves, was of course far different than other, short lived races, from a few days to hundreds of years.
" <I do not know of it, >" she finished, before she changed the subject, regretting her comment. She did not want to bring up old grudges and spoil any potential atmosphere between them, if they were here to do the same task. Neither did she want to reveal her age: 76 was still seen as a child by many elves.
"<Your tattoos. They seem familiar, but I do not place them. They are not tribe marks, I think. >"

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set's eyes bore into the half-orc opposite him, nodding sympathetically as he extols the virtue of sacrificing one's self for one's people. "Speaking of hard paths," he says quietly, trailing off for a moment. "You have it right, Vargath. Few things indeed are more worthy," Set exclaims, his voice dropping an octave as he finishes the thought, "or more costly. But how would you put a price on kin and kingdom? Or clan, as it were," Set says, gesturing across the table.

"Still. Such a worthy sacrifice should lead to a clean death and passage to the land of our fathers. I've heard," Set says, taking the conversation a step further before thinking about it, "of some sacrifices extracting a cost far worse." Staring into his empty tankard for a few heartbeats, Set's eyes flick back up to Vargath, "of course, we can only hope for the courage to do what is necessary when our people have a need."

That small, tight smile threatens to reappear as Vargath asks for a tale. A distraction would certainly help pass the time and keep his mind occupied on safer subjects. He holds up a finger, returning to the bar. "I've a free beer I'm owed, I believe," he says keeping his voice light, setting down his empty tankard and waiting for it to be refilled. As he sits back down, Set takes a long pull before passing it to Vargath. "The local brew improves considerably if you just keep drinking," he says, gesturing for him to take a drink before passing it back.

"A tale, yes. Have any of your clan heard tell of the scorpion? Terrible creatures, built like armored spiders with two large pincers in front and a venemous tail that arches over top of the full length of their bodies. Most are small enough to hide in your boot and those are fearsome enough. Shortly after my 13th name day, my older brother was teaching me how to survive the deep desert when we came upon a great brood mother, large as a horse..." Set says, animatedly telling the tale. He embellishes a few details and neglects to mention the scorpion mother being slowed by her unborn offspring, but he doesn't have to exaggerate how close he came to losing his spear to a scorpion's stinger wedged in the sand between his legs. Bragging about his brother Sirus comes naturally as well, though it's been so long he stumbles over the name the first time he says it.

[Amnestic]

"When it comes to kith and kin, they're priceless." Vargath replies. Sappy, perhaps, but true. He'd put his life on the line for any Bloodwolf, and they for him. It was only natural. Or, it should be. "Thoughts of what comes after do trouble me at times - whether the whispers mean I won't join the ancestors in death. I...try not think about it too much."

When Set returns with a new drink, Vargath agreeably takes a sip before passing it back and listens with interest to the tale, giving hearty chuckles at the more humorous moments. Once Set concludes it he claps, not loudly but sincerely. "A good story. And one I think that deserves another drink." Grabbing both their cups, he approaches the bar once more. "Another." He says, placing both cups onto the bar to be filled. Once done he returns, chair still squeaking loudly, and slides Set's cup back to him.

"My turn then. I doubt any tales of my time at university would thrill, so something when I was younger then...ah!" It comes to him in a moment. "You're familiar with bloodsuckers - vampires? In the dead of winter, maybe fifteen years ago, my sister and I killed one." He beamed with a bit of pride. It was a drier tale than Set's had been, more somber. They'd been accompanying their Father to a nearby town for trading supplies, but on their way back to camp a monstrous blizzard had picked up around them. They were left wandering for hours, unable to find a path. As night came closer they started searching for a viable shelter, chill winds still buffeting them, when out of the darkness the vampire had appeared and instantly struck their Father down. Unconscious, bleeding, the Hubrecht patriarch was instantly taken out of the fight leaving only Vargath, still a child, and his younger sister Shura to fight off the nocturnal menace. And so they did, for hours with axe and flame and stick, they held the monster at bay. In truth, and he didn't exclude this from the story, it hadn't been Vargath or Shura who killed the vampire, but its own arrogance. So intent on its prey that it neglected the time, and when the sun rose and broke through the winter clouds was instantly slain by the radiant light.

"My Father survived, of course. Still living to this day. Though he had some issues leaving camp during snowfall for a few years after that." He finishes with a short laugh. Easy to laugh about it now, of course, with the space of years between then and now.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set listens intently as Vargath describes his fear that the voices might prohibit his passing to the afterlife of his ancestors. Set can't completely shake the feeling that Vargath might be beholden to another being as well, albeit one that's a stranger to his own Patron. He would have to press the half-orc for more information, but carefully, and perhaps when they weren't surrounded by a tavern of strangers. This could take some time. Perhaps their paths would converge after leaving this tavern, at least for a while.

What was the source of Vargath's voices? What power did they hold? Set dared not allow his mind to get carried away, but he couldn't feel the Shadowkeeper's presence at the moment. Was there another power in the world equal to that of his Patron? Could it be used to...Set flinches visibly, squeezing his eyes shut and staring at the darkness inside his own eyelids, thinking nothing for a moment. He'd made a deal. Thoughts like that were beyond dangerous. His focus completely returns to the telling of stories as he hopes his momentary lapse went unnoticed.

Now well into his cups and feeling far more comfortable, Set hangs on every word as Vargath describes the blood-sucking fiend he'd held at bay as a child with no other but his kid sister for aid. His face had gone somber after the half-orc details the first blows, hand squeezing the tankard of ale as the elder Hubrecht fell. But as the tale wound to a close, Set's face broke into a real grin, banging his half-full tankard onto the table a few times in rapid succession and sloshing a bit of ale onto the floor. "And good riddance, abn eahira!" Set exclaims, lapsing back into the actual language now rarely used by his people.

"A good story," Set concludes, a smile still playing on his lips as he thinks on the triumph and elation of victory against long odds. No doubt Vargath's clan still told the same story to this day. Shura might be retelling it even now, whether among strangers like her brother or as a well-worn tale among kith and kin.

"Where is she now? Your sister Shura, I mean. I assume your father is still with the rest of your clan, but is your sister still there as well or does she walk the land like her brother?"

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah's face droops a bit at Birel's comment, but someone here must know about this kind of stuff. Waiting for the Chief seemed like the best option. He heads to the bar, depositing his dishes at the end of the counter near the kitchen door before moving down to Horace's position to pay for a refill of his mug and returning to the table. His eyes drop to his pack which he left on the floor... an unusually careless move for him. Did it speak to his comfort here among so many scarred individuals?

Out of the cacophony of muted conversations, a single sentence in a language he had never heard outside his own mind and dreams stood out as though it had been yelled. His head whips around artlessly to find its source, settling on the dark-skinned man sitting with the half-orc. He was bundled so tightly it was hard to say if a similar affliction plagued him. Suddenly this journey seemed more fruitful.

Jemriah returns to the table with Birel, sitting slowly, thoughtfully. "I'm sure an expert will turn up eventually," he replies to continue the conversation, his attention now partially invested at the goings on of the other table. "You mentioned ruins before. Are you interested in anything ancient and long-buried? I've heard in some places the very land seems to be alive, rocky veins pulsing as they run deeper than any man can dig. Think about the depth of a tree's roots. If a mountain were alive, how deep would its roots go? As far as <The Dripping Dim> I suppose," he speculates, enunciating what he understood as his symbiote's name in its native Deep Speech tongue as though it were a physical place, making sure his comment was loud enough for Set to hear. Should the foreigner look over, Jemriah's eyes are trained on him gauging the response.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Don't know that language. But apparently the boy does. Curious and curiouser." Birel thinks to herself, noting Jemriah's react to Set's words.

"I suppose in theory I would be. That certainly does sound very interesting. But my focus had been on a specific place for the whole of my two hundred and so years." She replies, knowing the two other elves will likely overhear that detail and curious to see if they'll respond in kind. Though she's really only curious about the age of the newcomer. She knows Selissa still hasn't seen a full century.
"More narrow a focus than that really. I have been researching the arcane signature and markings of a black obelisk that I believe originates somewhere up there with the stars above. I refer to it as <The Black>, as there's no record of what the people who built the ruins around it called it." she continues, stating it's simple but evocative name in Celestial, since apparently they're all playing with rare languages now.

"What language was that you and the over-dressed fellow at the other table just used?" Birel bluntly asks, being sure to be loud about for Set to overhear the question clearly. She waits for Jemriah to reply, expecting him to lie. Because she knows it's not something as mundane as Dwarven or Draconic. She may not speak those languages, but she's heard them spoken enough to know that this language certainly was neither of those. She suspects Infernal or Abyssal. Maybe Undercommon, but she thinks that's unlikely.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

Horace is happy to keep the drinks flowing, and now they all come from the good cask. He seems a little more at ease now that most of the locals have left, but surreptitiously looks out the window at the square as time goes on, obviously worried about them coming back. No matter how the confrontation between Birel and the good ol' boys goes he will probably be out customers. One can almost see him weighing the drinking habits of the four poor men against the prodigious thirst that Birel brings to the tavern. Each time someone comes up for a drink he scoops up their coin and deposits it in a small metal lock box that he keeps under the bar. Even the free drinks are given with a warm smile that only grows warmer as the lock box grows fatter with coin. Alephandro keeps peeking out of the kitchen, particularly when people begin speaking in unusual tongues, and his father, having partially given up on forcing the boy to stay away, occasionally hands him a drink and asks him to bring it to one of you. "Quickly, Alephandro." "Come back fast, Alephandro." "Don't forget to call them "master", Alephandro." When he is not serving, the boy can be seen scribbling on a piece of slate with a stub of chalk, his tongue sticking out between his lips and his eyes flicking back and forth between the interesting patrons.

[WhismurWanders]

The massive sigh of relief that Fanlomen was hiding only presented itself as a slightly forceful puff of air from his nostrils. Good that he wouldn't need to explain himself. However, the comment about his tattoos was a similarly sore subject. ">N-no, they are not. They are personal.<" His eyes unfocus slightly as he remembered when they were applied. The process had been long and painful, and his face had felt numb for almost a week after from the herbs he had been given for the pain and the swelling. Sometimes he wondered how or why he allowed Gamlen to convince him that the tattoos were necessary to identify other Shepherds when the gnome had given him a codebook and a badge only a few days later. He didn't feel totally comfortable lieing to Selissa, but the Shepherds operated mostly in secret; a disjointed group with a common goal but few formal leaders and little oversight. Recruits were initiated as needed, or when someone seemed promising to the cause.

The clattering of drinks and the sounds of conversation stir Fanlomen from his thoughts. <"It has been a very long time since I have visited my tribe. Whatever bad omens lay between our tribes, I seek no quarrel with you. There are more important things at stake than some ancient grudge between two elven clans.">

[Amnestic]

"I saw her last...two years ago? I think, but we exchange letters regularly. She's doing well - on her way to be Chieftain, she says. Either of the Bloodwolves or an offshoot clan. Shura's always had big ideas - and the mettle of mind and body to back them up. Smarter than me by half, even if she can't yet take her older brother in an arm wrestle." Left unchecked, she'd probably rule the world before long. He left that thought silent, but the smile on his face spoke all it needed to. He'd be happy to join her too, once he got the giants out of his head. Nothing would please him more than to see her succeed.

"And your brother? Does he dwell on the sands still?"

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah quirks his brows at Birel's age... more than 10 times his own. His eyes follow hers upward as she references the stars, the strange thought gumming up his ability to process her next sentence for a moment. His terrors came from below the ground making the terrestrial far more interesting to him than anything from the heavens.

He felt a bit ashamed at her noticing the linguistic similarity, as though she intercepted a code meant for another. "It's... well I don't rightly know, actually. Just something I... picked up, I suppose." The fact he didn't have a name for it made it all the more disconcerting. Was the knot in his stomach just his own discomfort? Perhaps a bad meat pie or too much ale on an empty stomach? Or was his unwelcome guest acknowledging it was the subject of the conversation... He desperately hoped it wasn't the latter.

He doesn't seem to be lying, but there's clearly a bit more to it than is being said.

[Awful]

Selissa watched the flickering of emotions of the forest-brother's face, heard the stumbling of his words - but it was no business of hers, and so she let it pass without comment.
"<I agree,>" she said, and the conversation lapsed as she finished the contents of her mug, expression twisting slightly at the bitterness of the brew.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

His smile broadening, Set takes great pleasure in the way Vargath describes his sister, reminding him of his own sister Sisi. "Strong of mind and body, with ambition to match? No doubt she will carve her name into the histories," Set says with conviction. His smile falters even before Vargath can ask him about his brother as he dwells a moment on this morning's dream once again. Sisi was no doubt leading his people now that he and Sirus were both gone, but what if she wasn't?

The doubts spreading across his face are well covered by the question about his brother, allowing Set a moment to breathe before continuing. A sad half smile greets Vargath as Set explains, "alas, he dwells underneath them now, but his essence has passed on to A'aru, the Field of Reeds where my ancestors are. He died," Set says, pausing to wipe away a phantom splatter of blood that had erupted from Sirus' mouth and splashed across his face when he'd run him through with his spear. "He died with a weapon in his hand," Set says simply, feeling that the half-orc would understand. He died when I killed him, Set leaves unsaid, an undercurrent of sadness mixed with repressed rage present, but mostly hidden.

"Thankfully," Set says, moving his thoughts and the topic forward, "I still have two beautiful sisters waiting in the sands for my return." I hope, he thinks grimly, torturing himself with thoughts of the dream. "Sisi and Sythpen," he explains, adding, "my parents were fond of the letter S."

He'd been so focused on the companion opposite him, a voice at the table beside him caught him completely off guard. He stiffened, breath caught in his throat as he swallowed audibly. He resisted the urge to immediately turn to look, though it was nearly overpowering as his curiosity threatened to overwhelm him. He took a few shallow breaths, trying to maintain his composure and act natural, but in his mind the faces he'd seen through the tavern flashed through his head. A jumbled bunch, he couldn't keep them straight, though he knew the voice was a young man's. He strained against the urge to look. Then he heard the witch's question.

"What language was that you and the over-dressed fellow at the other table just used?"

A moment's pause, followed by the young man's voice once more.

"It's... well I don't rightly know, actually. Just something I... picked up, I suppose."

Heart hammering, Set clears his throat before speaking up. "My people call it Elder Speech. I have only ever heard it spoken by a few." Only by one, in fact, and never by a human. "My grandfather was a great lover of history and made it his life's work to record the language in the Book of the Dead." He burned The Great Library during the War of Lost Faces. "He used to teach me the Old Ways." Had father not spurned their guards and beaten him to within an inch of his life, he might've publicly ordered Set thrown into a bed of scarabs like any other newborn with the Mark of a Changeling in the decades that followed the War. "I miss him dearly." The bastard had taught him one thing, the bonds that hold a family together are only sacred so long as both parties believe in it.

Even a well-practiced liar like Set had to frown as he mentally worked to commit these details to memory. In stressful situations Set's tongue had a habit of getting ahead of him, his mind chasing after it like a jackal after a hare. He tries to move forward thoughtfully, preferring not to arouse more suspicion than he may have already. Set had to admit, using that tongue had yielded the results he'd been after, even if his initial target had been off the mark.

"I never thought to hear it outside my homeland," he says, meeting the young man's eyes. "Though perhaps you've studied other cultures or done some traveling," Set offers, raising an eyebrow as he stares into the other man's eyes. In truth, he wasn't really that much younger than Set, but then, a few years mattered more when your years were few. "I am so out of practice, it would be great to have a partner to keep the language fresh in my mind so that I might pass it on. <If you speak the language of the Depths, we have much to discuss,>" Set finishes, bowing his head as if in greeting, but keeping his eyes raised.

"I am Set Al-Sayyid," he says, his voice light and pleasant as he looks back and forth between the elf and the young man. "I don't believe either of you have met Vargath Hubrecht, of the Bloodwolf Clan," he continues, gesturing to his drinking companion. "And who might you two be?" Set asks, starting the question with eyes on the elf, but traning them firmly on the young man when he finishes.


Deception: [roll0]

Obviously, there were a lot of lies baked into this post so...feel free to pick and choose if your Insight matches or exceeds Set's Deception. Maybe you caught the bit about his brother, his grandfather, or you were focused on the bit about Deep Speech. The world is your oyster if my roll sucks :smallwink:

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

The front door of the inn suddenly opens up so quickly that it bangs in it's frame, with force enough to rattle people's drinks on their tables. Some of you are familiar with the man who enters, but for most of you this is your introduction to the Chief of Dam'ess.

The human before you stands tall, perhaps six and a half feet tall. But this doesn't truly encompass the size of the man. If he could stand straight, he would probably be scraping the ceiling of this establishment, which is around eight feet high. But this mountain of a man has a massive hump on his back, his spine curved and twisted like a striking snake underneath his clothes, causing him to hunch down to the more modest height. Before Birel's time in Dam'ess, stories of Maus Moeller start as a giant of a young man, a scion of the village said to be strong as a bull and humble as a hearth spirit, to a middle aged man struck by malformity and pitied by all, to an elderly man who sharpened his mind and soul as much as he once prided his body, universally respected by everyone in the village as a fair, just leader. His once dark, thick hair has gone iron grey from his prodigious beard to his thinning crop on his head, and there are wrinkles and age spots where once there were none, but his gaze has never changed- a steady green stare that seems like it can see through any lies, expose any inequities, and pierce through to the very soul. He dresses simply enough in blue roughspun wool and a tartan kilt, and walks with a cane that could do double duty as a great club. When he walks into the room he looks from one side to the other and back before focusing his gaze on Birel, stepping towards her and Jemriah. Filtering in behind him like a gaggle of ducklings return the yokels and Lowbe, all looking like young boys who've been caught with their fingers in the cookie jar.

"Birel. These men say you threatened them. Ensorceled Lowbe's drink." He bangs his cane on the floorboard with enough force to rattle everyone's mugs again, his face going sour. Before he can continue, Horace speaks up, his voice shaky and uncertain. "Chief, Birel may have magicked Lowbe's ale, but it was only after he insulted my boy. And then these layabouts threatened her first. Threatened her life, they did. It was only then that she responded in anger. You ask me..." The Chief raises his cane and slams it down, interrupting the barkeep. "I appreciate the information, Horace, but I am not asking your opinion. I deal in facts." He returns his gaze to Birel. "Birel, we have known each other for some time, you and I. And I think over the years you've had a good relationship with this village. No matter what these ingrates think, you are a part of Dam'ess. So, I ask you politely, but firmly. Use your magic for the good of Dam'ess, not for pranks, even on those who deserve it. The people of the village already whisper that the eternal elf who lives on a cursed farm hexes their sows into still birth and sours the milk before it comes out of the cow. We both know that to be bull puckey, but there's no need to reinforce the stereotype. If it happens again I will have to admonish you, and nobody wants that." Then he turns his stern gaze to Lowbe and his friends. "You worms, I admonish NOW. Horace's boy is as innocent and sweet as a newborn fawn, and I will NOT ALLOW ANYONE to throw dispersion his way, ESPECIALLY in his father's own establishment!" The Chief's voice rises to booming levels, and the men quail before his rage. "If it were not my job to KEEP THE PEACE I would allow Birel to do as she wished to you SWINE! This feud is SETTLED. If I even hear WHISPERS that you have brought harm to Birel, her birds, or her home I will PERSONALLY bury you in an anthill slathered in honey and LEAVE YOU FOR THE BEARS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?" The men all nod enthusiastically. "Go to your homes. Pray to the spirits for forgiveness for your sins. I promise you, you'll have it FAR SOONER FROM THEM THAN FROM ME!" The men then turn and flee like children, each one pausing only to mutter a "Sorry" to Birel on the way out. The Chief bangs his cane again to punctuate his judgement, nods to Birel, and then turns to face the room as a whole.

"I am Maus Moeller, Chief of the village of Dam'ess. I seek aid in dispelling the darkness that has settled over our homes and our farms, in freeing my people from their fear of the night and the forest. I ask you all, if you are willing to come to our aid, whether it be for gold, glory, or good conscience, stand up and name yourselves, so that the spirits can look upon us honestly and rejoice." As his eyes roam the room, you all get the distinct feeling that he KNOWS. Knows your histories. Knows your secrets. Knows your fears. But knows you can rise above all of that and do real, unquestionable good. "Name yourselves, pledge your aid, and know I will reward you to the best of my ability once we've beaten back the darkness. Now, WHO ARE YOU?" His cane comes crashing down so hard it makes the very tables jump, and he waits for someone to speak.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

"I'm sorry," Jemriah replies genuinely at the loss of the conversational newcomer's father. "Family is the most important thing. I'd be honored to help keep him alive with conversation."

In the brief pause that follows, Jemriah's voice coalesces out of a shadow in Set's mind - the same feeling of moving abruptly from dream, or nightmare, to reality. As clear as day he hears, <Does something dark live within you too?>

"I'm Jemriah, born not too far from here. Set, Vargath," he repeats, nodding at the first and raising his glass at the second before taking a drink himself. He opens his mouth to continue when all eyes shift suddenly to the front door.

Jemriah gives a quick look about the room then stands purposefully. "Jemriah Cleater, son of Brind and Delilah of Falcairn." He wasn't sure if rumors of his incident with the sea witch a year ago had traveled up the mountain to Dam'ess. They probably had. It didn't matter. If he proved himself maybe the Chief could help. "That's why we're all here, right? There's evil in the woods, creepin' into all our lives."
Some more than others...
"We gotta take control. If we don't put a stop to it, who will?"

[Amnestic]

Vargath doesn't doubt Set's story for a moment - he has no need to, any hesitation or stumbling he puts down to nerves, memory or a combination of the two. "I'm sorry to hear about your brother, it does him credit that he went down fighting," He offers, lowering his head for a moment in a show of consolation. "but I'm glad your sisters are still waiting for you. Having a home, a family, to go back to is important for hunters on a path."

His brow furrows a little as he is forcibly introduced. As a rule, he and his introduced themselves or not at all, but he can put it down to cultural differences and leave it aside. Hardly a big deal given the circumstances, and he wasn't to know. By the sounds of it despite his travels he wasn't familiar with his clan. He sits back to allow Set his language discussion - all over his head. Unless giants came up chances are he wouldn't have much to say. His index finger on the hand clutching the cup quietly begins tracing runic shapes again, but stops the moment the door bangs open. His hand immediately goes to the axe on his belt, but relaxes once he realises what's going on.

Unlike Jeremiah, Vargath doesn't stand, merely twisting in his chair. The Chief had presence and was clearly respected, but the self seemed to be a projection. There was fear in his steps, Vargat judged - fear that one day all the presence and respect would be gone and he'd be left a broken old man with nothing to his name. The yelling, the posturing, he'd seen it before. He'd been it before, once upon a time. It'd bend and snap like a rigid tree in a harsh wind.

He calls out "Vargath Hubrecht, Bloodwolf Clan," before taking another chug of his drink. He leans forward in his chair towards the Chief, his form just as imposing, tusks glinting in the firelight. "I'd know more about this 'darkness' before offering a pledge. Such words cannot be taken back lightly once given."

[WhismurWanders]

Each of the first three thumps of the chief's cane is enough to cause Fanlomen to visibly flinch, but he reigns himself in by the time the chief has finished his speech. He is reminded of an Orcish phrase he had learned from a shaman he stumbled upon during his travels. It roughly translated to, 'There are old warriors. There are bold warriors. There are no old, bold warriors.' If the empassioned speech was anything to go by, Chief Moeller of Dam'ess actually was an old, bold warrior. Fanlomen gets caught up in the gravitas and stands up a bit too fast, his stool clattering to the floor behind him, though his voice is calm and measured

"Fanlomen Fogspyre answers the chief's call." He leaves out the information to his tribe and heritage. Humans were rarely concerned with the matters of elves anyways. It is only when the half-orc requests a bit more information that he notices how zealous he was being. Was it weakness to pledge yourself to the greater good without a second thought? The other shepherds would surely say no. Kharliss would chastise him for being swept in the moment, lest he lose any control over his mental state. Gamlen would probably insist that whatever unspecified pay they were promised should be doubled, regardless of the amount.

Fanlomen resigns to remain standing, if for no other reason than to appear self-assured and confident.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set thanks the half-orc opposite him with his eyes, if not his words, for the respect shown his brother. Nodding as Vargath goes on to talk about the importance of having a family to return to, Set agrees, though he leaves unsaid concerns about their safety or ever being able to return home himself. "They are everything to me," he says of his sisters.

Displaying a certain emotional and mental agility, Set nods solemnly a couple minutes later as the young man offers to honor the memory of Set's grandfather. "I thank you, Jemriah. He will live on through our words and deeds." The old bastard.

Any further reflection on the man whom Set secretly despises and calls grandfather is moot as a voice bubbles up in Set's mind where only the Shadowkeeper had ever spoken before. Though Set fancies that he has a knack for subtlety, there's nothing subtle about the way his jaw falls open. Snapping it shut an instant later, Set searches his mind and glances back at his shadow, but he can neither feel nor see any sign of His presence. This was Jemriah's doing, and his alone. His mind races ahead as he struggles to come to terms with the facts:


Jemriah knows Deep speech and can push his words into other people's minds just like Him
Vargath is also beset by voices, though he believes them to be giants long-dead, a mistake he likely doesn't understand yet
Birel took an interest in the Elder language, which could just be a way of covering how much she already knows while gathering more information

Set glances over at the other two strangers, eyes narrowing as he wonders what else he might be missing. One thing was sure. The dream and now this, it couldn't be a coincidence. What game was He playing? Whether He was here right now watching or not, this was the Shadowkeeper's work, of that Set felt sure. A sob echoes through Set's mind as it becomes clear what that means. The dream was real. His people were gone. His sister's were captive. And Set could do nothing, but play right into the Shadowkeeper's hand.

Honesty came harder than lying, when it came down to it. But until Set knew whether these people were the Shadowkeeper's tools or similarly at His mercy, Set would have to keep his guard up. Lying would not serve here. Where the others might still be in the dark about His influence, Jemriah must surely know. He is either the Shadowkeeper's servant or his slave.

"<You already know it to be true, do you not? We share a great...responsibility,>" Set thinks to Jemriah, trying to reveal as little as possible while the link is open, but still admit to their mutual master.


As usual, even with thoughts swirling in a milion directions, Set studied how Chief Moeller uses language. Where Vargath had used his words like a scalpal, cutting around the issue at hand so that you couldn't even be sure he'd threatened anyone, Maus seemed more disposed towards Birel's style. They wieded words like a maul, bashing them over the head of anyone in earshot. It was fascinating enough to occupy Set's mind, but only for a moment.

This one knows all. Whatever else the others may be, innocents swept up in the Shadowkeeper's game or His willing servants, out to drive Set mad or worse, Maus Moeller is not the man he appears to be. He speaks like he would love nothing more than to crack two heads together, but he is far more shrewd than he appears. Set's eyes narrow on the man as he holds back a sneer of contempt.

Oh very good, noble Jemriah, son of Brind. The young man comes off as so pure of heart it makes Set's gut twist with anxiety as his suspicions only grow. No wonder the Shadowkeeper saw such potential in him. Who would not trust such a one?

The wood elf did not give Set undue cause for concern, but then, he'd only just heard him speak for the first time. Did that make him more dangerous, or less?

As Vargath takes his turn to speak, Set's frown only deepens. Despite himself, Set felt slightly...hurt? He'd felt the bond of mutual understanding with this one, where now only suspicion remained. A part of Set still hoped that perhaps Vargath was just as unwilling a participant in the Shadowkeeper's game as he was, but why then try so hard to pretend otherwise? Vargath would join Maus, Set was certain, and it would only prove His influence more.

"Set Al-Sayyid," he says, rising slowly to his feet and staring at Maus, trying to keep his face blank. "I too would like to know more about this darkness," he lies, watching the Chief's face. They both already knew why the other was here. "But I have come too far to turn away from your call. I hunt creatures of the dark," he says, a layer of irony laced in his voice. "I am with you." As if I have any other choice. Where are my sisters!? Set raged internally, but kept his voice and his breathing as calm and even as he could.


Deception: [roll0]
Insight can determine that Set is being less than entirely honest about his grandfather or about his enthusiasm for joining Maus and the group.

@miinstrel: I don't think it can determine his feelings towards the source of his dark power, since he's being so cagey.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

In a moment of unusual clarity when it comes to people, Birel sees through the veil of lies Set puts up. "He's clearly lying about the significance of this Elder Speech language. Firstly because I've heard of the Book of the Dead before and it just uses an old variation of Common. Secondly because I've heard of the language in passing before, used by some manner of unpleasant beings or another. The boy has already admitted to being beset upon by some kind of darkness. This Set fellow must have some connection to it as well to try to disguise it while fishing about for others so afflicted. Which probably means it's something he has special reason to be wary of, it's something he hunts, some affliction he too is also beset by and afraid to reveal the truth of, or... *sigh* or under the power of some dark being. My parents did tell me to be wary of Warlocks and other people who have made pacts with unknown beings. Even the one's pacted with fey can be unpredictable and dangerous and those are some of the least worrying sorts."

She's considering how subtle or blunt she wants to be about that while she's about to make her introduction to the others.... when the chief shows up and does it for her.

She barely holds back the urge to roll her eyes in the middle of his speech when he comments about the stupid rumors. As if she doesn't purchase meat and milk from the same people who make up such falsehoods like everyone else in the town. "Though maybe that's just their way of grappling with the idea of what I must be doing every day. Most of the people here wouldn't understand the concept of serious reading and study if you threw the book at their face."

"Understood Chief." is all she replies to the subject of hostilities. Him handing the situation was what she had expected to be the result anyway. Letting the people of this town believe he had the power to control her, keep them safe from her (not that she wanted to harm them), was a convenient lie for both of them. It solidified his position, making it easier for him to keep things in order. And it made the people who lived here think that the situation regarding herself was being handled so that they had no need to do anything foolish that would force her to defend herself. Or overreact if she happened to be inebriated at the time.

After most of the others had replied, she asks, "You mentioned something about payment? As a member of this community I'm happy to help of course, but I do need to eat." "and drink" she mentally adds. "Along with other expenses."

[Awful]

Selissa's expression didn't change as the Chief spoke. Instead, for a long moment, she looked down at her wooden arm, and thought of her last confrontation with the horrors of the dark. She thought of the sounds of flesh wrenching, of teeth parting meat, of a scream cut off. Slowly she curled those fingers into a fist.

It had been years. Time enough, perhaps, she'd regained a lot of her skill with a bow. Would she fail this time?

She could only know if she tried.

"Selissa Betula," she said for the sake of the others here to hear the Chief, but didn't otherwise say anything.

[purepolarpanzer]

The Chief responds to each of you, in turn, his expression changing each time. Neither Birel nor Selissa have ever heard of the Chief being a caster of any sort, but this is disproved almost immediately.

"Jemriah Cleater. An honest name." The Chief raises his cane and utters a few words, his green eyes changing color to a solid purple with no irises or whites. He looks Jemriah up and down, his gaze penetrating despite the lack of focus. "A great darkness comes within you, boy. I can't promise to fix that, but I may be able to point you in the right direction through divination."

"Vargath Hubrecht. Your words are discerning and wise." He looks the half-orc up and down with his purple eyes as well, frowning slightly. "You're plagued by the long dead, but they are not malicious. Odd. You'll find more wisdom from them, but they may guide you to join them if you are not careful."

"Fanlomen Fogspyre." The chief looks the wood elf up and down and then smiles. "A mind-mage. Let us all pray your intentions are noble and your mind is strong. You could be a great ally in this, or our worst nightmare."

"Set Al-Sayyid." He looks you up and down, his face pulling into a sneer. "Darkness. Shadows. A curse like none I've ever seen or heard of. I'll say the same to you that I said to the boy- I can't fix you, but I may be able to divine a way to help you. If you still want it, that is."

The Chief sighs and then smiles. "Birel Amastacia. The job pays, if that's what you're after. In gold... and in magical aid. Your magic is strong, but it is nothing against the wisdom and knowledge of the spirits. They may aid you, if you have aspirations beyond drinking yourself to death in this tavern."

"Selissa Betula." He looks you up and down, then focuses on your wooden arm. "You've lived among us for years, but I barely know you. That arm carries strong magic, but it is not your own." He looks Selissa dead in the eyes, his eyes turning green again and the pupils returning. "It will be good to see what a Horror slayer is capable of."

Satisfied, he stomps over to the bar. "Horace, a cider please. My throat hurts from yelling." The barkeep quickly pours a mug and hands it to the elderly man, who drains a third of the cup in one long pull. Then he turns to face the room again, his face serious but no longer judgmental. " I won't mince words any longer. You've come a long way and deserve straight answers. There are three main threats to the village that I have been able to identify through my magic. A pack of werewolves has moved into the area. More than two, perhaps as many as a half dozen. You'll need silver before you take them on. Thankfully I know where you can get some. The second threat is a witch. Not a wizard like you, Beril, but a verifiable witch who communes with dark powers. She's laid a curse on this land, and it will only be lifted once she is dead. I've narrowed down her hovel to a rough area, but I have a feeling finding her will be just as hard as taking her down. Third threat is the the most insidious one because it comes from within. Someone in the village is entreating the aid of Pale Night. Who they are, how many they are, and what their purpose is I don't know, but they threaten to bring ruin to us all. They will have to be rooted out and purged. I will pay sixty gold per werewolf head, three hundred for the witch dead and the curse lifted, and three hundred for the purging of the cult of Pale Night. There's no use negotiating because this will just about bankrupt the village's gold as well as my own. Complete all three and I will commune with the spirits and provide any aid I can for any problems you all might have. I know a few of you should be more worried about your souls than your coin purse. I wouldn't try to take on more than one of these threats at a time, despite your numbers. So the only question is, which do you want to kill first?" He tips back his cider again, draining another third of the mug and leaving an unintentionally amusing coat of foam over his mustache.

[Amnestic]

Vargath's eyes narrow dangerously thin when the Chief speaks. While he'd never made his condition a secret or shied away from admitting it, he'd also never spoken of it to this man, and he wasn't convinced of any magics that could adequately give him that much information. Certainly the university hadn't shown anything of the sort, nor the spiritwalkers or shamans of the clan. He remains seated, fist clenching on the now-empty cup. Harder and harder as the Chief goes around the room naming people and their 'quirks', for lack of a better word. When the Chief finally asks for a drink, Vargath unclenches his hand and finds the cup has splintered in his hands, now thoroughly unusable. With a growl he drops it on the table.

"Very well." He still doesn't stand. He'll agree to this. For now only. "I am no stranger to hunting beasts or dealing with what you'd call 'dark' magic. I will assist you." He stays quiet as the rest of the room gives their responses to the Chief, whether they pledged or not. The voices come again, the colour of moss filling his mind as they do so. "ᛏᚺᛖ ᛖᚾᛖᛗᛁ ᚨᛏ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ ᛁᛊ ᛗᛟᛊᛏ ᛞᛖᚨᛞᛚᛁ. ᛈᚢᛚᛚ ᚦᛖ ᚱᛟᛟᛏᛊ." He sniffs, and then regrets it - remembering that the bar smelled less than ideal. They weren't wrong, this time. Deal with the closest and deadliest threat first. A foe in your midst was always worse than one outside your walls. Beasts and witches could wait. "If this Pale Night cult is as insidious as you say, we should deal with those first. Gather everyone in the village to the town square and then search their homes top to bottom, no exceptions. They must have tokens or icons or the like. Allow them no notice or time to destroy them. We can end that threat in a single day, then focus on the rest."

