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

[Amnestic]

Vargath Hubrecht Half-Orc Rune Knight Fighter AC: 19 HP: 32/38 PP: 12 PIv: 12 PIs: 10 Conditions: Infected (Lycanthropy), Quirk (Fungophobia), -2 INT Concentrating: -- Selissa knew more about it than he did, which was good. Fixer clearly had some fire concoctions but if they were going to have to fight, he should have something on hand to add to that. Vargath hooks the axe to his belt and tugs free a torch, igniting the flame to add its light to the rest. Taking its coat seemed like a good stratagem, but if they had to chop their way through the encroaching apparent water-troll then so be it.

[purepolarpanzer]

On Lake Bo'Tel

Dr. Fixer raises a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes, a comical gesture in the dim light of the waxing moon, and peers out at the water where Selissa is indicating. Once he spots the glimmering coat in the murky water, he sighs, curses "Godsdamn Moggs..." and reaches into his coat again. "No worries, ladies and gents. They're employees of the Lady." He draws out a signet ring, and ancient looking thing twice the size of a regular ring. It looks a bit garish, but it looks to be of ancient craftsmanship from a bygone age, with a symbol of a raven flying over a lake represented by a large, rough cut sapphire. "Hail, Mogg!" He shouts in the language of giants, then again in sylvan. "Hail, to the guardians of the Lake!" The gimmering shadow comes a bit closer, and about twenty feet from the boat a toady face pops out of the water, with squinting, cruel, black eyes and dull green skin over a pale yellow underbelly.

"Fancy a swim, Fixer? The water is nice on this summer night." The shellycoat's voice is low and rumbling, and it lets loose a mean spirited chuckle that sounds like stones cracking together underwater, speaking in giant and seeming to prefer that language. "No thanks, Mogg the Elder! I'm on my way to see the Lady with expected guests, and I wouldn't want to be wet when I arrived!" Fixer, for his part, speaks heavily accented giant before switching to sylvan, which he speaks much more naturally. "As per your contract with Lady Bo'Tel, I demand safe passage to the island in her name!" The frog faced fey frowns darkly, scanning the boat and fixing on Vargath and his axe. Again, he sticks to giantish. "What about this lot? They look like intruders to me. The Lady gave us permission to drown intruders. Wouldn't want to be caught not doing our job." He begins to swim closer, extending his massive long arms towards the boat menacingly. Fixer, his voice pitched an iota higher, stomps his cane on the bottom of the boat and shouts in sylvan. "You will do nothing of the sort! These fine folk are expected guests of the Lady! If you or your brother so much as touch them, the Lady will excavate your putrid cave while you sleep and let you two get a nice tan sometime around noon tomorrow!" He quickly turns to the other side of the boat, looking around in a searching fashion and shouts even louder. "That includes you, Mogg the Younger! Show yourself, you knave! I know you're out there!" A few seconds later another green face, this one a tad smaller and more warty, peeps up from the water on the opposite side, this one much closer to the boat at ten feet. A higher pitched, nasally voice emits from this newcomer in sylvan "Brother, they have shinies! Weapons and coins and buttons and armor and jewelry! Let's make em swim and give our coats fine new glitters!" Fixer, now looking just the littlest bit nervous, reaches into his coat again and draws out another of his explosive vials. But the deeper voice responds in giant. "Numbskull! You want to tangle with the necromancer? She knows where we sleep and she knows magic of fire and sunlight and dead! We wouldn't survive a week!" A rock sails over the boat and thumps the smaller shellycoat directly on the nose, who releases a stunned croak and sinks below the surface for a few seconds before popping up again. Mogg the Elder, seeming to be the leader of the two, swims closer to the boat, a dangerous and dark look on his face. "A deals a deal, Fixer, so we'll let you pass. But first we've got to collect the toll. Lady says we can charge a toll of anyone who crosses the lake. All official like and everything. You want me to get the scroll with her seal and signature on it, or you gonna pay us what we're due?" His grumbling giantish sounds greedy and perhaps hungry at this point. Mogg the younger chimes in in his high pitched whine of sing song sylvan. "Toll time, toll time, gotta pay the toll!"

Fixer sighs and looks apologetic to the party. "Sorry, ladies and gents. The unbecoming spirit of economics visits us this eve. I'll handle the finances this time." He reaches into his coat and withdraws six empty potion vials in a variety of colors, each a miniature masterwork of glass making in a mix of geometric and swirling round shapes. He extends the vials towards Mogg the Elder. "Will this do, bondsmen?" The toady face shakes side to side. "You paid in glass last time, Fixer. The price this time is gold. Fifteen gold, little man. Put the coin in my hand. Mog, Mog, Moggy Moggy Mog Mog." He points to each person in the boat in turns, scrunches up his face like he is having a particularly violent bowl movement, and says "Fifteen gold per head, six heads in your boat, thats... nine tens gold. Gimme." Fixer, showing disdain and disgust, reaches into his coat and withdraws a purse that is obviously too large to be contained in a coat pocket. "Here's two hundred, you smelly green pond scum. Ninety for this trip, ninety for the return trip, and twenty to leave us alone when we cross next so we don't hurt our eyes looking at your ugly mugs. Capiche?" Fixer drops the purse into an extended palm the size of a frying pan. Mogg the Elder bounces the purse in his extended hand, judging the weight, and speaks again in giantish. "Feels light, Fixer. You wouldn't cheat us, would you?" Mogg the Younger lets loose a growl in sylvan that sounds like a small, annoying dog. "Cheat us and you swim, Fixer. You and your guests."

Dr. Fixer begins to shout and wave his cane, and the four of you notice him making himself as big as he can, spreading his arms, standing up on one of the benches, and booming his voice with the skill of a professional singer. He has the explosive vial held in a pitcher's grip, and periodically he mimes a throw without releasing it. "You ingrates! We don't have all night to wait for you to count to twenty, let alone two hundred! If I've cheated you you can personally bring it up with the Lady, and on my honor I'll swim the lake naked with slabs of bacon tied to my thighs until the two of you manage to catch me! Now leave us be, bondsmen! Do you have nothing better to do than harass the Lady's guests?" The Moggs, first the Younger and then the Elder, release panicked croaks and descend into the water, apparently afraid of the "little man's" ire or his fire or some combination of the two. Fixer, with heaving breaths and a red face, takes a moment to collect himself and adjust his bow tie. "My apologies, my friends. Sordid business, to be sure, but business done, nonetheless. Onward and upward!" He turns to the butler and gestures to the paddle. "Home, Jeime. And put a little speed on it, if you please." The butler simple nods and begins his tireless pace again, and the boat begins to move across the water.

Spoiler: OOC

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I'll give it a day if any of you want to respond to this scene, but tomorrow we finally arrive on the island and get to meet your mysterious host!

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Birel watches the back and forth with some amusement, as it rather reflects many a conversation she's had with one fey or another. Not so much the brutishness or demand for gold coin, but just the general attempts to bush the boundaries of agreements or trying to pull tricks that to her eyes are painfully obvious or even self-sabotaging.

