Ptolus: Midwood - "The Dark Waters of Moss Pond"

The boy and the kobold stared at each other for a long moment, the kobold nervous and obviously ready to bolt. Katadid, on the other hand, looked fascinated.

"You're a kobold, right?" he asked.

"Ah, yes?" it said, although it didn't sound used to the name for his race in Imperial Common.

Kat nodded.

"Why aren't you up in the mountain?" The boy jerked his chin in the direction of Green Mountain, looming over the orchard.

"They ... do not. Do not like I."

Kat nodded again.

"Yeah. No one here does either."

Seeing this human unafraid, the kobold did something unusual for his species. He smiled.

"Boy nice. Want ... um..." the dragonkin held out another apple but obviously didn't know the word for it.

"An apple?"

"Apple? I-is apple?"

"Yeah. What is it in kobold?"

"Ah, don't. No 'apple.' Called, softskin baby-head. Because look."

'What's your name?"

"Um, hard."

"Is it 'Flower?' You have a tiny one painted on your glasses."

At this the kobold seemed very enthusiastic.

"What? Is what?" he said, pointing at the crude pink flower painted onto his goggles. "What called?"

Kat felt happy for some reason. He wasn't sure why.

"Flower. You have a flower."

"Flower," the kobold said, mulling the word over. "Yes! Flower! Boy nice!"

Suddenly, the kobold looked up to the sky, his tail darting around frantically.

"Go. Have. Boy nice!" He looked to Kat and pointed to the sky and Kat looked up, confused. The kobold stamped his feet in frustration. "Boy nice! Boy ... hide! Just hide! I don’t know the word!"

"Hide?" Kat said. The kobold looked blankly and Kat walked over to the tree line to crouch down. The kobold jumped and down, squealing with glee. "Boy hide! Boy nice!"

The pair crouched in the underbrush. Kat spent most of the time looking at the kobold. Watching him breathe, watching his tail move, thrilling at something entirely alien and new. There was a brief moment when the kobold's movement stopped and for some reason that was when the sky went very dark for a moment, but when Kat looked up the sky was clear again. And all he heard was a repetitive noise fading away in the distance. After a moment, the kobold relaxed.

"Boy nice," he said.

"Kobold nice." Kat replied. The kobold broke out into a wide grin.

Kat heard his name being called and looked away. It was then that he heard other cries in the distance coming from town. He went to ask the dragonkin, but when he turned back the kobold had disappeared. Kat blinked and after a while got up from his hiding place. He heard some noise coming from the front of Bridger's house and went around to investigate.

"Richard, get back to town and alert the baron," Kat heard the constable say. "I need to stay here and -- what the?" Ward Bridger started at the sickly boy who peeked around the corner. In the cart was a large man with a large black beard with twinges of grey. Next to him was an awkward and gangly boy with serious eyes. Bridger's face turned red. "LEACH! What are you ... Do you have any idea what just happened? Get back to town to your father, NOW!"

Kat took off running. As he approached town, he heard the cries and screams increase. The town was in chaos, with people running every which way. Some families had started packing carts, whereas others were trying to keep the families from doing so. Mothers were calling frantically for their children. Over the din, Kat heard his own father's voice.

"I'M COUNTING! TWO! KAT? THREE!"

Kat rushed out toward his father. Whenever Kat was in trouble or doing something wrong, his father would threaten to count to five -- knowing full well the effect that odd numbers had on his son. Kat would always appear or stop what he was doing by either two or four, rather then end the count on that horrible number. By the time Heath had reached four, Kat ran up to his father and prepared for his punishment. Instead, his father hugged him so tightly it prompted a flurry of coughs.

"What did I tell you? WHAT DID -" Heath let his son go and wiped his brow. "Son, Mister Potentloins is going to take you home. I have to run to Bridger's and see what we're going to do now that-"

Heath stopped himself short and instead unsheathed a hand axe as well as a whip that Kat had never seen before.

"Heath," Bufer said frantically. "No offense, but I got to get back to Wit's End pronto. If Gax is out then -"

"Bufer, if Gax is out then Rubik probably knows already. And if Gax is heading that way, you certainly aren't gonna beat her there. PLEASE, just take my boy home."