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen was pleasantly suprised that he even had a reputation which could precede him. 'Mind mage' seemed like an odd moniker; he couldn't read minds or cast spells. His training so far allowed him to increase his focus and communicate with others, sure, but those were hardly the gifts of a mage. On the other hand, he shared the chief's concerns, as they were a matter of his daily life. Either he would control his abilities, or they would consume him, as far as he knew. He noted an absence of mentioning the Shepherds of the Wild. Perhaps even that kind of privileged information was beyond the chief's reach, or he was omitting to keep the secret. Regardless of the chief's intent, it seemed he was some combination of well-informed, well-connected, and well-traveled. No secrets seemed out of his reach, judging by the descriptions he gave each of what, the wood elf assumed, would soon be his companions.

He opines on the matter of which quarry to chase first. "I agree that we should end the cult before it can take root. A rotten sapling is easily dislodged and cast to the flames; a tree with years of roots is not." Not to mention that Fanlomen felt that any cult which would brazenly oppose the tenets of the Green Faith would be a priority for the Shepherds to eliminate, and he was here in their stead.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

As Maus the Malevolent goes from one person to the next, Set's alarm at the situation grows, his heart pounding in his chest as Maus' eyes settle on him. With each word he utters, Maus hammers Set further and further into the ground. Unconsciously, Set begins to physically shrink, his height dropping a few inches as he recoils from the spotlight cast on him.

Why? Why would he do that? He's part of the Shadowkeeper's game, he has to be! But why then would he reveal so much about all of them? Was it all just some trick? A game within a game? Was this a ploy just to gain Set's trust and make him think Maus wasn't working with Him? But if that were true, it would mean the Shadowkeeper knew Set would suspect something to begin with.

For the first time since hearing his Patron's laughter echo in his head upon waking up this morning, Set feels a tingling behind his eyes and a presence beyond his own reclaiming residence inside his head. Set can feel Him. Glancing over at his shadow, Set jumps as it becomes painfully obvious to him, though his shadow remains unmoving. Instead it's leaning forward, hands flat on the table and seemingly staring straight ahead...at Maus.

Was He communicating with Maus? Is that it? Was He commanding Maus to make up this elaborate ruse just to trick him? Or, could he actually be...

The Shadowkeeper's laughter breaks his concentration, blotting out Set's vision as it reverberates through his head. "Oh, how DELIGHTFUL. I may have to check in on you more often, my dear, foolish Set. This is getting quite...entertaining." The laughter echoes louder through his mind for a moment before slowly receding further and further into the background. As Set's vision clears, he looks over to see his shadow standing upright, albeit as shaky on its feet as its owner.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Set looks over at the man drinking his cider. He couldn't understand it. They weren't working together. This man, this thing, this, this whatever he was...interested Him? What are you?

As his thoughts continue to swirl, Set struggles to keep up as Chief Moeller details the village's dire situation. Three distinct threats, but Set was far too caught up in his own thoughts to really understand any of them until the words 'Pale Night' pierced all.

He looks thankfully over at Vargath as the half-orc says what he cannot at the moment. There was a lump in his throat larger than the tankard he'd been drinking from. Set was finally sure he didn't understand a thing about what was happening around him, but mistrusting this one may have been a mistake.

The wood elf Fanlomen only adds to their momentum. His analogy takes hold and Set finds himself nodding enthusiastically as he looks around at the others who'd pledged themselves to this Chief. But still Set struggles to right himself. It felt like he'd been riding a horse full tilt only to be knocked off, flipping end over end and he hadn't landed yet.

Set closes his eyes to focus. His sisters needed him. Whatever else may be true or false, that would always be. If they were near, he would find them. If they were safe, he would keep them that way. Set grows a couple inches back in height before clearing his throat.

"I am with you," he says simply, staring at Chief Moeller. "And I am with Vargath, and Fanlomen," he continues, looking around at the others. "We must strike the cult. Whatever secrets they hide," Set says, glancing at the Chief, "we must shine a light on them."


I don't need to make a deception roll :smalltongue:

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Birel raised an eyebrow in surprise at the Chief's show of magic and knowledge. She felt a bit bitter that he'd hid this side of himself from her. She could have had someone worth talking to this whole time. But that thought quickly passes as he dishes out information about the others. "Oh, delightful! What an interesting bunch you all are. Well, this will be fun won't it? Well.... up until one of you snaps and tries to kill someone I suppose." Birel says finishing with a shrug, having read plenty of tales about colorful adventurers and being honest in her assessment of both potential entertainment and how unstable most of them seem to be. At least Selissa wasn't a lunatic of some sort. Then again that wasn't much comfort as she'd taken a clear stance these last few years to be completely uninteresting to Birel. Sure she had that wooden arm, but what did that matter if she wouldn't share her tales over a drink?

"I agree, the cult is what we need to address first. Can't have where I lay my head be a constant source of worry. More than it is already anyway." Birel comments. Then she adds, "Mr. Hubrecht's plan seems like a good one to me."

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah cows as he is singled out by the Chief's oracular abilities. Sharing it with one person, a mage that might be able to help, was one thing. He had not intended to openly flaunt his sickness. The knot in his stomach returns, churning and twisting each second as the Chief's magic pierces him. It could feel itself being watched... He places a hand on his stomach in a futile effort to soothe the inky fetus' kicks, but pressing back only sends the sensation crawling up through his chest. He can taste its putrid ichor in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out and drown the tavern like it had in his dream. As soon as the Chief's eyes move to Vargath the sensation fades, the Dim's boiling anger receding and allowing Jemriah to release the stale breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The dream. The wolves. Could they be his salvation? As he ruminates on this the others lean a different direction, and one he has a hard time disagreeing with. Jemriah was raised to hate and fear Pale Night like most. The wolves would come soon enough if he could muster the patience.

"...up until one of you snaps and tries to kill someone I suppose."

Again. Jemriah adds silently, a sense of shame sweeping over him as his fingers float to the necklace of interlinked holy symbols around his throat.

Brushing the feeling aside, the boy adds an earnest question of his own. "Chief, if you can see all that about us, can't you see who's a part of this cult too?"

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

"Would that I could, Jemriah Cleater. The seer's vision gifted to me by the spirits allows me to see magical auras and the effects of particularly strong forces of good and evil that arcane magic may miss. When I focus it lets me see the effects of necromancy, fey magic, and other polarized sources of power. That combined with years of hard work with books and wisdom allowed me to infer more about the lot of you. If this cult preformed some rite of evil, I'd be able to see that lingering on them, or if the magic was strong enough to leave an aura. But if that was true they would have already accomplished their goal, so hindsight would do us no good. But your plan is a fine one. I'll get men and women I trust to go house to house and call a town meeting in the square. Getting to the outlying farms will take some time, though. Would you all be willing to aid the search? I'll inspect the villagers for any signs of corruption if you will join my most loyal forces in the search. For those of you who know how to ride we can provide horses. Plow horses, but they will still get you there faster." The Chief finishes his drink, setting the mug down on the bar.

[Amnestic]

"These people you 'trust' can know nothing of the why of it." Vargath says gravely, stressing trust to show just how little he believed it to be worth in this situation. "As I said, no exceptions. You don't root out corruption by lopping off the bad fruit. You tear it from the ground, root and stem." He gestures emphatically, miming tearing a plant from the ground to punctuate his words. "Likewise this one -" Vargath points at the barman, "and his boy must not be allowed out of sight or allowed to discuss this with anyone. A single whispered word or note shared could see them dig deeper or panic." He'd like to say this was all his idea, but in truth he was imitating his mother's example after she'd been called in to perform a similar hunt on a friendly clan's blood mages, trying to find out which of them had dove too far into the magics and lost themselves in it. It hadn't been Kala's fault, but they'd brought in her help too late to save the clan. A mistake of the elders that Vargath would seek not to repeat.

"And of course that includes you as well, Chief. You need to be watched at all times, and your home searched. Probably as one of our first destinations. The others too." He gestures at Birel and Selissa. He is aware he might sound paranoid, that it may be extreme to go this far. Maybe it is extreme. But it will also work. Quickly. Efficiently. Brutally. Just like his fights in the pits. His hand drifts to the wolf-pelt cloak wrapped over his shoulders and he gently rubs a hand through its fur as reassurance, masking it poorly by also scratching at his neck stubble.

[Awful]

The female wood elf had been quiet as she thought over the options. The others seemed mostly focused on the cult, but she wasn't sure that was the best option - either way, she was going to ask for more information, but it seemed the matter was decided.

At Vargath's final statements, Selissa's mouth quirked in a frown for a brief moment. When she spoke, it was in the same quiet murmur she'd spoken in so far.
"Stupid."
She looked at the half orc, though her expression was back to stoic.
"If the Chief was in the cult, he wouldn't mention it to us. Just send us after the wolves or witch." She paused to let that sink in, then added: "And you won't search my house either."

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"No, Selissa. You are the stupid one in this instance. Misdirection is a common tactic among secret groups who are worried they might be exposed. We will search the Chief's home, yours, and mine as well as the homes of those the Chief sends with us. Furthermore, the Chief should make it clear one of the outsiders is in charge to the group of people he'll be sending with us. Jemriah is likely too inexperienced, I have already caught Set Al-Sayyid in lies, Chief said Mr. Fogspyre could be a dire threat, so that really only leaves Mr. Hubrecht as a suitable leader for this task." Birel says quickly and sharply.

[Awful]

Selissa made a tch! noise. She unconciously slipped into elvish when she spoke to Birel.
"<Did you know of this cult, then, far-sister? I did not. Foolish to tell of what you would want to keep hidden. If he had not spoke of it - there would be no search at all.>"

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

The tension in the room was already building. "You're right, Birel. I know nothing of how to weed out evil from a community. I can't even get it out of my own body. We didn't have these kinds of problems within Falcairn, only from without. Have any of you dismantled a cult like this before?" he lets the question hang in the air a moment, hoping everyone would stay silent to accent his point. "Perhaps they've placed hex bags beneath your beds. Perhaps they've stolen ingredients for their dark rituals from your homes. If the Chief stands in opposition to their goals perhaps they've poisoned his wine. No stone should be left untouched, though Selissa and the Chief have the right to preside over any search of their home. Misdirection is indeed a powerful tool. The mere mention of betrayal within this town already has us sniffing at each others' throats for a whiff of sinister intent or the irony tang of blood magic. Leave that for the wolves. We need to stay focused. United in purpose." He stands and moves nearer Set and Vargath.

"Most of us are new to Dam'ess. We don't have a claim on the land like our Elven friends," he states, gesturing to Birel and Selissa. "No home to defend against strangers of the forest... or the road." He indicates the humans and half-orc. "No stake in the outcome beyond our own hides and the Chief's generous reward. But if we're to succeed against a group founded upon deceiving others, we need to make a commitment here and now to each other. At least among the six of us," he opens his arms to include everyone who answered the call for aid. He raises his glass. "I declare that until this deed is done, there will be no lies from me to you that in any way relate to the events about to transpire. Our past is our own, but let our future, at least for the next few days, be joined with this drink. My word is my bond." He waits, hoping the others join in his rallying toast.

[WhismurWanders]

He found himself drawn to the human with the fancy words, the one who was supposely too young to lead the endeavor. Jemriah might have young shoulders, but there seemed to be a wise head attached which could prove useful, especially with accusations already being flung to and fro between almost all present members. He grabs the nearly empty tankard from his seat and raises it to join Jemriah's. "I assure you all that I wish to see us succeed just as much as any of us. Wolves hunt best in packs, and I will do my part in our hunt." He wasn't much of a leader anyways, and a settlement he assume was mostly inhabited by humans would no doubt question the authority of an elf.

He decides to try a different tactic to establish what he could bring to the endeavor. Make himself an asset instead of a liability. "If I may suggest, I can link several of our minds through my own so that we can communicate silently with one another during the searching, should anyone find something unusual or need sudden assistance. It's perfectly harmless, and the link only allows for simple communication. Your minds themselves will remain closed to me and each other." Those unfamiliar with the gift always were concerne about how much a psion could glean from any kind of mental connection, and if the group did harbor suspicions, he didn't want them thinking he could read minds.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

<"Far-sister? We could have been closer than that little one if you'd ever invited me over or accepted my invitations. At least now I'll finally get to see your home.
As for your objection, two things. The first is that in the case the Chief was a member of this cult, the reason he would have to do things this way is he felt it was likely we were going to discover their existence anyway. If he could mislead us into clearing him of suspicion, he could then send us out on other tasks away from the town to keep us from noticing we had made a mistake until their goal was accomplished.
The second thing though is more important to you and I. The people of this town are ever so distrusting of those unlike themselves. Imagine how much more fearful they will be after this? By making sure our homes are searched, we prevent them from conjuring up any extra fears about us later on. And by making sure we are a part of it, we make sure nobody decides they need to do so later and tear our homes rudely apart.">

"I'll drink to that!" Birel replies to Jemriah, having no reason not to. The less secrets the others hid from her, the more of these interesting people she would get to witness. And her own secrets weren't closely guarded so much as just extremely difficult to explain arcane theorems and practices.

Knowing at least about similar spells, Birel understood there should be no particular risk to what Fanlomen proposed and so replies, "That sounds like it would be very useful. Both in this endeavor and in future ones." She gives him a friendly smile, in the hopes that he won't think she's an overly harsh person due to her previous comment.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Nodding at Vargath's words, Set couldn't help but admire what he'd come to know about the half-orc in so short a time. He had to agree that everything Vargath had said sounded wise, even if he wasn't always the best judge of that. But Vargath's distinct lack of trust in anyone who could possibly be involved in the cult sealed it. Set knew that in this one lay another voice he could turn to, if not entirely trust.

Set listens carefully to Birel and Selissa bicker in a language he knows passably well. Their speech is fast, but he picks up the gist of it, though he'd no need for Elven to understand that Birel had caught him lying.

He ran back over his most recent web, trying to work his way back to some clue that would tell him where he'd ran afoul of her, but it was folly. He'd been on such a tear trying to cover for the boy's speech that he couldn't hope to remember if she'd reacted to any one thing in particular. She was terrifically blunt, and for that, Set was thankful. There seemed to be little risk of her hiding anything. If she dealt in secrets, she would no doubt have kept her knowledge that he was lying from him, if not the others.

Likewise, Selissa may not have caught him lying, but he doubted she dealt in secrets. Her manner was too straightforward. She seemed inclined to put herself directly at odds with the group without having anything to gain other than their mistrust and ire. She neither sought their approval nor their trust and instead planted a flag where she intended to fall for her principles. Unless...was there something between her and Chief Moeller? No, no he'd made it clear enough they saw little and less of each other, hadn't he? Yes, that was stupid. She wasn't defending him for that reason. She is probably exactly what she appears to be. Honest, practical, and principled.

That left only Jemriah and Fanlomen. Oh what a tangled web indeed. As Jemriah speaks, Set molds his face into a serious, thoughtful expression and leaves it frozen there throughout. The only sign of his anxiety is a clenching and unclenching of his fists as Jemriah steps closer, gesturing to him and Vargath to make his point. Set focuses every instinct on picking apart the young man's words, but he can detect nothing false about him. Could he really be speaking true?

"I declare that until this deed is done, there will be no lies from me to you that in any way relate to the events about to transpire. Our past is our own, but let our future, at least for the next few days, be joined with this drink. My word is my bond."

Oh for the love of...Set looks around to see a few of the others beaming, and has to cough to cover his expression. Jemriah was good, that was plain enough. Really good. As talented a liar as any he'd ever seen, and Set considered himself to be masterful. But he protests too much.

As Fanlomen chimes in, Set imagines the link that already exists between him and Jemriah. Whatever else Chief Moeller may be, he wasn't stupid. He'd caught on quickly enough to all three of them, but where Set resisted his path, surely these two were joined in their desire to see the shadow awaken further and corrupt the minds of everyone present.

"Your minds themselves will remain closed to me and each other."

Of course they will. Just as Set's mind had remained closed to the Chief. There was deeper magic here than any Set had experience with and he'd be further-damned if he was going to open himself up to more scrutiny by a perfect stranger, much less one the Chief had called "...a great ally, or our worst nightmare." Set had no use for more nightmares. He would have to stay vigilant. But what to do about the toast? Others were already raising their glasses. He needed to act quickly, but how? He squirms for a moment longer as he realizes the answer. There was no way around it. To keep his suspicions his own, he would have to grant some of them his trust.

Stepping forward until Jemriah is out of his vision, Set raises his tankard high, but keeps his voice calm and even as he addresses them in turn. "I swear to you," Set says, turning his eyes on Vargath, "you'll have the truth from me. You may have caught me in a lie," he continues, turning to Birel, "but you'll not catch me in another." Finally turning to Selissa, blinking just as his eyes would pass over Fanlomen, he says, "you have my word." Drinking deep, Set finishes his ale before turning to clap Jemriah on the shoulder and leaning in close.

"Well said, Jemriah," Set lies quietly. Smiling down on the young man, he continues. "You're a a natural leader, no matter what Birel may say about your age," he says apologetically, as if to explain his need to speak privately, if only for a moment.


Deception against Jemriah: [roll0]

[Amnestic]

Vargath listens in silence as the...group? party? exchange words and discussion silently. He hadn't expected any support, so that was a welcome surprise. Less welcome was the insinuation he might be placed in a leadership position, even if it was symbolic or for show. No doubt the locals would have a few choice words for an orcblood sacking their homes and rifling through their belongings. Not that it mattered. He'd do what needed to be done, whether they were thankful or not. He says nothing at Jeremiah's proclamation of honest intent. "ᛊᚨᚾᚾᚺᛖᛏᛖᚾ ᛁᚾᚾᛒᛁᚱ ᛏᛁᛚ ᛒᛖᛞᚱᚨᚷ." It seems silly, promising to tell the truth only while on this quest. The truth would always come to light, he'd learned. Lies just delayed the inevitable. Let the rot set into the soul. Still, he hopes that people will stay honest. Much as he wished it were otherwise, he does recognise that not all have his aversion to lying. If these words could compel them to speak the truth instead, at least for a while, it may do their hearts some good.

The offer of a mind-link he finds disconcerting, but he finds it hard to justify a true objection to it. Communication in battle is key, and being able to do it silently even more so. It could well be the difference between their life and death. "I would prefer not to invite others into my mind if I can help it...yet for the sake of ensuring success I will consent to this. I have naught to hide." He glanced around at the room again, trying to measure their skills and abilities. The cocky witch who'd supported his plan seemed well-versed in matters of magic, but she was a local, which put her under more suspicion than she might have otherwise. Best to leave her with Set. "ᚲᛟᚾᚠᛚᛁᚲᛏ ᚠᛟᚱ Å ᚨᚢᛚᛖ ᚲᚨᛗᛖᚱᚨᛏᛖᚱ" Their mutual distrust would serve well. But...maybe separating the two locals from each other would be preferable, just in case. "To best exclude those present I propose thus: We first investigate the Chief's home in full, as a group. Once done, myself and Fanlomen assist in collecting these 'loyal' residents with the Chief to gather the townsfolk into the centre of the village while the remaining four verify Birel and Selissa's homes are free of immediate concerns." He stresses 'immediate'. No doubt they had some figurative skeletons stashed away, but as long as they weren't literal skeletons they weren't the priority. He didn't care what deviancies they indulged in so long as it wasn't a pressing threat.

"Once we've excluded each other from suspicion we can begin searching the rest of the village. For safety's sake we should try to not separate into more than groups of three, supplemented by these 'locals'." He holds up both fists, counting up the fingers on each hand up to three. "Birel, Set, Fanlomen. Myself, Jeremiah, and Selissa." It should offer the balance of magical knowledge, while keeping the group's...disagreements with each other in check. It was just like organising a warband, except this time he knew essentially nothing about those involved and hadn't had to do so for the better part of a decade. "ᛏᚺᛖᛁ×ᛚᛚ ᛞᛁᛖ ᛚᛁᚲᛖ ᚦᛖ ᚱᛖᛊᛏ." He mentally swatted at the voice this time. It was getting a bit loud for his liking. Maybe they would die, but he'd stand in the way of it, if it came to that. The anticipation of a hunt was setting in. Not a normal hunt, but his blood quickened all the same. If they truly did accomplish this in one night, he'd down a barrel of the pisswater they called ale happily.

[Awful]

Selissa made another tch! noise. In a way that definitely wasn't at all petulant, she conceded to Birel with a final muttered comment.
"<I'm not a little one. I'm taller than you. >"

She hesitated before she gestured with her mug finally when Jemriah spoke. She didn't feel particularly bound by any oath, but if it made things work better she'd put up with appearances.

At Vargath's final comments her mouth twisted, but she otherwise said nothing. If it got it over with, then it'd have to happen.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

He hadn't expected the compliment or support, and the last thing he wanted was to further divide the group. Birel's suggestion of Vargath's leadership made sense. He looked battle-hardened. Jemriah had no delusions about his middling figure. Words only get you so far... his mind drifts back to the scars upon his cheek.

To Set he replies humbly, "You're kind, but I agree with Vargath taking charge of this task force. Every word he's uttered is practical and efficient, and I was quite honest in my inexperience with these matters. Pretty speeches don't win wars as often as everyone likes to think - experience does," he closes, sounding a bit like he's speaking beyond his personal experience.

"I look forward to getting to know you two better as the day progresses," he adds for Vargath and Selissa.

"<You and I will have to get more acquainted later to see if our demons share the same face,>" he adds privately for Set, the wispy mental image of the young lad lingering in Set's mind suggesting the connection remains open for the time being should any final comments before they all set out are desired.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

<"Ah wonderful. She's in her rebellious phase."> Birel comments to Fanlomen as she rolls her eyes at Selissa.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Rather than voice his approval, Set simply starts thinking of Vargath's plan as the plan, and Vargath as the Chief's second. The crown of leadership was heavy, and Set had never looked on his brother's responsibility with envy. If he couldn't count on his own blood, Set could at least hope that Vargath was what he appeared to be. Furthermore, whatever Vargath may or may not suspect himself, he'd been shrewd enough to split up Fanlomen and Jemriah. Set couldn't help but wonder if he'd caught on to the same thing's that Set himself had seen. In any case, splitting up those too would at least give Set a chance to determine just how much they needed to worry about Fanlomen. He trusted Vargath could take care of himself should Jemriah drop the act. And he would have Selissa to help watch his back. Certainly she would have no love for Jemriah's mischief.

For his part, Set was glad to have Birel at his side. She'd proven a sharp eye for deceit. That same ability to infer Set's own duplicity would no doubt prove useful if he could just direct her focus towards Fanlomen. It would be an incredible relief to just be able to focus on Jemriah, but from his behavior earlier and the Chief's own assessment, it would be folly to assume Fanlomen wasn't a pawn of the Shadowkeeper as well. Besides, the more he learned of Birel the less likely she seemed to be under anyone's thumb but her own. They were tasked with rooting out corruption in the village while having to deal with corruption in their midst. It did not seem likely that Birel would give herself over to a cult of the Pale Night anymore than she would give herself over to Him.

Nodding and smiling to Jemriah as his skin crawls, Set responds inwardly, "<no doubt you and I will face the trials ahead together under His eye. It will be a particular pleasure of mine to know you better, Jemriah. For now, perhaps it's best if we focus on the task at hand,"> he responds, eager to disconnect the link between them amicably, but overwhelmingly anxious to sunder it nonetheless. Breaking eye contact he moves over next to Birel and Fanlomen, shooting the wood elf a sideways glance. Yes, he was thankful for the chance to investigate the wood elf, if only to get away from the boy for a few moments. He was toying with him, Set could feel it. The Shadowkeeper's laughter echoed in his mind, only now he could feel the boy's laughter echoing alongside it.

Looking back and forth between the different members of their group, Set tries to relax. Some of these people might be able to help him. Others, he would keep his eye on. As Birel remarks on Selissa's immaturity to Fanlomen, he even manages to crack a small smile before swallowing it. Even if they were going to help him, they didn't really need to know he understood Elven, did they?


Deception against Jemriah: [roll0]

[WhismurWanders]

<"Ah wonderful. She's in her rebellious phase."> Birel comments to Fanlomen as she rolls her eyes at Selissa.

Fanlomen is slightly suprised at being let in on a joke between the two elves, given his being a stranger to the town. He answers plainly, <"You two seem close. It is good for her to have a mentor with as many years as yours."> Fanlomen found it difficult to tell the age of other elves, having only experienced his own ageless-ness compared to other short-lived races, but he could tell that this Birel was possibly a deal older than himself by the way she carried herself, and the tone she used to describe Selissa reminded him of the clan-mother. Knowing, wise beyond measure, but understanding and caring as well.

He agrees with the proceedings of the plan laid out by Vargath. He seemed experienced in the hunt for cultists; a welcome trait in these times. Fanlomen's standard fare was fighting off humanoids whose evil was more on an interpersonal than a cosmic scale, or beasts who either threatened the balance of nature or were wandering too close to settlements and farmland. Something as conniving as cultists were beyond his current repetoire, but he would gladly assist in any way he could.

The approach of Set (was that his name?) didn't escape him, but the wood elf had no quarrel with the foreigner, for the moment. Fanlomen attempted to recall what the chief had said about the man. 'A darkness. A curse.' Another soul doomed by the fates to carry a burden of power, he mused. Indeed, it could be said the gods were cruel to foist such suffering upon souls who didn't ask for the powers they received, but it was up to that person to make the best of their abilities for the greater good. An axe can cut through flesh by a raider's hand, but can fell a tree and build a home for a family just as well. One simply needed to mind the sharp edge.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

At Set's closing comment, Jemriah lightly furrows his brow in thought as he disconnects their minds. Him? he pondered. He'd never inferred any gender to the creature nesting inside him. Perhaps Set had just personified it? Or did he have a distinctly different passenger? Regardless, he was right. There would be time for this later after this first threat was culled.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Oaken Larder

"Alright, it seems we've reached an accord. I have nothing to hide, so my home will be open to your searches. I will order everyone in town to the square, but as I said this will take time. Give me a half hour to gather the men and women who will help you in your search and get as many villages as possible collected. I recommend half of you search the north and half search the south. We'll be at this all night if we do it right, and I expect it done right." The Chief begins to walk out of the tavern, but stops at the door. Without turning around, he speaks again. "There will be no mercy for any you find associated with Pale Night. Keep that in mind as your search. Anything you find will damn the soul who owns it. Don't take your duties lightly." Then he leaves. A few moments later, the large bell hanging over the town pump begins to ring, exceptionally loud and piercing. Within minutes, you can already hear murmurs and other sounds of people as the villagers come from the houses nearest the square, all wondering why they are being called.

So this will all be boiled down to three investigation checks for each character. The first will be for the homes closest to the square, the second for the eastern quadrant, the third for the western. One team handles the northern side, one the southern. Rolls can be done in the OOC thread on Giant or in the Discord. Feel free to roll all three, but I will respond to each one for each team individually to give a chance to roleplay the search and what you find.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set frowns at Chief Moeller's back as he leaves. Inwardly he thinks on the repercussions of what he's about to say for a moment before clearing his throat. No doubt saying anything that might go against the Chief's intent was dangerous ground, but he hoped the rest would see wisdom in his words. He needed them to. This is why he'd answered Chief Moeller's call for aid in the first place.

"Far be it from me to disagree with anything the Chief has said up to this point. I'm not entirely sure he would even call it a disagreement, but," he says, letting the word hang for a moment as he looks around at the others, "when we do find members of this cult, I would like a few words with one of them." He allows a moment for his message to be heard before continuing. "Don't mistake me. I am not interested in being merciful." Far from it. "Nor is it my intention to put anyone here in any more danger than we already are by accepting this task, but I'm sure we can all agree that a live conspirator can tell us much more than a dead one." And if there was no sign of his sisters anywhere among them, then only a live conspirator could tell him what he needed to know.

"Chief Moeller is right, of course. This will take all night and we can scant afford to take our duties lightly. The investigation has to carry on. But I beg leave to interrogate any we should be lucky enough to take alive. I feel I could be quite adept at uncovering more information from one captive than I might from all night searching homes.

"I've said my piece. I will defer to all of you," Set allows. Patience was something Set struggled with, but he wasn't in any position to strong-arm the others standing in this room. If at the very least they agreed to the wisdom of keeping one alive, Set could suffer the night to pass without being granted the freedom to interrogate them immediately. But he struggled to keep his face free of emotion as he hoped there would be no argument in trying to take a prisoner.

[Awful]

Selissa glanced at the other two elves, but said nothing until the chief spoke again.

Once he had, one of the humans - what was his name? Sat? Sad? - talked about taking prisoners. It made sense, though Selissa had expected they'd be doing that anyway. Slaughtering those who had - even if distantly - had been neighbours for the past half a decade if they were unable to fight back would leave a bad taste in her mouth.

Even if the Chief killed them afterwards, it wouldn't be blood on her hands.

"Fine,"she said shortly.

Without saying anything more, she retrieved her bow from its carrying case, and quickly restrung it. The bow had always been her weapon of choice, though a leaf-bladed sabre resting at her waist as well.

[Amnestic]

Vargath finally stands, ascending to his full height, chainmail clinking a merry tune as his muscled form shifts. "Speaking with the cultists may prove ill should they have half a wit to implicate the innocent." He left one thought unspoken - they were all assuming there were any innocent. "Have care with believing their words." Perhaps it was for the best that the drink in this place had been subpar. A clearer head would help.

Seeing Selissa restring her bow, Vargath's hand drifts to his waist, to the axe that sits there to follow suit, but just as quickly decides against it. He could have it in hand quickly enough if needed. Instead he bends down to grab the shield that has been sat against his stool. A sturdy thing of wood and metal. Its face was painted, although the image itself was cut and faded in places from use. It was decidedly amateurish, having been done by urchin children - a pretense for him to give them some coin as a reward for "service". Still, he found the lopsided wolf's head with orc tusks, emblazoned with the university's sigil on its forehead quite charming, even with the extra paint splatters around it. Thick leather straps tied it to his arm and fist, ensuring none would take it from him. Probably better to start with a swift shield slam than his axe if they did intend to take at least some alive. Just for a moment, the Skye rune carved to the inside of the shield blazes to life in recognition of the connection to him. "ᛗᚢᚱᚲᛖ ᛊᚲᛁᛖᚱ ᚠᛟᚱᚲᛁᚾᚾᛖᚱ ᛚᛁᛊᛖ ᛗᛟᚱᚷᛖᚾᛞᚨᚷᛖᚱ." A cloud giant whispers to him, its airy yet deep tones instantly recognisable. Encouragement? At a time like this? A thin smile curves across his lips, grotesque to some thanks to his prominent tusks. Maybe this really would be worth it after all.

Investigation rolls in OOC thread: 5, 13, 9.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen nods and reaches out to the minds of the others; if the searching was to begin soon, it would be wise to give them a way to communicate without raising the suspicions of others. He gently brushed and prodded against the minds of Vargath, Birel, Selissa, and Jemriah before establishing the psionic link between them all. He mentally coughs to avoid startling anyone before speaking without moving his mouth. 'This should give us a private way to speak during the investigation. Hopefully there will be little need for its use.'

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah nodded grimly at the Chief's departing words. It was a dark duty, but death of one kind or another was all but guaranteed on the sheet he plucked from a board in the town over that set him on this course.

"I can help discern the truth behind any cultist's lies should we capture one," he assures Vargath and the others. And being involved in any interrogation would give him an opportunity to be around Set and perhaps learn more about his own infection.

It was a strange sensation, having someone else force their way into his mind; usually it was the other way around. The link came easily to him though, and he responded in kind attempting to broadcast to the group instead of the single person he was accustomed to. <Can we speak to each other or only through you, Fanlomen?>

1, 2, 6 per OOC thread

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen knew the others could hear the question posed, but answered anyways. You all should be able to speak to and hear each other without my interference, so long as you don't dismiss the link.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Walking over to his first table to collect his gear and his Favorite, Set brushes a bit of dust off the tip of his spear before turning back to Vargath.

"You speak truly, though I would rather hear the lie and investigate it than hear nothing at all. But I agree, we must be wary. The words of a cultist are no substitute for evidence."

Set breathes a sigh of relief as Fanlomen touches all four of the others, but not him, 'gifting' them with the ability to invade each other's minds. He watches as their eyes lose focus for just a moment, their thoughts turning inward as it becomes obvious there is some communication going on between them. For the first time, Set feels a tinge of fear at the thought of not being included, as they could hatch a plan together without his ever knowing, but it seems a small price to pay for their not being able to band together to bombard his mind.

"I can help discern the truth behind any cultist's lies should we capture one."

Ahhhh, of course. No doubt Jemriah had been dissatisfied with the split suggested by Vargath. He wanted to keep a close eye on Set, but he'd been far too shrewd to say so at the outset. Only now that Set had offered a slight deviation, one that may never come to pass, had Jemriah been able to pounce on the opportunity to rejoin him at some point during the investigation without the suggestion seeming out of place. Set's pulse sped up once more as he studied Jemriah with an outwardly calm smile. That boyish face hid a mind exceptionally gifted when it came to intrigue. Set gripped his spear just a bit tighter, clutching it close to his chest. If he wasn't careful, Set had a feeling Jemriah would be the death of him.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

<"It's not just myself who is acutely aware our new friend Set was lying about the whole promise not to lie I trust? I don't think I've ever met someone so shady before."> Birel mentally communicates to the others.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah has happy for the company. He'd been hiding from his shame, or repeating it, for over a year and having actual companions and a common purpose, however fleeting they may be, was a blessing. He hadn't realized how much he longed for connection these many months. Even now he could feel the parasite watching the many minds of this assembly assert themselves in the dark corners of his mind. So small, all of them. So young. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing the presence down into his bowels where it brewed, sending a wave of discomfort through his torso.

<...I don't think I've ever met someone so shady before.>

Perhaps too quick to jump to anyone's defense, Jemriah replies knowingly, <Go easy on him. A young man wrestling with demons beyond his control is not as easy, or unique, a thing as I once thought. There's a frightened soul behind his words if you give it time to show itself.> His eyes glance compassionately at Set, the slightest twinge of a smile, of comradery, crossing his face as they lock eyes a moment.

Breaking the gaze, he steps back to his table, slinging his satchel back over his shoulder as he vocalizes to everyone, "Let's get on with it then. If this will take all night as the Chief suggests we've not the time for idle hands to do the devil's work as the saying goes. May the Father's swift justice be with us this night." He looks to Vargath, the appointed leader of this excursion for the nod of approval and follows his lead out into the fading light.

[Amnestic]

<Secrets will always reveal themselves, one way or another. Our minds are best focused on the task ahead.> He responds diplomatically down the link. He was disappointed that Set had lied. He was disappointed whenever anyone lied. But you can get used to disappointment, and he hadn't lied when he said he wanted their minds focused on the task ahead. They'd talk later. And perhaps he would see everyone's Truth when combat was joined. A lot of things melt away when your life is on the line.

"Our preparations are complete." The half-orc's long powerful strides carry him easily to the wooden door, pushing it open with a creaking to the 'fresh' air outside. It was refreshingly cool in comparison to the indoors. Perfect to keep the mind alert. He holds there, turning back towards the room and beckoning with his shielded arm towards the Chief. "If you would lead the way. And the other two of course." It wouldn't do to leave the barman and his child alone. While he doubts the child is a cultist (witting or otherwise), there was always a chance. He threw a glance to the barman, who had been silent during the discussion. Unusual, but perhaps it was fear that gripped his throat - fear of an orcblood - more than deception. Secrets will always reveal themselves.