[Amnestic]

Vargath Hubrecht Half-Orc Rune Knight Fighter AC: 19 HP: 32/38 PP: 12 PIv: 12 PIs: 10 Conditions: Infected (Lycanthropy), Quirk (Fungophobia), -2 INT Concentrating: -- He'd understood very little of the discussion between Fixer and the water-trolls, a language gap that he couldn't cross blocking most of it from his mind. The end result though seemed satisfactory, if a bit noisy. They hadn't had to fight at least, save them all going down with the boat. He considers speaking up, criticising the lack of unity in the Lady's forces. Being forced to pay a toll to your apparent comrades, and in such a negative light, seems poorly planned. He keeps his mouth shut though. He didn't wish to figuratively rock the boat any more than he wanted to do it literally. There was too much at stake at this stage, and Fixer's emotional state seemed frayed. Vargath keeps his torch clutched tightly though, he didn't wish to be caught blind.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- Evergreen's arm branches out around Set's shoulder, showing him the path with her wooden arm in the moonlight. Finally catching sight of the troll does little to put him at ease as Set slowly pulls his spear from his back, preparing for the worst after her description. Before he can follow the Mighty's example and pull a torch of his own to light from Vargath's, the Candyman takes center stage. The guardians of the lake indeed. For a moment, Set looks back and forth between Dr. Fixer and Mogg with increasing unease, wondering at their familiarity and whether they're plotting something together in the strange language they both use. But as time and a few more words in Sylvan pass between Dr. Fixer and the Moggs, Set's unease shifts solely to the actions of the brother-trolls. "Brother, they have shinies! Weapons and coins and buttons and armor and jewelry! Let's make em swim and give our coats fine new glitters!" Set holds his face frozen, stopping himself from showing any further concern. As silently as he can manage he shifts his stance to be a bit wider, watching both trolls in his peripheral vision as he holds his spear in a white-knuckled grip. Even with the Three by his side, the idea of fighting these two from a boat and possibly ending up submerged in the water with them is terrifying. Even the smack of a rock against the younger does not put Set at ease, the rumble of the elder's voice in an unknown language sending a shiver down his spine. The younger chimes in afterwards greedily. "Toll time, toll time, gotta pay the toll!" Despite Dr. Fixer's assurances, Set feels the fear clawing and tearing at his resolve until finally he spares a glance at his companions, eyes settling on his North Star. She looks on with absolute assurance and even amusement, her eyes dancing over the back and forth without fear. "Cheat us and you swim, Fixer. You and your guests." Set can't find it in himself to be amused, but even still, he finds himself distracted by Birel's fortitude. His grip relaxes, the tension fading slightly even as the Candyman waves his cane and shouts insults, browbeating the trolls into submission. It was going to be fine. Glancing over at the Mighty, a torch clutched in his hand as a precaution but outwardly calm all the same, Set almosts nods to himself, relaxing in their presence. He can't see Evergreen, but knows she isn't far. As the trolls slink away and disappear into the depths, Set hangs heavily on his spear, weary but eager to reach land again. Even the abandoned-looking castle up ahead, dark and empty as it appears to be, seems like an oasis in the desert compared to the lake. "Yes, unfortunate business," Set responds to the Candyman, trying to keep his voice light despite fatigue and frayed nerves. "A good thing for us that you were here to see us through," he says diplomatically, though he can't help glancing between the Three. Their safe voyage across had already been assured, but he was certainly glad they hadn't needed to do more than watch and wait.

[Awful]

Selissa Betula Wood Elf Scout Rogue AC: 16 HP: 31/31 PP: 16 Conditions: None Concentrating: -- Selissa had understood around half the conversation, and had been sure there was going to be violence, but unexpectedly Fixer had managed to assuage the monstrous robber trolls for now. Getting back might be a hassle; in truth, she didn't look forward to potentially having to fight them. Her grip remained tight around her bow, her other hand never far from either her quiver or her sword-handle. "More monsters," Selissa said, her tone flat and hard as normal. "Bo'tel has bad taste in pets."

[purepolarpanzer]

On Lake Bo'Tel

"The lady assures me that the monsters and shellycoats and brigands will be dealt with once she resumes control of her lands. For now the Moggs are just convenient muscle. The Lady's last visitors were rather murderly minded, you see." Fixer turns towards the front of the boat again, and Jeime begins to paddle faster. The sound of the old paddle on the moonlit lake water is your only company for the last quarter mile or so.

Bo'Tel Island

The boat hits a rock with a loud thump, then another, shaking and jarring the occupants to and fro. Dr. Fixer grabs his bowler, while Jeime just leans into the bumps and begins dragging the boat in with his paddle. Slipping up beside a worn down dock with patches of rot and green moss, the boat slows to a stop. Jeime, with his almost freakishly long legs, steps out of the boat and ties it to the dock. Then, in a spurt of energy that seems alien to the being you've been interacting with thus far, he runs towards a small, mouldering shack about twenty feet from the the shore. The door slams open and a gaggle of children pours out. Four elven children, to be precise. They run fearlessly into the dark of the night and meet the butler in a group hug. A pair of female twins, perhaps age seven, begin shouting "Grandfather! Grandfather!" in the accent of the high elves. Both of them have one grey, withered looking ears on opposite sides of their heads, and they are rounded like human ears. An older boy, perhaps a teen, reaches up to his grandfather's elbow with a pale arm in a short sleeve shirt. The arm looks blanched, as though it doesn't have as much blood flowing through it, and it is far more muscular than his other arm. On second glance it doesn't quite match in size either. The oldest child, a midteens young woman, extends her arms to support the ancient elf, which he attempts to wave off, but he slips into the embrace easily enough. Both of her hands are large and blocky, as though they came from a full grown man, and both are withered and diminished. There is some quiet conversation between them in elven, and it is possible to catch words like "visitors?" and "adventurers?" before the curious eyes of the children fall on all of you. Jeime silently brushes the children off and waves them off, and they quickly dash away towards the castle, somehow running ahead while also looking back at all of you.

"I know it is late, Jeime, but your grandchildren insisted on meeting the newcomers with me. Their mother gave permission. They also wanted to get you inside for a late dinner. You have my leave to head home, my friend. Rest well. I'm sure I can accommodate our guests until breakfast tomorrow." The voice is silken, confident, and cultured, with the accent of the educated and aristocratic with none of the disdain, distance, or superiority. The voice is warm, with a touch of authority stymied by concern. It comes from inside the shack, growing closer along with a set of footsteps. When the source of the voice emerges, everyone has to adjust their eyes downward. Moira Taggart Bo'Tel is not quite five feet tall, dressed in leather boots and tough canvas pants underneath a practically cut shirt that is both conservative and functional, but in now way adorned or decorated. She has a thick book strapped to her belt along with a wand, a dagger, and a purse, all similarly functional and spartan. Rather than the sweeping gown or dress of a noble, she looks more like professional guide or frontierswoman. Despite this, her features are feminine and angular in a way some elves call "fey touched", and it would be dishonest to call her beautiful instead of pretty. Her hair is raven dark, cut into a pixie bob, with a streak of grey near the tips. The only surrender to vanity is her spectacles, which are comprised of gold wire with tortoise shell accents suspending rather thick lenses. She looks out over the four of you for a second before a large, genuine smile splits her features and she approaches. She has a prodigious gap in her front teeth, and immediately Set recognizes it from the drawing in the Chief's home.