Bufer looked annoyed, but nodded. Kat's father bolted toward Bridger's tower and Bufer grabbed Kat by the shoulder and led him home. The gnome began speaking, more to himself than to his charge.

"I swear, kid, we're all going to kill each other by the time this is over. Stupid, STUPID! Never even occurred to them that maybe it ain't what it looks like. No, the kobolds have to be evil bastards on the warpath."

The pair reached the front door of the apothecary.

"I think some of them can be nice," Kat mumbled.

Bufer was already about to break out into a run when he heard Kat. He stood there for a moment before turning around.

"You really think so?" Bufer asked quietly.

Kat stared at his feet.

"Um, yeah? I mean ... th-they can't all ..."

Feeling Bufer's eyes stare at him, Kat tried to articulate himself better.

"I mean ... m-maybe we just have t-to talk ... to them. To them, I mean."

The town in full-fledged panic mode behind him, Bufer smiled. He nodded and patted Kat on the shoulder.

"Yeah. Can I tell you a secret, Katadid?" Kat's eyes lit up and he nodded spastically.

"I think so, too," Bufer whispered. "But why don't you keep what you told me to yourself right now. I think everyone is a little too scared to really hear exactly what you're saying, OK? You promise?"

Kat nodded and Bufer smiled.

"Now, you get inside and don't come out till your pa tells you, OK? I'll see you soon, Kat."

Kat spent the rest of the day watching the town through the apothecary window. People cried and held their children tight, while carts were overturned in hysterics. The hammering of boards being placed over windows was a constant accompaniment to the smell of watch fires being lit for the guards in preparation for a kobold attack. It would be weeks before the truth would be believed: Gax had truly left Green Mountain.

But for now, Kat looked across the town square and up into the great mountain in the distance. He began to think about the creatures inside and smiled. He had seen something new and learned something. It had been a good day.

It is the 4th day of Rain, in the 721st year of the Imperial Age. It has been 111 years since the abbess of Maidensbridge Abbey went mad and murdered her fellow Sisters of the New Dawn and 10 days since Emmerson Grant and Ebuferpaly Potentloins agreed to lift the curse on the haunted abbey.

It is raining in Maidensbridge when the young man rides into town atop a shaggy pony, his hooded cloak plastered to his body. He rides to the chapel and calls, but receives no answer over the sound of the pounding rain.

He urges the miserable pony away from the shelter of overhanging trees back toward the center of town. Dismounting into a mud puddle outside The Cat & The Fiddle, he yells something, but the sound is lost in the rain.

He forces the door open -- it has swollen shut with the damp -- and squelches inside, pulling back his hood. Beneath it, his black hair is stuck to his skin, and he wipes water and hair from his face.

"Lothian bless and keep you all. Innkeeper, could someone see to my pony and bring my saddlebags inside? I could use a warm room and some hot food. And if someone could find me Emmerson Grant, I would be most grateful."

Hearing his name, Emmerson swallows his food quickly and stands up, sliding his chair back from the table.

"Lothian keep you," he says. "I am Emmerson Grant. How may I be of service?"

From where he sits next to Emmerson's vacated chair, Bufer glances from his partner's back to the sodden man in the doorway, and thoughtfully chews his goulash. Subtly, so as not to be noticed, he slips the page of Draconic letters he's been studying, written in the hand of one Katadid Leach, off the table and into his lap.

The rain-bedraggled young man flashes a smile at Emmerson, and then gestures towards the door, where a miserable Ella is leading the man's pony through the rain and mud to the stables.

"Those saddlebags contain packages for you. I'm half-drowned, my friend, could I trouble you to get them?"

"No trouble at all." Emmerson gives him the mug of hot cider he had just ordered. "Put some fire in you while I go fetch them. I leave you in the company of my friend Ebuferpaly Potentloins."

Emmerson hurries out the door.

Inside, the young man sits down across from Bufer with a squelch, and his wooden ankh-crucifix swings forward, knocking against the table as the acolyte adjusts his chair, gratefully wrapping his fingers around the warm clay mug.

"Ah, much better."

After a moment, a muddy and soaking Ella and Emmerson return. The barmaid shoots the acolyte a dirty look before heading up the stairs to dry off and change her clothes.