[Awful]

"<Let's go,>" Selissa merely replied over the mental link. Her mental voice was quiet, too, underlaid by the sound of rustling leaves.

Those who would search her house wouldn't find much - a few piles of furs, carved wooden bowls, a cookpot, bags of nuts and dried mushrooms, the occasional broken arrow she intended to salvage the arrowhead from. Beyond that -a few keepsakes of strange horns and knicknacks. Wood elves - Selissa's people, at least - never settled for long, and rarely kept anything it would be troublesome to carry. That that was, was often left behind when they moved on from a site, or stored in clever stashes to be retrieved however many years later they returned to that part of the woods.

Still, it would be an intrusion, and the lonely elf didn't look forward to it.

[purepolarpanzer]

Chapter 1, Verse 1- The Cult


Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

Taking the north side of the village, Birel, Set, and Fanlomen, alongside three villagers chosen by the chief, begin opening doors and rooting through homes. First comes the Chief's house, one or the larger ones in the village. Before you all head inside, the Chief stops Birel with a firm hand on the shoulder. "Under the stairs you'll find a loose floor board. Lift it and you'll find a crank. Turn it three times and a door will open. Please be respectful of my sanctum." Inside you all find a simple and clean home, only marred by a dizzying variety of charms hanging from everything- the rafters, doorways, from the chimney, and in the windows. Birel and Fanlomen can readily identify them all as symbols of the Green Faith, from warding sigils against evil to amulets meant to attract good spirits. They form a low hanging canopy, and it may be your imaginations but they all seem to twist and twirl in an oddly mesmerizing dance. Some have bells or chimes attached, and the house is filled with a quiet, jangling music. The second floor hold a small attic bedroom with several framed charcoal drawings of a beautiful woman with pointed ears and a gap toothed smile. Other than this the home is unremarkable, but after Birel follows the Chief's directions, finding the hidden crank and cycling it three times, the floor boards under the stairs shift and separate to reveal an earthen stairwell down into a small basement that smells heavily of earth and incense. When you all investigate down there, you find a large, shallow silver basin surrounded by dried oak leaves in a simple pattern. There are shelves of books that all appear to be written in Sylvan, and all in the same handwriting. Set and Birel turn the pages a bit and find they are all books of rituals and rites of magic, both arcane and divine, for everything from sanctifying a grave to blessing a wedding. Set finds one ritual that summons the spirit of an ancient oak for the purpose of powerful divination, but the book does little to describe what limits there are to the being's knowledge. Nothing appears to be demonic, however, but while the other two read Fanlomen cannot escape the feeling that you are being watched, and he can hear the faintest sounds of whispers fill the air. It would be possible to spend days down here reading, but a woman's shout from outside ends your search.

One of the Chief's chosen women stands outside, and she looks obviously shaken. "We found something. In Brent's house. Something... odd." Birel knows Brent Bergeron to be the local blacksmith, whose house stands opposite of the Chief's on the north side of the village. He has always been a deeply serious, quiet man, strong as a bull but gentle as a butterfly. The woman leads you all into his home as Brent looks on from the assembled group in the town square, eyebrows like furry caterpillars furrowed in anger. Inside, the two other men chosen by the Chief to assist in the search have removed a large bearskin rug from the floor in front of the hearth. Underneath, there lies a large symbol painted in red. Neither Set nor Fanlomen can identify it, and the symbol is full of spikey imagery and sharp angles, appearing to be vaguely menacing. Birel, however, has seen this symbol before. It depicts a scene of a massive mountain being split in two, with a rich valley emerging between the two shattered peaks. It is a common symbol of the faith of Harum, often carved into cathedral floors or depicted in stained glass. It would appear that Brent is a secret follower of Harum's faith, but the Chief's people are unfamiliar enough with that faith to mistake it for demonic imagery. "What does it mean?" The woman looks at Birel with fear in her eyes, and the two men who flank her look equally worried.

No other homes in the immediate village north of the well show any signs of corruption, but Fanlomen's sharp eyes do spot one more thing of note. The stable bears a sign with a horse and a stage coach on it, and in the corner there is a carving that could easily be mistaken for an artist's mark or even just damage from a stone hitting the sign, but the wood elf recognizes it as Thieve's cant. The symbol means "safe haven", or possibly "friends here". Either way, the owner of the stable is letting a select crowd of people know that his home doesn't discriminate against those with loose morals and shiny coins.

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

As the three of you are beginning to search alongside two women and a man chosen by the Chief, Selissa also spots the Thieve's cant symbol hanging above the stable door. It must be a recent addition, as she has never noticed it before in her infrequent forays into town. When her and her new companions approach Weldry's Dry Goods and Sundries, she spots another bit of thieve's cant scratched into the sign hanging there. This one means "prey" or "easy mark", obviously carved surreptitiously by someone with ill gotten gains in mind.

The store is the only shop in Dam'ess other than the blacksmith, and it's goods are meager. Mostly it serves as a middle stage between the homecrafted goods of the villagers and their neighbors, so much of the stock is labeled in Common with the name of the person who wove, knitted, grew, or carved it. The Chief's people are focusing on these goods, checking each and every thing on sale for signs of corruption, and finding nothing of consequence. Weldry Wessen, a rail thin man wearing spectacles, looks on from the window with a sour gaze as his goods are fondled. With the show room being thoroughly examined, Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa move on to the home adjoining the store and being to poke around there. Inside they find a meticulous collection of accounting books, with each transaction thoroughly documented. Other than this the house comes across as bare and boring. As Jemriah is becoming bored of the books and putting one back, Selissa does spot one thing of interest. The entire home is perfectly organized, in such a fashion that it is almost too perfect and clean, but as Jemriah returns a book she notices something off about the bookshelf. Upon closer inspection, the bookends do not match. Everything else in the room comes in matched pairs- two paintings on the wall, two oil lamps equal distance from each other, even two spotless privies in the back, but juxtaposed against the anal retentive perfection of the room, those bookends stick out to her like a sore thumb. One is a well worn wooden lion, dull from age, probably a mediocre antique. The other, tucked in the corner behind all the accounting books, is a dark, nearly black stone figurine. It shows a bat-winged imp or gargoyle with furry, reverse-angled legs in a crouched position over split hooves. From the waist up it's body depicts smooth scales. It has a crooked grin with sharpened teeth and bulging eyes that have a cat's slit pupils. In it's hands is an exquisitely carved abacus, and when Selissa picks it up to examine it the beads of the counting tool rattle and shift, appearing to be fully functional. They are evenly divided between copper, silver, gold, and platinum, with ten beads on each of four rungs. Set into those large eyes in the center of the pupils are two matching yellow gems, filigreed with gold. The statue feels oddly warm in her hands, as though it were heated from within.

No other homes in the immediate village show anything of interest other than a few Green Faith charms hanging from windows and some racy silken undergarments in the back of one "bachelor's" closet

With both the northern and southern sides of the village center searched, you all have a moment to discuss your discoveries, make accusations, or simply move on to the homes a bit further out.

These are the results of all of your first investigation checks. There will be similar description for the second and third checks as your search goes further and further away from the center of the village.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Birel puts the book she was looking at back when the shouting starts and runs outside. After she looks the symbol over she sighs and says, "He's not a demon worshiping cultist. Still a cultist though. This is that stupid hateful Harum stuff. If I had my say, that would get him kicked out of town at least."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

As Set steps inside, the Chief's home feels oddly cramped despite it's size, similar in many ways to the forests of this land. While the trees rose high enough to touch the sky and the paths were endless, every bush and branch clawed at him as he passed. Such was Chief Moeller's home. Large in many respects, but inside the charms and amulets hanging from every surface seemed to reach out, intent on marking him in some way. Set looked around furtively to see that Birel and Fanlomen were busy inspecting their surroundings before consciously shrinking a few inches, eager for room to breathe.

Set does not comment on the framed drawings of the woman gracing the walls of the attic bedroom. Instead he quietly studies them for a bit longer than he intends to, getting lost staring into the black pits of her charcoal eyes before looking around sheepishly, hoping his weakness went unnoticed. A wellspring of emotion lay bare on these sheets of paper and although Set consciously knew they contained nothing of the Shadowkeeper's touch or Pale Night's influence, he couldn't help seeing her how the man who drew these must have seen her. Set willed himself away from her gaze, turning his back on her and everything she meant. Life with another was not in the cards. Wherever she was, it seemed Chief Moeller was also destined to only look at a shadow of her beauty.

As they finally descend into the Chief's sanctum, Set's eyes rove over page after page of rituals and rites. His eyes cross as he struggles to maintain focus, certain as he is that Chief Moeller can be cleared of suspicion. Pale Night could not hope to find solace in these walls and the Shadowkeeper would not have been so curious about one of his own. As he flips through the pages, Set comes across a ritual to bring forth the spirit of an ancient oak. Reading and re-reading the words, Set finally thinks he understands the purpose, though he can't speak to how useful it might be.

"Birel," he calls as she studies another bookshelf. "Come have a look at this, will you?" Holding up the book, Set begins reading in Sylvan, too caught up in what he's doing to shelter his knowledge. "'<...an echo of one of the old-oaks shall answer the call. And it shall impart such knowledge as it is able.>'"

After they go rushing into Brent's home, Set studies the image quizzically until Birel reveals its origin. Harum? The name was familiar enough given where they were, but what did the worshippers of Harum believe? Set looked back and forth between Birel and the image, but it seemed clear this wasn't what they were searching for tonight. Studying Birel a moment longer, Set can't imagine her lying. She seemed intent on telling everyone she met exactly what she thought at all times. The idea was puzzling to say the least. "Forgive my ignorance, I'm afraid I don't know much about...Harum. Are his worshipper's dangerous?"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Not dangerous in the way demon worshipers are. But yes. Basically a bunch of fools decided the world didn't have enough actual gods for them so they started claiming Harum, some ancient kind or adventurer or more likely probably just one of the founding settlers of Harumvale, is a god. What's he supposed to be a god of except this area you ask? Nope, that's it. That's his whole 'divine' domain. This little patch of land in our much larger world. What are his teachings? Apparently that everyone else is wrong and that there's no danger in pretending fey creatures don't have rules you need to respect if you don't want your life to be filled with all sorts of issues. In fact, they're so convinced they're right that frequently they run around killing anyone who doesn't agree with them. In fact, that's basically the entire reason they have any followers of their nonsense cult at all. That and an education so poor they don't even understand the insult claiming Harum is a god is to actual gods. So yes, they're dangerous idiots and I'd rather not have anyone likely to wake up one day and decide they need to kill me because I don't agree with their completely made up nonsense as a neighbor." Birel informs Set (and anyone else in earshot) in a clearly dismissive tone.

[Amnestic]

Vargath eyes the statue in Selissa's hand. If it were a curio or trinket it wouldn't have been hidden so completely. Some magical charm to enhance his shop's welfare, perhaps? A faustian bargain seemed unlikely for such a backwater, but perhaps the man's soul was worth little and this was all it garnered. "If you've got any ideas," He taps his head, signalling they should keep it quiet. "I'll have word with our shopkeeper."

He racks his brains for anything pertinent for that he'd read or heard about as he stomps outside, putting on his best malicious expression. He towers over the man in all respects - height, breadth, presence, but mere physicality didn't mean everything. If this man had struck a deal, he may well be hiding powers behind that slight form. He clenches his fist, the squeezing of muscled flesh around his shield strap audible even to those without keen ears. "We found what you were hiding." His voice is the lowest, deepest growl he can muster, reverberating through his chest and throat, a rumble that could vibrate bone with its bass if he raised his voice. Best to keep the nature of the discovery vague, in case he might confess to some other hidden items they hadn't discovered yet. "Explain it, while you can."



To identify the small icon-
If History (unlikely): [roll0]
If Religion, then only a +2 bonus.
If Arcana, then still +4 but also advantage via the Storm Rune: [roll1]

To intimidate the shopkeep, if needed-
Intimidate: [roll2]

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah was accustomed to feeling watched. Raised in the eyes of the Mother and paying homage to the many forest spirits that judged based on their inscrutable laws. His father's vigilant gaze as his mentee added the hops to a vat of brew, neither too fast nor slow nor in such abundance as to spoil the batch. The townsfolk stared as Jemriah and the others began their investigation. Folks ogled the shopkeeps wares as he did the same to them. Everyone watching for any sign of treachery or opportunity to cry 'heretic' with outstretched fingers, branding them with villainy to announce their own innocence.

Then there was the invisible stare of his passenger, watching from its dark place below the world, using Jemriah's eyes as its own... he shut them tightly, rubbing his temple.

Jemriah spent the better part of the search of the old shop examining where everyone's eyes lay to the point that he nearly forgot the purpose of their visit. By the time he truly joined Vargath and Selissa their sweep seemed nearly complete. He disinterestedly pulled a book from the shelf, flipping through pages he didn't intend to read before returning it to its place.

Selissa's discovery. "An ugly little thing," he comments. His eyes lock with the obsidian creature's own faceted orbs a moment. A statue was hardly evidence of evildoing. As Vargath strides outside, Jemriah follows, standing back in the shop's doorway to monitor the conversation and provide a detente if needed.

[Awful]

Selissa looked at the statue and her mouth quirked in distaste. There was something ugly about it, beyond being a hideous carving of some grimacing gargoyle; the whole thing seemed to her to have somewhat of a sinister air - not to mention the heat emanating from the stone.

As Jemriah spoke, she looked up at him. Her emerald eyes watched him before they dropped back to the statue in
"Very ugly," she agreed with Jemriah.

She carefully turned it over in her hands, looking for - well, she wasn't sure. Anything. The thin lines of a sunken compartment, any script or signs.

"#Thieves in town too. Seen their signs. Recent,#" she added over the mental link.

[purepolarpanzer]

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

Vargath knows enough from some of the professors he spoke with at the university to recognize a depiction of a devil when he sees one. This one in particular is some variety of imp, though it varies enough from the standard that it may be some fiendish relative to the more common imps he's seen pictures of.

Weldry Wessen crosses his arms and lifts his nose, looking simultaneously disinterested and insulted in equal degree. "I have no idea what you're talking about, SIR. I own a shop- I have many goods, but NONE of them are nefarious in nature." He glances at Vargath, and perhaps realizing that he is sassing a man who could break him in two with relative ease he sighs and rolls his eyes begrudgingly. "If you are referring to my abacus, I realize that some simple minded people would be terrified of it based on it's looks, but it's an essential tool for accounting and mathematics, and nothing more. Left to me by my father, who owned this store before me. An ugly relic, but one I still hold dear to my heart." The man's argument comes across as convincing to Vargath, but Jemriah spots a few beads of sweat on the man's brow come tumbling down, and Selissa can make out a small quiver in his voice. He's not lying, exactly, but there is more he is not saying.

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

The Chief's helpers mutter and curse when Birel reveals the origin of the symbol on the blacksmith's floor. "Murderers is what the Harumites are." says the woman who guided you here. "One of them killed my uncle when I was a little lass. Killed him for worshiping Father Oak and Mother Willow. If Brent is one of them... well, we'll tell the Chief. Maybe we run him out of town." One of the men gives a shout of protest. "Oy! Brent's a good egg! How many times has he shoed your horse for barter when you didn't have coin to pay him? Besides, if we run him out of town, who will mend what needs mending and forge new tools?" The third man gives the second a rough shove. "The Chief decides what we do with him, not us. He listens to the spirits, and we follow his wisdom. Even if he wants Brent dead."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set looks down at his feet, the gears turning in his head as he takes in a wealth of new information on the area, it's people, and one of their gods. "But," he says, nearly interrupting the last man to speak as Set starts talking immediately, his thoughts only half-formed, "he has nothing at all to do with Pale Night, then?" Set looks from Birel to the villagers one by one, searching their faces for some sign that there was even the slightest chance this man Brent and his god Harum could be tied to Pale Night. Giving them a look of distress mixed with exasperation, Set throws his palms up, "well?"

Clearly Set's concern for the woman's uncle is questionable at best and while he does make an attempt to hide it, he is not overly successful, his face betraying impatience rather than empathy. His thoughts turn to his own family and the peril they may or may not be in right now as the villagers squabble over the blacksmith's fate. He looks to Birel and even Fanlomen, trying hard to keep his mounting frustration in check. "Should we not focus on the reason we're here? Has Brent given any of you reason to detain him tonight while the followers of Pale Night still roam free? Let us keep moving," Set says urgently making his case, "and leave this problem for another day." Set's plea is earnest as he looks around at the group before him, his words lacking any hint of deception.

[WhismurWanders]

The Green Faith was a curious subject. Fanlomen knew that it was rare that more than a handful of its adherents could agree on what the religion stood for if asked. The Chief definitely seemed to have taken an interest in all the charms, weirds, and symbology of the Green Faith. It was almost dizzying to see so many of them hanging above his head. It was moments like this that the elf wondered how many mystical energies he wasn't attuned to that were flowing around him. His body was the source of his psionic powers, but arcane and divine energies (from his incredibly limited understanding of the two subjects) were always around. Even if only half the charms here actually worked, the three of them might be bathing in incredibly strong holy magics. The thought was almost enough to distract from a subtle whisper that seemed to be making their way through his head. No one else seemed to be reacting, so it wasn't from the link. Were they being watched? Or was it just the unease of being around all the charms? Something to ask the others about, perhaps the chieftain if Vargath approved.


The symbol of Harum didn't get much of a reaction from Fanlomen. It wasn't the first time he encountered their followers, even if there was little he knew about them and their beliefs. Sometimes the Shepherds would be sent against the more dangerous and zealous of the Harumites when they threatened the followers of the Green Faith. The crusaders were often too reckless to be reasoned with, which made them even more dangerous in battle. He mostly agreed with Birel's assessment; they were only truly dangerous when faith became tempered into a weapon, or when they thought they were out of options. "Their crusaders are like a wildfire, only sated when everything around them has been destroyed. It's difficult to say how he will react if the issue is pushed. Even if the Chief has the last say on his fate, it would be wise not to scare or suprise him. A cornered animal fights far more viciously."

[Awful]

As the shopkeep tries to stare down the burly half orc, Selissa briefly raised an eyebrow at the plain dishonesty of the man.

She glanced between him and Vargath, but the heavily-built warrior didn't seem to have picked up on it.

"#Dishonest,#" she sent to Vargath. "#Holding something back. Too nervous otherwise.#"

[Amnestic]

<Oh? My thanks.> His eyes flicker left to the elf. Selissa had been right to tell him - he hadn't noticed. Perhaps a downside of his honest nature. Between them, they'd corner this man. "You think us ignorant?" He growls at the shopkeep. "Perhaps their youth," he gestures in Jemriah's direction, "or our non-human blood gives you this unfounded confidence?" He spits on the ground, a large globule of phlegm landing a half-inch from the shopkeeper's foot.

"The icon is that of a demon of the hells. A fiend that bargains in infernal powers to reckless, stupid mortals. It emits heat to the touch - it is magical, not a simple trinket. It was concealed in your private home, not the shop where anyone might stumble across it. You hid it from searches, not from people who might come across it naturally." He squares up further to the man. "This is more than enough to have your head removed on its own. You have one chance to escape the axe. And that is to confess all that you know. You, and any fellows you might have. I care not if you live or die, but perhaps you are not so eager to burn below."


Maybe another intimidate check? Disregard if not needed. Hope this one goes better.
[roll0]

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"If that's all that was found, then no Brent won't be associated with the Pale Night. The only thing the Green Faith and Harumites agree on is" at this point her train of thought is interrupted by Selissa's telepathic message. She clears her throat and resumes, "They agree that the Pale Night is a threat to everyone. And I agree, letting the Chief decide what to do about Brent is for the best. Shall we continue?" she makes a gesture to the rest of the town they haven't searched yet.

"#Thieves? Not terribly surprising I suppose, still something good to inform the Chief about later.#" Birel replies to the unexpected telepathic message.

[purepolarpanzer]

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

Weldry juts out his chin, looking defiant at first, but that chin begins to wobble as Vargath's words become more severe, and by the end of the half-orc's threat the man's entire body is shaking. "All right, all right!" A look of defeat crosses his features, and his eyes fall down to stare at Vargath's boots. "It WAS a gift from my father, but it is magical. But it's not a demon and has nothing to do with Pale Night! It's a counting devil... from the Hells, not the Abyss. Please, don't take it away! Some months it is the only thing that gets the store by! It is evil, that I won't deny, but it is bound to serve the owner of the idol! It just counts coins! It can add, subtract, and do all other sorts of math perfectly. It can even... multiply... that's why I've kept it. Every once in a while it can take one coin and make a few more appear. But that is it! It isn't even dangerous! It gave up trying to tempt me YEARS AGO!" He looks to be on the verge of both tears and mania. "I need it! My shop needs it! Damnit man, this VILLAGE needs it! How do you think I've kept coin flowing in this remote little cow patty of a village! Without it, I can't pay the villagers for their wares, they have no coin to feed their families, and the whole system collapses! PLEASE don't take it away!"

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

The villagers helping you with the search are more than agreeable when it comes to leaving Brent's home, eager to move on to other business and other discoveries. Your group makes their way further north, the nearest of the outlying farms. As you pass by the village square you can see the assembled folk are starting to protest, and even from this distance you can hear Chief Moeller talking to them all in a stern paternal tone, doing his best to keep them all calm while you all investigate.

[Amnestic]

Vargath glowers at the man. Weasel words for someone who has convinced themselves of an uncomfortable lie. Just how much of the 'necessary coin' had he pocketed over the years? The orc turns, not giving a response to the shopkeep immediately. To both Selissa and Jemriah he pings simply <What do we do with him? Thoughts?> He holds off on offering any judgement, just in case he'd missed another indication of a lie that his fellows might have spotted.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Being from a small town himself, Jemriah could appreciate the efforts to keep a meager business alive. His father had to ship beer two towns over to make it profitable, and he pitied Weldry for the predicament his good intentions had found him. <Keep the statue for now; the Chief should decide what happens with it. But this isn't what we're looking for.> he offers. Jemriah pushes off from the wall using his shoulder blades and uncrosses his arms as he starts past Vargath and his prey toward the outlying villages, giving an understanding nod to Weldry as he goes.

[Awful]

Selissa turned and headed back into the shop, filching a sack and dropping the devil statue into it. Ugly evil thing. She didn't want to hold it anymore.

She pushed the bag into the hands of one of the chief's trusted men and stalked in front of Weldry. Her intense gaze bore into him before she finally spoke, her words short and terse.
"Peddling with devils. Idiot," she snapped. "Always a price in the end."

She turned away, ignoring any reply, as Jemriah's question came over their mind link. Still aloud, she spoke, if nothing else so their helpers would know what to do.
"Not Pale Night. Chief's decision."

[Amnestic]

Vargath turns back to the quivering shopkeep, a wicked grin on his face for effect as Selissa moves away. "Your mewling excuses betray the village's failures - if it cannot survive without consorting with infernal powers then it should not survive. Likely your doing so has held this place back from growing on its own and overcoming its deficiencies." He snorts. "But my fellows wouldn't have you face the axe without the Chief's say-so. Spend your next hours praying to whatever gods you care to, assuming they've not already abandoned you to the hells."

He moves to follow Jemriah, their work in this section completed. Silently, he hopes that they missed nothing. He doesn't voice his concerns.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set looks up at Fanlomen appraisingly as he speaks, ready to find fault with his words. To his surprise, there is nothing to find fault with. Fanlomen's logic is sound, whether it's born from experience, intellect, or both. Perhaps he'd been the cornered animal once upon a time. Set could certainly empathize with that. Or had he been the one doing the cornering, and been bitten? Set makes sure to keep his eyes roaming, lest they fall too long on the wood elf while studying him. In any case, Chief Moeller could deal with Brent in his own time. "No need to corner the man now and make a beast from a blacksmith," Set agrees, nodding at Fanlomen's words.

Despite any understanding they might have shared, however, Set hardened his resolve and reminded himself of his dual purpose. A mistake could lead to worse things than death. While Birel and Fanlomen searched high and low, looking outward for any sign that a villager might be beholden to Pale Night, Set would have to split his focus. If Fanlomen truly was a nightmare as Chief Moeller had suggested he could be, Set would find out.

In contrast, Set already found himself relying on the fact that Birel was no liar, nor a servant to any power but her own. He'd already allowed himself to turn his back on her a number of times, and was growing increasingly comfortable with the idea. Could he trust her with his suspicions too, perhaps? No, no that would be ridiculous. Trust? No, better to just be grateful that she did not suffer nonsense or fools, and had no use for intrigue. As they wandered north past the crowd of villagers, Chief Moeller's voice rising over their indignant whispers, Set allowed himself to keep pace with Birel so long as he could keep Fanlomen in his sight. The enemy of my enemy is not my enemy, but which was Fanlomen? An enemy or a not-enemy?

Glancing sideways at Birel, Set asks her, "you've lived in Dam'ess for some time, haven't you? Why do you stay, if you don't mind my asking. Some of them," Set says, gesturing ahead to the Chief's trusted villagers, "seem to respect you, but more seem inclined to hate and fear you for one reason or another. What keeps you? Is your family near?"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"My life's focus had been studying a particular set of ruins relatively nearby. I lived in a nearby town until it stopped being one and simply moved to the next nearest town. While I have little reason to frequently visit the ruins, I wish to stay nearby in the case that I do. So I suppose you could say my reason for being here is convenience or laziness or apathy for those matters not pertaining to my life's work. Still I would have eventually moved on I imagine, this town does not have the pull for me my home town did as there is nothing and nobody left to connect me strongly here. Though! Just the other night I had a revelation and signs indicate there is another site connected to those ruins somewhere nearby. It is fortuitous for me that the Chief called you all here at such a time and we have reason to explore the area in the coming days." Birel replies, just deciding to the divulge what would matter to Set rather than say too much or too little and have him return to his more shifty behavior.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

For a moment, Set finds himself strangely worried at the thought of Birel abandoning the town before realizes that she's actually speaking of staying. As she elaborates, however, his worries don't recede.

"This revelation came just the other night? After a lifetime devoted to studying these ruins?" Set asks, finally taking his gaze completely away from Fanlomen long enough to stare Birel in the eyes. "That is quite fortuitous, especially with all of us answering the Chief's call around the same time to help."

Fortuitous. Yes. But why would she say so? Just who was she trying to convince? No, no, stop. This is Birel. There wasn't even a hint of deception in anything she'd said. Of course it appeared fortuitous to someone on the outside, looking in. The Shadowkeeper's game was as foreign to her as Set likely was. He paused for a moment, the gears slowly turning in his head as he felt his mind grapple with everything that was happening.

Slowly Set reached into his pouch, fingers encircling the cold metal of the coin. He pulled it out, letting it dance over his fingers as he lost himself in thought. It was possible. Not likely. But it was possible all the others had been brought here by chance, rather than being handpicked by the Shadowkeeper. Certainly this one seemed as unlikely as any to be a pawn or a victim. Set flipped the coin with a metallic *ping*, watching it sail end over end until it smacked into his open palm. The Ankh.

A scrap of trust was born, fragile though it might be. It was possible. Not as likely as the flip of a coin, but possible.

"This revelation," Set begins slowly, "did it provide any clue about where to find these other ruins?"

Set felt himself relax just a little bit, trying to ease himself into what passed for normal conversation between a high elf wizard and an Abydosian human with the Mark of a changeling on a hunt for cultists of Pale Night.


Kind of expected a roll would lead to killing any sort of trust off in the cradle, but decided it would be fun. 1d2 dice roll in discord came up on the Ankh instead of the Scarab :smallsmile:

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Birel watches Sen flip the coin, wondering what prompted him to do so at this point. In the middle of a conversation and hunt for cultists is an odd time for someone to fall back to the habits of idleness. "Perhaps there's something more to it?" she pondered.

Birel shakes her head and replies, "No. In fact, it's only optimistic interpretation that it's nearby at all. It's possible its on the other side of the world or in another plane entirely. Though, that would probably bit fairly unlikely."

[purepolarpanzer]

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

The man who receives the bag from Selissa opens it up and looks down into it, then looks up aghast. His face goes pale, his eyes go wide, and he hurriedly clamps the bag shut. He tries to shove the bag off to one of the other helpers, but they push him away. He looks horrified for a moment, then starts to run off towards the Chief before the third helper, a woman, grips his shoulder and turns him around. "We'll report back to the Chief when we are all done. He has a tough enough job keeping everyone in line without us throwing an evil relic into the mix. Until then, you hold onto that damn bag, Orvin Poder, and don't you open it or drop it." Orvin's knees tremble, but he does as he is told, holding the bag as far away from himself as possible, but all three are ready to continue the search. Your group moves further to the south, over the Brother Bridge, a humble but sturdy creation of well carved wood. Beyond it lie a few more waterfront homes, but the houses start to spread out after that as the gardens become full farms. This leaves you all with more ground to cover between searches as the evening begins.

The homes of the fishers are all clean. You all find a hidden shrine, but one of the Chief's followers confirms that it is dedicated to Brother Eel, a harmless Green Faith trickster river spirit that is uncommonly worshiped by fisherfolk with bad luck. Another home has a lock box the size of a loaf of bread that makes the jingle jangle of coins when it is shook. "Best leave that. Just someone's life savings." Says Orvin, still holding the bag like a cat inside will try to claw him if it gets a chance. The lock looks cheap and easily breakable if you wish to look inside.

In the middle farms are likewise relatively clear. You find some people's hidden stashes, their keepsakes, and their personal shrines to an assortment of Green Faith spirits and fey. At one point Vargath finds a loose floorboard, but when it is pulled up you only find packed dirt. Sometimes a loose floorboard is just a loose floorboard.

By the time the sun has gone down and true darkness has begun to set in, you have only the furthest farms left to search. These homesteaders live miles apart from each other, so the smallest remainder of your search will carry you well into the deepest night. The final leg of your search will take place in the outskirts of the Banewood. The Chief's chosen all draw simple hand-made weapons for this work, two large knives and a dagger, eyes shifting back and forth nervously as torches are lit.

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

The middle farms are a chore to search. If there is a wealthy part of town, these lands rest on it. The ground is even, the soil fertile, and the farmhouses large, some even having two stories. The construction is sturdier as well, which only means there are more places to hide things, slowing your search. You are hours into the work before you find anything of note. As Birel is searching in the Fulton's house and Set is investigating their fields, Fanlomen is looking in their barn, which is expansive for such a small village. Each of you have one of the Chief's chosen to accompany you. All three locations are boring and tidy, except for one oddity- a large sliding door in the barn that leads to a smaller, shed-like building attached to it. The door is sealed with an impressive looking lock, of modern design. "That's the kill shed, outsider. Where the farmer takes his animals to be slaughtered. You gotta keep it away from the other animals or it'll drive em mad. Do they have kill sheds where you're from? Most here don't and just kill their animals out back the house, but the Fulton's have always had more money than sense." The man guiding Fanlomen is remarkably talkative, explaining all of this while turning over hay bales and searching through feed bins. He's being very diligent, but seems to have no interest in searching the "kill shed". It has no windows or other doors to reach it, and as Fanlomen approaches it he can just barely make out the scent of blood.

[Amnestic]

Vargath leaves no stone unturned. When the 'life savings' box crops up, he considers the local's advice for half a moment and then moves to smash the lock. "I will replace the lock if it is naught but coin." He's stopped mid swing by Selissa, and after a moment allows her to unlock it with her tools. No sense in aggravating the locals unnecessarily. He'd have a hard enough time making friends as it was. He's impressed by how quickly the...young? elf works. He'd encountered few elves during his time at university but all of them had the same annoying ethereal quality about their age where he couldn't tell if they were 30 or 3000. Selissa was not different. He guessed they were young, but for all he knew they could have four centuries on the half-orc and not show it.

<So far we've found nothing.> Vargath pings to everyone on the link. <There are houses left to search, yet the lack of anything so far is concerning if this cult is as bad as indicated. Suggestions for next steps? Interrogation?>

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen responds over the mental link as he considers his next steps as well. The stable owner's business has been marked friendly for thieves. It is not much to go on, but perhaps a cultist took advantage of such generosity to enter the town. Perhaps the stableman is using the stables to bring in more cultists under the cover of night. Perhaps he should have brought it up sooner, but it had seemed to be of little importance on a first glance. Small towns like this were usually littered with such insignificant markings. Con-men trying to find a friendly place to stay while they peddled their snake oils couldn't exactly be open about their practices. Fanlomen cursed inwardly that he hadn't assumed the worst from the start, but there was little to do now except see what else might show itself.

The man's prattling stirs him from his mental link, and Fanlomen wondered how such a man could continue to speak so long without pausing for breath. Nonetheless, there was no cause for reprimand as the man dutifully overturned house and hay during the search. The elf answers curtly, not used to making small talk, and while he was used to being treated as an outsider, being adressed directly as such was slowly grating on his politeness. "Our tribes are nomadic; we follow the game as it moves through the forests. We do not keep animals in such numbers as you do. Some will keep wolves or birds of prey to aid them on the hunt, and as companions. Occasionally a hunter will find an orphaned fawn and care for it until it is ready to provide meat and hides for the clan."

Fanlomen couldn't imagine living nearby a place whose sole purpose was to facilitate death, even deaths as lowly as livestock. Every creature had a spirit, had a name, or so the Green Faith commonly taught. The presence of so many deaths occurring in one place was unnatural by every definition. It wasn't inherently evil, Fanlomen wouldn't go so far as to suggest that the humans didn't have the right to nourish themselves. It just felt ... malevolent to have a whole building for the purpose. The elf shuddered, but made his way over to the building regardless. They had a job to do, and that meant searching everything. He approached with thieves' tools in hand, preparing to deal with the pesky lock.

Thieves' Tools: [roll0]
Psi-Bolstered Knack (only applies if the roll is too low to be a success): [roll1]

[Awful]

As Vargath raised his weapon to smash the lock, Selissa spoke.
"Wait, half-blooded."
She stepped up. She flicked her hand and seemingly from nowhere, she was holding a set of bone-and-metal lockpicks.
"Can unlock it. Without breaking."
She knelt and briefly fiddled with the lock. She made an irritated noise when her wooden hand slipped once, but sooner rather than later the lock clicked open and the wood elf gave a single satisfied nod. She dropped the lock next to the box.
"See? Better."
She rose and stepped back again, leaving looking through the box to Vargath.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Based on the efforts of the last few hours, this was an innocent village filled with mostly innocent people. He didn't care for all this trickery, preferring to take people at their word. Maybe it was naive of him. He'd lied to protect himself a number of times, but never maliciously. <We didn't find anything there, but it's something to go on I guess. I think we should finish the search before we start accusing him of anything. The next houses on our side are in the edge of the wood, and the townsfolk are getting nervous...>

His mind was preoccupied with his vision and the wolf creatures leaving little attention remaining for the task at hand. While Selissa and Vargath finish the farmhouse, Jemriah steps outside and approaches the woman who seemed to have a calm head on her shoulders. "You're doing a great job, thank you for helping. How long has the Chief lived here? What's his story?"

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Pursing his lips at the suggestion they split up into pairs, Set nevertheless decided to keep his mouth shut as Fanlomen and one of the Chief's men crept out of sight on their own. Set and the other man took to the fields, examining the village people's lands for anything suspicious. As they made their way along, the man was good enough to tell Set a few more details about the village. While most of it seemed to be gossip of little use, Set at least learned a bit more about the people and who's property they were investigating.