She strides directly to Birel first, extending a hand not to be bowed to or kissed but to shake. She introduces herself in common, taking the time to shake each of your hands if you reciprocate. "Moira Taggart Bo'Tel. Lady of the Lake, ethical necromancer, and Duchess of the elven region of of Aelindor. It is my pleasure to meet up and coming heroes, putting their lives on the line to protect my small folk. I apologize that I haven't been able to provide you more support, but one gets quite the long to do list after dying. I'm just glad to get to meet you in person. I haven't had contact with the outside world other than Dr. Fixer since my resurrection." She pauses and clears her throat as though it were quite dry before turning and beginning to walk towards the castle, seemingly assuming you will follow her. The path is paved with large, uneven stones that are cracked in places and broken completely in others. "Welcome to my home. While you are my guests, you may consider it your home. Few doors are locked, as we work with a sensible mix of trust and wariness in my household. If it is locked, please don't pry. It could be dangerous. Do any of you have any questions for me before we arrive? I'll have nothing but questions for you when we all settle down for dinner, I promise you, so now's the time to get all the pleasantries out of the way."

Spoiler: Perception Checks

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Spoiler: DC 5

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That's a pretty elf.

Spoiler: DC 10

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Her skin is milky pale, and it is not without small blemishes. She wears no make up to cover them. It is clear she only takes a passing interest in her personal appearance- practical and professional, not vanity.

Spoiler: DC 15

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When she cleared her throat the high collar of her shirt parted for a moment and it was possible to see a massive ring of scar tissue on her neck, completely ringing it. That's probably where her head was chopped off.

Spoiler: DC 20

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The scars on her neck aren't the only ones. There are exposed scars on both her hands and on her wrists that are not completely covered up by the cloth. This woman has seen substantial amounts of violence done to her.

Spoiler: Insight Checks

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Spoiler: DC 5

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This woman acts as though you are all comrades, returning to her home after drinks and a chat at a pub. This may be warmer and friendlier than you were expecting of a necromancer, a witch, or a noble.

Spoiler: DC 10

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Her excitement to see you in completely genuine. How long has she been stuck on this island? Well, I suppose the answer to that is since her rebirth. She takes to conversation like a beggar takes to a free meal- with gusto and appreciation.

Spoiler: DC 15

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She made sure to reach out for the dominant hand of each of you- Birel's wand hand, Vargath's axe, Set's foregrip on his spear, and Selissa's drawing arm. Her grip was not strong, but it was firm, almost as if it was challenging you or sizing you up. And when she turns to walk away, she keeps her body at the smallest of inclines on her right side so that if she needs to cast a spell less motion will be required. This woman is an experienced battle caster.

Spoiler: DC 20

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Despite how confident and forward she sounds, this woman is riddled with anxiety and fear. She just refuses to submit to them. She is as nervous around all of you as you are around her, perhaps even more so. Her eyes went to each of your primary weapons, she sized up your stance, and you think she got a pretty good read on each of you as well. She is obviously prepared for this meeting to go terribly wrong, but is proceeding with the hope and drive to make it go her way.

Spoiler: History Checks with advantage if you speak elvish

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Spoiler: DC 5

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Aelin-what?

Spoiler: DC 10

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Aelin is elvish for lake, and dor roughly translates to land, so Aelindor should mean land of lakes?

Spoiler: DC 15

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Aelindor is the name for this area in old, outdated elvish. It is comprised of a series of lakes and hills, including Lake Bo'Tel, in the south eastern part of Harumsvale. The term has not been used for a few hundred years, though. Now this region is called Harumsloch. Aelindor was one of the larger mixed communities back in the day, comprising maybe an eighth of the Vale. Mixed as in it has always had human and non-human inhabitants.

Spoiler: DC 20

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Aelindor hasn't been used since the king took the noble rights from non-humans around 300 years ago. This was followed by a violent purging of non-humans, especially the former nobility. Legally Aelindor and lands like it are now owned by the crown and have been renamed to human common Harumsloch, as the lands were never returned during the reconciliation that occurred a bit over two hundred and fifty years ago when the mad king's son killed him, took the throne, and "made peace" with the non-human people of the Vale to prevent invasion by foreign powers. Many non-humans hold a grudge over this to this day, especially the long lived ones like dwarves and elves, who miss their autonomy and resent the violence.

[Amnestic]

Vargath Hubrecht Half-Orc Rune Knight Fighter AC: 19 HP: 32/38 PP: 12 PIv: 12 PIs: 10 Conditions: Infected (Lycanthropy), Quirk (Fungophobia), -2 INT Concentrating: -- His hand dwarfs hers in size - as he does in height - but he shakes it all the same, ensuring that it's firm without being overbearing. He can't see anything concerning with her demeanour or words, which was reassuring at least. That she spoke so openly of her return from the dead likewise. Nothing hidden or kept as a dirty secret. He can't speak for the others, but he can at least speak for himself. "Vargath Hubrecht. Thank you for the invitation, hopefully our discussions tonight prove fruitful." The burning question on his mind remained, but it was a question for a more sat down affair. Though he strains to compose himself, he holds back, for now, to let the rest of the introductions take place.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Birel takes Moira's hand, realizes Moira is trying to read her and responds by matching exactly however much grip strength Moira is using. After seeing how Moira presents herself and hearing her words, Birel's opinion of the woman shift dramatically. Though she was prepared for that somewhat, she still wasn't expecting quite this much. She wasn't expecting to be pleased by whatever she found Moira to be. And noticing Moira is apprehensive about them just attacking, Birel relaxes her posture. "Birel Amastacia, Witch of the Vale, archeologist and astronomer." she then gives a tradition elven greeting that doesn't really mean anything besides "greetings" though the actual words are quite longer than that. "It's a pleasure to meet you Moira. Certainly not something I expected to be saying given what we'd heard of you, your steward's rather unsettling introduction, and that we were made to come here on the same night after having to slay an entire pack of werewolves rather than being allowed to get some rest before this meeting so likely to be fraught with tension." Birel says frankly, showing the other woman respect by being upfront with where they were standing instead of putting up a false face. "I believe I'll have a number of questions to be asked after we talk, but none of them are pressing so they can wait. I must say I would love to hear more about Aelindor, my own parents were too uncomfortable with the subject and focused on scholarly pursuits rather than old wounds. And it's so nice to see some young ones. I haven't seen any elves so young in the Vale since.... well since I was a child myself I suppose." There's a brief look over at Selissa where Birel was maybe considering ribbing her about being young, but she thinks better of doing it at this time and place.