The acolyte nods at the oilskin-wrapped objects Emmerson drops on the table before sitting down.

"His Excellency, Bishop Jurgen Lehmann, sent me along to go over these records for you before you visit the abbey. I suggested that tomorrow, Godsday, would be an auspicious day for such a mission, and he agreed, sending me out into the rain and wind to deliver these books to you post-haste."

"Tomorrow?" Emmerson's eyes open slightly in surprise. "Certainly."

Godsday, the fifth of Rain, is a holiday set aside to revere all gods, and the holiest in many religions. Although not the holiest of days in Lothianism, it's still an auspicious day, when many believe the gods pay extra attention to the affairs of their mortal worshippers.

"May I?" Emmerson gestures toward the packages.

The acolyte noisily sips the cider and nods.

Emmerson and Bufer untie and unwrap the packages, which turn out to be books and scrolls discussing the history of the barony, a sketch of the abbey in its heyday and one volume of a multivolume series about the orders of monks and nuns of the Church of Lothian.

Emmerson unrolls a scroll that appears to be the log of a paladin who previously explored the abbey after its fall. His other hand holds the sketch of the abbey as he scans the log of Artos Nachtmann.

Seeing what Emmerson is reading, the acolyte leans forward, wiping the cider from his lips with the back of his hand.

"Yes, Nachtmann's journey into the abbey in IA 670 was well-documented, since he had learned from previous failed attempts. After each sortie, he left to camp outside the abbey and left his journal in a waterproof scroll tube hung on a tree limb. When he finally disappeared, we at least had the details of what he had seen and heard -- or thought he did -- and what appears to be his descent into madness."

The acolyte leans back in his chair, looking for the staff of The Cat & The Fiddle, radiating a great deal of pleasure that he's not going into the abbey himself.

Emmerson pauses on an entry marked "IA 670, Toil 7."

"I have found the abbey easily with the directions from the innkeeper and his wife. The main building is in good repair despite the weather and lack of care, although black ivy threatens to choke it, covering much of the building save the doors and windows. Outlying buildings, such as the chapel and work sheds, have not fared as well, and are almost a complete shambles. The chapel in particular is in poor shape, with the roof having caved in, taking the primary ceiling braces with it, giving it a folded-in appearance."

The next entry is a day later.

"I have completed my investigations of the outlying ruins, and confirmed that there is nothing to them save the ivy. Not even birds or small animals have made nests there. Whatever is wrong with this place has kept them away as well. But the time has come for me to face up to my sense of unease and investigate the main abbey tomorrow."

Emmerson skips ahead two days.

"I have been unable to find any evidence of it, but I feel convinced when I explore the abbey that there are rooms and hallways not ruined by time, inhabited by something other than memories. I can all but hear the soft footfalls of the nuns walking and quietly working. This must be my imagination, I know, but the notion has taken a hold of me, and I cannot shake it."

Four days later:

"I woke again last night to find my campfire had gone out. The whispering that fills my dreams was helpful for once, I suppose. As I was relighting the fire -- there are great worgs in these woods, and it would not do to let them come up on me unannounced at night -- I felt convinced there was a woman in one of the abbey's windows, watching me, but when I looked up, the afterglow of the sparks from my flint and tinder blinded me, and I could see nothing."

Emmerson frowns. There have been no worgs in the Tulgey Wood in his lifetime, but he remembers the stories his father used to tell late at night.

Nachtmann's journal for IA 670, Toil 21: "Every waking moment is filled with the damned whispers. I pray that Lothian will drown out their voices, but I cannot pray loudly enough for him to hear me. At night, when I am able to sleep, I wake up sobbing like a child, but unable to remember what has driven me to despair. At the same time, I am filled with a dread of the Tulgey Wood and am afraid to leave my camp. Even by daylight, I feel the eyes upon me."