At Fulton's house, Set's mind began to wander as he'd found little and less regarding Pale Night so far. His thoughts returned to Fanlomen. House after house with nothing to show for it, but here Fanlomen was in his midst and Set was out prowling through fields hoping to find anything at all that appeared suspicious. Leaning heavily on his spear at the edge of the Fulton property, Set raises his voice to the man still searching fifty feet away. "Find anything?"

Making his way towards him and shaking his head without having to fake his frustration, Set tries to master his accent to ensure the man doesn't have any difficulty understanding him. He couldn't hope to appear as wholesome or as local as Jemriah without changing skins, but he endeavored to downplay how foreign he was without resorting to methods he'd rather not use.

"There's nothing out here, friend," Set says, hoping to connect with the man despite his own ulterior motives. "Come. Let's see if the others have had more luck in the barn before we finish at the house and move on."

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

As Birel searches the house, she does as she has been doing the entire time and uses her magic to clean the dirt, dust, and cobwebs out of the way. In part to make people less upset about their homes being rummaged through later, but mainly just to make sure there's less of a chance she'll miss a secret compartment or markings. That, looking about, and moving not particularly heavy objects out of the way is all the work she does herself. Unless you could directing the person she's paired with to move the heavier things when something is between their eyes and the floor or wall. At least she's kind enough to regularly use her magic to clean them as well.

Engaging in some polite conversation as they go about things so that things aren't just constant awkward silence, she says, "So Baynard, how are the season's crops doing? As you know, I live on an old farmstead myself, though I don't make any real effort to grow anything like your family does. Ah, and I believe your boy turned twelve last month? That must be a help with the work."

[purepolarpanzer]

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

The lock box opens easily enough to reveal little else but copper coins, a few silver, and an old ring with a rough cut stone. One of your helpers readily identifies this as an old wedding ring, then points out that this house belongs to a widower.

The woman approached by Jemriah gives a nervous smile. "Chief was born here. Lived here his whole life. He was once the biggest and mightiest man in the village, till an evil fey hexed his back and made it crooked. Then when his body was broked, he focused on his mind. I've never met a man who read more books than Chief Moeller. And no one with as strong connection to the spirits. They say his wife was a fey in disguise, but she died before my time, so I can't speak to that. Not much more to say I'm afraid."

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

The man helping Set search the fields does indeed find nothing, but as the sun is almost down he seems very relieved to be joining the others. Birel and her companion find nothing as well, but Wallo Baynard gives a weak smile when Birel inquires after her family. "Crops are good this year, Miss Birel. Spirits blessed, we should have enough to buy a cow this year. Little Aldo is a great help, he spends all day fetching this and that for me and his mum. I can't wait to teach him to milk. He's already so good with the chickens I know a new Bessie would be his best friend. How are things on your plot of land? A lot of people say that homestead is cursed since the Caines went missing. Hogswallop in my opinion. People go missing all the time."

The lock is tricky, but Fanlomen's skilled hands manage to make it click and separate after a minute of fiddling with it. Just as the lock is opened, there is a loud BANG and the door rocks on it's hinges, shifting outward a few inches and nearly smacking the wood elf in the nose. A fresh trickle of blood flows out from the bottom of the door, and the person searching with Fanlomen gives a low, horrified moan when he sees it. "Something... there's something in there!"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Well, other than the fact that the faerie folk insist on bringing that cow skull back every time I try to remove if from the yard I cannot say I've noticed any curses. Just my own lack of effort on the field. Though the potatoes still grow in without me doing anything just f-" she replies to Baynard and is cut off by a loud banging from outside. "Well we better see what that is!" Birel says as she rushes out of the house.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen is startled by the door's sudden shift, and jolts back defensively. It takes a moment for the elf to realize he had materialized a dagger in each hand before dismissing them once there was no obvious threat. His eyes narrow at the worried protests of his partner, and he fishes for a torch from his pack, lighting it before handing it to the man. "Hold this, and stay calm. I'm sure someone else heard the noise and will be here to investigate soon." And just to make sure, the elf sent a message over the link to inform the others. <Fresh blood and a locked door which almost flew off its hinge when I undid the lock. No windows, only one entrance, and a fairly impressive lock. Birel, find Set and bring him to the Fulton's farm. My companion called this place a kill-shed, I will wait for you both before investigating further.> He takes a deep breath to steady himself and asks the man, "What kind of animals do the Fultons raise here?"

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Ditching the very same villager he'd tried to be friendly with minutes before, Set's feet pound towards the barn as soon as he hears a loud bang echo through the field. Not 20 seconds after unknowingly being summoned, Set appears as a silhouette in the large, open doorway, chest heaving as he seeks to catch his breath, a spear clutched in both hands. Had their positions been switched, Set might have called Fanlomen's appearance fortuitous. Or perhaps he would've chosen a different word.

In any case, Set stands in the doorway and blinks as he catches sight of the villager idly holding a torch next to Fanlomen. He appears frightened to be sure, but the object of his terror is...a door?

"What happened? Are you a--" Set starts, coughing audibly as his eyes dart from the villager to Fanlomen. "Are you two alright?"

Seeing that the situation appears stable, Set allows himself to relax a bit, dropping the butt of his spear to the ground and walking slowly towards the two of them, careful to check his surroundings as he moves forward.

[purepolarpanzer]

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

As you are all preparing to head towards the Hartswood, a long, low, mournful howl sounds from the north, with such volume that there is a mass exodus of birds who were once sleeping in the trees above you. It seems to make the very air tremble, paining your ears. The three helpers with you all take a step back. "Do... do you think that was a regular wolf?" Says one. "Did you ever hear a regular wolf howl that loud? It must be a were... we're not alone in this forest tonight..." The third releases a whimper, his torch shaking in his hand, making the light flicker.

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

Birel and Wallo come around the corner into the barn just as the door rocks again. More blood flows under the door, forming a pool near Fanlomen's feet. "Beef. They raised beef, mostly." All of the Chief's helpers stand stock still, eyes locked on the door, then draw simple weapons with fumbling hands. Over the sound of your own heartbeats, Birel and Set and barely hear a pained, pitiful bovine moan coming from behind the door.

[WhismurWanders]

"What happened? Are you a--" Set starts, coughing audibly as his eyes dart from the villager to Fanlomen. "Are you two alright?"

"We are uninjured, merely startled." Fanlomen points to the pooling blood. "Specifically by that, and its presence behind a locked door. Now that we are all here, let us find out what is going on." With the villagers holding their weapons, Fanlomen begins to carefully move the door so that it opens. "Let us hope all we find is an injured beef."

[Amnestic]

"Beasts can smell fear. Steel yourselves." Vargath tries to be reassuring as best he knows how, though it might have the opposite effect. "We can't stop now, keep your torches bright. Light more if you have them. If we delay we could face a fate far worse than any howling dog in the night." He pushes on regardless, quietly pushing away thoughts that the howl and the cult were connected.

With a torch in on hand and shield strapped to the other he couldn't draw his axe now, but fire might be the better deterrent against the wilds anyway. <We may want to pick up the pace though.> Balancing caution with quickness wasn't something he'd expected to have to deal with, and he wondered if perhaps going for the silver first may have been the better idea all along.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"After you." Birel says, indicating Fanlomen and Set should proceed before her with a motion of her hand.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Initially Set hadn't been sure what to make of the odd-sounding moan from behind the door, but at Fanlomen's words, he thought he understood.

"I see," Set says, his voice betraying mixed feelings. He was relieved to find that not only was everyone uninjured, but the source of their terror may well be something relatively ordinary. On the other hand, there wasn't anything to celebrate if they continued to come up empty-handed. The absence of evidence would only make it harder, but there was no question in Set's mind that he would find the cultists of Pale Night one way or another.

Nodding at Birel, Set steps in front and readies his spear for whatever might lie behind the door. There was no need to proceed without caution until they could be sure.

[purepolarpanzer]

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

Fanlomen opens the door while Birel, Set, and the Chief's helpers stand ready. The door slides to the left on a hidden hinge, and immediately all of you are confronted with the smell of manure, burnt flesh, and blood. By torchlight, you can all make out what was making the pounding inside. A young bull is chained to the wall inside, and the poor animal has been brutalized. It is branded with strange, jagged symbols on over a dozen points across it's body. There are a also more than a dozen ragged cuts criss crossed around it's flesh, all deep and openly weeping blood. The cuts also form geometric designs, and unlike the brands they have begun to fester and rot, seeping as much pus as blood at this point. The walls inside the kill shed have been splashed with this blood, and more symbols and designs have been painted across the wooden boards by hand. Most horrific of all are the beast's eyes, or lack thereof. The poor bovine's eyes and ears have been removed, and with no surgeon's precision to speak of. The room crawls with horrible black flies, and maggots can be seen in several of the bull's wounds, crawling and eating the creature's suffering. One of the Chief's assistants immediately turns and vomits on the floor of the barn, while the other two step back and make signs of protection from the Green Faith in front of their faces and over their hearts. There is no chance that these symbols are of the Green Faith- this desecration is exactly the evidence you've been looking for of a cult of Pale Night in Dam'ess.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Ah, unquestionable evidence. Lovely." Birel comments after stepping inside the shed to see. At which point she immediately steps back out with, "Excuse me a moment." and casually walks around to some bushes and empties the contents of her stomach on the ground.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set puts a gloved forearm over his shemagh, thankful for what little protection they offered from the awful stench. He feels his own gorge rise and swallows the bile in his throat, closing his eyes for just a moment's respite before forcing himself to look again. He forces himself to stare.

A sense of urgency finally overcomes all else as he leans his Favorite against the wall and steps forward into the filth, blood and puss pooling around his boots. Pulling his hatchet free from his belt, Set chokes up on the neck of the handaxe, holding it like a dagger as he leans over the desperate creature, soiling his white robes in blood and maggots.

"Shh, rest now," Set whispers. The emaciated bull's jugular is not difficult to locate. Set puts the blade of his axe against it, opening the vein in one swift motion on one side of the bull's throat and then quickly finding the other to do the same. Set slowly rises back to his full height, fresh blood dripping down his gloves, a coat of flies crawling over his robes. He has to crush a strong urge to bolt for the door, body convulsing visibly as he stands his ground, surrounded by corruption. Almost as sickening is an imaginary chuckle from within, a twisted echo of the Shadowkeeper's laughter heard like some Pavlovian response to evil. This one's pain, at least, is at an end, he thinks. He watches what remains of the bull's blood seep out onto the floor.

Steeling himself, Set kneels back down, taking a few moments to try to look for something beyond the seemingly indiscriminate torture that plagued this beast. He chokes out a few words, describing the symbols and designs he can see through the haze of flies and camouflage of maggots. But it's not long at all before he can take no more. Set rises again, completely ignoring the symbols painted in blood on the wooden walls.

He steps out of the enclosure and moves wordlessly past Fanlomen, not even bothering to look for his reaction to the carnage as Set makes his way towards the door. Exiting out into fresh air, Set breathes deep like a man drinking from the well after walking many miles through the desert. His eyes are lost to the night, staring a thousand yards distant.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

The howl is startling, but after the initial awe and concern, Jemriah grows more curious than fearful. "I had a dream about a wolf man the other night..." he comments,audibly justifying his invisible intrigue. Removing a torch from his bag he lights it using one of the townsfolk's lapping flames, doubling the brightness and further revealing the terror in the man's eyes. He takes the man's arm and looks him in the eye reassuringly. "This won't take long. In and out and back to the safety of town, yeah?"

He quickens his pace to join Vargath, a short blade in one hand and torch in the other, mirroring the half orc's. "Have you dealt with werewolves before?" he asks with a mixture of excitement and caution in his voice.

[Amnestic]

He was suddenly unsure how to phrase his response to Jemriah's question. A simple one, but with depth and context that could leave it misconstrued. "Not myself. I've seen a number of them however." He taps the sigil embroidered on his robes. "My clan's connection to wolves is long, and it extends to those cursed to live both lives. Some we help. Others we put down. He pauses. "Most we put down." There's a touch of remorse in his voice. "They're dangerous when fed, lethal when hungry. If we can take some meat from one of the houses it might serve as a distraction. Assuming it even is a werewolf, and not something else. It could just be a mangy wolf with a weird howl." He didn't believe it was, of course. He'd been around enough mutts and runts to think better than that.

[Awful]

At the howl, Selissa had frozen stock still. In the dim light, her dark green hair made her seem like part of the forest as she listened, trying to work out the distance of the howl. For a second, she was somewhere else, hearing the howl of the Horror as it made its fatal charge before she blinked hard.

No good. The birds had made too much racket and she was unfamiliar with the sheer volume of a werewolf's cry. Was she so rusty after a mere five years?

She nocked an arrow to her bow, but didn't draw it back.
"Want to scout," she announced tersely. Standing in the circle of light was making her uneasy. "Can't fight it. Need to know if it's coming."

[Amnestic]

Vargath glances down at his gear. He'd be an active hindrance to anyone scouting in the dark. Loud. His eyesight was fine and he'd stalked prey before, but unfamiliar land, in the dark, as he was now, no good at all. "Can't go with you, but won't stop you. Stay in touch as needed, we'll continue the home search." She seemed competent enough. It might be patronising for him to offer advice, so he holds his tongue back from anything further.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

"I don't know anything natural that howls that loud around here..." He adjusts his grip on the dagger as his eyes settle on a cluster of bushes off to the right, searching for any sign of rustling terror.

"I'm useless in the dark," Jemriah acknowledges in response to Selissa's comment, the flickering torchlight revealing large pupils trying to soak in as much of the surroundings as they could and giving him an even more childish appearance. "Be safe."

[Awful]

Selissa gave a short nod in agreement at Vargath's words.
"You clank too much. Far too noisy."
At Jemriah's statement, she gave the boy a look. She turned to go, considered a moment, then turned back for a second.
"Look for reflections of their eyes. Shines further than your torch otherwise reaches. Use more than sight, though. Sound. Smell. The... il-yaril." She paused as she considered the words for it in Common. "The gut feeling. Understand?"

Waiting only for a moment for his reply, she melted away into the dark. Not too far out - she had to be close enough to head back and give warning if need be. She flitted from shadow to shadow, her green eyes seeing the grey world of darkvision.

It seemed like a common misconception by humans that elves could see perfectly in the dark. That wasn't quite true - the world was a greyscale painting, fine details hidden in monochrome. Still, the dim light and the quiet was a comfort. A torch like they'd had only let everything else see where you were.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Staring off into space, Set's mind conjures a nightmare from which he struggles to escape. His sister's stare back at him, eyeless, mouths yawning open in death as they seem to accuse him of allowing this to happen. They could be out there right now, suffering a fate as bad or worse than the bull while he stood here, powerless to stop it. He clenches both eyes shut trying to ward off the vision, but it persists even as he drops the hatchet to the ground, pressing two bloody palms into both eyelids.

As Set watches in his mind's eye, a stream of maggots issue forth from Sisi's mouth while Sythpen seems to decay into the earth, the worms feasting from her empty eye sockets and leaving nought but their waste behind.

Set feels a chink in his armor crack as his mind splinters at the thought of his sisters shrieking in pain, calling out to him for help that would never come until they're finally left to the maggots and worms. The strain of having sacrificed so much and come so far only to see them that way in his mind was more than he could bear.

The strange sensation of something crawling over his ear finally forces the image from his mind as Set swipes it away, a lone maggot flying to the earth. Suddenly he's possessed with an indescribable terror as a few flies and maggots still cling to his blood and filth-stained robes. He begins brushing them off frantically, but the bloody gloves only serve to spread the stain of their corruption further, his once-white robes covered in patches of the dull brown of dried blood and feces.

With all other thoughts finally turned aside, Set begins looking for a well or a trough for the animals, any water source he might use to get clean. He leaves his hatchet laying in the dirt as, at least for the moment, all other concerns pale in comparison to his need.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen had expected ... well, anything that wasn't this, really. It was truly horrifying, in all the possible meanings of the word. He didn't blame the others for turning away, or for their more severe reactions. The very air around the elf seemed to crackle as his mental state threatened to unhinge slightly. I am in control, I am my own master. My mind is my own, and I am its master. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and even though the pungent smell of death and corruption filled his nose, he fell back on his training. I am here because it is my duty. I am stronger than the evil before me. The presence of the bull displays the urgency, and is the first solid clue we have found. There is nothing to fear. Fanlomen opened his eyes in time to see Set put the animal out of his misery. A kind act, Fanlomen thought to himself. The animal had experienced more suffering than even being slaughtered for food could have brought upon it.

As everyone else backs away from the stench and the awful sight, Fanlomen observes and examines. He attempts to guess the age of the wounds, though he admittedly knows that the presence of flies and maggots was telling that this was no recent event. The nature of the cuts themselves were obvious to him any everyone around him. Putting that together was a poor sign for their investigation though. The cultists may be entrenched in this town deeper than he had thought, if a family with 'more money than sense' was supporting or abetting cultists.

Fanlomen finally speaks for the first time after this whole ordeal, loudly enough so that those who are seeking the comfort of fresh air can hear him as well. "Should we attempt to show Chief Moeller what has happened here, or should we dispose of ... the carcass?"

[purepolarpanzer]

Set, Birel, and Fanlomen

Teetering on the brink, facing the Abyss. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGrykRKQmG4&list=PLy1RoYlej6xWqRRci7K_OuQWa-7UgG0uo&index=27)
Mercifully, there is a small well nearby in the barn yard with a full bucket waiting for Set. As the wanderer's mind struggles with the horror of what he just witnessed, the Chief's helpers approach Birel and Fanlomen where they stand, all ashen faced and trembling. "We... we should burn the barn down. Only fire can cleanse corruption like this. We burn the barn, and tomorrow when the godsdamned sun is out we plant an oak in the ashes. Let the Father reclaim this poisoned earth." It is Wallo who voices this opinion, and the other two villagers nod enthusiastically in support of the idea.

Fanlomen's investigations reveal the worst. These wounds are old, and the infection that seeps from them would have killed the beast before long if it were not for Set's merciful cut. Moreover, they were all done in non-vital areas- places that would bleed for hours, perhaps days before the beast would succumb to blood loss. It appears that the bull was mutilated around a week ago and left to suffer intentionally, perhaps in some sort of depraved ritual fueled by pain, anguish, and corruption.

Selissa, Vargath, and Jemriah

As the search party advances on the distant houses of the homesteaders, Selissa stalks through the night, trying to find the hunters before all of them become prey. The trees become thicker, the path overlayed with branches that block out the moon and deepen the darkness surrounding you all. Thankfully the torches hold back the uncertainty of the night. But there is no torch for Selissa, no respite. Noises in the distance grow louder- howls and roars, bloodcurdling cries and yelps. It is hard for Vargath, Jemriah, and the villagers to tell where the sounds are coming from- they echo between the trees, seeming to come from all sides, but thankfully sound as though they are travelling from far away. Only Selissa realizes the truth from her quieter position in the trees- the sounds are growing louder and closer as you travel north. Thankfully they are not approaching you, but you are approaching them.

By the time the party has arrived at one of the homesteader's estates, the sounds of bloody, bestial combat are so loud that the very air seems charged with primal rage. Whatever is making the din, it is dangerously close, hidden in the trees just behind the simple single story home. Scouting ahead, Selissa is the first to spot signs of what causes the raucous. About one hundred yards beyond the home, she starts to find blood sprayed against trees, and tufts of grey, matted fur hanging from bushes and branches. Moving silently, Selissa finds a small hill that rises to a crest before it descends into a hollow, a small valley between the surrounding hills. The sounds of battling animals is coming from this hollow, and they are so loud they are painful to her elven ears. Dare she get a closer look?

While Selissa scouts beyond the home, Vargath, Jemriah, and company approach it from the front. It is a humble affair, barely more than a cabin with an attached garden plot. Sitting on the porch in a rocking chair rests an old man, perhaps in his seventies, who seems completely ignorant to the roars of rage coming from behind his cabin. He has bare feet, muddy and withered, that rise into legs covered in buckskin pants. Naked from the waist up, his body is thin and spindly, wrinkled and scarred. His eyes, however, are bright, alive, and darting. When he sees your party coming closer, he smiles and waves congenially. "HOWDY NEIGHBORS!" He shouts, but it can barely be heard over the sounds of beasts fighting in the distance. "Did ya'll come for a touch of moonlight shine? I got plenty in the jug ifn you have a mind to tip back with Ol Roger!" He cackles and raises a ceramic jug, taking a hefty pull from it, still ignoring the horrible noises coming from behind his cabin that make it so he can barely be understood. "That's Ol' Roger!" Says the woman leading the villagers. "He's stone deaf and half-crazy. Probably didn't hear the bell to gather. Hell, he DEFINITELY didn't hear the bell if he can't hear this racket! We need to get him to safety!" She has to shout to be heard clearly over the sounds of monsters going to war.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

After returning to the group, Birel replies, "The fire and oak are probably good ideas... but after the Chief has seen this. He might have a clue as to what the markings mean" She waves in the direction of the shed, but doesn't look in. Seeing Set run off to clean himself, she can't blame him one bit.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Deaf. Perfect. This old man would be the death of them all if the ruckus beyond simmered down for even a moment. Hopefully his faculties were at least functional after however much bootlegged liquor he'd guzzled.

Jemriah reaches inside his mind to the dripping, thread-like tendrils of shadow stuff that stretch in every direction and runs his hand along one with frayed edges, willing it forward to connect to its other half within Roger. He waves his torch back and forth a few inches to draw the man's attention. Then in a feeble attempt to not make the effect as startling, he mouths the words as he projects their meaning into the codger's booze-addled mind. <Roger, listen very carefully. There are monstrous beasts fighting just beyond your home. If they hear us - if they hear you - all that fanged rage will turn itself upon us, and we are all of us too young to die this night.I need you to come with us. Quietly. Right. Now.>

[Amnestic]

It was perhaps good that Jemriah had an alternative plan. Vargath's involved simply knocking the man out and carrying him away. Quick and simple, but a bit brutal. It didn't exactly feel right to hit the elderly - unprovoked at least, but he also valued not being torn apart by beasts. He stands off to the side, leaving the elder to Jemriah as he casts his eyes to the dark. "We still need to search the place." He tells the gathered locals. "Mad or not he could be responsible for bringing death to the town. He can't be overlooked." He thought better of pinging to Selissa. If she were nearby then a distraction could spell her death. She'd be in touch when she had something worth being in touch about.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen agrees, and voices as much. "I will attempt to bring him here discretely. The wounds are about a week old, so whatever cultists have done this haven't been here long, or else we would have found more than this by now. Perhaps, if you are able, you can investigate for any lingering magics before we take to the torch and all is destroyed." He didn't know exactly what kind of magics were under Birel's purview, but almost all mages could detect the presence of spells. Couldn't they?

Barring anyone's objection, Fanlomen makes his way to the town square.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Whoops! Should have thought of that myself." Birel thinks to herself as she just gives an affirmative nod in reply, as this at least lets her keep the appearance of being clear headed and clever, and moves only as close as she has to as she performs the ritual to perceive any magic in the area. Only once the spell is completed will she force herself to look again at the mutilated and tormented cow.


Casting Detect Magic as a Ritual.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/HnfZBNM/Set-human-like-appearance-small.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/72fPZZR/Set-human-like-appearance.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set drops to his knees in front of the well, peeling off his gloves and shemagh first, then cupping water from the bucket and splashing it onto his face over and over again. It's not enough. He dumps the bucket over his head, fiending for the cool, clean water, but still he can feel the taint all over his body, skin crawling with it's influence.

He stands up and peels off his robes with the look of someone that's clearly in a hurry, but is just doing what needs to be done. Clearly this is the only practical choice at the moment. He needs to be clean and here is a well. He's vaguely aware of the others, but they seem similarly occupied with the needs of the moment.

Boots, gloves, belt pouch, shemagh, serwal, and robes lay in one distinct pile, tossed a safe distance away. His Fallback spear, spare hatchet, and pack go into the other pile. Clad now in scale mail and a jalabiya, Set lowers the bucket back down into the well and brings up more water. He deliberately begins scrubbing his face and bald head, eager to rid himself of any remnant of the evil that had stained him. If he could not cleanse the corruption within him, he would at least remove the filth that plagued him on the outside.


https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg

[purepolarpanzer]

Birel and Set

The water is cool and clean, and with enough scrubbing and drenching Set begins to feel clean again, though his clothing is still heavily stained and will need laundering before putting them back on will feel comfortable again. The feeling of crawling things leaves Set's skin, but the damage to his psyche will be harder to alleviate for now.

Birel finds no trace of anything that can be pinned down as a specific spell, but the bull and the room it's corpse rests in are saturated with a dull, brutish red aura of magic. The symbols etched into the beast and painted on the walls glow with demonic power. No skilled mage did this, nor even a particularly gifted occultist like the Chief, but what they lack in finesse they make up for in effect. The entire kill shed, along with the back wall of the barn, are saturated in conjuration magic. Birel realizes that the torture of the beast was part of a ritual meant to pull some Abyssal creature across the void into this world. Possibly more than one. Regrettably, the ritual has weakened the veil between the worlds, so it is still possible something might come through. Burning the barn will help by destroying the symbols that channel the magic, but sanctifying the area against evil will be much more effective.

Fanlomen

By the time Fanlomen arrives at the town square, the people of Dam'ess have grown even more restless. People are shouting at the Chief, shouting at each other, and all look afraid. The Chief is standing on an impromptu stage made from wooden crates, and just as the crowd is rising to a crescendo of paranoia and distrust, he does something that throws everyone off balance- he begins to sing. His voice booms louder than any of the villagers as he sings a hymn from the Green Faith. It's a simple rural song for simple rural folk, but as he begins the second verse half the crowd have joined in with him and the other half have gone silent. Spotting Fanlomen, the Chief begins the third verse before clambering down off the boxes and hurriedly shuffling over to him. "What is it? What have you found? I can tell you've found something serious." He speaks very quietly, but his voice carries just as much force.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen was singing along with the hymn as best he could when the Chief approaches. He coughs to clear his throat and speaks with similarly low, urgent tones. Even then, he didn't want to risk being overheard, and leaves out the full details in case of probing ears. "You need to see it yourself. It is definitely something we were looking for, and a matter we need you to weigh in on. Miss Birel and Master Set are still at the Fulton farmhouse, by the kill-shed. I'll keep an eye on the villagers in your absence."

[Awful]

Betula paused as the sounds of combat rang hellishly loud. She retrieved a clump of fur from a waist-high snapped branch, the end hanging from a strip of bark like a broken arm. The fur was wiry and harsh between her fingers, and she put it away in the hidden pouches she kept her things in.

Should she go forward? For a long moment she hesitated. The wolves weren't their immediate concern, but knowing what they might be fighting... if they had a split in their group, or the Pale Night cultists had managed to summon unholy things, or what?

She reached out and plucked a leaf, crushing it in her hand, and let the breeze carry away the fragments. She breathed out, and quietly as possible, she ghosted forwards, slowly and surely, until she could just see the wolves' combat - or she considered it unsafe to go further.

[purepolarpanzer]

Fanlomen

"Aye. You wait here, I'll go investigate this... foulness you've found." The Chief doesn't waste time, heading off immediately and with surprising speed for his age and infirmity, leaving Fanlomen with a crowd of confused, angry people.

Birel and Set

The Chief arrives after a half hour or so, and quickly surveys the scene. When he enters the kill shed, he comes out of it with ashen features, eyes distant with the horror he has witnessed. "This must be cleansed. If left alone, fiends could enter our world through the weakened barrier created by this ritual. Torch the barn, and tomorrow during daylight I will enact a ritual to wipe away the evil magics of this place. I will go back to the villagers and have the Fullerton's taken into custody. They must be dealt with as well, to prevent this... abomination... from happening again." The Chief's helpers begin lighting torches, obviously meaning to enact his will.

Selissa, Vargath, and Jemriah

The old man cackles again when Jemriah's voice sounds within his head, responding telepathically as well as verbally, though it is much easier to hear the telepathy over the din. "Aye, I'll come with you. But only because I like the cut of your jib, son! Won't you share a drink with me? Don't want to die sober!" The man stands up, takes another drink from his jug, and begins to toddle off the porch and towards you all.

The Chief's helpers agree with Vargath and rush into the home as soon as Ol' Roger is out of the way and begin hurriedly searching the place. They aren't quite as thorough as they were with the other homes, probably due to nerves and the immediate danger, but with all of them searching the place is quickly turned over. No signs of demonic taint. The home was actually quite well kept, making the search even easier. The only thing of note inside was a massive still in a shed adjoining the house.

While the search is going on, Selissa creeps forward and bears witness to the werewolves for the first time. They aren't as hairy as you'd imagine, with larges sections of their body only covered in a light peach fuzz of grey and brown fur. The hair grows longer along their spines, around their shoulders, and over their necks and faces. They stand taller than your average man and much more muscular, with long claws at the ends of their hands that look like they could shred someone to pieces. Their heads are fully transformed into the leering head of a wolf. But more than the shape of their bodies, what strike Selissa is the blood.

These three creatures are covered in each other's blood. As she watches, two of them rush towards each other and clash, tooth and claw attacking each other in rabid fury. Muscle tears, fur is ripped away, and blood flows freely, splashing over both combatants in a burst of extreme violence. Violence that Selissa has not seen since fighting the Horror all those years ago. As they fight, they roar in pain and ecstasy, obviously enjoying the pain, enjoying the blood. They lick it from their lips like sweet wine, even as their bodies are destroyed. She can see the wounds healing slowly even as more are made. The third werewolf stands to the side, panting wildly and watching the fight. It is so heavily wounded that she is not sure it can move very well, apparently out of the fight. The current battle looks like it will soon be coming to an end, but the monsters relish every bite, every claw, every spilling of red. As someone who knows nature, the wood elf can identify this as a struggle to determine the Alpha of the pack. The sheer violence and enjoyment threatens Selissa's mind as the fight for dominance plays out, all three heavily wounded werewolves bathing in glory, pain, and joy in equal measure.

EDIT- Selissa needs to make a DC 8 Madness check due to extreme violence.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen keeps an eye over the antsy villagers. He couldn't help but feel at least a little pity for them. Being rounded up and told to stay in one place like this. No doubt several rumors of what was going on or why had made the rounds over the course of the day. The elf was reminded of a phrase that he had heard from a brother in the Shepherds of the Wild. 'One person is a reasonable, capable individual. A group of people is the most distrustful, paranoid entity you can ever cross.' From what Fanlomen had observed so far, these people were no different.

He had no authority here, and he had no reservations that the people here wouldn't trust an outsider's words, no matter what he said. So he attempted to use the only strategem that he had seen work so far. His singing voice hardly carried the Chief's booming authority and clarity, but Fanlomen was no stranger to quite a few hymns that the worshippers of the Green Faith generally agreed on. It was awkward singing this one in Common instead of his preferred Elvish, but he hoped at least some of the villagers would share his piety. It was a song for hunters, truly, but it taught that life was simpler when people banded together. Perhaps it would reach the ears and minds of the villagers.

"A hunter walking on his own
Must watch the shadows' threat
When hound or hawk are with him
There is nowhere he can't tread

Keep together in the darkness
Tip your hat to Brother Toad
And the wilds will heed your footsteps
And the spirits avoid your road

The lone wolf's howl is mighty
Heard for miles upon the wind
But the pack, the many made into one
To its prey shall bring the end

Keep together in the darkness
Tip your hat to Brother Toad
And the wilds will heed your footsteps
And the spirits avoid your road

The way of prey is stay together
Hunters must force them apart
For when the herd can stand as once
They can face down any weather

Keep together in the darkness
Tip your hat to Brother Toad
And the wilds will heed your footsteps
And the spirits avoid your road"

It was up to the townspeople to join in now. There were more hymns he could sing, but he silently hoped the Chief would be back soon to placate his people.

[Amnestic]

Nothing. They'd found nothing. The only hope was that the other team had been more successful in rooting them out. Finding the demon worshiper was something, but it hadn't been their goal. Were they just better hidden than he'd thought? What to do now, wait for them to do something and try to catch them in the act of making victims? He grunts to no one in particular - thoroughly frustrated at himself. He wasn't sure if the plan was to blame or whether they'd been outwitted. It didn't matter though, not really. It was still a failure. His failure.

Now was probably the time to message the elf, they wouldn't be waiting around for her. <Selissa, we're done here. Come back while you can, we're heading back to town.>

He needed to hit something to blow off steam, but chances are he'd be going to bed frustrated tonight. Maybe tomorrow would be more productive.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"The sooner you can sanctify the area, the better. Even after the fire, you should keep a pair of people on watch here. The veil between realms has been weakened here and something might still find its way through before you can properly sanctify it." Birel says to the Chief. "We can oversee the fire, plenty of time while we wait for Fanlomen to return. I might suggest not doing anything before we finish our searches. They might have some kind of contingency plan involving people whose homes we haven't searched yet and knowing who to watch for trouble could be vital."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Finally soothed in body, if not entirely in mind, Set stands dripping over his tainted robes, looking down on them with open revulsion. Pulling out a sack of rations, he empties the contents loosely into his pack. Set then flips the sack inside out and reaches both hands in, gathering his things together and flipping the sack back without ever touching the tainted items directly. The sack goes smack back into his backpack, his heart threatening attack due to the sanity he lacked.

Gathering the rest of his things, Set begins to calm until he realizes his Favorite is still leaning against the wall inside the barn right next to the kill shed. His heart skips a beat, anxiety gripping him at the thought of having to go back. He couldn't just leave her in there. He clasps both hands together, wringing them as he tries to figure out what to do. He could ask Birel for help. She probably wouldn't even make a big deal out of it and it's not like she would use her. She would just grab his Favorite and bring her to him. Set's knuckles go white as he squeezes his hands together, stressing further. He was so stupid. Why had he left his Favorite in there near that filth?

Suddenly releasing his hands, Set reaches for his belt pouch. What!? The pouch, the coin, they're not--Set slumps, realizing his pouch is stored away with the other tainted items, and the coin with it.

Wait, wait, he just needed to walk back in there and go get his spear. There was no need to make this so difficult. He would just walk in, grab her, and walk back out. Easy. Set approaches the barn, walking straight towards the entrance and then turning aside at the last moment to inspect the bushes just outside the barn door. Finally he turns his attention outward, ostensibly keeping watch while Birel enacts her rituals and the villagers talk in hushed tones.

Some minutes later, Set nods silently as Chief Moeller approaches. Say one thing for the Chief, he was clean. Clean in a way Set couldn't really understand. There were a few smudges of dirt on his person and a sheen of sweat from trying to get over here quickly, but his freedom from any sort of filth or corruption seemed almost profound. Set was really beginning to appreciate what the Shadowkeeper might have sensed.

Set struggles with indecisiveness for a few more moments. Finally he budges, following Chief Moeller into the barn and up beside the kill shed, snatching his Favorite away from the wall. A wave of relief passes over him once he has her back in his hands. He might feel naked without his robes, he might feel lost without the coin, but she would stand by him no matter what.

As the Chief gives his assessment and Birel responds, Set clenches his spear impatiently, but recognizes the wisdom in her words. "Birel speaks truly," he says, glancing back towards her, but focusing primarily on the Chief. "It will be my pleasure to help ensure this does not happen again, but we cannot act too hastily. Whether the Fullerton's have some contingency plan or taking them merely tips off others who's homes we have not yet searched, taking them now may do more harm than good. If you can keep your people busy for a little longer, we may yet finish our search and return in time to help." Looking around at Birel and the villagers, Set continues, "depending on how widespread this cult's influence is, you may be glad to have our help taking them into custody." And I will be glad to have the opportunity to see to them myself, if I can mange it, Set leaves unsaid.