[purepolarpanzer]

The Walk

Moira smiles and returns Birel's greeting with a response that is both respectful and classical. She then turns and gives the same to Selissa, once it can be judged to be polite around her non-elf guests. She seems adept and maneuvering the broken path backwards as forwards, and keeping pace ahead of you to boot. Her feet have run these stones for more than three human life times, and they do not make her stumble. The path up the hill towards the castle bears the appearance to a formerly well manicured yard gone to verdant hell. There are craters, rusted suits of armor, swords that look keen as the day they were made with small patches of rust on them. Some of these suits of armor begin to move towards the weapons, but Moira, speaking in elvish, says "Down boys." and they lose all animation again. She gives Birel a reassuring smile and responds promptly. "I apologize for the hasty meeting time, but it had to be immediate. There is simply no time to waste. Don't worry. I won't keep you up much later tonight, but I expect each of you to wake at promptly seven in the morning so we can begin our presentation by nine. Breakfast is at seven thirty. Those who are late receive no pancakes." She gestures emphatically with this declaration. She has a manic energy about her that makes her seem so much younger than she professes to be. It is in stark contrast to her hair, with it's ashen streak. "As for Jeime and the children, they are my most loyal subjects. The second generation is back at the castle preparing your beds for the night. We're blessed with fertility here on this island. Part of the reason my ancestor settled here. Laden with babies, he could progress no further into the interior."She grins to infer a joke. "I will tell you many tales of Ailendor tomorrow. And tales of what it could be. For now you all should rest. And bathe. No offense, but if I had to fight what you had to fight that would be my first priority. My birds were revolted. Also, I insist on cleanliness.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- As a woman exits the shack just a few feet away, Set is immediately puzzled by her tone and the deference from Jeime and the Candyman. It was almost as if...but Set had seen images of Moira in the Chief's home, drawings so full of life they'd seemed to capture her very soul. This lady wasn't the Lady, surely. No, he could see that plain enough. Even in the soft moonlight, Set couldn't make that sort of mistake, not from this distance. Even so, Set takes this woman's hand in his, locking his face into an image of pleasant diplomacy even if it makes him appear a bit rigid and uncomfortable. Behind his mask of a face, thoughts swirl relentlessly as per usual. Then he finally catches sight of her gap-toothed smile up close and it all comes crashing into place as the woman from the charcoal drawings stares back at him, full of second-life and sizing him up. Warmth spreads through him despite her brush with death and her ill-advised return. A part of Set feels as if he knows her already, or at least he knows what Maus saw in her. Small, but capable. Quiet, but competent. She is warmth and light overflowing despite how dark and hollow her home feels. Yet even filled with her warmth, a chill runs down Set's spine as a feeling he's avoided for so long bubbles up from the shadows. A voice so quiet it begs to be dismissed sounds off from the depths of Set's mind, hardly a whisper yet louder than a siren in his head. A sooooouuuuul-binder. An 'ethical' necromancer. There is a sound akin to the satisfied exclamation of someone tasting their first bite of a delectable dessert. Mmm, oh Set, you truly have a way of finding the most interesting people, don't you? I wonder, does she only bind the souls of the expired, or does she play with the still-living as well? Quite a bit more difficult, obviously, but oh-sooo-enjoyable all the same. Set flinches under Moira's examination, blinking away from her stare and breaking off their handshake a bit too quickly to be strictly proper. "Lady," he says woodenly, inclining his head and trying to salvage a greeting even as the Shadowkeeper's chuckle threatens to blank out the world around him. I'll admit, for a time your insolence surrounding that shield was the slightest bit annoying, but I just can't seem to stay mad at you Set. Certainly not when you fumble your way into the very home of the woman who bound the dwarf and all her companions to that shield in the first place. Who else? Perhaps the Lady's own patron, or whoever bound her soul back in that body of hers, but certainly none other. This Aelindor, the Shadowkeeper says, seeming to pronounce it perfectly, couldn't possibly support such a coincidence. A shield bound with souls so close to one who binds them? Who knows? Maybe she'll try to add you to the shield, He says, breaking out into a long, loud laugh that Set tries in vain to ignore, biting down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Too bad your soul is already spoken for. But not so, for these others. Set's blood freezes as he recognizes the Shadowkeeper's meaning. In time, perhaps she'll find your companions are all to her liking. Set's breath catches in his throat as he stares at the back of Moira's head, impossibly sure that everything he'd seen in those charcoal drawings was a lie. And if the Chief could be taken in by Moira, then so too could his North Star, or the Mighty, or Evergreen... No! No. He'd just been through this with the Candyman. Even if he couldn't trust his own judgement, he couldn't keep mistrusting theirs as well. His North Star never uttered a falsehood, and she was genuinely pleased to meet Lady Bo'Tel. The Mighty had few words for her, but his body language spoke volumes. He seemed at ease. Set had been too distracted to catch Evergreen's response, but surely both Birel and Vargath couldn't be fooled by her. Not them. Keep your tricks and your empty-threats, Shadowkeeper. If Moira meant to do us harm, Birel would've seen it. Set strides forward with confidence, abandoning the darkness and despair behind him. Yet no matter where he treads, his shadow follows. And in the back of his mind, the chuckling persists, softly beckoning for him to look at the shield for the truth of it. Setting that aside as well as he can, Set picks his way forward until he's more closely trailing his North Star and Moira, letting their conversation drown out the whispers. "A bath would be most-welcome, Lady, thank you," Set says, forcing a half-genuine smile as he tries to relax. Having already broken in, an idle question seems appropriate. "I hesitate to ask, but some of the customs in this land are still foreign to me. What are 'pancakes?'"

[Awful]

Selissa Betula Wood Elf Scout Rogue AC: 16 HP: 31/31 PP: 16 Conditions: None Concentrating: -- Selissa found herself somewhat disquieted by how easily her companions were seemingly charmed by the witch. Vargath was desperate to live, so no surprise, and Set was, she considered, good-natured but possibly dropped as a baby, but considering the vehemence Birel had shown before Selissa had not expected such a change in attitude. After a parade of malformed children, the witch presented herself. Less bones and curses than the wood elf might have expected, though the mangled body of the creature showed how it had been ravaged all those years ago. Selissa found the greeting somewhat awkward, and followed through begrudingly; it not being one of the traditional ones of the forest tribes, it was sufficiently close that she could manage nonetheless. To her further surprise, the grip of the corpse witch as they clasped wrists (Selissa did not shake hands, that being a bizarre and uncomfortably intimate human custom) was warm and slightly yielding, not the cold and stiff hold of the dead. At least it was a relief to be able to speak in elven. The truespeech flowed easily, and her tone was hard beneath the musicality of the elven tongue. Her expression was flat and fathomless as a still lake. She did not trust or believe this corpse witch, but first she had to try to ensure the others would not be eaten by undead spiders or trolls or some such in the night. "<Bo'tel. You offer guest right, but you bargain with monsters, who near decided murder upon us. We shed blood on the way here against undead ones. Was that your work, gone astray or not?>"

[purepolarpanzer]

The Walk

Moira blinks at Set's question, honestly surprised. Pancakes are a flour based food, generally eaten in the morning with some type of syrup or jelly on top. Our rations are limited here on the island for now, but we can manage pancakes. She shoots Set a dazzling grin, an almost feline curiosity in her eyes. You really are quite foreign to this land. Getting to know you will be fun. Then she turns her attention to Selissa, her mood cooling considerably. She speaks in elven with a severe inflection. <The Moggs are a necessity I will do away with as soon as it becomes convenient. The undead you met was a product of the spider- a naturally occurring parasitic relationship. No work of mine, I assure you. Now, while I too prefer the elvish language it would be rude to exclude those who do not speak it. I'm sure we will have a chance to converse in native tongue before you leave, but I prefer to have all words understood by all in attendance when possible. For propriety's sake, you understand.> She continues on in common without missing a beat. We've arrived.