The final journal entry is marked IA 670, Harvest 12, in a crazed hand, unlike the neat penmanship of the first entries: "She's right, I know. All I try to accomplish, all any of us try to accomplish, is as meaningless as the games of children in the face of a coming plague. When I close my eyes, I can feel them, moving beneath the surface, like maggots beneath the skin of a fruit that's rotten to the core. It would be a blessing for me to return to Maidensbridge and put them all to the sword before they can see the horror that is to come. But I know now that I am a coward, and am just as afraid to return there as I am to stay. I know I would beg for the High Priest to lie to me, to tell me that everything will be fine. I wonder if they have always known. Their Empire, their religion, it's all whistling past the graveyard. Night is falling for us all and lighting a lamp against it does nothing but point us out to the things that wait in the dark for us. I will not bother with a light this night -- they know where to find me."

"These notes will serve us well, brother," Emmerson says. "Tell me, what do you think of the abbey? Do you think Nachtmann really went insane from what was inside?"

Ella now at his elbow, the acolyte orders a bowl of onion soup and black bread. He carefully considers before answering Emmerson.

"If it had only been Nachtmann, I would have had my doubts. But there have been other disappearances over the years, including some that appeared to have been suicides or murder-suicides by exorcists and explorers. Even if Nachtmann disappeared for a reason not related to the abbey -- perhaps a bear or a worg -- his journal certainly paints a frightening portrait of his mental state."

Emmerson mulls over what the acolyte has said. He looks at the oddly silent Bufer holding a sheaf of papers.

"We're going to need help," Emmerson says, and stands. "Emus told me how to contact him should we require his assistance, and it certainly looks like we do. Please, enjoy your food. I shall return shortly."

Cold rain blows in a moment before Emmerson shuts the door behind him, squelching off into the rain.

"Tell me the truth, son," Bufer says quietly to the acolyte, once he's certain Emmerson is out of earshot. "Does his Excellency actually believe we can succeed where these men failed? Or are me and the beanpole hiking off a cliff, here?"

The acolyte takes the book on nuns and monks and begins flipping through the pages carefully as he answers.

"For 111 years, everyone who has attempted to lift the curse has vanished, died or gone mad. Some have done more than one," the acolyte says. He finds the page he's looking for and tucks a purple silk ribbon between two pages to mark his place and then closes the book. "But truthfully, most who have gone have gone alone, or nearly so. If you were to go in force, it might be that you could succeed where the other have failed.

"As for what his Excellency seeks, I imagine if you and the dwarf cleric were to die or vanish, it would make his life less complicated. But if you were to succeed, it would increase the glory of Lothian and his standing in the church.

"His Excellency does not take gambles that he feels he can lose. No one plays Three-Dragon Ante with him twice."

Bufer's chair creaks as he leans back and strokes his chin in consideration. He stares at the table for a moment before glancing back up at the acolyte and favoring him with a smile.

"Well, at least you're honest. I appreciate that, lad," he says. "Listen, I ain't never had the patience for book learnin' -- I always been more of a 'learn by doing' kind of gnome, much to my master's chagrin."

He gestures to the various books, scrolls and maps strewn across the table.

"Any way ye can sum up the more relevant parts of this for me? And maybe give me a clue as to what you might know that's not in here?"

The young acolyte sputters in horror at the notion that someone would eschew book-learning, but after a moment, he composes himself and begins grabbing various books and flipping through them rapidly, opening them to select pages and turning them around toward Bufer.

"The Sisters of the New Dawn were an order of nuns established by a grant by a pious merchant's wife living in Grail Keep who feared the decline of learning and knowledge. The order's founder felt the same way, and claimed to have received an apocalyptic prophecy from Lothian himself."

The acolyte unrolls a scroll and reads it aloud.

"Night sweeps across the land,
And you cannot stop it.
Shadows grow,
And you cannot beat them back.
The sun is setting,
And you cannot raise it up again.
Darkness is coming,
And all you can do
Is light a candle
And pray for a new dawn."

The Cat & The Fiddle has grown silent, with Milos Fordham listening with arms crossed and brow furrowed by the bar.

"Ahem, well." The acolyte flushes a little with embarrassment. "The abbey was intended as a place where the sisters would collect the knowledge of the present age and store it away in advance of the coming time when learning and reason would vanish from the world. Even before the abbey was finished, books and scrolls and works of art were being brought to the abbey, and the sisters spent a great deal of time summarizing them, creating archives of knowledge that would let the people of a future time reconstruct the learning of today."

The acolyte stops, considering what to say next.