[Awful]

Fangs flashed red as the wolves tore at each other, and Selissa-

-Selissa tried to be brave, but the slight tremor in her one fleshen hand put the lie to her efforts.

Selissa wasn't afraid of blood - she was hunter and warrior both, and she had fought both beast and undead scourge.

But that had been with trusted allies at her side, friends she knew and relied upon. Now she was alone, and monsters she couldn't injure ripped and tore each other to bloody shreds and wouldn't even die from it.

The mental message made her startle silently, and instantly she froze dead still, not even breathing while she waited to see if the wolves had noticed the movement. When they hadn't, she fought back the urge to bolt and began withdrawing backwards.

Soon they'd be done with their fight, and if they saw her, they'd soon be done with her, too. She had to move, move, movemovemove-

As slowly as she dared, so as to not draw their attention, she withdrew, quietly, quietly, until the house of the old man was in sight - and then she ran, dashing until she had caught up with the others. She paused before she reached them, and huffed in heavy breaths.

She fought back the urge to look behind her as her back prickled, and was glad her birch-pale skin was too white to be paled from fear as she made the few steps to rejoin the others.

She said nothing.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

If it would get the man moving, then sure. Jemriah reaches out for the jug and takes a small swig of the irresponsibly strong beverage, hoping to not catch the man's ignorance in the process. His entire body shudders though he isn't entirely sure if it's from the hooch or the piercing cry of one of the were beasts that entered his body at about the same time.

Rolling the shed door back on its hinge, the boy takes a quick peek inside, assessing the brewing contraption Roger has setup to see if there is anything unusual about the process or ingredients lying about. If it's not currently pressurized, he opens a hatch and looks inside the still as well.

22 (nat 20) on Investigation/Arcana check with Brewer's Supplies in Discord

[purepolarpanzer]

Set and Birel

The Chief nods at Birel's assessment. "Alright. We will wait till you are done your search before we burn the barn. Just in case. Now I'll get back to the villagers so Master Fanlomen can return to you and you can all continue the search." The Chief makes his way south back to the village at a good clip for a man as infirm as he appears.

Fanlomen

Apparently this sect of the Green Faith keeps similar hymns with Fanlomen's people, as most of the villagers sing along with the Shepard with gusto. The music calms many, and the tension of the villagers lessens by the verse. There are still some holdouts who look at him with the disdain of the outsider, but Fanlomen manages to keep everyone in check until the Chief arrives. He gives an appreciative nod to the wood elf, then whispers to him. "Go back to the search now. The sooner we can get this done, the better. Night has a way of bringing out the worst in people. The whispers of Pale Night, no doubt."

Fanlomen returns in short order. The burning of the barn takes little time, as dry hay makes for excellent fuel. The flames roar into the night, and soon the barn and the kill shed are a blazing inferno. Thankfully all of the cows and bulls remaining are still out in the fields, so they do not perish with the desecrated building. The searchers watch, and one of them speaks up. "Did any of you hear a scream? A monstrous shriek? Or was that just me?" None of you heard it, but it is hard to hear anything over the roar of the flames. The barn will burn for hours before it is ash, so when Birel asks two of the helpers to remain behind they agree hesitantly. The search moves on to the Hartswood.

Into the wee hours of the morning the search continues, but nothing comes up tainted or dangerous. You ransack a few more homes, including Birel's and Selissa's cottages, but thankfully there is no sign of evil. The last house you come across is a distant neighbor to both of the adventurer elves- a small cottage next to the Green Faith cemetery that has been abandoned since Martin Heglum, the undertaker, died of a fever three years ago. It is a miniature home, so it takes no time at all to search, but after investigating the dusty and cobwebbed home both Birel and Fanlomen notice something amiss in the cemetery. At the heart of the burial ground is a massive oak- a representation of Father Oak to watch over the deceased in their passage back to nature's embrace. But both elves can tell from outside the small clapboard fence that the oak is dying. It's leaves are the dull brown of fall despite it being summer, and several branches have fallen, knocking over the wooden grave markers closest to the tree. The cemetery has been here longer than even Birel has been alive, and when it was first founded that tree was planted in it's heart to watch over the dead. Soon there will be no guardian of the graves. Most Green Faith cemeteries have few problems with undead, and according to the Faith it is because of the guardian trees. Something is wrong here.

Vargath, Selissa, and Jemriah

When Jemriah takes a slug of the jug, the taste of pure spirits strikes his throat like a hammer, nearly knocking the wind out of him. He is an experienced drinker despite his age, and this alcohol is strong enough that it would leave a less experienced person wheezing. Almost immediately there is a warm feeling in his stomach that spreads outward, filling the human from head to toe. Moreover, there is a tingle of magic in the spirit. The warmth comes with a strong buzz that fuzzes the man's perceptions- one more slug and Jemriah would be soundly drunk. How Ol' Roger drinks this like water and stays conscious is a mystery. Feeling the magic, Jemriah decides to investigate further while everyone searches.

The still is a complete rig job, cobbled together from copper pipes, an iron barrel, and wooden braces. It is currently not operating, so Jemriah feels safe opening the main chamber and peeking inside. When the small door on the barrel slides open, there is a rush of intense alcohol stained air that makes his eyes water and his already fuzzy head even fuzzier. While it is improvised to the extreme, everything is just as Jemriah would expect from his years working with brewing and distilling with his family, but there is something curious. Inside the main chamber, hanging on a silver chain, is a piece of jewelry. It is hanging just low enough that if the barrel were filled with water and mash it would be suspended in the mix. At the end of the chain is a pendent of radiant gold wire wrapped around a milky white gemstone. At first it just seems like a trick of the light, but with close observation Jemriah ascertains that the gemstone is glowing. Drawing from his knowledge of magic he has picked up since discovering his own abilities, Jemriah realizes that the stone imparts the alcohol with a minor protective magic meant to reinforce the drinker's abilities to resist outside forces, be they magical or mundane in nature. There are several more empty clay jugs next to the still, along with one full one that sloshes with promise.

After finishing the search at Roger's place, only a few homesteads remain to be checked. One of the Chief's helpers agrees to lead Roger back to the village, and the old man follows readily enough, humming a happy tune and drinking off his jug as he goes. The sound of violence and combat fades away as you follow paths deeper into the Banewood, with the moon beginning to descend in the sky as night transitions into morning. You find two empty, innocent simple farmsteads before moving on to the third and final house in your search. . This home is deeper into the Banewood than any other, a risk many villagers would never take. The owner, a dire, musclebound man by the name of Jon Bence, was always suspected to be a bit crazy for his decision to settle down here. While everyone else searches his long, single story log house, Selissa investigates the back yard and garden. It is here that she finds something amiss.

After hearing a sound in the bushes, Selissa looks at the treeline. It must have been a small rodent of some sort, spooked by the noise of the search, but a particularly thick section of bushes catches her eye. Upon investigating it, she can tell it has been purposefully reinforced with branches and bows. Clearing some of the extra foliage away, she finds a trail that has been hidden on purpose. The trail does not go far, just beyond the range of her night sight, and by taking a brief walk on it she readily makes out what is hidden in the dark of the forest. A large pile of stones has been assembled, forming an altar. Carved into the stones are symbols that would be familiar to the other search party, but are new to the wood elf. Sharp, pointed edges, fat misshaped circles, and a radical geometry that almost hurts to look at. Each symbol has been carefully carved, and there is something odd about them that she cannot make out in her black and white darkvision. She can, however, make out what rests upon the altar. A great stag, a symbol of strength and purity in the Green Faith, has been dismembered and spread across the stone in a seemingly random fashion. It takes her a second to recognize that it has been skinned, charred, and carved with the same symbols that adorn the altar. More disturbing, however, are the bite marks.

Large chunks have been removed from the beast's body, larger than a bear or cougar could possible manage, and the teeth crunched through bone as easily as flesh. The bites seem random, with a large section of antlers sheared off, all of the innards missing, and a hoof viciously ripped off. Whatever fed here didn't care about sustenance as much as destruction, and must have been twice the size of the largest natural predators native to these forests. Even more concerning, there are large claw marks in the stone surrounding the dismembered body, something no animal could accomplish. More information may be gained by a closer inspection under torchlight, but it is already evident that Jon Bence is worshiping something far darker than the Green Faith.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Looking at the tree Birel says to the others giving them a rather dour look, not sure if the other two would understand without explanation since they're outsiders to the region, "This guardian tree dying is quite bad. They are for preventing the dead from rising from their graves." After saying that she quickly rushes over to the tree and inspects it, trying to determine how bad its condition is and what's killing it.
"The last thing we need is a bunch of undead on top of everything else." she thinks to herself.


Nature: [roll0]
advantage from Help: [roll1]

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen was pleased that the hymn was one the humans of the village also knew. Perhaps this could prove he was not as much the outsider as the villagers likely held. But as his face sweeps the crowd, he catches a few penetrating stares which reaffirm the unfortunate truth; he was still not of this village and its clans. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the Chief returns, and leaves with little more than a nod of acknowledgement to the Chief. Time was of the essence, and surely the others would be waiting for his return.


At the cemetary, things are further complicated by Fanlomen's lack of knowledge of the village and its customs. He knew what a graveyard was, and Birel's explanation was common knowledge to the Shepherd. No, it was the unsettling thought that so many bodies were buried here. It wasn't as rank or murderous as the kill-shed they had left behind in flames, but it was a similar creeping fear; so many dead in one place wasn't natural. No wonder the presence of Father Oak was needed to watch over this place.

Fanlomen follows Birel closely, his gaze focused on the mighty tree as he approaches. He stops for a moment to kneel before the tree momentarily. As he stands back up and brushes some dirt from his pants, he comments, "An ill omen indeed. Father Oak is not a feeble spirit by any measure." He helps Birel's investigation of the tree's bark and roots, offering what insights he can. As they work, he speaks a quiet apology in Elven. "<Forgive our prodding and prying, watchful Father. May the Twin-Mothers, Rain and Earth, nourish you for many years to come.>"

Providing the Help action to Birel.

[purepolarpanzer]

Birel, Set, and Fanlomen

It is easy to see what has caused the tree to sicken. Someone has pounded several copper spikes into the tree along the trunk. Both Birel and Fanlomen are aware that copper is lethal to trees. Thankfully, it is still early enough in the process of death that removing the spikes may save the tree with some luck and the blessings of the Father. However, removing the spikes will be difficult without further damaging the tree. The life of this oak walks a tightrope, and on either side their are ill omens and bad fortune for the cemetery, and by extension the village. Magic of some sort may be the best solution, but no one that you all know of possess magic that could revivify a tree, with the possible exception of the Chief. Birel certainly didn't spot any spells to this effect in Moeller's magic books.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set hesitates as he approaches the cemetary, wary of the corruption that lies hidden under the surface, but unable to think of a good reason why he needed to stay away. Bad enough that he'd lost his wits back at the Fulton estate, he certainly didn't need to add to the narrative that he was unstable or incapable of facing the trials at hand.

Set resolutely follows the two elves into the cemetary's center, unable to stop himself from quietly stepping between graves as he avoids trodding over the dead. Following Birel's gaze, he inspects the large tree as she relates its purpose. A guardian? The tree looked like...well, like many of the trees he'd seen since following the road this far north. Large though it was, if there was anything special about it, Set would have to take Birel's word for it.

Brows furrowing as he examines Fanlomen, Set watches the wood elf kneel before the great tree reverently. If this elf was a nightmare, he had a funny way of showing it. Set's mouth twitched, a nervous tic he couldn't hide without his shemagh. He frowned hard, consciously stopping himself from displaying the tic again, at least until Fanlomen's words caught him off-guard and refocused his attention elsewhere.

"An ill omen indeed. Father Oak is not a feeble spirit by any measure."

An oak? Oh, Set thought, staring up at the leaves and branches blotting out the sky above them and finally putting two and two together. Of course. What else would they have as their guardian tree? Their Green Faith seemed to prize the oak above all others. Set stood frozen as his mind worked to shine a light in the shadows, trudging back through the night in search of a detail that seemed important.

As both elves probe the tree and the lone villager stands idly by, Set remembers. The Chief's book had highlighted a ritual that could bring forth an ancient oak's spirit. He narrows his eyes, looking up at the genuine article and wondering if this one's fathers knew how to ensure it survived. Regardless, though Set wholeheartedly agreed keeping the corruption of this place below-ground was of paramount importance, the very idea also presented an opportunity of sorts. As the two elves appear to finish their inspection, Set clears his throat.

"Birel, do you recall the ritual I showed you from a book in Chief Moeller's library? It was, well," Set says, struggling a bit, "I don't know exactly, but it seemed like it showed how to revive the spirit of an old-oak. One of the ancients." He wonders for a moment if there was any added significance he was missing because of his limited knowledge of their faith. "Perhaps this one's fathers would know how best to safeguard their child." Set stares at them openly before ploughing on, "though, in truth, I know little about nature and its ways." He only know that the ritual seemed quite complicated and he would be of very little use in enacting such a procedure. If he could convince them to seek out the spirits tomorrow, he might be able to get some time away from prying eyes and ears. Time away, alone with a Fulton. Oh, let them grant him such a boon. If that accursed family knew anything of note, he would teach them to sing.

Set's eyes are alight with passion, mouth twitching a couple more times as he is enveloped by the thought of finding his sisters by any means necessary.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"Oh!" Birel exclaims in response to Set's words. "That would be immensely helpful I think. You didn't perhaps bring the book with you? Or would you be willing to run and fetch it?" She looks a little bit apologetic about asking him to go fetch things for her, but not terribly so.

On the one hand she wasn't surprised that the Chief would have a book like that. It made sense somebody in the community would. On the other hand, it was conveniently that for once so far there was something in an actual book that could help with one of their problems. She liked deal with books a lot more than with other methods. Books were usually a bit more reliable when they offered answers to things than people were.

Turning to Fanlomen she says, "We need to get these spikes out. Right away. I can help make them easier to remove, but I'm sure you would be better at the physical task than myself." she says, indicating his lean muscle in comparison to her comparative lack of them. She then moves her hands above the spikes and seems to gently grasp at something, though nothing visible, and gently push it upwards almost like she was scooping up water or loose silks.


Using Adjust Density on the spikes to half their weight. Their speed increases by 10 feet, their jump distance is doubled, and they have disadvantage on strength checks and saves. :smalltongue:

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Set bows his head slightly in response, quickly agreeing to go after the book. "I did not, but it would be my pleasure to go find it and bring it back here, or ask the Chief to bring it back in my stead. If I'm going by his house, I will stop in the square and let him know what we've found this time before coming back."

Without delay Set turns to leave, not having to feign his eagerness as he rushes to escape the cemetery grounds. Birel's plan to remove the spikes echoes behind him. This could certainly get more complicated if she meant to call forth the oak-spirit this very evening, but once again, Set had to admire Birel's direct approach. It may yet allow him the opportunity he sought. He would not have to convince Vargath, Selissa, and Jemriah to join Birel in calling forth the ancient oak if they were still searching to the south. But it hinged on the Chief's reaction. If he wished to stay in the square and keep an eye on the Fulton's himself, Set doubted he could convince him to do anything else. If he trusted Set to do that while he delivered the book to Birel, along with any information he might need to share with her and Fanlomen...well, no doubt he would point out the Fulton's so Set could keep an eye on them, right?

Lost in thought, Set quickly has to stop planning to make sure he navigates to the Chief's house properly without getting turned around. He stops there first, working his way back down into the basement and finding the book among the others in Chief Moeller's collection. Once he's able to make his way towards the square, it finally dawns on Set that even if he's able to identify the Fulton's and get the Chief to go help Birel, his 'time alone' with them will be accompanied by the rest of the entire village. Feeling betrayed by his own foolishness, Set nevertheless continues on the path he's on, bringing the book to Chief Moeller and wracking his brain for some way to salvage his intended plan of interrogating them alone.

[Amnestic]

Vargath carries out the search as diligently as he can, though his mind is distracted. He's frustrated. He slams doors and drawers as he sweeps through the house, likely distracting those he's with. "ᛞᚱᛁᚲᚲ ᚾᚨᛏᛏᛖᚾ, ᚠᚱᛁᛊᚲ ᛊᛃᛖᛚᛖᚾ" A voice bubbles inside him as he leans over a counter, palms splayed to support himself. It was right, he wasn't helping right now. He needed to recentre. With a quiet word of apology he excuses himself into the night out the front door, drinking in the cool air to chill his fury. Or try to at least. It was still there, roiling just beneath the skin, in every twitch of his fingers, every tense of his legs, every furrow of his brow.

[Awful]

More desecration. She spent a moment, her fists clenched. The teeth and claw marks... was this the work of werewolves? Were they with the cult? Allies? Was this something else with gaping jaw and wicked claw? It was troubling enough that they had an array

Selissa reach out, and pulled the remains of the deer as best she could off the altar; it didn't deserve to be left mangled and torn upon it. She wiped to gore off her hands as best she could on the grass and leaves before she turned back along the hidden trail. She emerged to see Vargath, frustated. She twitched her head towards the hidden path to draw his attention.
"Half-blooded. Come here," she said, gesturing down the path. "Cultist altar. Sacrificed a stag. Looks like something chewed it up. "
Over the mental link, she spoke.
"#Jon Bence is a cultist. Found an evil altar. Filth. Not wolves. Bite, claw marks. Something bigger.#"

[WhismurWanders]

Turning to Fanlomen she says, "We need to get these spikes out. Right away. I can help make them easier to remove, but I'm sure you would be better at the physical task than myself." she says, indicating his lean muscle in comparison to her comparative lack of them. She then moves her hands above the spikes and seems to gently grasp at something, though nothing visible, and gently push it upwards almost like she was scooping up water or loose silks.

Fanlomen furrows his brow slightly at the request. While he did appear to be the strongest one of the trio, he might have to augment his muscles with his powers in order to free the nails. "I can certainly try..." He cracks the knuckles on both hands as he sets to the task of the first nail.

Right.

A nail embedded into a tree.

A nail which, when removed, would leave a wound which needed to be healed quickly.

Fanlomen paused, and the words he had spoken himself came back to mind. Father Oak is not a feeble spirit by any nature. He attempts to pull out one of the spikes to see what would happen, assuming he were able to even do so without tools.

Athletics?: [roll0] + Psi-Bolstered Knack on a failure [roll1]

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

"Roger, you sneaky lush..." he mutters to himself at the sight of the amulet. Living this far into the woods meant getting creative to protect yourself. A home to protect from monsters, but the loneliness damages the mind. Booze to calm the mind, but damage the stomach. Magic to calm the stomach. Each solution causing another problem. What is the solution to Jemriah's own problem, he wonders silently.

Closing the still door with a creak, Jemriah looks around and spots a jug similar to the one Roger was carrying and fuller based on its weight. He scoops it up and heads back into the night with the others. "Nothing dangerous in the shed," he reports. <"Roger, hope you don't mind I grabbed one of your backups... no telling when this horror is going to be over and didn't want you to run out. Mind if I hang onto it for now?">

Jemriah fails to stifle a yawn as they enter Jon's house, the general undertone of fear from being in the Banewood failing to generate enough adrenaline to keep him alert. "Almost done," he says quietly to no one in particular, disinterestedly pulling back an elk hide rug to reveal only dustless floorboards when Selissa sends her message. It's enough of a wake up call to put some pep in his step as he heads around back to join her and Vargath.
<"We really should have included the Chief in this mental connection... we'll have to get all the way back to town before he gets the warning,"> the lad advises in perfect hindsight.

Looking with disgust down at what's left of the sacrifice spread across this shrine to darkness he adds verbally, "We should destroy it."

[Amnestic]

Vargath is glad for the distraction, and gladder still that something was finally found. Selissa's news was invigorating. Taking in the scene, he examines it with what he hoped was a dispassionate approach - putting his emotions aside as best he could. He'd seen butchered animals before of course - done it himself - but this wasn't that. There was no elegance or practicality to the cuts, no use in its death beyond profane rituals. He studies the scene closely, analyzing the carvings to try to intuit some meaning or cause. Perhaps glean some insight into what they were planning, if they even had a plan beyond suicide-by-religion.

Once he's satisfied that he's deduced all he can from the shrine, he agrees with Jemriah. "I agree. It shouldn't be left standing, and it's more than enough to put the axe to Mr Bence's neck. So long as we can destroy it without endangering the forest, we should be rid of it as soon as possible. Fire may not be an option, not here at least in case it spreads. We may need to take it piece by piece to burn it safely." He points back down the trail Selissa had lead them down. Part of him wanted to burn the man's entire homestead down, but perhaps that might be excessive.

"We can only hope that burning them isn't seen as an offering all on its own." He mumbles. A quiet whisper begins speaking but he swats it away before it can get a coherent word out. Not now.


Trying to identify if there's any familiar magical purpose to the altar and/or if burning the items would cause more harm than good.
Arcana: [roll0]
Advantage from Uvar: [roll1]

Knock the modifier down to +2 and scrap Advantage if Religion instead.

[purepolarpanzer]

Birel and Fanlomen

Whether by the strength of Fanlomen's arm, the strength of his mind, or by the will of Father Oak himself, the spikes come out readily enough. When they are removed, Birel and Fanlomen find them to be of proficient make- these were not home made, but created in a real forge with decent tools and supplies. When the last spike is pulled, there is a breath of wind that rustles the oak's leaves and branches, almost like a sigh of relief from the mighty tree. Fanlomen was able to pull each spike cleanly, without further damage to the tree, increasing it's odds of survival.

Set

Set finds the book easily enough, though the sound of whispers in the Chief's shrine grows louder as he removes it from it's place. Loud enough for Set to hear them easily. He can even make out a few words. "Thief" "Vandal" "Foreigner". All accusing, all chastising, but just quiet enough for it to still be questionably real. When Set leaves, a stern wind blows the Chief's door back and forth, making it clap loudly against it's frame until Set puts a shoulder to it.

When Set approaches the village square, it is easy to see the crowd is growing ever more restless. He is welcomed by the Chief shouting over the accusations and questions of the crowd. "All will be explained soon! I know you all are tired, but we are almost done. PLEASE, REMAIN CALM!!" This does little to assuage the villagers, who are at best scared and at worst mutinous. Spotting Set, the Chief steps down off the stage and stomps up to him, interrupting him before he can speak. "We do not have time for me to run more errands this evening. The people will not stand for more waiting. If you have found something, tell me. Then go fetch your companions. The only thing that will relieve the stress of this evening is justice. All else can be addressed tomorrow. Make your report, then go collect the others. We are out of time. The whispers of Pale Night are among my people."

[Awful]

Selissa couldn't even begin to guess what manner of demon or monster had mutilated the stag so: the quiet wood elf had little knowledge of such things, having only encountered little more than imps, gibberlings and other minor infernals.

As the others spoke of destroying the altar, she nodded.
"Destroy it," she agreed. "Burn the flesh away from the altar. Can bury the bones in the graveyard, place the skull in Father Oak."
She paused, not sure if that was the way of the humans here. Her tribe would always place the skulls of kills and their dead in high branches, so the soul could see the sky and know to ascend, and not linger by the dull earth.
Well, it was her way, she decided, and what did humans know about things anyway? Not enough to realise worshipping Pale Night was a bad idea, at least, and that was a low bar.
"Destroying the altar. Scrape away the runes? Pull the stones away?"

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

The first whispers fall on deaf ears. Set's mind is otherwise occupied, all of his focus taken up in locating the right book as he leafs through a few pages of Sylvan, finally spotting that same ritual he'd encountered earlier. But as the whispers grow louder, Set closes the book, narrowing his eyes suspiciously before whipping around to face...nothing. Seeing no one present, he listens intently for a moment, the silence drawing out as he grows impatient. He didn't have time for this. There was still much to do and no time left to do it.

As Set shoves the book into his pack, a whisper tickles his ear once more. He frowns, finally looking inward for that familiar laugh. But the Shadowkeeper, if he was there watching, did not look back out at him. Set felt nothing, saw nothing, and yet he could've sworn he'd heard--.

"Thief." It was not Him. Set looked down at his paltry shadow in the pale light out of habit, but there was no sign of the Shadowkeeper's inflence. This was something else. "Vandal." He looked all around once more to be sure he was alone, and found only bookcases nestled in the small space surrounding the Chief's shrine. "Foreigner." Set's blood ran cold as the stress of the night and the moment overcame his better instincts. It knows. He ran, pounding up the stairs and out of the house, slamming the door shut only to watch it pop open once more, banging angrily back and forth against its frame. He shouldered the door shut, adrenaline pumping through him as he quickly spun away from the Chief's home and ran towards the square, only slowing once he'd gotten within earshot of the angry multitude.

Still breathing heavily, Set nods quietly as the Chief speaks, remembering what he'd thought the first time Chief Moeller had spoken to him. He knows. Set braces against the Chief's anger, sure that it is all because of Set's thoughts and actions. Had he seen Set's intentions regarding the Fulton's to go behind his back and seek a private interrogation? Had he watched Set invade his shrine and steal a prized book? Did he stand in judgement over the filth Set carried in his pack? Mouth twitching with no shemagh to hide behind, Set forces himself to respond both quickly, and truthfully.

"The tree, the guardian tree," Set says, correcting himself, "in the cemetary is unwell. We found spikes. Copper spikes buried in its trunk. Birel and Fanlomen sought to remove them, but I stole away before they could finish to steal your book. That is, we think it could help the dying oak. That's where I come from. I took your book with the ritual to bring an old-oak spirit forth. Here it is," Set says, digging through his pack and handing the book to Chief Moeller. "I will, I, umm," he struggles, "I'll just go get them." For a fraction of a second he thinks about suggesting that Chief Moeller might want to look into the tree tomorrow with some, or all of the others, but he quails at the thought of the Chief seeing right through him. Waiting just long enough for the Chief to respond, Set hurries back to the elves, intent on dragging them back to the square.

Once he is outside of the village-proper, Set's nerves seem to steady, his fear diminishing with every step put behind him. His thoughts turn to the Chief and his home. There was a presence there, that was sure. But had it just been the Chief, some projection of his will? Or something more powerful still? Set did not like feeling known without knowing anything in return. And as far as the Chief was concerned, Set felt like he knew far too little. He was clean though, Set had to admit.

Rising a crest in the road, Set breathes a sigh of relief without thinking about it as he sees the two elves. Was he genuinely glad to see them? Both of them? Curious. Set pushes the question aside and waves, shouting across the cemetary to them and beckoning them towards him. Meeting them halfway, Set works to catch his breath while explaining the situation, saying "...so I left the book with him and came right away. They're splitting at the seams. I do not think we can afford to tarry here or extend our search a moment longer. Let us go settle our account with the Fultons, and on the morrow we may return."

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah steps up to the altar, rolling up his sleeves and taking a few deep breaths. He did not look forward to what was to come next. With a few gestures and gutteral utterances from somewhere deep within his throat and mind, his body lurches forward, his jaw seeming to unhinge and fall open as a glob of viscous yellow bile spews forth with surprising speed. It splatters onto the stones of the altar with a hiss, droplets creating a sizzling constellation of burning stars connected by strings of remnant gore from the stag. It almost seemed to form an eye, watching with unblinking cruelty at his suffering. He hated it and everything it represented.

Another heave, another bubbling mass rockets from his mouth, disrupting the stony stare fixed on him. The smell of bile fills the air for a moment before a light breeze carries the scent deeper into the woods. Jemriah offers a silent prayer of gratitude to the forest spirits for that kindness.

A third ball of acid, each aimed precisely at the profane runes carved into the stone, dissolving their power as the stone around them pits and melts.

When the last of the runes is burned away, Jemriah breaths deeply, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before taking a deep pull of Roger's moonshine to burn the last of the vile flavor from his mouth. "Eruukhrotuho," he annunciates carefully. The syllables seem to rumble as much from his feet as his mouth with the ground itself answering in kind. The area beneath the altar shifts to the side, causing the stones to tumble and fall apart. With another word, the displaced earth rushes like a wave back over the former altar leaving no trace of its existence except a raised mound of dirt and what was left of the creature that last sat upon it.

Jemriah breathes a bit heavily, looking between Selissa and Vargath in what could be interpreted as either fear, vulnerability, or perhaps even challenge. Maybe all three. He offers the open jug to Vargath.

Acid Splash as much as needed to hopefully destroy the runes.
Mold Earth to bury the altar.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen frowns, but understands the Chief's reasoning. The villagers were already been irritable when he was there last, and though the Chief had a lot of power within the village, he was still only one man. The removal of the nails had almost seemed too easy, but the elf wasn't about to complain. "The watcher Oak has been treated, for now. I would like to make sure none of the graves have been disturbed, but I do not see why we cannot be finished here soon." To avoid any further delays, Fanlomen walks up and down the rows of graves to make absolutely sure that none have been recently disturbed quickly.

Not totally sure whether Investigation or Perception is more relevant here, so I'll just roll both.
Investigation: [roll0]
Perception: [roll1] Psi-Boosted Knack on a failure: [roll2]

[Amnestic]

Vargath takes the jug from Jemriah with a nod and a small tip of the jug as thanks. He gives it a light sniff, regrets doing so, before taking a swig and letting the powerful liquid wash over his tongue and sear the back of his throat. Finally, something worth drinking. "Good work." It's sincere, as he always is. Vargath was no stranger to magic but it was always just a bit impressive to see, especially in one so young. He'd seen those with a dozen years on Jemriah unable to muster a candleflame of power, nevermind what was just displayed. He holds the jug out to offer it to Selissa. "Both of you." They wouldn't have found it without her after all. Kept a cooler head than he had, even though it was 'her' village. Or maybe because of it. His eyes sat on where the altar had been, a place that now stood empty. Hopefully it wouldn't corrupt the earth, but who knew with things like this.

"I doubt we'd be lucky enough for Bence to be the only one and have this all tied up." It's addressed to both of them and neither of them. Having one cultist could lead to more though - interrogating his mind, his heart, his body if needs be. If they carved symbols into their offerings and altars perhaps they had similar symbols on their own body...for protection from whatever it was that had left the bite marks, maybe. Strip searching the inhabitants would go down a treat, he was sure. Part of him was suddenly hoping that they found nothing on his body, save them a lot of arguing and unfortunate visuals.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Birel frowns a bit, really hoping the tree could wait. If it failed while they were occupied dealing with the villagers, they'd just have traded one problem for another. But she doesn't question the Chief's decision here. Without his warning about this they'd have been overrun by demons and undead within the week without warning.

She joins Fanlomen in his search of the graves, because they can spare at least that little amount of time to be forewarned if there would be an additional threat to worry about.


Investigation: [roll0]

[purepolarpanzer]

Set

"The ritual of seasons? Aye, that might save the tree... I'd meant to preform it as a reward to all of you for helping the town. It can only be done once a year, but we can't wait if the cemetery oak is dying. The ritual takes days to prepare. It will have to hold on till then. Now hurry. Gather the searchers and meet me back here." The Chief turns to face his people again, leaving you to make the journey alone.

Set, Birel, and Fanlomen

Upon Set's return, Birel and Fanlomen have ascertained that none of the graves appear to be out of order, with the exception of one. A fresh one. With no grave marker. A rusted shovel sticks out of the earth next to the grave. Birel can't seem to remember anyone of note dying so recently in the village, but the grave is well dug and shows no sign of upset that would accompany undead. For now the cemetery is peaceful, but only time will tell if this remains the norm.

Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa

The altar crumbles, sizzles, and settles into a mound of dirt, the potential for evil within buried under the earth. Jemriah's magic brings some measure of peace back to this part of the Banewood, but those teeth and claw marks still indicate that something unnatural hunts these wilds.

[Awful]

Selissa had taken a quiet step back when Jemriah cast his grotesque magic. She watched him with a cautious eye, as if ready to dart out the way. She only subsided when the altar had disappeared under the earth.

When Vargarth offered the mug, she took it . After a tentative sip, she screwed up her nose at the bitter burning flavour. It was horrible, but her elven tongue could taste the moonlight-prickle taste of magic in it.

"...Just looking," she said, brushing off the praise awkwardly. She didn't feel like she'd done anything particularly notable - just see what was poorly hidden.
She gave the jar back. The deer would have to be buried and burned tomorrow.
"Let's go back."

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

On her way back to the Chief and the villagers Birel thought to herself that tensions would be high and the cultists once uncovered weren't likely to go quietly and easily. So she cast a magical armor about herself. For the first few moments its conjured into being it appears as a colorful nebula with twinkling stars before fading to black then completely transparent, with the stars fading from sight last. Though those who saw her cast it swear if they look closely they can still see an almost entirely transparent aura of it, though it vanishes from sight completely any time they aren't completely focused on her.

Once they return to the Chief, Birel walks over to him and quietly informs him, "After you left us we burned the kill room and the cow. We didn't find anything further of note until we came to the Guardian Tree. Someone had put several copper spikes into the roots, clearly trying to kill it. And they've come very close, so much so that they might still succeed. The spikes were well made, they must have been the work of a proper blacksmith." at this point she'll hand the spikes over to him in case there's anything he can glean from them either now or at a later time. "We then searched for disturbed graves. We only found one, though it looked like someone had unburied and taken whoever was buried there rather than a corpse having risen and dug its way out."

After a moment she adds, "I almost forgot. Earlier we found Brent had a Hamurite symbol hidden on his floor. Which would be bad enough, but with the spikes in the Guardian Tree.... Well, some of the others were worried what would be justified to do about that. But I have a feeling after we question him, the answer is probably going to be pretty clear."

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

The walk back to town was quiet. Jemriah could practically feel everyone's nerves crackling with anticipation. Someone would die this night, and the slithering tendril in his mind was stirring thanks to his use of its powers. Still, it was worth it to cleanse the shrine and Pale Night's whispers in the area.

Upon their return to town, Jemriah approaches the Chief and Birel, giving a grim nod of acknowledgement to the latter. "The south side is clear until you get into the Banewood... a pack of werewolves were fighting each other just over the hill from Roger's house, but we got him out safely. More disturbing... Jon Vence is practicing dark magic at his home. We found a sacrificial altar to Pale Night bearing a torn up stag branded with evil runes. Something big... unnaturally big... ripped the beast apart with claws so strong they cut grooves into the stone. It wasn't feeding, it was relishing the destruction. We burned and buried the altar, but whatever Jon summoned is still out there..." he closes ominously.

[Awful]

"Bence," Selissa interrupted. "Not Vence."
She looked through the throng for the man in question, and her wooden hand tapped out a brief staccato on her quiver of arrows. Standing next to the chief, she gazed at the clusters of scared and angry people, eyes flicking between them. How many, she wondered, were their foes in hiding, soon to be forced into action by the axe? There would be blood soon. The phantom scent of it hung in the air, rust and red.

"Weldry peddles with devils," she added after a moment. "Had a statue of one. Called it a counting devil. Used it for gold-" for once, her tone changed from melodious whisper to thick scorn- "-Orvin has it in a bag."

[Amnestic]

"Interrogations should begin immediately. Strike while the iron is hot." Vargath adds to Jemriah and Selissa's report. "And examinations - if they've marked themselves in any way normally covered by clothes, we should discover it to locate other cultists." He turns to look out at the assembled townsfolk. "They're going to be here a while longer yet. Hopefully that incentivises some to be a bit more open."