Now you all stand before a great door, but it has definitely seen better days. The wooden door has been hacked, slashed, hammered, and splintered all across it's surface. It stands slightly open, surely left that way by Jeime as he entered to spend time with his family. Moira puts her small frame against the door and shoves with all her might, barely managing to open it up a few more inches. The gate is a bit stuck. Between the physical damage and the water swelling the joints we can only get it to shut if we all work together. She gestures inside. Welcome to the Bo'Tel family home. Again, treat it as your own while you are here. Then she squeezes through the small gap, waving you along as she enters.

Any who follow Moira into her home find themselves in a gallery of curiosities. Like the castle itself, it is obvious that this grand entrance chamber has seen better days. The stones are uneven, making it easy to trip. There are tapestries along the walls, but many are water damaged, frayed, or, in one or two instances, chopped completely in half and reassembled using haphazard stitching. Most of the first floor has been converted into some bastardization of a mud room or sitting room, with muddy boots lined up against the door for every member of the family. There are couches and arm chairs strewn about what once must have been a grand admitting hall in this place's glory days. Now it looks like a renovated ruin filled with junk. You will be staying on the second floor. Once, not long ago, it would be considered an honor to sleep so close to the ruling family. I'll have you know that I stand on no such ceremony. We all sleep on the second floor now, Duchess, servants, and freewheeling adventurers alike. Mostly because it is the easiest to keep warm. I will go make sure your rooms are suitably prepared and start drawing the bathwater. You can all make yourselves comfortable here while you wait. I... also give you this opportunity for some privacy should you wish to confer on new information. You have my assurance that you will not be observed. Moira dashes into an archway to the left, and you can all hear the sound of boots running up stairs gradually grow farther away until it disappears entirely, leaving you to your own devices for the moment. After a pause, a smile, and a nod, Dr. Fixer follows after her.

Spoiler: Things you find in the entrance hall, should you take some time to look around...

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Tucked in the corner of the room is a stuffed owl bear, in a position of aggression, claws bared and beak mid snap. Sitting next to it is a pedestal with a scroll on it with a small sign that says "Do Not Read" in common.

Spoiler: DC 15 Perception

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The owlbear's eyes move and follow any who draw near, bearing all the fierceness and predatory instinct of a living being.

At another point in the hall, nestled between two armchairs, is an end table with a decanter of golden liquid and a small brass contraption bearing six tumbler glasses. If someone approaches, the liquid in the decanter lowers, and liquid begins to fill the glasses. If you move away from the stand, the liquid disappears from the glasses and the decanter fills again. A small sign on the table reads "Gift from Dwarves. Decanter of Endless Whiskey. Drink Responsibly" There are books piled everywhere but directly on the ground- on furniture, on tables, and, miraculously enough, on bookshelves, though in lower numbers.

Spoiler: DC 12 Arcana

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Many of these books are on magical theory, from the most basic of cantrips to outlandish theories about hypothetical spell work, and some contain spells. There are also dozens of books on magical beings and creatures. There is also a vial of ink that bears arcane sigils on it, obviously meant for scribing scrolls or writing in spellbooks. All the books are ancient and in various stages of disrepair, though all also show signs of loving restoration- fresh bindings, new leather, and transcribed sections that look like they were replacing lost or damaged pages.

There are a series of pedestals bearing busts of elven figures, though many have been violently damaged. All of them have the same angular features and large eyes as Moira. There is some elven script on a gold plaque on each.

Spoiler: Elvish Script

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All these busts bear the same writing on them, or close enough. So-and-so Bo'Tel, Lord/Lady of the Lake, a school of magic such as Master Abjurer or Master Evoker. The last honorific on each one, however, is interesting. Each one ends with "Curator of the Ebon Key".

There is also a pawn shop's worth of rummage, brickabrack, and semi-valuable junk, seemingly piled in semi-organized stacks, notably a collection of dragon figurines of every color.

Spoiler: Perception DC 10

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Notably, none of it bears precious metals, and there are sockets where it is obvious gemstones have been pried out and damage from filigree being ripped out.

There are windows that once were grand glass affairs, but now all that remains is metal bars and makeshift shutters put together by someone who obviously lacked wood crafting talent. What was once a grand hall where lords, ladies, and maybe even kings met is now a particularly messy sitting room full of curios.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Rather than stick around to chat, because she doesn't think there's anything they need to talk about yet, Birel goes looking around with her senses opened to the magic of the place. Periwinkle follows along and keeps an eye out too. Merigold probably not so much. Spoiler Show Ritual casting Detect Magic. Perception1: (1d20+1)[13] Periwinkle Perception1: (1d20+3)[15] Arcana: (1d20+8)[19] Perception2: (1d20+1)[19] Periwinkle Perception2: (1d20+3)[22]

[Amnestic]

Vargath Hubrecht Half-Orc Rune Knight Fighter AC: 19 HP: 32/38 PP: 12 PIv: 12 PIs: 10 Conditions: Infected (Lycanthropy), Quirk (Fungophobia), -2 INT Concentrating: -- Had he been back at the university, the books in front of him would be incredibly interesting and he could have spent days poring over them for details. But he wasn't at university, he was here, infected with lycanthropy and in dire need of cleaning and rest, especially with no reason given from either himself or others to doubt their new host's sincerity. The books could wait. A good scrub and a better sleep could not. "I think I'll turn in for the night - fastest way for tomorrow to come is by sleeping it here," he says, failing to stifle a yawn. "Unless there's anything pressing, I think we've all done enough for today. I definitely have." The exertions of the day caught up, and any hopes of the curse giving him a nocturnal boost were quickly dashed. Now that they were 'safe', the tense knot in his shoulders unwound and he felt like he could relax, at least for a while. He doesn't take part in any investigations beyond a quick glance around. They were still guests, and despite the apparent openness of their host, it did feel off to go poking and prodding, but perhaps that was just the exhaustion talking.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- In contrast to Vargath, Birel spends her time looking around at the various items. Enjoying a glass of whiskey (but just one) while she perused the spellbook for anything she might want to add to her own. But she knew better than to take anything without permission, not even the ink.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- Set ponders Moira's answer for only a moment before her grin distracts him, making him wonder how he'd ever thought she wasn't the Lady Bo'Tel. Maus had captured that smile and the look in her eye well enough so that any fool with two eyes could see it was her. "I look forward to trying them, Lady," Set says courteously, inclining his head. Breaking your fast with syrup-coated flour-cakes. It sounded intriguing, at least. Set listens carefully as Evergreen asks her question, concentrating hard not to miss a word of the fast-flowing elven. He manages to catch Moira's answer and her tone, but his eyes glance between Birel and Selissa to gage their response rather than Moira's. Evergreen alone seemed suspicious, but that was cause enough for disquiet in Set's mind. Cautiously, he falls in line with Selissa as they continue their journey, eager for some sign that her suspicions are either erased or enhanced by Moira's words. As they file into the gallery, Set looks around, recognizing the trappings of wealth and station that have gone to ruin. Even in the North, nobility follows some of the same patterns, but where wealth could build castles, only strength of arms could hold it. Set runs his fingers over the stitching in one of the tapestries, smiling sadly at what it represents. Even a soul-binder couldn't resurrect the past. Every death was marked in some way. Set looks back at the woman who asks them to make themselves comfortable and nods, subsconsiously looking her over for marks of death before he recognizes what he's doing. His stomach flips, suddenly feeling a bit revolted as she exits, but he does his best to cover it. Her soul may be bound here, but she is alive, he reminds himself. Do not examine her as if she's a corpse. The discomfort reminds him of Evergreen's suspicions, and rather than seek out clues about Moira from the room around him, he seeks out Selissa instead. Grabbing her attention, Set glances back at the stairs where Moira disappeared before asking his question. "She says we can speak freely without fear of being observed," Set begins, watching Evergreen. "Do you believe this to be <true>," Set asks, using the sylvan word that stressed truth on an instinctual level, implying he's asking for what her gut tells her rather than her mind. "Does she seem <false> to you?" Though Evergreen no doubt preferred elven, Set was not so comfortable with that language that he could speak quickly and be sure of himself. Set's concern is apparent, despite his confidence in his North Star and the Mighty. Even the smallest chink in a set of armor could be exploited, and the Shadowkeeper's chuckle was never far from Set's mind.