"Some in the church felt the sisters were not particularly discriminating in what sorts of books they brought beneath holy walls for study and preservation. At the time of the ... incident, the Holy Emperor had called for the abbess to appear before him in the Holy Palace in Tarsis to defend some of her more questionable decisions, but before the messenger arrived in Midwood, she and her sisters were already dead."

He spreads out the drawing of the abbey.

"In its heyday, the abbey was a two-story building of timber and stone, but it has fallen into disrepair. Parts of the second floor have collapsed and black vines choke much of the rest of the building. The perimeter buildings have all but vanished at this point."

The acolyte puts a watertight scroll tube on the table but does not open it.

"The bishop also had me bring this series of scrolls along for you. If you succeed in ... whatever is necessary, reading this spell will sanctify the ruins, and should keep whatever it is from coming back again. But it's not of any real use until then."

He goes back to his soup, slurping noisily.

Bufer nods, steepling his fingers against his chin as he absorbs all this.

"Good, that's what the books say," he says. "Now: rumors, supposition, wild speculation, whatever it is you all whisper to each other in the dead of night at Scripture Camp, I want to hear all of it. What is it y'all think killed them all?"

The acolyte looks at Bufer as though speaking to a very slow child.

"It was the abbess, Mister Gnome, the abbess."

Bufer cocks a bushy eyebrow and throws the acolyte's patronizing tone right back at him.

"I mean what drove her to it?" he asks. "Can't tell me you've got all this, and ain't nobody never made a guess. Or has it just never occurred to you to wonder?"

At this moment, Emmerson opens the front door and stomps inside, soaking wet.

"Ella, a hot cider, please." He reoccupies his seat, dripping on the floor. "I left the sign for Emus. Lothian willing, he'll see it by tomorrow."

He looks between Bufer and the acolyte, the mutual irritation palpable.

"What did I miss?"

The acolyte blinks in frustration, blushing with embarrassment and anger, his eyes tearing up a bit.

"I'm just a librarian, Mister Gnome. If anyone knows what caused the abbess to go mad in the first place, they never wrote it down and they certainly never told me. I rather thought that's what the bishop wanted you to take care of."

"No need to get flustered," Emmerson says mildly. "We will take care of it."

"Thank you, sir." The acolyte gets up and walks to the bar, speaking quietly with Milos, and exchanging coins for a key to a room upstairs.

"Panty-waisted academic," Bufer scoffs, rolling his eyes. He glances at Emmerson, who glares at him disapprovingly. "I got a bad feelin' about this, beanpole."

"If it was easy, someone else would have done it by now," Emmerson says, sitting down and picking up at the papers, which he tries to keep dry. "Emus has been contacted. We need to locate Vonmora if she is to accompany us. Then we need to familiarize ourselves with the papers here to see what we're up against and if there's something we need to do to end it."

He sips the mug with the cooling cider.

"Did he give you any pointers?"

"Nothing we hadn't already learned on our own, anyway," Bufer says, waving his hand dismissively. "My guess remains the same: The sisters took too close a look at something they shouldn't have looked at to begin with, although we still ain't no closer to knowing what that something might be."

The gnome cleric huffs in frustration and shakes his head.

"I was hoping his Excellency might have some kind of theory as to what it might be, but if he's got one, it appears he ain't shared it with the panty-waist, there."

"So reading these documents is of vital importance. If we don't go fully prepared, we will end up as a footnote on the next package the bishop sends, and our unified church idea will be nothing more than that." Emmerson frowns. "What happens if Emus misses the signal? I mean, he told me that he'd check the tree every other day. What if he checked it today and won't be around well after Godsday?"

Bufer raises a curious eyebrow.

"I'm reluctant to bring in someone else before we know what lies ahead," Emmerson continues, "But do you think we could use Hazel's help?"

Bufer fiddles with the green friendship band wrapped around his index finger.

"I suppose we could but I ain't exactly eager to involve her," he stammers. "There ain't no doubt she's up to the challenge, it's just ... you didn't see the look on her face that day with the kobolds. I don't want to put her in a position where she's carrying home friends wrapped in a bloody cloak again. Or worse."

"Very well. Unless she flat out asks us where we're going, we won't involve her," Emmerson says. "All right, let's see what Artos Nachtmann wrote about the abbey."