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

The Chief listens to each of your reports, not saying anything but taking in everything that is being said. When he has heard all you have to say, he nods once. "Orvin, bring the bag forward." The villager steps forward in a hurry and holds the bag out to the Chief, who takes it and reaches in to retrieve the statue. Looking it over, a look of disgust crosses his face before he puts it back in the bag. "Damnit... this village needs Weldry... but we can't abide this corruption..." He shakes his head, then turns to climb back onto the impromptu stage. But before he does, he turns back to the searchers. "Stand ready. Spirits be blessed, this could go south in a hurry." Then he mounts the stage and raises his hands, standing before his people.

"Villagers of Dam'ess!" He claps his hands to get everyone's attention, but his booming voice alone does the job. Everyone quiets and turns to the stage, seeming to sense that an end to this night is coming. When he continues, he speaks more quietly, but with the same level of force.

"Thank you for your patience and your endurance this night. I apologize to those of you who have been put out by staying up this late and ignoring your farms these long hours. But now I can finally reveal to you why you have been gathered. There is a CORRUPTION in our village. One that took root in our very homes and fields, and threatens to overwhelm our piety and our lives in equal measure. This corruption must be torn out by the root, before it can reach the heart of our community. To this end, I need everyone to clear an area in front of the stage. When I name you, step forward and submit yourself to judgement, or be forced into the light like the darkness in your heart!" The crowd begins to rumble, and many look nervous. Horace Fulton, leader of the Fulton family, turns quietly to make his way out of the crowd, but the muscular hand of Brent Bergeron grabs his shoulder and roots him in place. The blacksmith looks dour himself, if resolved. Horace tries in vain to shake Brent off before slumping, instead going to his wife and children and wrapping them in his arms.

Brent Bergeron, step forward!

The blacksmith steps through the crowd, parting it with his muscular bulk and size the way a teacher cuts through a school yard. In his wake, some of the helpers from the search move in to surround the Fultons. Nearby, other trusted members of the community who have been alerted by the searchers move to surround John Bence, whose features bare nonchalance in the extreme, looking as though he is barely paying attention. Brent stands tall in the small clearing hastily formed by the crowd in front of the stage, and all the eyes in Dam'ess are on him.

The Chief looks down at him for a few moments, his stare drilling into the man's soul, but Brent only stares back at him, back straight, stance defiant. The Chief grunts, then continues. "You stand accused of two things, Brent. Firstly, of worshiping Harum, the so-called Lord of the Vale. As you know, we are a community that respects nature, the spirits, and the fey. There may be no home here for you if this is true. Second, the Guardian Oak at the center of the town cemetery was desecrated with copper nails, professionally crafted. Seeing as we have only one blacksmith in town with the tools and expertise to craft such things, blame falls in your direction. I've known you for many years, Brent. But that relationship means nothing in comparison to justice. What says the accused?"

The blacksmith widens his stance, as though a large weight has just been placed on his shoulders. "I'll apologize to none for my faith, but I urge you all to listen to my words. I've lived among you for eight years. I've been to your weddings. I've been to your funerals. I've been respectful of your faith, and not once have I pressed my own upon you. Some who worship Harum... they look down on the members of the Green Faith. I never have and I never will. I only ask that the community I've been working with for nearly a decade give me the same respect I've given you. I wish to live in Dam'ess. Harum willing, I hope to die in Dam'ess. But I will not abandon my faith to do so. As for the nails, I won't deny I made them. But I NEVER would hammer them into the tree that keeps our community safe. They were ordered by the traveling doctor who came through two weeks ago. He paid in gold, and I didn't question his intentions, which may make me guilty in some people's eyes. But I've said it once and I'll say it again- I respect the Green Faith, and never would I attack one of your sacred oaks. Judge me, Maus, but know I am innocent in the eyes of my god as well as yours." Then the blacksmith goes down to one knee, head down, and awaits judgement.

The Chief frowns, still staring at Brent with intensity. After nearly a minute, he speaks again. "I sense no lies from you, Brent. While I have my doubts to whether or not the Harumites and the Green Faith can live in harmony, if that chance exists it lives in you. From this day forward, you need not hide your faith. Practice it openly, and I call upon all in the village to treat you with the same courtesy and respect that you've given us these years you've lived side by side with us. Anyone who would harm Brent in any way will be dealt with the same way I would deal with a Harumite who attacked one of my flock due to their faith. You are dismissed, Brent. May your god guide you in a path that coincides with the will of the spirits."

Brent stands, shoulders slumped, and walks back into the crowd, though people give him an even wider berth than before. The crowd rumbles again, and some souls who are either proud of their faith or cowardly enough to throw accusations from the safety of a crowd begin to shout- "Heretic!" "Nonbeliever!" "Harumite!". But these cries are rare- most of the villagers look relieved that Brent has been found innocent. The man is generally well respected and well liked in the community, and it seems for most this has not changed due to the revelations about his worship.

Weldry Wessen, step forward!

Insight checks
Brent appears to be telling the truth. The Chief certainly thinks so, at least.
Brent speaks openly and from the heart, without shame or anger. He is telling the truth.
In the blacksmith's words are the pain of a man who had to hide who he is for years to stay loyal to his god. He bares no malice towards Dam'ess, if anything he loves this community. Though he tries to put on a strong man act, he trembles with anxiety and worry as he speaks, showing no small amount of fear that this will be his last day in the village, or his last day living. Still, he refuses to compromise his faith or his love of Dam'ess, and speaks frankly about both. He is telling the truth.

[Amnestic]

Vargath gives the shopkeeper a pleasant grin as he steps forward - the weak-willed fool who took to consorting with devils to line his pocket. Gently he fingers the axe edge beneath his robes. He probably wouldn't be the one to get to swing, in truth, but it was still a pleasant thought nonetheless. Perhaps the town would get to glimpse his soul descending into the fires when it happened. It certainly seemed a night for such visual miracles. His eyes drift to the Chief warily. There was only one right response to this situation. It should be quick, and Vargath hoped it would be.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah watches from the edge of the crowd as the Chief pronounces his sentence, pleased with the mercy and wisdom he shows. It was clear why he lead this corner of the mountain. Though the accusations against the remaining offenders were far less forgiving. Consorting with devils. Dark rituals and profane rites. The sons and daughters of temptation were wily, and Jemriah intended to employ his full attention to purge their evil from this community.

As the Chief calls Weldry forward, Jemriah reaches into his coin purse and quietly withdraws a single copper piece, holding it in the palm of his hand. A few grumbled arcane words mingle incomprehensibly with the Chief's pronouncements for those in his immediate vicinity. He concentrates the power into the palm of his hand - into the coin. As the casting completes he flicks the coin up with an unmistakable, echoing *ting*, watching it spin end over end with each revolution broadening his mind to the inner thoughts of the assembly. Thoughts of worry, of triumph, of fear. He closes his eyes a moment, focusing his mind on the new sensations and not the dark, dripping whisper in the back of his mind. When he opens them again there is clarity, and he sweeps like a hooded lantern over each person in the crowd, scanning their thoughts for signs of treachery in Pale Night's name until the Fulton's are brought forward to answer for their crimes.

Casting Detect Thoughts. Monitoring surface thoughts of people in the crowd, especially Bence, and Wessen in the wake of their testimony. I intend to do a deep dive on the Horace when he takes the stand = WIS save DC 13.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

Weldry Wessen is shoved forward from behind, entering the area in front of the stage with a stumble. He blinks rapidly as he enters torchlight, either because his eyes have transitioned poorly or as some sort of nervous tick. He looks up at the Chief in disbelief, then back at the people surrounding him, then over to Vargath, Jemriah, and Selissa. His face twitches, then he turns away.

"Weldry, you stand accused of consorting with devils. As evidence, this statue..." The Chief reaches into the sack and removes the figurine, displaying it to the crowd, who react with a mix of fear and revulsion. Jemriah reads several who are faking, however, and who look on with interest and curiosity. "... a magical totem, was found in your possession. You then admitted to the crime. Have you anything to say for yourself?" The Chief looks down with dire eyes, the torch light only enhancing his towering size and judgmental demeanor.

"I was bewitched. Bedeviled. Ensorcelled. I couldn't help myself." He goes down to both knees, hands wringing and voice tinged with despair. "Please, Maus, my good friend! The statue was given to me by my father, when I was young. I was raised with that... damnable thing... and it tricked and misled me through my whole life. I want to be free of it. Please! Take it away and destroy it! But by the spirits I may yet be redeemed! Mercy, Chief!" He begins to sob pitifully.

I'll fool them! I must! I will! The old fool has shown mercy already, of course he'll fall for it!

Chief Moeller's gaze does not relent. "It matters not whether you have been corrupted from a young age or yesterday, Weldry. What matters is that you are corrupted. Spoiled goods. The spirits may redeem you, but if they do it will be in the afterlife. You will be burned at the stake. Let it be a taste of what you will experience for the rest of time, you greedy fool. I'll not let demons OR devils infiltrate my village and rot it from the inside out. Seize him, and gather wood for the fire." There are roars of agreement from the crowd, and no lack of volunteers to swarm and carry off Weldry. The crowd parts like a school of fish as the shopkeep is dragged bawling to the other end of the square. It never takes long to find wood when an execution is on hand, and a handful of villagers start stacking it, volunteered from nearby homes and even the shelves from Weldry's own shop. While this is prepared, the Chief continues.

John Bence, step forward!

The Chief tosses the figurine back in the sack and sets it down on the stage as the tall, muscular form of John Bence strides forward into the torch light. He draws back his hood to reveal a handsome man of early middle age, bearing a bright grin and warm eyes. One would say he looks pleased to be here. He strokes his small beard and waits for the Chief to speak.

I'm not going to even dignify his bluff roll with a counter roll. Beat a 4 and you know Wessen is full of it.

[Amnestic]

He'd have preferred an axe - quick, simple, satisfying thunk. But there was a certain amount of poetic justice to burning someone destined for the hells, so he couldn't complain. Even the normally trusting Vargath saw through his lies easily. Just how he'd survived for as long as he had without being caught was a miracle unto itself. Or perhaps more devil magic. No wonder a cult had managed to set up shop in the village.

Bence looked like they had more presence of mind than the feeble shopkeep, and a face that could sway a crowd if they had half a mind to try. Vargath fingers his wolfpelt with his free hand, letting his finger run through the fur.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

As Birel and Fanlomen walk ahead back towards the village, Set gathers his thoughts. He'd seen and heard much this night, but nothing he could attribute to Fanlomen being the nightmare Chief Moeller had warned them all he could be. Appearances could be deceiving, but Fanlomen certainly appeared innocent of His influence, or Pale Night's. Set's gaze shifts to Birel, the stars of her ward winking out until he could barely perceive the shimmer of her spell. Her silence on the matter said much. She hadn't hesitated in the slightest to call Set out when he'd lied. He trusted she would've done the same if Fanlomen had acted in any way counter to their goals. Further examination might be prudent, but for now, Set resolves to leave his suspicions of Fanlomen aside. There was much left to do this night, and many more suspects to focus on. The blacksmith and his faith in Harum. The Fulton's with their corruption laid bare before being purified in flame. Even the young prodigy, Jemriah, would no doubt make his triumphant return from searching in the south.

A spasm of anxiety twists Set's guts as he thinks of the two-faced young man. Guilt follows as Set momentarily hopes that Jemriah might have done something awful just to force the Chief and others to confront him openly. He was sure that Vargath could take care of himself even if surprised by an ally turned traitor, but if Jemriah had targeted Selissa or one of the villagers? Shame courses through Set as he swats the thought aside. What would his sisters think of him if they could see his thoughts now? Wishing for an innocent life to be hurt so that he could avoid having to spar with the Shadowkeeper's minion himself. He could see their faces even now, Sisi's a portrait of disappointment while the younger Sythpen's flashed in anger.

His brother Sirus' words bubble up in Set's mind. 'Truth reveals itself to those who walk the hard path.' Set would have to walk a tightrope between avoiding open defiance of his patron and sabotaging Jemriah's own plans and actions. There was no easy path forward.

Self-conscious about his distinct lack of proper clothing, Set happily hangs back as far as he can while still remaining within earshot of the Chief and Birel as she gives her report. As was becoming common, he thanked whatever flip of the coin had made her settle in Dam'ess and agree to join them. There was nothing in her words except truth and insight. Set questioned his own insight for a moment as he failed to see what Birel had so easily determined. Brent the blacksmith would have most likely made the copper spikes that were pounded into the tree. His own guilt or innocence seemed to rapidly sway towards guilt in Set's mind as the pieces fell into place.

Set's eyes find Jemriah, heart skipping a beat as the young man approaches the Chief and Birel to give his own report. Momentary relief at seeing Selissa and Vargath apparently unhurt does not last as the young man wastes no time. The grim, yet oh-so-innocent farmboy slips up on the man's last name, but Set isn't fooled. All part of the act, he was sure. Once more, Set had to admit the young man was good. Let them think you're given to honest mistakes, then play that up when they finally catch you in real a falsehood. Set could have admired him if he wasn't so dangerous.

For a moment Set mulls over approaching Vargath and asking him about Jemriah's conduct during their search, but he continues to hang back. Better to just observe for the moment. Besides, that would only bring him closer to his quarry, and Set had no illusions about confronting Jemriah here and now.

As Brent steps forward, Set is unable to peel his eyes away from Jemriah at first. In the end, he turns his attention to Birel, watching her reaction to his words and the Chief's response to them. Given her distaste for the Harumites, he credits her silence as assent that the Chief is making the right call. Set cataloged his own uncertainty for later examination regardless, should the blacksmith give him cause.

Set's gaze flicks back to Jemriah in time to see him flip a copper piece. Where fear and anxiety dwell, now there is also a mote of cold, calculated rage. The young man mocks him without even appearing to look in his direction. No one could see it but the two of them, Set was certain, and that was the whole point. Where Set was in the dark about the details surrounding Jemriah's search in the south, the young man already knew all about Set's search in the north. Jemriah's thoughts were no secret. 'Did you lose your coin, Set?' he seemed to ask. 'Oh no, just your sanity? A pity, but that was never yours to keep anyway. Well since you put that coin away, would you like this one?' Set's hold on his Favorite tightened, knuckles white as he gripped the spear as if choking Jemriah. But as his anger burned, fear also reared its ugly head. How did he know? Forget that he might've guessed from Set's appearance that he'd put most of his things away in his pack, how did he know the importance of the coin? It was evidence of just the sort he couldn't take to anyone. Jemriah was working with Him. The young man could see as He did. And he was perfectly happy to use that power to toy with Set.

Set barely heard Weldry's plea or the Chief's response as he tried to figure out what to do. A single glance was sufficient to see Weldry's guilt plainly written over the man's face. No doubt his fate would've aroused more interest had he been working with Pale Night and Jemriah wasn't openly flaunting his power.

Finally uprooted from his spot as John Bence is called forward, Set quietly tries to approach Vargath and grab his attention, but thinks better of it as he gets closer. He is altogether too wary of Jemriah to speak openly or even whisper so close to him. Instead Set takes up a spot closer to the half-orc, but still behind Jemriah. A man stands accused of practicing the dark arts in service to Pale Night, but Set's focus is primarily on a spot between Jemriah's shoulder blades where he could bury his Favorite if the real threat here gives him cause.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Birel mentally shrugs at Chief letting Brent off scot-free. She would have preferred some kind of penance for making the spikes even if he didn't know what they were for. Accidentally being an accomplice to the death of everyone in the village wasn't really something that should be so easily brushed aside. And without the Chief to mete out some punishment, surely other people in the village who disliked Brent's, admittedly terrible, choice in religions would find a way to do so themselves. A fate he might have been spared if it had seemed like he was fittingly rebuked already.

When the Chief announces Weldry to be burned alive, she's a bit shocked at the brutality of it. She also finds the idea of having to stand around hearing and/or smelling such an event extremely unpleasant.

In the midst of this she notices Jemriah's coin flip and along with some other signs, recognizes the spell he cast. Wanting to have the advantage of knowing what people are thinking and feeling a bit cheeky she mentally communicates with him, <"A penny for everyone else's thoughts?"> in a clearly self-amused tone.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

The thoughts and emotions rise and fall like licks of flame in a campfire, ephemeral and intense. As his attention drifts across the crowd he catches Birel's eye and a series of words so clear and different from the cluttered musings of the idle minds in Dam'ess. It's almost startling at first, but he smiles and moments later a shadowy presence steps into her mind - a separate link so he could continue his mental sweep.

<I imagine they'll be worth far more by the time this night is over. Weldry is as repentant as the devils he consorts with. Even the crowd is masking their temptation behind rebuke. Without the Chief's sturdy arms damming this river of iniquity it would spill over and consume itself.>

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Birel nods, which might look a little weird to anyone else who notices, as she replies back, <"Do not forget to check our companions. As we now do know that at least one outsider was involved in nefarious activities. Also, I'd just be interested to know what they're thinking."> again, she finishes with a touch of amusement.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah falls silent a moment. He was sincere at the start of this evening about leaving everyone's pasts behind them. He didn't make a habit of invading peoples' privacy in a more intimate way than most can imagine and didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with anyone here, particularly Vargath or Set who seemed capable of swift and painful retribution. Selissa was good folk if a bit distant the way elves are. The others he didn't know too well yet, but that would come. <The cult was here long before any of us arrived in town. If there's darkness in anyone's heart it's of a different bent and will reveal itself in time,> he replies suggesting there will be no probing into their associates. In part because he didn't particularly want anyone looking into his unless they intended to fix what was wrong with him.

... and yet she was right. They didn't really know each other. And if a medicine man had come to weaken the Green Faith, what drew these other wayward souls beyond the promise of coin? Their group was spread through the crowd in a way that only allowed him eyes on Birel, Selissa, and Fanlomen for the moment, but he tunes into the thoughts of the latter two against his better judgment. Just long enough to peek behind the curtain...

Taking a quick peek at your surface thoughts - "what is most on your mind in that moment". Let's say this happens as Jon Bence is called forward but before his trial begins.

[Awful]

Selissa watched the sentences being given without emotion on her face. She showed no satisfaction as Weldry begged and was condemned, but inside she felt a slow coil of satisfaction. She, personally, would have just slit his throat and scattered his body, but she wasn't going to argue in the defence of someone who peddled with the Fires Beneath The Roots. Pah. The coward. Even the rat knows to bite when cornered.

Her shoulders prickled, the way they always did when she was being watched, and she glanced up in time to meet Jemriah's eyes as he surveyed the crowd. For a long second she held his gaze, unaware of the violition of her mental privacy.

Why is the human looking at me? Is he expecting me to do something?

She cocked her head at him slightly in an unspoken question, but if no answer was forthcoming, dismissed it and returned to watching the sentencing. Even revealed in his wickedness, Bence looked comfortable, but one didn't worship a goddess of entropy and fear to die.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

"John Bence, you stand accused of consorting with demons. A shrine was found outside your home, obscured from wandering eyes, where there were signs of a sacrifice, a summoning, and some foul creature of fearsome size and strength. You ally with Pale Night against Dam'ess, and you will be damned for it. What say you?"

The genial smile slowly fades away, replaced by seemingly genuine confusion. "But Chief Moeller... I've been so respectful of your village's religion, can't you be tolerant of mine?" His voice sounds happy, always bordering on laughter, and despite the clear sarcasm and insult to his words several people in the village laugh, only to cover their mouths with their hands and look horrified a moment later. Chief Moeller looks flummoxed for a second, then becomes visibly enraged. "John Bence, I sentence you..." A cold wind blows through the village, making the burning torches stutter and fail. Just two remain lit, both of them near the front of the stage, therefore illuminating Bence in the red-yellow of flame. The Chief's words, booming and authoritative, falter as well, but Bence quickly picks up where the Chief left off.

"You? Sentence me? Laughable, but I'll indulge you." John begins to pace back and forth before the crowd, alternating between facing the Chief and facing the silent mass of people behind him. "I am beyond your ability to judge, old man. You accuse me of what, exactly? A summoning? "Consorting with demons?" Bringing something from the Abyss over to your side of existence? I admit it. Moreover, I have several more things to admit to. I have raised a cult of Pale Night in your very village. You want a confession? I'll give you a confession! I've held black mass in the Banewood for two dozen followers, all of them prominent citizens of your little village. The Fultons, the Jakobs, the Widower Trent, and the Fowlers, just to name a few." The Chief starts to raise his voice again, summoning his rage, and John Bence lifts a hand, palm towards the Chief, and begins counting on his fingers. Somehow, no matter how loud Maus Moeller bellows, John Bence's voice rises over it. "I've salted your fields to starve your people." Another finger. "I've laid hexes and curses on your animals. Anyone notice all those still births? Your welcome." Another finger, his voice rising in volume and pitch each time he makes the count. "I've killed more than a few. I've been here precisely six years, six months, and six days, and in that time I've orchestrated the deaths of every single one of you who has died in that time." A fourth finger. "I've played maddening music under the full moon- songs taught to me by Pale Night herself. Songs that made husbands beat their wives, mothers smack their children, and children curse their parents in secret." A fifth finger rises up just as the Chief begins to step off the stage. When he does, the crate underneath his foot cracks and splinters, causing Moeller to stumble and fall. His club sized walking stick clatters away, leaving the massive, proud man stranded on the ground, face contorted in pain. "I've stolen." A second hand comes up, and in rapid succession all five fingers are counted. "Cheated. Coerced. Rustled. Seduced. Betrayed." This time Bence turns to the crowd, his smile widening to a mad grin that makes the whole village take a step back with hushed gasps of fear. "Truth be told I've LOST COUNT of all the evil deeds I've done in her name in the time I've been here." He steps towards the crowd, and the whole village steps back again, locked by the mystifying gaze of this man. "But none of that matters! You see, it's not what you do in life that matters, even if you love it as much as me! It's how you get PAID!" He lifts his head to the sky and gives a deep, hearty laugh, equal parts warm, friendly, and sinister. "And let me tell you, my friends, I have been paid WELL." Wheeling again, he snatches up the Chief's cane, and for a second it looks like he is going to take a swing at Moeller's head with the knobly end. Several of the Chief's chosen gather their bravery and start to rush forward at this point, though most simply quake in fear.

Szilisticmoxbelzenlokiniefiernijisrickp'tack! P'tack! P'tack! DC 10 Arcana check to recognize that he is casting magic by thinking, not by speaking. DC 15 Religion check to recognize the language as Abyssal. Do you attempt to go deeper into his mind?



I don't want to go too far into this scene without giving you all a chance to react, but if you want to approach Bence or interrupt him with magic or a ranged attack you'll have to roll a DC 15 Wisdom Saving Throw. Think of the effect as a modified Sanctuary spell.

He's exaggerating and putting on a show. You obviously can't trust anything this man says. How you use that information is up to you.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: Adjust Density (on Chief)

Birel immediately moves to cast an offensive spell. In fact, she hadn't even waited until Bence was even half way finished monologuing and patting himself on the back for his depravity. It took her significant time to realize something, certainly some kind of magical effect, was preventing her from harming him. She was sure she'd eventually be able to break through it, but decided there was no point wasting further time and instead went over to help the chief up, making him lighter to help herself and him lift him up.


Failed Wis save to attack.
So instead using Adjust Density to make Chief weigh half as much and trying to get him on his feet.

[Amnestic]

Vargath listens carefully as Bence begins his rant. Truths were sprinkled in but just how many he wasn't sure. Enough to throw the crowd off balance. When the Chief goes down Vargath springs forward. With his free hand he tugs the axe from his belt and howls, a piercing cry that splits the loyal townsfolk a path for him to pass. Runes shine in his eyes as he makes his approach. Their glow spreads, weaving a spider's web of giantish letters across his face, then down his body across his arms, and legs. As they glow, Vargath grows. Muscles expand, bones stretch. Even his equipment seems to grow larger as his footsteps become heavier and louder. He crosses the gap between him and Bence swiftly and by the time he reaches the deluded cultist the half orc has over doubled in size, standing easily over 15' feet tall, with a heft to match. The rune glow fades across his body as he reaches his full height, though they remain shining sky-blue in his eyes, bright piercing letters that, to anyone fluent in giantish, translates roughly to "Never Breaking Horizon", an ancient promise of a cloud giant's power. Its historical context is somewhat lost in a direct translation.

His axe gleams sinister in the torchlight, ready to finally cut and slice. As he leaps off the ground he feels a wave of something pass over him. Some magic, probably a defensive spell meant to keep Bence safe. It passes as quickly as it comes though, and Vargath is not deterred. With a bellowing roar that echoes around the assembled crowd he brings his axe down at Bence, landing with a crash as his weapon slams into the ground. The shockwave of the weight sends waves of wind and clouds of dust away from their engagement, but Vargath was never one to rest on his laurels after a single strike. Keep fighting, keep hitting, keep hurting, until every one of the enemies is dead for good. Every lesson he'd been taught as a child. Never let them live to fight you another day. His left foot plants forwards and he pushes his weight down upon it, spinning faster than anyone his size has any right to and unleashing a second wide slash on Bence. His blood sang as his axe whistled a merry tune through the air. Ancestors, how he'd missed this feeling.

"This man is nothing!" He roars to the crowd and his...colleagues? He still wasn't sure what they were. Comrades-in-arms, perhaps, if they didn't shy away. It was their turn to take the stage and rouse the village, inspire them to fight instead of cowering. "Flesh and bone, like any other!"


Bonus Action: Activates Giant's Might.

You can imbue yourself with the might of giants. As a bonus action, you magically gain the following benefits, which last for 1 minute:
•If you are smaller than Large, you become Large,along with anything you are wearing. If you lack the room to become Large, your size doesn’t change.
•You have advantage on Strength checks and Strength saving throws.
•Your weapon attacks deal an extra 1d6 damage.
You can use this feature twice, and you regain all expended uses of it when you finish a long rest.

Attack: [roll0] Damage: [roll1]+[roll2]
Action Surge Attack (if Bence doesn't die): [roll3] Damage: [roll4]+[roll5]

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Perhaps he should be more subtle about this spell in the future... it was far more pleasant to observe people without them looking back. At Selissa's returned gaze he raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath in a "here we go..." expression before transitioning his gaze to Bence who made no attempt to hide his malice.

Here stood a man who was corrupted by something bigger than himself and instead of resisting simply embraced its evil. He and Jemriah couldn't be more different. But those words in his mind... there was something else speaking through him. "The demon is within him! Evil language clutters his mind." Jemriah shouts in warning.

Vargath's terrifying display gave him pause a moment and reaffirmed that he didn't want to be on his bad side. This would devolve fast, especially if the Fultons and others joined the fray against them. With the Chief incapacitated, Jemriah hops up on the stage to try and inspire action in the fearful mob. "Dam'essians - A war was just declared upon you. In Chief Moeller's name, I call on you to seize the cultists so named by this charlatan! Bring them forward to judgment or force them to flee in shame. If you will not defend your homes when the Night casts her shadow upon them you've no claim to them at all. The dawn is near, my friends, but we must raise up the sun with our own arms. Fight for your livelihood. For your children. FIGHT FOR DAM'ESS!"

I'll likely probe deeper on Bence next round, but getting the crowd engaged seems more pressing... felt like too much to try and do both in one turn.
If you feel differently, DC 13 WIS for Bence.

Persuasion to sway the crowd to action? [roll0]

[Awful]

As soon as the chief was interupted, it was clear something was wrong. Selissa ghosted backwards and agilely leapt onto a barrel, a stack of crates, and the low flat roof of one of the neighbouring houses' sheds, crouching down while she sighted on Bence.

Breath in. Nock arrow.

She was a wood elf; she'd been firing arrows about as soon as she could walk. Archery was quite literally taught to every forest elf that could physically hold a bow.

Lift the bow. Breath out.

Vargath charged forward, good, bold, and missed. Less good. Was there some wicked magic guarding Bence? No matter. She'd see if it could see this coming.

Breath in. Draw back the string.

She felt a spell pull at her, don't shoot don't shoot don't shoot- and let it seep out of her mind and bones into the wood and tile beneath her feet.

Loose arrow.

Abruptly, Bence had a green-fletched shaft sticking from his chest. It was a clean shot, but tragically Bence was tougher than her late fare of deer and rabbits. But blood split was blood split, and hopefully that would break the spell of fear - literal or figurative - he held over the crowd.

[WhismurWanders]

These villagers are suprisingly honest about their intentions
The Chief is unyielding yet compassionate
He must be protected at all costs





Fanlomen's mind spikes as his constantly vigilant eyes and mind catch on to what is going on here. The grandstanding. The ramping up of aggression. Fanlomen could almost feel time slowing around him as he measured his options. He had to handle quickly. Moeller was a prodigious shaman, and as a member of the Shepherds, the wood elf had no doubt that keeping the man alive had the utmost priority on a multitude of levels. Moeller had implored them for help, he was a man of the Green Faith, and he was the leader of the panicked flock of humans. He allows his mind and body to act in harmony with one another, the adrenaline which was now pushing his legs forward and through the crowd refuelled a mind which had been strained slightly by the long day of searching.

He was very suprised to see Vargath charge forward after reaching a truly immense and imposing size. He hadn't thought the half-orc had been hiding many tricks. A half-orc with an axe larger than most people's limbs was a good tool for a multitude of situations. A half-orc with an axe larger than most people's torsos... Were the situation not so dire, and had the elf more of a sense of humor, he might have chuckled at the thought of cultists and werewolves meeting their match against Vargath. It is good he is a leader and a warrior was the only thought that the current situation allowed.

He ducked around Vargath's form as the axe swung through the air, and the wood elf lept forward to wrestle the chief's stick away from Bence. He felt a slight shove against his body as he attempted the first grab, but a flare of mental focus allowed a second attempt to grab the stick past whatever defenses the man was putting up. Fanlomen didn't speak, didn't threaten, didn't boast. He merely narrowed his eyes and glared at the attacker as he pushed mind and muscle against the human's magic and momentum.

Bonus Action: Psi Replenishment
Move: to close the distance with Bence
Action: Initiate a Grapple with Bence - [roll0] + Psi-Boltered Knack (only on a failure) [roll1]

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: Wrathful Smite

As Set stands frozen in time, he can only watch the situation deteriorate into open battle before his eyes. He almost follows Vargath immediately into the fray, heedless of all other considerations, but a small voice in the back of his mind, whether it was his or His, stayed him.

Someone knows. Are you sisters safe, or do they cry out for their brother in some barn? The dead keep their secrets. Use what you have been given. Use it and SAVE them.

Set's feet carry him between Bence and the gathered villagers, taking his place as a ward against any others foolish enough to step forward hoping to aid their comrade. As Jemriah's words echo over the square, Set grimaces as if in pain, realizing they've both been played by the Shadowkeeper to stack the deck against the Pale Night, if only to keep a cultist or two alive. Of course he'd been given the same instruction, only slightly twisted to serve his talents. Set despaired at his own inability to turn away from his actions, but the Shadowkeeper was not wrong. If his sister needed him...it was far too late to reconsider the wisdom of trying to keep a few cultists alive.

"And you, cultists! Fultons and Fowlers, Jakobs and Trent! All servants of Pale Night, hear me!" Set shouts over the din, eager to get a few words in after Jemriah before the world explodes into action. "Your end is nigh! Look on Vargath the Mighty, and despair! Surrender to your neighbors and you may yet see the sun rise! Don't," Set says, sneering to the crowd as he lets the word hang in the air before uttering the single word, <"wrath"> in Deep Speech. "And I won't even give you the honor of dying by his hand!"

Set's shadow grows dimmer in the torchlight, an ink-black, figure crawling hand over hand up his body and entering his Favorite as Set hears a laugh in the back of his mind over the crash of battle. He flourishes her, the shadow wrapping his Favorite in its cold embrace.


Intimidate cultists: [roll0]
Hoping to get one or two to hesitate or even surrender to their neighbors.


Wisdom check save DC 13 (includes 2 sanity dmg to Cha).

The next time you hit with a melee weapon attack during this spell's duration, your attack deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage. Additionally, if the target is a creature, it must make a Wisdom saving throw or be frightened of you until the spell ends. As an action, the creature can make a Wisdom check against your spell save DC to steel its resolve and end this spell.



While you are wielding a glaive, halberd, pike, quarterstaff, or spear, other creatures provoke an opportunity attack from you when they enter your reach.

Spear (Favorite): 5ft reach, +5 attack, 1d8+3 dmg (includes 2 sanity dmg to Cha).

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

John Bence, nimbly dodges both of Vargath's massive blows, spinning the Chief's stick like a quarterstaff. He's smiling, until Selissa's arrow strikes him in the chest. Then his eyes alight with malign power, only to be interrupted by Fanlomen grabbing the stick and somehow managing to muscle him down to one knee. The man finally stops his jabbering as he feels the tides turning in a different direction.

Birel's magics make the Chief much lighter, and between his muscle and her balance he manages to get on his feet. Raising his voice, he unleashes a boom of words in Sylvan, raising an ancient hand and pointing it at Bence.
Begone, foul magic!
There is no violence, no eruption of magic, but something even more substantial happens. There is a dull red glow from a pendent underneath Bence's shirt that flashes and then fades away. Suddenly there is no compulsion preventing you from attacking Bence.

The crowd listens enraptured by Jemriah's words, and when his final war cry goes up there are cheers in response. The Chief's men and the villagers alike set upon the names cultists like a wave, grabbing them and dragging them down to the ground. There is kicking, screaming, crying, but everyone who Bence named is contained for the moment.

Bence himself gives up struggling with Fanlomen over the stick and releases it, only to be wrapped bodily by the wood elf. He releases a growl of frustration and anger, followed by a string of nonsense words that are painful to listen to. In a flash of dull red light he disappears, completely invisible. The benefit of this is slightly lessened, however, by the fact that he still has more than a hundred pounds of wood elf hanging from him. "Let me go or I will DESTROY you!"

Bence rolled a 17 on a Charisma (Intimidation) Check against Fanlomen. I'm not one for telling a player what to do with their character, so I'm never going to say that he has to let go, but perhaps a counter roll and some appropriate role play is in order. I'll let you pick how you wish to resist it, but personally I recommend a Cha save or check to resist his force of personality with your own.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

Jemriah smiles at the crowd's gusto, enjoying the power of words even in times of violence. There isn't long to muse; however, and his attention is quickly pulled back to the tussle nearby. Bence may have hidden his body, but he couldn't hide his mind.

The scarred lad conjures a mental image of Bence's face. The wicked smile and deceitful eyes. As his mind's eye pulls the woodsman into view, he feels the same dark language fill his mind as he presses deeper, swimming through hatred as thick as molasses to find more about the creature that commanded Bence's body destructively forward.

Pressing Detect Thoughts deeper on Bence, WIS DC 13. Can use his action to re-save.

Fail = gain Insight into its reasoning (if any), its emotional state, and something that looms large in its mind (such as something it worries over, loves, or hates).

[Amnestic]

Any frustration at his attacks missing seems to just fuel Vargath to strike again, faster and faster. There's no gap in his flurry, no moment to breathe. Even the cultist vanishing into invisibility barely makes Vargath's leg twitch in response, though the elf hanging off him helps. With his wide swing complete he uses the momentum to move forward, circling around Bence to give those following behind a better 'view' of the invisible man. As he passes the two, he effortlessly switches the axe into a reverse handed grip and pulls it back around to cut where Bence's chest used to be visible. While his heart yearned for the satisfying eruption of crimson life that came from a live beheading, striking at all was more important right now. With Fanlomen's help he finds his mark, enjoying the chunky thunk of blade meeting flesh. Even if he can't see his target, he can still hear the pain and, more importantly, smell the blood that sets his mouth into a toothy grin.