[Awful]

Selissa Betula Wood Elf Scout Rogue AC: 16 HP: 31/31 PP: 16 Conditions: None Concentrating: -- Selissa had never given much of a damn about books at the best of times, and gave the room only a quick once-over. When Set spoke to her, she considered the man for a long moment as she mused on her answer. Finally, she replied in sylvan, her tone measured. At least one of her companions had not been taken in entirely by this witch; Selissa, however, knew that the dead should remain so, until rebirth in a new form, clean and new. From death sprang life, from life sprang death, circular, unending - so it was and so it should be, for ever and ever. But necromancy tore at that with festering tooth and rotten claw - a hunger that could not be satiated no matter how much it swallowed. Ethical necromancy. A contradiction in terms. "<...I am not sure,>" Selissa admitted at last. Set's pronunciation was terrible, so she spoke quietly but slowly and clearly to ensure he understood. "<She did not lie about the thief trolls or the unliving spider. I would not keep such a promise in her position, either. There are magics to overhear, I think, though I do not know much of them.>" She let out a short huff of irritation. She was singularly unsuited to this sort of interpersonal subterfuge. "<I would not trust her. She is still once-dead, a desecrator and curser of the village, and has much to gain from listening to any plans. See how earlier she was ready to fight; she is not certain of this meeting either.>"

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Bo'Tel Entrance Hall

As Birel thumbs through the library's worth of books scattered through the entrance hall, she finds many interesting books on many interesting topics. The first tome she finds is a primer on summoning magic, with some basic pointers on how to safely summon spirits, fey, and outsiders to this realm. In the first chapter of the book it has an extensive list of do's and don'ts, including a basic spell of protection against the type of creatures that are commonly summoned titled "Protection from Evil and Good". It also recommends the use of divination magic instead of summoning when information is the goal and contains a scroll for the spell "Augury". Another book that catches her eye appears to be a self help book titled "Magical Me", which details how to use magic to make friends and raise one's social standing. Though much of the content matter is empty headed psychobabble and basic meditation principals, it also contains scrolls for the spells "Charm Person" (Make even your worst enemy act like your closest friend! Temporarily, at least.) and "See Invisibility" (Once you've risen to a higher standing, you must be aware of your rivals, no matter how they hide their intent!). The last book that Birel has a chance to peek into is a large black grimoire bound in some sort of reptile skin titled "Ethical Necromancy for Today's World- a Treatise by Eldagrun Demidoc". It is one of the newest books in the piles (or the most carefully preserved), the scaly hide still glistening, with no patches or holes in cover, binding, or pages. It appears to be both an academic plea to address the negative aspects of necromancy with innovative spell techniques and an appeal to the reader to not dismiss necromancy as "evil" when it can do practical good in the world. The beginning of the book highlights the positive aspects of necromancy, citing the spells of "False Life" and "Gentle Repose" as examples, along with scrolls of both those spells that are diagramed and annotated "in an attempt to clarify the positive aspects of the magics involved". But the further Birel gets into the book, the more sophisticated the theories, spell work, and philosophies become, until the book becomes very difficult to read and interpret.

Spoiler: Religion DC 12

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One chapter explicitly deals with the ethics of creating, controlling, and utilizing the undead. The author proposes that a living body is composed of three parts- the "anima", or soul, the "animus", the power of animation and motion, and the "corpus", or body. Most practitioners of necromancy reanimate either the anima or corpus, utilizing the animus to power the newly created undead. The author writes that this can have dire consequences on the transubstantiation of the anima to whatever afterlife it is meant for- either robbing it of animus and leaving it a motionless soul without the ability to interact with it's final destination or trapping the anima in a hellish undeath that denies the rights of higher beings to shepherd their followers to their final home. The author angrily denounces the creation of incorporeal undead, then suggests that through a very intricate and complicated technique a caster can utilize their own animus to give unlife to a corpus, leaving both soul and the spark of life to pass on to whatever plane they are destined for unmolested. He warns that this is an untested theory, and potential side effects could include death of the caster, either immediately by accidentally flooding the corpse with ALL of one's animus, or slowly, as the caster's lifespan slowly leaks away into whatever undead they are powering. Still, he posits that this is a more ethical way of creating corporeal undead that he hopes to study in more detail. Scribbled into the margins on this page is a note in elven in a very precise hand reading- "Author hanged. Haunted his murderers. Sad and ironic. Theory is untested. MUST EXPERIMENT CAREFULLY!"