Even as he swings though he's not merely relying on his axe. Without word or gesture the rune carved so delicately across dozens of his chain mail links begins to shine. While his growth had been fueled by sky-blue runes, these instead glow with the sickly beautiful purple of a lightning strike. And where his growth had the runes cover his body, these letters instead stream forth from his armour into the open air, collecting their tendrils to form what can only be called a halo of runic letters above Vargath's head, spinning in place. The light it gives off is minor, but still felt. A keen eye would note that the letters themselves crackle and spit with electric effect, and those again fluent in giantish can read the letters translating into what seems to be a poem, a dirge of a dying giant casting one last look to the sun and skies and finding both peace and war above. It's a sorrowful poem of regret, filled with the undercurrent desire to continue on and not go quietly through the gates of the next life.


Attack (with disadvantage): [roll0][roll1] Damage: [roll2]+[roll3]
Bonus Action: Invoke Uvar, Rune of Storms.

Uvar (Storm Rune). Using this rune, you can glimpse the future like a storm giant. While wearing or carrying an object inscribed with this rune, you have advantage on Intelligence (Arcana) checks, and you can’t be surprised as long as you are not incapacitated. In addition, you can invoke the rune as a bonus action to enter a prophetic state for 1 minute or until you’re incapacitated. Until the state ends, when you or another creature you can see within 60 feet of you makes an attack roll, a saving throw, or an ability check, you can use your reaction to cause the roll to have advantage or disadvantage. Once you invoke the rune, you can’t do so again until you finish a short or long rest.
Pre-emptive Reaction: If any of the party prompt a Saving Throw, impose Disadvantage on the save from Bence (not including Detect Thoughts). In the event none do, then hold it to give Advantage on any saving throw that Bence causes.


It takes barely a flick of Vargath's eyes to join his runes to their efforts. The halo flies forward from its spot atop Vargath's head and clamps around Bence's neck, squeezing down tightly. Though it was unlikely to do any real damage, the crackling, gripping runes would serve an ample distraction on Bence's resistance efforts. Whether successful or otherwise, the runes dissipate into air afterwards, but his armour glows once more and in but a moment a new halo ring has formed above his head.


Seeing them threatened, the runes streak forward through the night, adding verse after verse of poem as they do so. The halo grows to form an orb, which itself shifts form to create an aegis floating in mid air to block Bence's effect, or at least try to. Regardless of success, the floating shield composed entirely of giantish letters vanishes, before reforming in a fresh halo atop Vargath's head.

[WhismurWanders]

There was a stabbing pain at Fanlomen's forehead which accompanied Bence's words. The elf was adjusting his grip as best he could on someone he couldn't see, but he could feel the menace radiating off the man. It was like standing too close to a campfire, just at the point where you might find yourself with redder skin the next morning. Yet, there wasn't anywhere for the elf to back up to for safety. He would either be consumed by the firey hatred, or he could withstand it. The wedge which threatened to break not only his physical grip, but also his mental bearings ... it was pushing harder against the layers of psionic energy that protected his mind. My mind is a weapon, and I am in control. My mind is a weapon...

The elf grit his teeth and readjusted his grip. The aura around his person seems to crackle as he reasserts himself. His answer to the man's threats is a curt, "No. Surrender." as he attempts to keep the invisible body within the swinging arc of Vargath's mighty axe while avoiding any damage himself. He only needed to keep Bence still long enough for the rest of the group to put him down or knock him unconscious. Without a weapon, the man would fall quickly.

Maintaining the grapple. Another Athletics check for when Bence inevitably tries to break the grapple: [roll0] + Psi-Bolstered Knack on a failure, [roll1]
Taking the Help action for Vargath

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: Adjust Density (on Chief)

Perwinkle flutters about and trying to be helpful flutters in a circle around Bence and then just baps right into him and scrambles onto his shoulder, trying to help Selissa's aim by giving her something clear to target. He digs his claws in real hard to secure a position. Most likely Bence feels none of this because.... tiny bird.

Merigold on the other hand flew off at the start of all the shouting, let alone the big creature violent actions.


Perwinkle used Help to aid Selissa.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

There is a large gout of blood from Vargath's axe as it plunges into meat and flesh, along with the sound of a collar bone snapping like a twig. There is a sharp cry, and suddenly John Bence appears, blood pouring down his body. He goes limp in Fanlomen's grasp as he falls to his knees, blood pooling and escaping his lips in a flood. But still he smiles.

"Nalzetut! Bence's eyes roll up in his head and he begins to seize, shaking and jumping in Fanlomen's grasp. Suddenly he bursts into flames, intense red fire jetting from his shoulder and his chest where he has been wounded, searing out a full six inches from his body. Fanlomen is caught in the flames as Bence begins to laugh with his last breaths, his skin beginning to char.

Good job, heroes! You've struck me down! Be seeing you soon!

The flames grow more intense, and Bence goes up like a candle, smoking and burning over his entire body. Fanlomen is forced to relinquish his hold as the corpse falls to the earth. But as mesmerizing as the flames are, what happens next is easily more terrifying.

There comes a moan from the crowd, followed by several more. Suddenly the villagers holding down the Fultons and the Fowlers start to release their hold, pulling back in disgust and fear. There are four Fultons and five Fowlers, including five children between them. One of the Fowler's daughters looks to her panicking, moaning mother and murmurs "Mommy, it hurts! IT HURTS!". Then there is a flash of that same dull, red light and the two families erupt, horrifying creatures clawing their way into this reality as the human bodies fade away.

The villagers recoil and several begin to vomit, either from the scene they have just witnessed or the overpowering smell of rot that emits from the creatures. They stand just over four feet tall, with bloated bodies rippling with grotesque fat. Open sores seep a yellow fluid, but the most disgusting thing is their faces. Resting atop a pile of chubby chins is a flat, stupid looking face with beady black eyes, looking perpetually confused and hungry, with no trace of humanity. Shattered, broken teeth erupt from bloody gums, again looking like broken glass has been forced into the flesh. Resting in these teeth is a bloody chunk of flesh. The creature looks down at it dully, then jerks back it's head and opens wide, swallowing it whole. The crowd of nine creatures all release a simultaneous warbling howl and begin eyeing the crowd with that stupid, bloody hunger as the villagers begin to take flight, abandoning the fight.

John Bence's final spell has taken effect.

Time for our first mass insanity roll. Everyone needs to roll vs. a DC 8. Use the mental stat of your choice.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: Adjust Density (on Chief)

Perwinkle flutters off as Bence dies.
Upon seeing the horrid creatures Birel recoils and on instinct tries to smash all of them while backing away. It's just pure luck that the villagers themselves recoiled. Her black as night wand whips out and she evokes some words that sound alien and much deeper than her normal speaking voice and there's a dark shimmer in the aim as it and dirt and probably the foul creatures are slammed downward violently.


Birel casts Magnify Gravity (DC 13 Con save): The gravity in a 10-foot-radius sphere centered on a point you can see within range increases for a moment. Each creature in the sphere on the turn when you cast the spell must make a Constitution saving throw. On a failed save, a creature takes [roll0] force damage, and its speed is halved until the end of its next turn. On a successful save, a creature takes half as much damage and suffers no reduction to its speed.
Until the start of your next turn, any object that isn't being worn or carried in the sphere requires a successful Strength check against your spell save DC to pick up or move.

Then she moves back 30 feet away, if she can. She's just moving 30 feet in the direction of whatever is behind her, so if there's a barrier/crowd of people in the way she winds up stopping short.

[Awful]

The people faded and demons emerged, as if the two had simply swapped places - and indeed, for all Selissa knew, they had, and now the souls of the villagers were surely in the eternal torment below.

Somehow, despite them being actual demons, Selissa was unaffected. Inside, unconsciously, she'd been tensed and prepared for this as soon as Bence had stepped forward, fearless.

The bloated demons seemed slow and stupid, but they were demons. Without hesitation, Selisss drew back and fired off a shot. It was a clean shot, striking the demon closest to any of the villagers.


Rolls on discord: 25 for stealth, 17 to hit, 13 damage.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: Wrathful Smite (Round 2/10)

Feeling the heat behind him, Set risks a glance back over his shoulder in time to see Fanlomen drop Bence to the ground, his flesh sizzling as flames erupt from the gash in his shoulder and the hole in his chest. Set shields his eyes from the intense light and heat as Bence congratulates them, his words ringing hollow as he promises to see them all again soon.

Turning back towards the crowd, Set hears the moans of pain and terror rise up over the din, shattered bodies and minds giving way to nine horrors.

Set's own mind was still fragile from having seen what the cultists had done to that poor bull at the Fulton's estate and imagining his sisters in their place. Though fear may well reside only in his mind, it is in his mind that the battle for his sanity is being fought, and so far today the Shadowkeeper was coming out on top.

Watching the Fulton children break, the youngest Fowler slaughtered in terrible fashion without thought or remorse, Set's mind wavers. The stink of corruption and rot fills his nostrils as the monstrosities born of filth stare back at him dumbly, only dimly aware of him while Set can see nothing else. Their dark, beady eyes seem to hold a secret just for him.

Your sisters will suffer the same fate, Set. You cannot SAVE them. You can only watch them BREAK.

The shadow seems to slowly seep back out of his weapon and sink into his skin, sneaking past his defenses. The chill of darkness and death envelops Set, the path to insanity clearly laid out before him, but in the moments that follow, a flicker from his enemy actually serves to light his path. Fire is never content to sit idle while there is fuel nearby. As Bence smolders behind him, Set feels the warmth of his homeland tickle the back of his skin. A spark seems to ignite within him as he thinks of Abydos, spreading quickly into a blaze that turns back the darkness, channeling the shadow back into his Favorite and locking it there for further use.

Eyes aflame, Set sizes up the situation as Birel's spell crushes a few dretch into the earth, their forms pressed by some unseen force. Instinctively, Set moves to his left, closing in for the kill without putting himself directly in the path of all the dretch at once. He holds his Favorite aloft with his left hand while his right digs into his belt for a hatchet, closing and launching it at the weakest looking target.


Handaxe ranged attack from 20 ft: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1] slashing


While you are wielding a glaive, halberd, pike, quarterstaff, or spear, other creatures provoke an opportunity attack from you when they enter your reach.

Spear (Favorite): 5ft reach, +5 attack, 1d8+3 dmg (includes 2 sanity dmg to Cha).

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

The demons on the left side of the square were just beginning to get their bearings when Birel's spell drove all four of them down towards the earth, eliciting whines and horking barks from the creatures as they are crushed downwards. Two of them manage to pull themselves up against the intense weight, but two are reduced to crawling. When Set rushes forward, the two still mobile demons rush forward towards him. One of them catches a hatchet to the gut for his trouble, but neither stop. When they come within range of Set's Favorite, however, they both meet their end to two sharp jabs to their piggy faces. The two crawling demons mewl and try to rush Set as well, but their pitiful speed holds them back.

The five demons on the right who were the Fowlers eagerly search for targets. One of them starts moving towards a villager who has fallen in their rush to get away, but Selissa's arrow hits it between the shoulder blades, causing it to turn around and face her. It points it's clawed hand at her and releases a bellow in a foul tongue, and the small hoard of five Dretches begin making their way towards her. Their stunted legs are slow, however, and it is doubtful that they will be able to climb on top of the building she has mounted. Truly these creatures are the worst example of fiends.

The four dretches on the left are reduced to two, and the five on the right are moving in a pack to surround Selissa's building. If Jemriah aims a line at the ones on the right he will be able to hit four.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: Adjust Density (on Chief)

Managing to get her wits about her, and breathing a sigh of relief that he panicked action had worked out well and not killed some hapless villager, Birel steadies herself and.... sees a group of them going for the crowd/Selissa instead of people more able to defend themselves in a fight. She runs parallel to them, keeping her distance but needing to be at least somewhat nearby due to the range of this spell as she once more strikes the air with her wand, this time a sort of starry-sparking barely visible at the tip as she invokes the same spell again and slam the demons to the ground.


Birel casts Magnify Gravity (DC 13 Con save): The gravity in a 10-foot-radius sphere centered on a point you can see within range increases for a moment. Each creature in the sphere on the turn when you cast the spell must make a Constitution saving throw. On a failed save, a creature takes [roll0] force damage, and its speed is halved until the end of its next turn. On a successful save, a creature takes half as much damage and suffers no reduction to its speed.
Until the start of your next turn, any object that isn't being worn or carried in the sphere requires a successful Strength check against your spell save DC to pick up or move.

Edit: Damage is actually 7

She moves as close as she has to to be within 60 feet so she can catch as many as possible in the spell's area.

Arcana check for knowing things: [roll0]

[Amnestic]

As Vargath raises his axe to finish beheading the cultist he's cheated from his kill by the man self-immolating. "See us all you like, I'll just kill you again and again!" He roars into the gloom as the flames vanish. Bence's threat was worthless to Vargath. A foe killed once could be killed twice, and he doubted the failures of Bence would be met with high praise and reward by whatever profane powers he called master.

When the dretches appear his leg twitches forward to stomp towards them but finds he can't make the step. He's shaking. Palms sweat. Eyes blink back a tear. His jaw slackens ever so slightly and he swallows, hard. He tries to push it aside, quietly channeling the rune halo to himself to bolster his emotions. He takes a breath to recover himself, but while he could sit idle to recentre himself in the moment he stays moving, circling round to pick up any fallen villagers to their feet and pushing them away, yelling at them to retreat into buildings and bar the doors while they can.


Vargath's Frightened so he can't get closer. Move/Action spent helping villagers stand and run.
Reaction spent on giving himself Advantage via Uvar on breaking Frightened at the end of his turn, using Int.
[roll0][roll1]

[WhismurWanders]

The heat of Bence's sudden immolation causes the wood elf to stumble back a few steps, coughing as the sudden heat in the air he was breathing threatened to smother his lungs. Then he heard the voices crying out, even if his eyes were forced shut to prevent them from being boiled. A little girl who was calling out in pain. It was only now that Fanlomen managed to force his eyes back open. Then he saw them.

The children.

The children twisted into monsters by powers beyond their own understanding.

Fanlomen's pulse went into overdrive. He had been here before. The elf had caused this kind of tragedy before. Was it the sheer ineptitude of being a child that had prevented friend and family from becoming vile demons? The Chief had recognized him as some kind of nightmare, and Bence had proven that he too had been gifted powers beyond mere mortals. Where was the line that differentiated them? Could he be counted on to make the right decisions? Would he have the mental acuity to not succumb to dark powers? Fanlomen's mind frayed slightly as memories of voices were called back to the front of his mind. <"It hurts, it hurts!"> <"Back away younglings!> His own screams of terror as he sat there helpless as his power threatened to tear everything around him to shreds. "Fanlomen Fogspyre, it is the judgement of the village that you be dismissed from the clan, to prevent further destruction." The disappointed look in his father's eyes. The teary-eyed look of betrayal from his mother.

No.

He was stronger than this. He had learned much. More than a century's experience had brought him on this road. He was in control, he served the Green Faith and the Shepherds. He had trained to avoid history from repeating himself. He had changed, and grown. If anything, he was uniquely insighted to this kind of horror, already hardened to what could come from it. He pushed forward to place himself between the fiends and Selissa. His arms move in wide, flowing arcs as two daggers appear in his hands, spectral and ethereal. They glint a light shade of green as he hurls them at the closest of the hellspawn.

Insanity Save was 20 in Discord
Attack: [roll0] for [roll1]
Bonus Action Attack: [roll2] for [roll3]

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

While the remains of the demons' birth were similar to what was left in his own wake, he fled before the screaming and wailing of onlookers began... and was now grateful that he had. The spell he had cast sent a torrent of anguish surging into his mind, and he quickly dismissed the spell to avoid their terror accidentally awakening his inner beast. They had enough to deal with at the moment.

Fortunately others were already acting, and by the time Jemriah re-joined the fray the fat monstrosities were already waddling in a perfect line. Withdrawing the petrified tentacle from his jacket, Jemriah utters a few arcane words that choke up in his throat. His cheeks bloat, and his body heaves before a stream of acrid, yellow liquid shoots forth, coating the creatures headed toward Selissa's perch. He spits the last of it out on the ground before him where it reduces the grass into a steaming puddle.

Maneuvering to line up 4 dretches and casting Acid Stream (30' line).
DEX save DC 13.
Fail = covered in acid and takes [roll0] acid damage at the start of its turn. It may use an action to scrape the acid off, otherwise it takes damage again each round.

Jemriah is concentrating on the spell for 1 minute.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: Wrathful Smite (Round 3/10)

Set is ready for them. That same warbling howl echoes through the square as two of the strongest who'd managed to resist Birel's magics run at him. He buries a hatchet in one from afar, and readies his Favorite to greet the other. He'd been studying The Way since he was a boy too young to lift his father's Ramah, a spear whose name roughly translated from the old tongue into the phrase, "First Ray of Dawn." Any thought of whether that spear still hung proudly in the halls of his fathers or lay in ruins was far from his mind. This was battle, and Set's mind was finally, blissfully empty.

As the stupid looking creatures shambled towards him, Set adjusted his feet, feinting low and then stabbing through the first's jaw, feeling the dretch go slack as it's stinking skin gives way. He kicks it off her, freeing his Favorite to stab the second between it's eyes, his hatchet still buried in its side. His eyes turn to the other two, their already short legs seemingly trudging through quicksand as they struggle to close with him.

He would help them. Silent as the executioner, Set's feet pad towards the two abominations, spear held in one hand behind him until he's close enough for her to reach out and touch them. He doesn't let out more than a grunt as his hands blur, Favorite flashing forward as she reaches out to give each of them the kiss of death.


Note: much of the narration is from last round's actions and during the dretch's turn. I just felt like tying that in. This round:

Move into melee with both remaining 'Fulton' demons. Attack one until it falls, then the other.

Spear attack (2H):
Damage: [roll1] piercing + [roll2] psychic

Action surge
Spear attack (2H): [roll3]
Damage: [roll4] piercing + [roll5] psychic

Bonus action
Polearm Master spear butt attack: [roll6]
Damage: [roll[1d4+36 (from Discord) bludgeoning + [roll7]


Spear (Favorite): 5ft reach, +5 attack, 1d8+3 dmg (includes 2 sanity dmg to Cha).

While you are wielding a spear, other creatures provoke an opportunity attack from you when they enter your reach. When you take the attack action with a spear you can use a bonus action to make a melee attack with the other end of the weapon. The damage die is a d4 (add attribute modifiers as normal) and deals bludgeoning damage. Otherwise, this attack functions just as if you attacked with the weapon in question.



DC 13 Wis or frightened

The next time you hit with a melee weapon attack during this spell’s duration, your attack deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage.
Additionally, if the target is a creature, it must make a Wisdom saving throw or be frightened of you until the spell ends. As an action, the creature can make a Wisdom check against your spell save DC to steel its resolve and end this spell.

[Awful]

Selissa darted back out of sight of the lumbering monstrosities, her dexterous left hand retrieving another arrow. She popped up on the other side of the building's roof, nock-aim-release, and one of the demons had an arrow sprouting like a bizarre horn from between its dull eyes. The others had dived in to combat for the most part - but Selissa had always been a wildstalker and archer. This was her place; sniping out foes with the famous archery of the wood elves. Given time to set up and aim from ambush, and she never missed. She could only hope it'd be enough against whatever fiercer foes lay in the future.

And Jemriah was magically vomiting again.

Gross.

14 to hit, 15 damage

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

Vargath can't force himself to approach the dretches, but he does scoop up a child and an old man who had stumbled and ushers them on their way. They do not take the time to thank him, but they will certainly remember who helped them survive.

Bringing the fight to the two remaining demons close to him, Set's first strike deflects off the demon's skin, but the second strike takes the creature in the throat. Vile black blood bursts from the creature as it goes down screaming in pain. For a few seconds Set's Favorite is stuck in the fatty chins of the demon, and in those seconds the remaining monster on his side of the square latches onto his exposed arm with it's teeth and bites down hard, drawing blood from the world wanderer. It attempts to scrape it's filthy claws down his arm as well, but by then the spear is free, smacking aside the demon with enough force to give Set a moment's respite.

Birel's spell sends two demons flat to the ground again, mewling and straining to get mobile again. Two seem relatively unaffected, but one of these creatures takes Selissa's arrow to the face. It stumbles in a small circle for a second, grasping at the arrow, before it realizes it's brain has been destroyed and falls over. The other mobile demon finds Fanlomen in it's path and rushes at the Shepherd, taking a psychic blade to it's prodigious gut as it charges. It attempts to bite and rake the wood elf, but try as it may it cannot touch him. Then Jemriah's acid sprays over it and the surviving dretches, coating three of them in the sizzling liquid. The one who charged Fanlomen and two others begin to melt into fatty puddles, too stupid to remove the acid before it lays them low. This leaves one surviving dretch on the right side of the square, which attempts to clamber on top of the building Selissa is firing from in single minded, idiotic fury. It fails stupendously, falling off while halfway up and landing on it's head with a hollow thud before rolling onto it's belly, prone and vulnerable.

Set takes 4 damage from the Dretch's bite. One surviving dretch on the left with Set and one surviving dretch that rolled a nat 1 on it's athletics check prone on the right. Clean em up, folks.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: Adjust Density (on Chief)

With an artistic flicking of her wand, Birel fires an almost azure more than white ray of frost that makes a cool crackling sounds as it moves through the air and hits a surface at the demon nearby Set as Periwinkle flies at it parallel with the ray.


Perwinkle Helps Birel.

Ray of Frost: [roll0]
advantage: [roll1]
damage: [roll2]
if crit: [roll3]

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: Wrathful Smite (Round 4/10)

Set cries out in pain and disgust as the demonic creature sinks it's jagged teeth into his arm, ripping the sleeve of his jalabiya and leaving a bloody trail in it's place. He tries to punch the creature off with the spine of his spear, but a bird of periwinkle and a ray of azure come flying in, raising a squawk from the demon and giving Set all the room he needs.

The butt of his spear arcs parallel to the ground, just missing as the creature ducks underneath the blow, seemingly at Set's knees and staring up at him stupidly. Set's Favorite whirls around with the momentum of the swing as he brings her point crashing down through the creature's upturned, gaping mouth and nails it to the earth through its body.

Set's eyes dart up towards the next target as the battle continues. One left. Stomping his boot into the demon's face, Set pulls his Favorite free, cradling her with one blood-soaked hand stained black from the creature's spray and the other painted red as his own blood drips freely down his left arm.

Rushing across the square, Set moves quickly towards the last dretch standing, eager to watch it crawl back to hell.


Discord rolls across the board.

Bonus Action
Spear butt attack: 9

Action:
Spear attack (2H): 17
Damage: 13

Move action:
Run towards the last one standing.

[Amnestic]

The rune magic does a less than stellar job at calming Vargath's nerves and giving him the heart to charge back into the fray. He takes another deep breath, focuses and tries to push the fear away, push it down until he can process it in peace later. He could grasp their nature, if he tried. The halo glimmers and shrinks, binding around his forehead and slowly seeping into his skin.

With the villagers helped, he turns to the fiendish foes that still stand. He might not be able to find it in him to step closer but he could at least do something. Blunt or blade, it didn't matter, he just wanted to hit something. To help. To not be useless. He shifts his weight, draws his right foot back and pulls back hard before stomping forward with his left and launching his axe in a powerful overhead throw through the air, spinning head over end in a direct path at the nearest enemy.


Vargath is going to throw his axe.
Attack (disadvantage from frightened): [roll0][roll1]. Damage: [roll2]* + [roll3]

Uvar granting advantage on breaking frightened at the end of his turn, using Intelligence: [roll4][roll5]

*Dice changed to 1d4 for improvised since it's not a throwing weapon, modifier lowered to +3 because no longer dueling.

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen sees the others seem to have the situation under control, and returns to where he had left the corpse of the man who started all this. Just to make sure there was no funny business going on, he would plant one of his physical daggers into the corpse's chest. There were strange magics at work here, and he wanted to make sure the dead would stay dead.

[Awful]

Selissa stepped up to the corner of the roof. For a moment, she looked down at the wretched demon, and the beast turned its head to look back up at her with a single dull eye.

A hideous thing, she thought, as she steadily withdrew another arrow from her quiver and nocked it. Perhaps realising it was about to die, the demon tried to push itself back upright. A gurgling bellow began to grow in its throat-

Selissa's arrow nailed its head to the dirt.

She watched it carefully for a moment, to ensure it was dead, and then straightened up. She nodded once in satisfaction and nimbly dropped down to the ground by the corpse of the monster.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

The last demon takes an ax across the spine that sends it reeling, then an arrow to the face that puts it down. You are left with nine corpses, until, with a loud sucking noise, each and every demon is ripped from this reality, almost like a liquid up a straw, disappearing in a wet singularity of crushed, slurped monster. Fanlomen's dagger sinks into the remains of John Bence with a dull thunk, breaking through his burned flesh easily enough and burying in his heart. He has become nearly cremated, and another pyre will finish the job readily.

In all the commotion, Weldry Wessen has gone missing. Likely he ran as soon as he was given a chance. The Widower Trent and the Jakobs are still present, having run with the crowd and returned with them as well. The Chief has his cane again, looking out at the square with disgust. "This night needs to be over. It's nearly morning already. Let dawn bring righteousness to our cause." He raises his voice to a shout. "Take the Jakobs and the Widower Trent home. Guard their doors. We will find out their involvement tomorrow." The Chief turns to the party, eyes tired, arms shaking.

"I wouldn't send anyone to find Wessen this night. We already know the werewolves are about, and whatever horror Bence summoned in the Banewood. If you wish, you can pursue him, but I think banishment is an acceptable punishment at this point." He shakes his head. "Thank you all. Without you, this cult could have led us to ruin."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Sprinting for the last dretch, Set watches an axe take it in the back before Selissa's arrow pierces its skull and nails it to the ground. Slowing to a walk, Set joins Selissa by its remains, examining the demonic creature now that it's no longer a threat.

"Nice shot," Set exclaims, glancing over at Selissa appraisingly before looking back down at the dretch. "Can't say I've spent that much time learning the way of the bow, but it certainly has its uses when you can place one like that. Not to mention," Set continues, grimacing more at the dretch's blood than his own, "staying out of reach has its benefits."

Suddenly the dretch at his feet is sucked from this reality, it's place on this plane forfeit. Set watches with a mixture of horror and dark curiosity as all of the demonic forms meld together and are slurped from existence, the image of their filth joining together making him uncomfortable.

He rips the right sleeve off his jalabiya, the left already in shreds from a dretch's bite, and wipes the black blood from his hands and his Favorite with disgust, doing what he can to cleanse what's left of them from his person. He looks around for a water source, but before he can find one his eyes settle on Vargath. "Didn't take you for much of a ranger," he says, picking the half-orc's axe up and walking it over to him. "Didn't realize those giants speaking to you had designs on making you one of them, either," he says with a touch of admiration.

Listening to the Chief's words, Set nods, feeling the weight of his own fatigue settling over him. It's been a long night. set barely had the energy to be disgusted by Jemriah's foul use of magic. The thought of chasing Weldry back into the Banewood when he didn't even serve Pale Night was more exhausting still.

"Perhaps it is time we rested," Set says, looking around at companion and enemy alike. "Let the man Wessen find his way through the Banewood alone and never return. No doubt that's punishment enough."

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Birel shrugs in reply to the Chief's decision, she trusted him best in how to deal with these threats. And she was getting rather tired. Thinking of that she looked at the assembled others and the Chief, "Given the dangers present and that some situation might occur it be best for us to quickly arrive together for, I would like to invite some of you to stay at my home for the night. I don't have room for all of you, but I could take two or three."

[Amnestic]

Vargath takes the axe from Set, still dripping with blood. He wipes the worst of it off on the grass. A proper clean would have to wait. "I am Vargath, nothing more or less." He replies to Set's...probable compliment. He judged it as such. After a minute, the runes that had flared up across his body do so a second time, but rather than spreading they instead steadily coalesce back to his eyes as he shrinks back down to his normal size of six and a half feet, still towering over everyone. When he has returned to his original size he blinks twice and the runeglow vanishes. Once again, Vargath. Nothing more or less.

"Throwing axes are usually custom made, but we make do with what we have." He kept quiet about the fear that had gripped him and prevented him from closing the distance. Such thoughts were his alone. "ᚨᚾᛞ ᛟᚢᚱᛊ, ᛟᚠ ᚲᛟᚢᚱᛊᛖ." Yes, and theirs, he conceded. The bloodletting had reinvigorated Vargath, and he felt his second wind hard and fast. He felt he could run laps around the village border. He shouldn't, and wouldn't, but he could.

"I'm loathe to leave any loose ends, but the weasel devilboy," He wasn't an adult, to Vargath. Possibly not even a child. He'd certainly met children with more sense and spine, "is more likely to become food for a monster than bother the village again. That said I would like to check his home before retiring, just in case he's folly enough to return rather than leave with just the clothes on his back." He's volunteering to save any of the tired from the effort, and truthfully he doesn't expect to find anything - but it would give him time to wind down. Or perhaps another head to take. Either was fine.

At Birel's suggestion, he considers for a moment. "There's a few suddenly empty houses now, if you can't accommodate us all." He wasn't embarrassed to admit he hadn't kept count of exactly how many. At least two, he knew that much, though he'd rather see Bence's home put to the torch. "If I'm checking Wessen's house, I could sleep there - perhaps catch him trying to sneak back in should he try something. "

[Awful]

At the Chief's statement, Selissa shook her head.
"Still could. Don't know what's in the Banewood. Till that's gone, can't relax too much."
She crouched to retrieve her arrow from where it had slain the dretch. It had been left behind, neatly cleansed of demon ichor by the whirlpool-like effect that had sucked up the remains of the dead monsters.

She blinked in surprise as one of the adventurer humans spoke to her, nursing a wound left by a demon's claws on his arm.
"Yes," she agreed. It had been a nice shot, and the bow did have plenty of uses. A moment passed before she awkwardly added "...thank you. Best to kill from afar. Best prey is unaware, until..."
She tapped the arrow in her hand, her wooden finger making a plink sound against it.

She felt a turn of unease at letting an assembly of strangers sleep in her home, as Birel so boldly volunteered her own. Still, she would like to talk more freely with one of her own kind.
"I... would permit the forest-brother to share my fire, if need be, but none other. Without offence, humans, half-blood."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"No offense taken," Set says, bowing his head slightly towards Selissa. "No one could fault you for being cautious in these times, particularly with all we've seen this night."

For a moment, Set's eyes glance over at Fanlomen, worried for Selissa should he have misjudged the wood-elf earlier. He'd shown his merits, that was true, but what of the nightmare? A dagger well-wielded already promised danger and duplicity, but doubly so in the hands of one who made them appear from nothing. Whether it was a trick borne from nimble fingers or something darker Set could not say, but if he'd meant to use his skills on anyone in their company, he'd been awfully forthcoming about his powers. His daggers, hidden as they were, were no longer hidden from them. If only everyone were so forthcoming. One among them still hid behind a mask of innocence.

Set could feel the young man's presence nearby, but he refused to look over at Jemriah. He'd no desire to restrain himself from the further taunts of his abuser. Open confrontation wasn't possible, not while they'd sold their soul to the same patron, though no doubt Set would die in the attempt to rid the world of Jemriah's evil regardless. Jemriah was undeniably, unequivocally in His service, but the Shadowkeeper clearly favored his young prodigy with powers far beyond what Set had been given.

The coin had been bad enough. When Set had flipped his own coin and promised his soul in exchange for his sisters, the coin had given him the strength to do what was necessary. He never could've guessed another pawn of the Shadowkeeper would taunt him with it. But why stop there? Jemriah's arrogance knew no bounds and no doubt word of Set's failings at the Fulton estate had been music to his ears. The thought of Jemriah spewing filth and corruption all over those dretch made Set's stomach turn, skin itching as phantom acid trickled down his spine. Looking towards Birel and Vargath, Set was loathe to split from any more of those he might be able to call allies while Jemriah stood nearby, nor did he wish to see them leave alone with him.

"A generous offer, Birel, thank you," Set starts, looking at her earnestly and thanking his lucky stars. "If it's not too much trouble, should the rest of us not stay together?" Set asks, pointedly staring at Vargath, a pleading quality creeping into his voice. "I am far from my own home, tis true, but where I'm from we take such water as is offered. I am thirsty for a place to rest my head where we needn't worry about a demonic presence." Jemriah alone was enough to worry about. "Besides," Set continues, nodding to the wolf-pelt cloak and the wolf sigil, "the pack is stronger together, right?" We may not be strong enough apart.

Set did not doubt Birel could punish Jemriah with the weight of the heavens if he showed his true face, or the strength of giants would rip the young man limb from limb should Vargath recognize him for what he was, but neither of them saw His influence. Neither of them saw what Jemriah hid. And if the Shadowkeeper wished to play a game, taunting Set from within and without, Set would not allow Him or His servant to claim two more lives in the battle for Set's sanity.

[WhismurWanders]

With the threat of the hellspawn put to rest, and the corpse of Bence not reacting to being stabbed post-mortem, Fanlomen retrieves his dagger quietly and rejoins the rest of the group. From what he could tell, only a few minor scratches and cuts had been endured by Set, and aside from the missing villagers who had fled or been turned into lesser beings, no other casualties had been sustained. Good. The flock had been protected, and even the wizened Chief had held his own against the forces of darkness. It was a genuine victory.

At first, the wood elf prepares to spend a night with Vargath, or at least ask if the half-orc would have him along for the watch at the abandoned house. However, he stops short when he hears Selissa's offer. It seemed a bit strange to him; while he was technically of the same people as her, he had always felt quite removed from their culture. Their blood was no doubt the same color, but was he still her forest-brother when he had been banished so long ago? His mind kept finding excuses even as his heart grabbed control of his mouth, and he answered, "I am grateful for the offer. It has been a while since I have rested near a hearth."

[Amnestic]

Vargath frowns at Set for a moment, though his rough-hewn features make it easy to miss as just his normal resting face. He hadn't exactly felt welcome - and if space was an issue then the hulking orcblood was perhaps not the wisest of house guests. "If there is room," he nods at Birel, "and it would not impose unduly. I have been known to snore." He wanted to give her a reasonable out without losing face. Courtesy to guests only extends as far as a host's arm can reach, and if there wasn't space then, well, there wasn't. His power was of giants, not mites. He wasn't sure what had Set on edge, but perhaps Bence and demons had rattled him too. "Though I would like to check the Wessen's home first regardless of where I lay my head." He adds on - no sense wasting his adrenaline high while he had it.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Village Square

"Wait. All of you." Chief Moeller opens his coat and unfastens a large bag. Opening it up, he withdraws six smaller purses, handing one to each of you. "Three hundred gold, split six ways, fifty apiece. You may not find a place to spend it during your time here, but it is well earned. Now go to your rest. There is more work to be done tomorrow." This said, Maus Moeller goes about seeing that the other suspected cultists are handled. Jemriah's thought detection spell reveals no guilt from the Widower Trent or the Jakobs- they have the same confusion and fear as everyone else, magnified several times by the fact that Bence named them. Even a deeper dive into their thoughts reveals no sign of corruption- their minds whisper prayers to the spirits of the Green Faith. Prayers of salvation and safety, earnest and honest. Everyone else in the village goes home safely, leaving the six of you to walk to your respective sleeping places together. The coins are all uniform- rough round coins with a hole punched in the center, meant to be strung together. There are no stamps or markings to identify them.