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- Set stares back at Evergreen as she considers her answer, his own anxiety mounting as she delays for a few moments. When she finally speaks, she does so slowly and quietly, but with an almost musical quality to her words despite their content. Though he could understand her Sylvan perfectly well, it's almost like hearing a different language than the one he'd spoken moments before. Set's eyes widen slightly as he takes in Evergreen's counsel, glancing in either direction as if looking for something. She seems certain that Moira isn't lying about the trolls or the undead-spider, but she's just as certain they cannot trust her any further. For a long moment, he considers whether to speak at all. Nodding more to himself than to her, Set reveals in common, "my people have a saying, <alwahat jafatan liman yaeud>. It literally means, 'the oasis is dry for those who turn back from the path,' but it is used to speak of those who stray from the afterlife. We move forward, always, in life and in death." Set frowns hard, an image of Moira's smile coming to mind as she gestures emphatically about pancakes in the morning. Looking away and staring into the distance, Set shakes his head to clear it, giving voice to the fractured thought, "she is...strange. I don't know what I expected," Set says honestly, "but she is not it." A few more moments pass as Set tries to recollect his thoughts. He stops and starts more than once, unsure of whether to go on, but finally he decides to confide further in Evergreen despite his fear of what she'll think. "My people do not have a word for 'necromancer' other than <almuthaq-alruwh>, soul-binder. When the soul is bound to this place, regardless of whether they're still alive at the time, there can be no passage to A'aru." Set finally looks back at Evergreen, trying to catch her green eyes in his and not lose momentum while nearly choking on the words. "Among my people, then, there are undead and there are those like me who are known instead as <almawtaa al'ahya'>, 'the living dead.'" Set twitches, biting the inside of his cheek to steady himself for a moment before continuing. "The...the one who made me what I am, He is like all the stories I was told as a child." A cackle finally breaks into Set's mind, as if from someone trying hard to hold it in. Set takes a breath before carrying on. "We were taught to fear those forces that meddled with souls, and the people who sought to do the same. We were taught to fear the souls brought back and all the things that could come back with them, or in their place. We were taught to fear the ones shackled to this place before their time could come," Set says, his unfocused gaze staring through Selissa. "But I don't...I'm not..." Set breaks off, his own thoughts drowned out by riotous laughter as he falls silent, looking down at his shadow flickering in the torchlight. <"Maktub,"> Set spits, shaking his head as he translates bitterly, "'it is written.'" Set falls silent again, shoulders slumping as he refocuses. "<My apologies,>" he says quietly, using formal sylvan, "I only meant to say that I don't know what is right or real anymore. I don't know whether to fear her for being a soul-binder or for being soulbound. I don't know whether to trust her. But I trust your instincts, Selissa," Set finishes, slipping one hand into his pouch and grasping the coin. Looking around as if searching for the source of the artifact listening in or watching them, Set traces a few quick, arcane motions in the air. Do you believe we are safe for the night, at least? Do we need to take any precautions? Illusory words in small script float in front of the Three, one by one in quick succession as he looks meaningfully at each.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Birel looks up from the books to comment, in Sylvan like the other two, <"I have not detected any magics here that would work as any means of listening in on or watching us. That does not rule out some mundane way to do so of course. Though in that case I do not know why you two would expect Sylvan to be one of the languages an elf like herself would not also know. Especially given the evidence we ourselves present towards the likelihood of that."> Truthfully, she wasn't much interested in all this subterfuge. There were new tomes of magic to peruse after-all.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- Set looks back over at Birel in confusion, confident enough in his sylvan to feel that he hadn't mistranslated what she'd said. He frowns, wondering if perhaps he'd misheard her or vice versa, but with the exception of just a few words, Set had been speaking common. Even after Evergreen had made it clear she believed they were being listened in on, he hadn't thought to switch to sylvan to try to mask their conversation. It had felt like Selissa was just more comfortable in that language. Birel hadn't even mentioned the illusory message Set had put in front of her. And then it dawns on Set, his doubts erased in an instant as he realizes it's all deliberate. His North Star is trying to carefully guide their conversation as subtley as she can. Even though she hadn't detected anything magical, clearly Moira was listening and Birel was intent on making sure they said nothing to provoke Lady Bo'Tel. By dwelling on and speaking in sylvan, she was deliberately avoiding Set's message and making it clear they should not discuss taking any precautions, not even silently, not here. Set watches his North Star a moment longer, marveling at her mastery of subterfuge. Looking between the Mighty and Evergreen, Set feels sure that they'd already picked up on Birel's meaning. Nodding to himself, Set could only sigh inwardly at being the last to realize it. A grim smile reaches Set's lips as he tries to catch Evergreen's eye and says simply, "when the time is right." With one last look back at his North Star, Set recognizes what he should be doing. Acting as relaxed as possible and learning what he could from the room. Set starts towards the whiskey, but stops halfway there as the busts of Lady Bo'Tel's relatives catch his eye. He veers off in their direction, examining the figures carefully. None appear to share Moira's smile, but he could see her eyes in theirs. Looking closer at the golden plaque on each, Set struggles for a moment to translate 'Curator' before it becomes clear. Magical masters, all of them, and each a 'Curator of the Ebon Key'. Set reaches up to trace the script on one with a finger, puzzling over its meaning as stone eyes stare back at him.

[Awful]

Selissa Betula Wood Elf Scout Rogue AC: 16 HP: 31/31 PP: 16 Conditions: None Concentrating: -- Selissa gave a minute shrug that went unnoticed when Birel spoke - it had not been her idea to speak in Sylvan, even if it was a fair one. The corpse-witch might know it, and might not;compared to languages they knew she did know, it was better than nothing. When Set caught her eye, she cocked her head, then gave the tiniest of nods. She felt less than the slightest bit of interest in looking through some ancient old times, stinking of mold and woodworm, so as the scholarly inclined wasted their time she instead settled into a sort of uneasy half-watchful rest.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Birel notices Selissa nodding to Set, looks at Set, and then sighs and walks over and hands him the book she was just reading, open to the pertinent part.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- As Set continues puzzling over the Bo'Tel line of 'Curators', his North Star approaches wordlessly and hands him an old grimoire and points to a specific passage. Set opens his mouth to ask a question, but shuts it just as quickly. It was plain what she wanted him to do, asking would only further delay the inevitable. He holds his place, flipping the cover over to see the words "Ethical Necromancy for Today's World - a Treatise by Eldagrun Demidoc" printed on the front. Set flinches, gripping the book a bit harder as a shiver runs down his spine and a snort of derision sounds off in his head. As he begins to read, Set fights to concentrate over the Shadowkeeper's growing discontent. Eldagrun was...what was he? A soul binder who thought he could bring the dead to life without shackling the soul? Or rather, by freeing a soul that should be bound. But what of the living? Could the soul that was bound--it wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Of all the great tomes spread through all the worlds, you've brought me the desperate ravings of one who proposes to use their own animus to give motion, the Shadowkeeper breaks in. And your ethical necromancer seems to cling to the idea like lost treasure. I'll never understand why your kind insist on trying to find meaning and hope where there is none. Madness, it seems, is contagious. The dead are a tool in the right hands, Set, much like the living. Do you stop to think about how your spear feels being thrust into a wolf, or do you just use it? Do you think you owe it to your spear to stop and spill your own blood first as recompense? No? But you think, 'people are different, the spear holds no anima.' Corpus or anima, it makes NO DIFFERENCE. Set clamps his teeth down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making any noise as his head splits with the echo of the Shadowkeeper's words. There are only those that are wielded, and those with the power to wield. The day you understand that, Set, will be the day you finally have the power to save your sisters. Set's thoughts, already a jumbled mass swirling out of control, lose all coherence as the Shadowkeeper's words find purchase. Why are you here, Set? Eldagrun's words fade into the background as Sisi's face appears beside Sythpen, his sisters staring back at him in his mind's eye. Did you come North for these three? Set looks up at his North Star before looking to Evergreen and the Mighty. Or did you just try to get as far from your sisters as possible to keep them safe from ME? And yet while I honor our bargain to the fullest, even going so far as saving them myself, you still wallow in self-pity and delusion instead of living up to your end. Grab your spear and TAKE what is yours. I will not save them again, Set. If you don't start taking what should be yours, you'll never be strong enough to take them back when the time comes. Set sways on his feet, steadying himself against the wall. This page, for starters. Set's eyes narrow in confusion before widening as he realizes what is being asked of him. Immediately he rejects the idea out of hand as he walks away from Birel, muttering excuses and eagerly setting the tome down on an end table piled high with other books. But he doesn't let go. Set stands there, his finger marking the page as he struggles to keep his hands from shaking. Take. It. Set wanted the page and He knew it. Set opens the book back up, studying the page in question. He wanted it badly, no matter whether Eldagrun was a madman or not. And in this moment, right here, he can take it and no one can stop him. Set risks a glance back at the others to gauge if he's actively being watched before carefully tearing out the page as quietly as he can, rolling it up carefully, and stowing it in his robes. Spoiler: OOC Show Sleight of Hand: (1d20+2)[10]

[Awful]

Selissa Betula Wood Elf Scout Rogue AC: 16 HP: 31/31 PP: 16 Conditions: None Concentrating: -- The soft sound of ripping paper drew Selissa's green gaze. Set was ripping out a page and stashing it away. Vaguely curious, Selissa watched silently, waiting to see if the human was going to say anything about it. He was, presumably, not taking it for use as tinder, a preferable use for stupid old tomes, so why indeed? She did not, in truth, care at all about the book's wellbeing, having never met a book she liked; but in doing it in (attempted) stealth her interest was piqued.