Weldry Wesson's shop and house are in shambles when Vargath goes to check it out. Much of the wood for his pyre was ripped from his very home. In the wreckage you do find a lock box that was broken into, presumably when the shop was being looted for wood. It has been emptied, but a single piece of platinum remains, wedged in the lid of the box. It is a promising coin, diamond shaped with rounded edges and a hole in the center, obviously meant to be worn on a string like your gold. It is stamped with the symbol of twin mountains on either side of the coin, a crown on top, and a river below, minted somewhere official in the Vale.

I'll leave it to Ramsus and Awful to describe their homes. I'll allow a bit of time for roleplay before bed before advancing to the next day.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

As the panic comes to a close and the demons leave this realm, Jemriah steps over to Bence's body with Fanlomen. As he withdraws his dagger from the ashen figure, Jemriah peels back the crisped shreds of his tunic, looking for the carving of the town's name in what was left of his flesh... just to be sure. On finding it he withdraws his hand and frowns, heavily releasing a held breath aand shaking his eyes trying to both remove the vision from his thoughts and also refocus on the details of what he saw. "I'd be honored to share your fire, Birel. My thanks."

... and an opportunity to speak privately. Their tolerance of his mental intrusions was nice. When he'd tried this in the past with... normal people, it hadn't gone particularly well. And it was difficult to have a more private conversation than the kind he offered.

<Birel, wait up,> he thinks to her, a sliver of his essence connecting with her own as he takes a few quick steps to reach her at the head of their group. To anyone watching they were simply walking together in the comfortable silence of old friends.

<You've been studying this place for a while, right? Buried ruins, you said? So you know a lot about old buildings and stuff... Have you heard of... the Ebon Ziggurat?> His steps bear the brunt of his exhaustion, and the conversation was as much to help stay awake as to make sense of things.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Birel raises an eyebrow in surprise, but doesn't respond aloud as she imagines if young Jemriah wanted to share this conversation with the others he would have done so. <"Ebon Ziggurat you say? How interesting. My life's work has been studying something I've dubbed the Onyx Obelisk and just this morning I discovered there is another related location somewhere out there in the woods. Which is what I was referring to before... though now I don't recall if you were there for that."> she replies and mentally communicates the concept of a shrug, as the exact order of conversations was lost to her memory given all the activity this day had seen. <"My goal is to find this.... Ebon Ziggurat as you put it, assuming that is the same place as what I'm searching for. Why do you ask? And just as importantly, where did you learn of such things?">


As Birel leads the three men back to her home she mentally chuckles to herself as she thinks, "Oh dear, what would the neighbors think!" Not that she can imagine any of the three propositioning her, let alone all three at once. Nor would it matter as the outlying farms are distant enough from each other that it's unlikely anyone else even saw them pass. (Jemriah might pick any of this up if he still has Detect Thoughts going.)

As they approach, they see a modest sized roughly circular shaped farmhouse with a small barn attached. There is only the stray wooden plank here and there to hint that the property might once have been surrounded by a fence. In a very loose area there is a wild garden that may have once been contained and free of weeds that is clearly just slowly spreading out due to lack of proper gardening (though at least the flowers and vegetable and fruit bearing plants clearly get watered as they're growing). Also there's just a cow skull sitting right next to the pathway to the door.

Birel opens the arched door and leads everyone inside, the first to enter are Periwinkle and Marigold. The first thing to be seen in a room that takes up a large portion of the home and is clearly focused around the hearth at the opposite side from the door. In front of the hearth are the usual tools and pots, as well as some cushions, spare bed-sheets, and quilts. And of course some firewood and kindling. On the wall to the right of the entry is a bookcase, filled with all manner of things. Certainly the expected books and scrolls, but also jars and bowls and loose items. On the left side is a locked chest and a window above it. Closer to the hearth on the same side of the room is a sizable bird area or something like that. Little wooden poles going up with various poles going outwards at different heights and lengths on top of a flat board sticking out of the wall. On one side with some more panels as "walls" are a pair of small bowl. One with a mix of seeds and the other water.

To the right (from the perspective of those entering) there is an open doorway which leads into a bedroom with a large unmade bed. Inside the bedroom is also a dresser, a desk, and various items like candles and ink and quills. There is a window in this room as well, situated in front of the desk.

To the left side of the main room is a closed door that leads to a sizable pantry. Inside it's lined with shelves, modestly though certainly not fully filled with various items. Some you would expect like bottles of milk, wheels of cheese, and cured meats. But also bowls or jars of plants and powders or other such items. On the far side there is another closed door that leads to the barn. There certainly seems like there's more milk here than would be required for just Birel herself. There are also barrels of water.

If someone inspects the barn they find that while it clearly is meant to store a few animals due to the pens and trophs, what it is currently being used for is storage of more plants and odd items and a sizable amount of firewood, kindling, and various seeds and millet. On closer inspection of the barn, it would seem the largest pen has a tub for bathing in it and the various items that would accompany that. Including more water barrels and even a little fire pit underneath for heating the water. On even close inspection the troph here has been modified to be a sort of tube that sends the water flowing outside if one were to tip the tub over it. There is also a door in the back of the barn that reveals itself to be an outhouse.

After everyone enters, Birel motions to whoever comes in last to close the door and she says, "Well, you'll have to argue over which of you gets the bed for the night. There should be enough space by the hearth for the rest of us." As she gets the fire started she asks, "Does anyone need anything to eat or drink? I'm out of spirits or ale that aren't reserved for the green folk, but I have plenty of water and milk and some not alcoholic cider or blackberry juice. As for food, well I mainly eat my dinner at the inn most nights. So it's just some bread, cheese, nuts, berries, and cured meats. Though I do have plenty of garlic and onions and there are some fruits and vegetables growing outside if you want to check if anything is ready. Might be a few potatoes, squashes, blackberries, or mint. I don't think anything else would be ready right now. Though I have somewhat lost track." she finishes with a shrug.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

On the walk...

Jemriah tilts his heada bit, weighing how much to share. They would likely all need to know eventually, but talking it through with Birel would help refine the idea. The 'tone' of his thoughts clearly conveys he doesn't really know what he's talking about, just trying to make sense of a smattering of information.
<I saw it... in Bence's head just before he died. Well not it, the ziggurat, but he was thinking about a promise he made to Pale Night just before he burned up. A promise to find it for Her. And She told him it was in Dam'ess... or near hear at least, I think. That's why he came. That's what all of this horror was for - The Ebon Ziggurat.>

<Cccccooooommmmeeeeeee....> rumbled the plodding thoughts of the Dim, stirred no doubt by his calling on its powers this evening. Or perhaps it knew of this Ziggurat as well? If it was indeed buried somewhere beneath these foothills... Jemriah's breath catches a moment before he shakes the thought from his mind, losing focus on the connection with Birel for a split second as well though he hopes she doesn't notice.

<What about red stone buildings?> he continues. <I don't know of any near Falcairn or down by the water, but I haven't traveled too far or been high up into the hills here. Do you know any red... temples? or towers or anything?>

As the group enters Birel's abode, Jemriah looks around curiously though does not venture beyond the main room as such an intrusion would be rude. It told a tale of a busy life and the singular purpose of protection from the dark of night. He found himself wondering where she called home, because this struck him as no more than a place to close one's eyes and prepare for the next venture.

"I'm fine on the floor," Jemriah concedes, doffing his pack in one of the few uncluttered corners where it will be as unobtrusive as possible while he waits for the others to select their desired spots. His eyes follow the fluttering birds hopping between beams and dipping into their feed. He was too tired to eat, but perhaps in gratitude for the lodgings he would rise early and make breakfast. He didn't sleep well most nights, anyway... though after the day's events hopefully this night would be an exception...

"It's nearly dawn," he reminds everyone. "my stomach went to sleep hours ago..." Even without the exhaustion, the lingering taste of bile put him off food for the moment, and he was eager to settle into the dreamless depths and put this night behind him.

[Amnestic]

Vargath pockets the platinum piece from Wessen's home - maybe he'd send it to Shura as a souvenir of his trip...journey...adventure. Whatever 'this' was. It was at least poetic justice that his house had been ransacked for his pyre. All that work to build up his life cavorting with devils only to have it torn down in an instant.

Birel's house is...quaint, if extremely bizarrely organised and arranged, though she might have said the same of Vargath's home were she ever to visit. It'd suffice for the night at least. Hopefully only one night. He'd prefer his own space in the future. This was a temporary measure at best. "Thank you for the offer of food, but I too would rather sleep on a quiet stomach." He unstraps the shield from his arm and props it up against the wall, before sitting to one side. He hadn't said it, but he was clearly taking the floor as his bed - leaving it open to others if they so wished. Him and a hard bed were no strangers, and though he oft wished for a soft mattress he could fall asleep anywhere, and quickly. A beautiful trick he'd learned. Tonight he hoped to dream of home, of the soft pant of their wolves, the scent of tanned leathers, the taste of blood on his lips.

Indeed, it's barely a minute before his eyes are shut and he's quietly snoring, head limp, arm gently resting on one raise knee.

[Awful]

Selissa weighed the bag of coins in her hand, before she shrugged and put it away. In truth, gold meant little to her, but perhaps she could see if someone in the village had enough skill as a bowyer to make a longbow: the demons they'd faced had been strong enough to survive what would have been fatal shots on many creatures.

Her house, as she lead Fanlomen back to it, stood in comparison to Birel's, if one ever considered them together. Much like the other elven woman's, it was a cottage, but the squared walls of it had been overgrown with ivy. There was no sign of a garden: the plant life had been left to grow free into a riotous mix of sweetly blooming flowers, herbs, and feathery-tipped grasses aside from a patch beaten down as a work area, with only a set of tanning racks for hides and a few wooden buckets.

Inside, it showed much the same practical nature. Mostly a single room, with just a couple - probably once bedrooms, now just storage - of other rooms leading off it. Stepping carefully past a bowl of sage and rosemary, to ward off mischievous spirits, the wood elf made her way to a central hearth and, once lit, set a pot of aromatic herbal tea to steeping.

Wood elves were rarely ones to gather an excess of crud and hoard like packrats: most of what was scattered about to some internal plan were the various items to do with hunting, or bags of air-dried mushrooms, fruit and smoked meat sitting alongside small clay jars of wild honey. Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, giving the whole place a scent vaguely suggestive of incense. Only a few knick knacks and trophies sat about on shelves, alongside a great iron cauldron that no doubt had come with the cottage.

"I sit on furs, when I trance. Don't tend to lie down. Help yourself," she said, slipping once more back into elvish as she waved a wooden hand towards a pile of the same. The tea ready, she retrieved two wooden cups and poured in the fragrant liquid. She placed it before him, then sat back, her bone-white skin a play of light and shadows from the fire as she regarded him.
"Your thoughts?"

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

"You are too kind Birel, truly," Set says, inclining his head towards her as he lets his pack slide down his arm to the floor, leaning it up against the wall by the door. Glancing back and forth between the elf and her bed, Set opens and closes his mouth, eyes darting briefly over to Jemriah. The Abydosians took such water as was offered, but alas, as long as this day had been it wasn't quite over for Set. "The floor will more than suffice," he continues, smiling warmly at her.

The home was quaint and comfortable, but hopelessly cramped and cluttered compared to what Set had grown up knowing. His own childhood bedroom had been larger than her home, the ceiling a chasm stretching away towards the sky. Those days were long-past, however, and thankfully his travels had more than prepared Set to be truly grateful for a spot next to Birel's hearth. With her and Vargath by his side, he could almost feel comfortable settling in to sleep. Almost.

"I would be most grateful for a few nuts to quiet my own stomach," Set says, taking a few cautious steps towards Birel's pantry. "May I?"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

<"Well, that's worrying."> Birel replies to the parts about the Ebon Ziggurat as that's certainly going to make her goal more perilous. Maybe the wise thing to do would be to make sure nobody finds it and not look for it herself, but there's no way she's going to do that and nothing would really prevent someone else from finding it just because she doesn't.

<"As far as the red stone, the only thing that comes to mind is Veirtai. A country that's at far south end of the Stone Spine mountains from us here. The mountain there is made from red stone, and the place is said to be cursed and the people there consorting with dark powers. The area is harsh, mostly badlands and wastes. Their capital is built right into the mountain."> Birel responds and then adds, <"Why do you ask?">


Birel frowns at the three men and then shakes her head. "No, one of you is taking the bed. We can't all fit round the hearth and it makes no sense for the only one of us who doesn't need to sleep to be using it." She then pauses for a moment and then just makes a choice for them. "You'll take the bed tonight Jemriah." at which point she shoes him along to it until he gets up and goes to the other room. Perinwinkle "helps" by landing on his shoulder and "pulling". Merigold sort of follows along in the she lands on the other shoulder and chirps at him.

"Help yourself." Birel replies with a nod and smile to Set. She then reflects on it, thinking it's a bit odd none of them are at least thirsty after rushing around like that. She certainly is. Which prompts her to go join set in the pantry and get some water for herself.

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

<... I think that's where he's from.> he closes ominously as they approach what's left of her garden.

He wouldn't have volunteered, but he similarly wouldn't object, and rises with a shrug, leaving his gear in the corner of the main room. Why did she even have a bed anyway if she didn't use it? The thought wasn't important enough to hold him long, and while the chirping was appropriately timed in relation to the sun, it was an unwelcome addition at this late hour. He shoos Marigold away as he takes the last steps, crawling forward onto the bed on all fours before dropping to his stomach in the middle, unmoving.

[WhismurWanders]

The scents of Selissa's home instantly brought decades of memories hurtling to the forefront of his mind. His mother, standing in front of a fire roasting some mushrooms in a pan she had traded for. The smell of herbs the clanmother would make into teas whenever young elves were sick. Smoked meat, constantly within view but out of reach either due to lack of height or knowing the punishment for taking a sausage meant for another meal. He stumbled slightly as trying to walk while daydreaming proved more difficult more than his lack of concentration would allow. He catches himself before hitting anything valuable (sentimental or otherwise), and composes himself (hopefully) before Selissa notices his misstep.

Since she spoke first in Elvish, he responds in kind. "It is sparse, compared to other homes in villages I have visited." One hand brushes against a wall. "But it is organized. Well-kept. Very in keeping with the ways of the forest-people." He means this as a compliment, even if he is not the best judge of how the wood elves kept their homes, relying on memories from his home, faded as they were by time. He lets his guard down for a moment and moves to remove his shirt, part of his ritual to unwind, but stops when he remembers where he is, and in whose company he finds himself. He instead stretches and begins arranging the pile of furs that Selissa had indicated were his for the few hours of the night he would spend in trance. "All trophies of yours?" he inquires.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Perhaps she'd just meant to give away the bed to the youngest, but Set couldn't shake the feeling that Birel's instincts had told her to send the Fake One away from the rest of them. Whether she consciously suspected something or her doubts ran much deeper wasn't clear, but Set was thankful nonetheless. He could rest a bit easier knowing the young man was separate, split off on his own while Birel, Vargath, and Set could come to each other's aid immediately should the worst come to pass.

"You have a fine home," Set says quietly so as not to distrub Vargath, taking a sip of water as he examines Periwinkle and Merigold's perch. Walking over to it, he runs his fingers over the various poles with a small smile, thinking back on the way the two birds had annoyed the Fake One. It had been slight, truly, but it made Set's smile widen nonetheless. While not especially fond of birds himself, Set decided he liked these two.

One look towards the inert form of Jemriah through the bedroom doorway was enough to elicit a yawn of genuine exhaustion from Set. "Thank you again for your hospitality, Birel. If there is some way I can repay you, I trust you'll let me know," Set says, grabbing a patch of floor by the hearth and a quilt before settling in with his Favorite clutched in hand. Well aware that sleeping with her so openly was in bad taste, Set nevertheless held his Favorite close as he tried to relax, eventually succumbing to his weariness.

[Awful]

"Mmm. Some." She absent-mindly toyed with the corner of a rabbit-fur as she spoke.
"I trade with the humans sometimes. Furs and leather, meat and bones, for what I don't make. Replacing shafts on arrows and the like."
She paused for a moment to sip at her tea.
"The house is... my people do not even build shelters, as I hear some tribes do. I had not lived in anything but a tent until I had left the forest. It is strange - humans live such short lives, but chain themselves to one spot, and many never even leave their village. I do not understand how they bear it. "
She looked down at her hands, curled around her cup. She did not have the words to explain it - the discontent at lingering here, slowly building up in her bones, how in only five years many of those she'd met had already shown the advancements of time upon their features.
"Tell me," she said, just when her silence had stretched perhaps a little too long, "Have you met of a half-orc named Gnarl Yukkot? A druid, and priest of the Green."

[WhismurWanders]

A half-orc named Gnarl Yukott... The elf brushed a stray hair from his face as his lips and eyes form a contemplative expression. If there was one group he could usually remember meeting, it was half-orcs; whether it was visiting their holds as part of a mission for the Shepherds, or meeting sole members among villagers of more progressive-minded towns, or warriors like Vargath. They were a proud, outspoken people, usually, even if the distrust between other races and themselves meant they were difficult to approach. Nonetheless, he couldn't recall any druids that matched a name given by Selissa. "I do not believe I have encountered him. An acquaintance of yours?"

[Awful]

Selissa blinked slowly at his statement - a sort of mild, resigned disappointment. Ah, well - she had not expected anything, anyway.
"He was a companion for a time, when I adventured besides some others. He made a bargain with a fey spirit for my sake, to grant me this, after-" she paused and lifted her wooden arm, staring down at the whorled bark of her palm. "-I have not heard of him since."
She shook her head.
"It was a passing thought. Pay it little heed."

[WhismurWanders]

Fanlomen was impressed, and seeing Selissa's somber reaction encouraged him to allow his emotions to cross his face. Besides, it was late, and the focus required to keep his emotions totally in check was bearing on him. He let his not-quite scowl melt off his face as he raises an eyebrow inquisitively. "Quite a powerful half-orc druid then, to be bargaining with such forces as whimsical and arbitrary as the fae." The thought made him jealous, slightly. Her pained look queued him into the fact that whatever had caused an arm to be needed was no light topic, and one that he would not push further to find out about. But being able to request the burden of power, or at least having the opportunity of refusal. He couldn't lie, it was something he struggled with sometimes.

"If the spirits are those who brought you together, then surely they will bless your paths and bring them to cross again." He hesitate slightly before offering a little more of his own vulnerability. "I have not seen my mentor, Kharlis Sunderriver, in some time. He was ... I sometimes thought of him as my second father. He was aged like a gnarled willow when we first crossed paths, and when I left his teachings, he was yet older still. Perhaps we will meet again, or perhaps that a greeting for the next life..." Saying it out loud startled him slightly. While it was true that his mentor crossed his mind often, speaking to the elf's mortality was unsettling. He coughs and shakes his head to clear his thoughts, hoping he hadn't embarassed himself.

[purepolarpanzer]

A new day dawns after some much needed rest. All of you sleep a bit later than normal due to the extraordinarily late night, and thankfully your sleep is dreamless, considering the visceral quality of the previous day. That is not to say your mornings are uneventful.

At Selissa's Cottage

As the two wood elves are waking up, there comes a impact on Selissa's front door. Not so much a knock as a loud bump, the sound resonates through the entire house. This is followed by a chorus of loud caws. Upon inspection, a flock of crows has roosted outside of her home, and one large one has flown full speed directly into the door, breaking it's own neck. The birds look down, almost accusingly, from the surrounding trees, oddly silent once the door has been opened. The large crow has a slip of parchment tied around it's neck with rough twine. The note reads, in an elegant script, "Congratulations on eliminating such a diabolic threat to the village. Color me impressed. If you are inclined, I would like to parley with those responsible for the summoner's demise. Meet my agent at midnight at the Oaken Larder. Drinks, of course, will be on me. Sincerely, Moira Taggart Bo'Tel." Underneath the writing is a seal, pressed into red wax, as though from a signet ring. It shows a large bird flying over a lake surrounded by trees with an island in the center of the water. Once the note has been read, the flock of crows simultaneously take off in a burst of wings and feathers, turning as one and heading east in a noisy mob.

At Birel's Farm

The warm sun of late morning is a welcome greeting to the new day, but the raucous that comes with it is less appealing. A loud, nasal voice is singing at maximum volume outside, periodically interrupted by a loud, solid THUNK sound. Birel recognizes this voice as belonging to Esquel Brownbottom, the local ouphe peddler and nuisance who often frequents her farm. With a cursory glance out the window or back door, the small figure, maned with an orange beard that extends all the way up to the top of his head, is chopping branchwood from a large pile that has been dragged out of the Hartswood, using Birel's splitting stump and a formidable looking hatchet nearly the size of a maul. Each chop is accompanied by a metallic rattling from the fey's roughspun blue vest, which appears to be covered with assorted cutlery that has been sewn into the cloth. Each spoon, fork, and knife looks like it has been twisted, bent, or broken in some fashion, but polished to a mirror sheen, glinting brightly in the sun. The brown humanoid has a terrible singing voice, and his song makes little sense, but that doesn't stop him from belting it out with all the passion of a skilled and trained bard.

"The slugs go squish, and feed the fish, and the fisherman tugged the line!"
THUNK
"The fish did leap, and jumped the sheep, and the shepherd danced in time!"
THUNK
"But the sheep fell down, knocked over the crown, and Lionel judged it a crime!"
THUNK
"He sentenced the ewe, and the shepherd too, and the headsman sang a rhyme!"
THUNK
"The ax went thunk, we all got drunk, and ate shepherds pie and wine!"
THUNK
"Lionel died, the Daravonts cried, but the people thought it fine!"
THUNK
"OOOOOOOOHHHHHH! The slugs go squish, and feed the fish..."

And he begins his nonsense song anew.

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Assuming this noise has woken up the others Birel says to them, "Well, he's early today. If any of you want to come out and watch or say hello you may. But whatever you do, do not invite or allow him inside. In fact, it's generally a poor idea to allow most fey into homes."

This said, she goes over to the chest in the main room, unlocks it, and removes a small item and placing it in a pocket before locking the chest again. In an unhurried manner she goes to the pantry and goes about filling a small bowl with milk and honey and leaves that on an exterior window sill.

That finished she goes outside and goes up to the fey, "Good morning Esquel Brownbottom. Just here to say hello or do you have something to trade today? I know I have something I think you'd like."

[Amnestic]

Vargath awakens to sweat. Enough sweat that he might drink a lake to replenish the liquid that's now soaking into his clothes and armour. He'd slept soundly, peacefully, but the morning brought an unmitigated unpleasantness, enough that he wouldn't mind dropping off back into dreamland, perhaps sleep away the whole day and the weather that had come with it. The whisper, though more of a yell this morning, came swift, urging him to stand. The fiery crackle of a fire giant's tones rampaged across his mind. "ᚺᛖᛚᛚᛟ × ᛗᛁᛞᚷᚨᚱᛞᚷᛖᛏ ᚢᛈ ᛁᛟᚢ ᛚᚨᛉᛁ ᚠᚨᛁᛚᚢᚱᛖ, ᛒᚨᛏᚺᛖ ᛁᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚺᛖᚨᛏ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛊᚢᚾᛊ ᚷᛚᛟᚱᛁ" He wasn't sure about that last part, but indeed he couldn't spend the day sleeping, least of all in someone else's house. Fine, fine. He rises to his feet, sodden chains clanking as he does so. He needed to bathe. At least wash, if nothing else. The thunking and the singing wasn't helping. Hopefully Birel could convince it to move on. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll pass, I try to stay away from...loud magical creatures if I can. Especially first thing in the morning. Got enough of them already." He accompanies it with a toothy smirk and a tap of the temple. He couldn't imagine living with...that thing nearby constantly.

Instead, he slips into the barn and strips down to the barest of essentials. Nothing would be his preference, but that hadn't gone down well at the university and probably wouldn't be seen in any kinder light here. Even in this heat and humidity, even with the action of yesterday, he'd still get his morning workout in, without fail. Sweat pours over his body as he follows the drills and the sets one by one, preparing for the day ahead. They'd probably be hunting beasts today. He'd need to be in top form for it. So would the rest of them, but spellslingers had their own way of preparing, he supposed. Probably less exhausting ones.

[Awful]

Selissa opened her eyes to the loud thud. Withdrawing a knife from her belt, she investigated to find the dead crow and its murder watching from the trees, ignoring the heat already building up towards sweltering.

She retrieved it and brought it inside before she cut off the message with the knife and stored it away.

"The witch. Moira Taggart Bo'Tel... " she mused, looking down thoughtfully at the message. "If she controls birds, troublesome. Less so if just crows, but still."

Conversation done, she cut off the bird's head and defleshed it with the hours of long practice, taking the body outside to be buried in the dirt away from her home.

The little skull she climbed a tree and hooked it there in the branches, towards the sunset, so the bird's soul would be able to escape the bounds of the earth.

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 23/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Months before, Set recalled a night out on the cold northern road where he'd felt certain he would freeze. Nights could be deceptively cold even in the desert of his homeland, but this had felt sharper, the wind cutting daggers through his robes. He'd made it through with a new respect for the north and the folk who lived in its midst, but the cold had seemed to take root in his bones. For a time he thought he'd never feel truly warm again as long as he wandered the north, but time and the changing seasons eventually cured his chill, if not his homesickness.

Set's jalabiya clings to him in the heat as he wallows in a bath of his own making. If not for the sense of corruption that clings to him as well, Set could have accepted his state without complaint, but both the humidity and the taint of filth felt unnatural. Groaning as he stretches, Set rises slowly, rubbing his tired face heavily. The first hint of dark scruff was starting its assault, the bags under his eyes darker still from a long night.

"He is quite the singer," Set remarks drily to Birel, cracking a smile as the shephard is made pie, but grimacing in turn as that voice rends the air out of key. Birel's comments catch him a bit off-guard, but he's reassured as Birel gathers honey and milk rather than spear and fire while preparing to walk outside. Nevertheless, his curiosity is aroused. The fey was clearly not dangerous, but not permitted inside for some reason. Perhaps they refused to leave once admitted? Or did their singing just grow worse within the walls of a home?

"I'll accompany you," Set says, watching Birel gather her things. "We do not...interact with fey much, or really at all, where I'm from." As an afterthought he adds, "though I admit, once your friend Mr. Brownbottom goes on his way, I'd be even more in your debt if you could point me to a stream or a well and a tub, if you have one. I need a bath after...after last night," Set says, mouth twitching as he tries to repress a shudder. "And my robes need one even more," he finishes with a grimace.

[WhismurWanders]

Upon hearing the thud, Fanlomen crept towards the door, an almost palpable wave of annoyance radiating off him. He hadn't tranced as comfortably as he would have liked, next time he would ditch the shirt and be done with it. He stays at least arm's length from Selissa as she investigates, but the cawing of crows as they take flight again is enough to satisfy his anticipation. While he didn't recognize the name, he had a feeling Selissa was familiar enough to quickly decry the letter's author as a witch. Her comment on the crows made him worry slightly. Ravens were honored, venerable creatures in the Green Faith. They were intelligent, vigilant, and had a knack for imitation that some would consider speech. Crows, on the other hand ... noisy, boisterous scavengers.

"An ill omen, to be visited by so many crows. The human-tongue calls a group of crows a murder. It is an apt name, for nothing good follows the loud boasting of such filthy creatures."

[miinstrel]

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQwukh3VacFrdojRIr_7LoarjPBRrA CbufKv2EsL90UBZz2G44Z&usqp=CAU
Jemriah Cleater (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231648)
Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

In that misty in-between of sleep and wakefulness, Jemriah saw himself walking across the earth but at the plodding pace of a titan. Each footstep echoed through his mind with a reverberating THUD. A whisper boils up to his consciousness. THUD. "Rrrreeeeeelllleeeeeaaaassssssseeeee...." THUNK. With the final step the earth before him burst upward into a dark miasma as his eyes strained against their own weight, begging for a release of their own. THUNK. He sits bolt upright, momentary panic setting in as the darkness of the world beneath the bit of fur draped over his head engulfs him before he pulls it aside and draws his first breath of morning light.

The others were already moving about; so much for a surprise breakfast. The fey weren't as common in Falcairn as up here in the hills, but he'd had his share of tales and didn't feel especially interested in their antics. Perhaps breakfast was in order after all if Birel and Set were bartering. "If you've got something unique from your own land I bet he'd pay extra for it. A spare turban or anything with a carving or symbol he can't find around here," Jemriah offers to the other human with a shrug as he comes into the main room.

It was too hot to cook, but maybe Birel had some herbs in the garden... he heads outside with the other two looking for mint or something of the like to mash with berries or other fruits into a simple jam then proceeds to slice some bread inside for everyone when they reconvene.

[purepolarpanzer]

At Birel's Farm

Birel's tub is soon full of crystal clear blessed water for those who wish a bath. Homes closer to town used the common well, but this farm was lucky enough to have a pump of it's own to bring the refreshing liquid from it's underground home. On a day as hot and humid as this, the cool water is just what is needed to wash the sweat and dirt of the night off of your bodies. For Set in particular this is just what was needed to relieve the strain of the previous day.

Esquel Brownbottom stops chopping as soon as he hears Birel's voice, almost as though he was anticipating it. "Ms. Birel! I ALWAYS have something to trade, you know! You must know! Today I have news! News and nuts! And I've chopped you some new fence posts! Surely Esquel deserves SOMETHING for chopping you so many beautiful fence posts! If you're ever going to get this farm in order, you'll need MANY fence posts!" He tosses the hatchet up into the air, where it spins several times before coming down to sink into the splitting stump with one final THUNK. "Surely you'll give me something for the posts, something else for the nuts, and a third something for the news!" Always filled with greed, the ouphe rushes forward and temples his fingers in anticipation. "What things do you have for me? Shinies? Metal? Hand crafted works of wonder? Show me!"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

"You'll find there is a tub in the barn. As for your clothes, I can take care of those while you bathe." she replies to Set.

To Esquel Brownbottom she says, "Well that all sounds lovely, but what I've got for you is a thing that is several things. I don't think nuts and boards alone would be a fair trade. If you'd trade me all three for this...." she pulls out a broken compass that doesn't point north, but comes in a pocket-watch style with a hinged cover. "compass and watch that points in many ways. I think just maybe I could part with it, though I think you are getting the better deal today my friend."

[purepolarpanzer]

At Birel's Farm

Esquel opens his mouth, agape in wonder, staring at the brass compass with naked awe. "Shiny AND metal AND a hand crafted wonder! I don't know how you get people to trade you such marvelous things, Ms. Birel!" He reaches out and tries to snatch it, but after having the ouphe conveniently forget arrangements in the past once he had his hands on the goods Birel is wise enough to pull it away at the last second. Esquel frowns, a deep ornery scowl of annoyance, but brightens up almost immediately after. He reaches into his vest and draws out a sack the size of a human head, tied with a bit of rawhide and looking very lumpy. "Posts and nuts and news for the wonder. You have a deal! Now gimmegimmegimme, Ms. Birel! You know I hate to wait! I want to TOUCH it! And BEND it! And TWIST it, hither and thither and round the bend!" He drops the sack in his excitement, but catches it on his foot. Kicking it back into the air, he catches it in his long fingered, many jointed hands and offers it while extending his free hand for his prize. "I promise you, the news is particularly juicy today! But I won't say a word till I've got my shiny! Wouldn't be fair of you to get posts and nuts AND news without me getting what's mine!"

[Ramsus]

https://66.media.tumblr.com/9f1b3510eadfb23c3bbae97058ab1e7c/4fb9e90e1f0ad341-39/s540x810/394ddd405c3c4e51248078d91cc0e630e14733ab.gifv
Birel Amastacia (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2231480)
High Elf Wizard
AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
Conditions: Mage Armor
Concentration: --

Birel raises an eyebrow at the size of the bag of nuts, she'd been expecting maybe a coin purse full. "Of course of course." she replies, handing over the broken compass and awaits the news.

[purepolarpanzer]

At Birel's Farm

The ouphe snatches the compass and shoves the bag at Birel in one move, clutching the broken brass tool to his chest and crooning to it for a few seconds, whispering in Sylvan. "Mine, mine, mine pretty! Mine forever and ever!" Esquel begins petting the compass, running his fingers over the craftsmanship lovingly. He seems to get lost in his own reflection in the metal for nearly a minute before shaking himself, giving an awkward cough, and turning back to face Birel. "The news of the day is as follows- I was told by a spriggan, who was told by a pixie, who was told by a red cap, who in turn was told by a night whisperer that the wolf men were fighting last night. Trying to kill each other, and happy to be doing it! None of them died, though. They just ripped each other to pieces, but you know wolf men. They get better quick. But in the end one of them was victorious! He called himself "alpha" and said he was in charge of all the other wolf men! Then he started jabbering about some kind of plan whatsit to do somefink horrible to somewhats. Boring stuff like that that the night whisperer didn't pay attention to. But the spriggan said that the pixie said that the red cap said that the night whisperer said that the wolf men are up to no good!" Esquel loses himself in the compass again, then croons to himself almost too quiet to hear. "Esquel knows where the wolf men live, but he would never tell Ms. Birel. She would get hurt, and not be able to acquire more wonders for Esquel. No, no, no, that wouldn't do."

[Riggdgames]

https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg (https://i.ibb.co/9h4Zyr7/Jalabiya.jpg)
Set Al-Sayyid (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=2232185)
Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
AC: 16 HP: 27/27
PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
Conditions: --
Concentration: --

Careful to curb his response, Set nevertheless frowns in thought at Jemriah's offered wisdom. His comment seemed innocuous enough, but Set reminded himself that the young man had learned of his coin. It was the only thing he had with symbols from home, and also the only thing besides his Favorite that he could never part with. "I have little and less I would care to trade, but I should like to watch," Set says, his voice even and measured as he tries to crack a small smile. No doubt his true feelings weren't a mystery to the Fake One, but it would be foolish to show the others his disdain for Jemriah openly, at least for now. Someday soon he would prove himself to be False, or Set would do it for him. In the light of morning, Set had to remain calm and collected.

As Birel explains the bathing situation, Set looks over to her in open admiration. He's on the verge of refusing her offer to clean his clothes for him, the thought being almost too much for even Set to accept without reservation, but he swallows the refusal and only admits, "you are a wonder, Birel. Thank you. That would be altogether too kind, but," Set says, pausing a moment to look down at his attire, "I am no position to refuse your generosity." The thirsty man does not turn down offered water...

Watching the negotiations impassively from a couple steps behind and to the side of Birel, Set's eyes narrow at Esquel's news. The cult of Pale Night may have been dealt a blow last night, but their power still clung to the land. Whether the activity of wolf-men was related or not, Set didn't know, but the cult's trail had seemingly gone cold with their faithful's slaughter. A new trail, even if only tangentially related, might lead to another.

Stepping forward, Set squats down to put himself closer to the ouphe's level, seemingly admiring the compass as well. "A fine piece. I have said more than a few times now that Birel is too kind, don't you think? Parting with a treasure like that for a handful of nuts and a bit of news," Set says wonderingly, making it clear he believes the ouphe got the much better bargain. Shuffling half a step closer, Set drops his voice a bit, though it is still loud enough for Birel to hear clearly. "Yet, you need not back out of your bargain, Mr. Brownbottom. You promised to trade the news, all of it, in exchange for the compass. You needn't worry about Birel getting hurt, either. Give me the news you promised instead and your bargain will be fulfilled. I will not tell Birel where she can find the wolf-men, and if I get hurt going in search of them by myself," Set trails off, shrugging, "your friend and mine will still be here, right?"


Deception (compass value, promises not to tell Birel): 12 from discord