[Ramsus]

Birel Amastacia High Elf Wizard AC: 13/16/18 HP: 26/26 PP: 13 PIv: 14 PIs: 11 Conditions: Mage Armor Concentration: -- Birel raised an eyebrow as Set gave an excuse and began to walk away. Not confirming she understand what it said was hardly her intent in handing it to him and it only took a moment for her to grow suspicious, having already been warned that his patron was the untoward sort. So she was practically upon him when he tore the page and tried to stow it away. She grabbed his arm and made him look her in the eyes, "We do not vandalize books. Especially ones that aren't our property. Hand it over." She finished, clearly not messing around, snatching the book from him and letting go of his arm so she could hold out that hand for the page.

[Riggdgames]

Set Al-Sayyid Changeling Fighter/Hexblade AC: 17 HP: 34/34 PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9 Conditions: Iumenta Pox (currently no symptoms) Concentration: -- Set is so consumed with the act that the hand is upon him before he even realizes Birel is there. Like a torch burning through the murk, his North Star is shining brightly beside him, but the shadow is slow to recoil. Set reacts faster than if he'd touched flame itself and just as mindlessly. A pulse of adrenaline rushes through him as he fights instead of fleeing. "<Restrict.>" The command is out, the light dimming as Set starts the arcane motion. His shadow darkens, growing blacker than pitch before stretching towards Birel, hands reaching out to thrash her. But as he finally catches her eye, the motion falters. "No!" Set shouts, ostensibly at Birel, but the target is closer to home. The spell fizzles, his own shadow fading and reforming at his feet. Half expecting to hear Him immediately, the silence is deafening. Rather than being relieved, Set is stricken by the fact that He might not have played a part. Was He at fault? Or did Set only have himself to blame? Set shakes his head to clear it, looking up at Birel to see she's unhurt before staring down at the single page in his hand. Numbly, Set reaches out and hands it to her. "Sorry," he says quietly, opening his mouth to say more and shutting it just as quickly. There is no shame or disgust, at least not yet. Only the crushing numbness that comes from what he almost did, and what he's already done to be standing here. Spoiler: OOC Show Set casts Arms of Hadar. Set also lets Arms of Hadar fizzle.

[Amnestic]

Vargath Hubrecht Half-Orc Rune Knight Fighter AC: 19 HP: 32/38 PP: 12 PIv: 12 PIs: 10 Conditions: Infected (Lycanthropy), Quirk (Fungophobia), -2 INT Concentrating: -- It's a stretch to say Vargath has been 'watching'. He's mostly zoned out, focusing on himself, his internal self, rather than whatever plots or plans the others were coming up with. It didn't really matter to him. And, really, any plans would probably fall apart immediately. Moira wasn't exactly showing herself to be the evil witch the chief had made her out to be. She seemed quite pleasant, all things considered. Earnest, honest. Though given almost free reign of the place it seemed rude to go through her things with such...gusto, especially when she wasn't present. Set's partial-cast spell perks his attention, though it's dropped before he can react. Whether he'd even intervene isn't clear to him though. Maybe he'd just let it play out. As long as it didn't interfere with potentially getting help from Moira for his condition...would he even stop them? "I think," he speaks up for the first time in a while, having seen zero context for what caused the exchange, "that maybe invoking dark powers in the home of a 'notorious evil witch'," the air quotes are clear, Moira is no doubt aware of her reputation in the village, and he doesn't want to indicate he buys into the descriptor - because he doesn't. "is not the best of plans. Maybe retire to bed before you tear each other's throats out. That's my deal, remember?" He holds up his arm, referencing the lingering lycanthropy. A wry joke to diffuse tension. It wouldn't do for them to spill blood as a guest. That was at least three kinds of ill-luck. Four if the weather was foul tomorrow, though he quietly expects another scorching day.

[purepolarpanzer]

In the Bo'Tel Entrance Hall

Just as Set was apologizing, footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs, and Moira returns. She doesn't appear to have seen what went on, but her eyes do open in surprise when she sees her treasured book despoiled. Your... your baths are ready. If you will follow me... her voice is quiet, and touched with a tangible and obvious sound of hurt. Without another word she turns in place and begins to walk back up the stairs, perhaps a bit quicker than intended.

The stairs head upward for about thirty feet before reaching the door to the second floor, while turning and continuing up to the third floor. The second floor landing leads to a hallway filled with doors. The blue rugs in the hallway are partially burned and soiled, though they all look like someone did their best to clean them. The doors too are damaged, some with filigree torn out, some damage from weapons, and some scorch marks. The hallway seems to run in a full square around a central room that once had a double door, but now bears a makeshift door of scrap wood and roughshod boards, seemingly created by someone with no talent for woodworking. "That leads to my apartment..." Moira's voice holds a bit of a tremble as she gestures to the clapboard monstrosity. These rooms belong to my servants. They are the Aiyelles, by the way. In case you were wondering their family name... She continues walking down the hallway, her stride perhaps getting a bit faster, keeping ahead of you all and making conversation difficult. And these four rooms will be yours while you stay here. Moira stops suddenly, takes a deep, slow breath, and her hands can be seen clutched into white knuckle fists. But then she relaxes. Turning around, she has the same confident smile that she bore when she first met you. Selemn saw that each of you has what meager luxuries we can afford, but if you've been staying in Dam'ess I think you'll find them more than acceptable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I will change and prepare for bed myself. For tonight, I ask that you stay on the first two floors. The third is my arcane laboratory, and we may go up there tomorrow... depending on how the presentation goes. Good eve, my friends. Without another word she turns and heads down the hallway, obviously meaning to walk around the square path to get back to her room rather than come closer to you.

Each room is fairly identical, with a large, partially refurbished canopy bed, a shuttered window, some heavily damaged furniture, and a few basic salvaged amenities like candles melted onto on broken fine china, cracked mirrors, and badly hand crafted pitchers bearing water. Each of you also has a small wooden bowl of wild berries set on a table or chair. But most importantly, each of you has a massive washtub, nearly big enough to swim in, and each of them has been filled with water that is nearly scalding not, wreathed in visible steam. Next to the tub is a frayed towel, a bar of lavender smelling soap, and a rough brush meant for washing. And then the party was left to their own devices until tomorrow...

Spoiler: OOC

Show

A little bit of down time. Riggd, I've got something coming up for you, but it won't come up till after you've gotten in the tub. I know Awful needs to prepare for a night time excursion, and Ramsus only has to trance for four hours before she can go back to the books again. Amnestic, I know bath and bed are number one priorities for Vargath, so feel free to indulge in the scene.