The pair fall silent, listening to the patter of the rain in the mud outside and the crackle of the logs in the fireplace as they read.

"Not lighting a campfire," Emmerson murmurs, reading Nachtmann's scroll, shaking his head.

"If he didn't light a campfire, then it's like as anything he was dragged away by those worgs he was worried about earlier," Bufer puts in. "That's a mistake we won't be making."

"Unless worgs whisper day and night, I don't think that's what took him."

"Fat lot of good his log was," Bufer says, waving a hand at the scroll in Emmerson's hand. "If he'd spent more time telling us what he actually saw instead of what he didn't see or almost saw, we'd be a lot better prepared. Ours will be better; it'll be written by a gnome, after all!"

"I think his mistake was thinking he couldn't die undertaking his mission. We go in there armed with the knowledge that a mistake could do us in."

Bufer looks down regretfully at the cold remains of his goulash, plucks his napkin up off his lap and dabs his mouth with it.

"All right, I'm off to find Vonmora, let her know we're on for tomorrow. Why don't you see if you can find Tucker? If there are worgs to be worrying about, another pair of eyes and a strong arm couldn't hurt. We can all meet at the chapel tonight, go over supplies and sift through this stuff, see if we can glean anything more from it."

"Tucker, of course! How could I forget him? Aye, I will tell him our plans and tell him to meet us there." Emmerson closes the books and carries his share. "I have to much to pray on between now and then."

Evening brings no relief from the rain spattering Maidensbridge with mud. The Sawyer house is no exception.

Inside, the family has gathered around the table for dinner: Hazel and her father are intent on their meals, Hazel's sister Aspen and their mother are happily chatting about a bolt of fine fabric that they found in town yesterday and young Reed sits at the table continuing his losing battle with boredom that rainy days bring to all young boys.

Three loud knocks at the door give everyone pause. Each wonders who would be out in such a heavy rainstorm. As Hazel starts to head for the door, the deep "woof" from the other side makes her smile. That smile turns into a look of annoyance as Reed barrels past her yelling, "Skeeter!"

By the time Hazel and her family have reached the front door, Emus Graymullet stands in the middle of the room, dripping water onto the floor. Behind him, Reed and Skeeter reunite as only a boy and a dog can, but fortunately not too close to the shelf that holds some of Rosalind Sawyer's more favored porcelain.

"Hazel, sir, ma'am," the dwarf rumbles, hair and whiskers plastered down flat with rain and mud.

"Emus! What are you doing here?" Hazel grins, but before he can reply, she turns to her father.

"Oh! Da, this is Emus Graymullet. One of my friends that --"

"I know who he is, Hazel," Jack Sawyer begins, clearly steeling himself for an argument. But he's cut off by his wife, who steps before him with a smile and obvious attention to the puddle forming at Emus' feet.

"Welcome to our home, Emus. Would you care for something to eat? Perhaps we can dry you off some?"

The dwarf looks down, seemingly realizing how wet he is for the first time, then steps closer to the door and away from the Sawyers' seemingly ancient carpet.

"Ah, sorry. No, thank you." Behind him, Reed laughs as Skeeter shakes the water off of his fur all over the entryway. "I just came by to talk to Hazel for a minute."

"How can we help you?" Jack Sawyer gazes directly at Emus, but Emus directs his answer to Hazel.

"I asked Emmerson to let me know when he's ready to go into Maidensbridge Abbey. They're going go soon, and I'd like for you to come with us."

"What?" Jack Sawyer explodes. "Hazel, we talked about your little adventures. Ask your friend to leave."

"With as many people as we should have that are gonna go in," Emus continues, his voice remaining level. The angriest human is nothing to the rage of a dwarf. "We should be fine as long as we can keep from arguing. You're the calmest, and most level-headed of us all, Hazel, and more than anyone, you can keep us focused, especially now that Chandler and Kem are gone."

"Hazel! Ask your friend to leave!"

Emus looks up at Hazel's father.

"Sir, what happened in that abbey ain't right and it ain't natural. We have a chance to put them ladies to rest, and Hazel keeping us together is our best chance of gettin' it done; she's the only one everyone listens to."

Jack Sawyer looks down at his daughter, simmering with fury. Hazel gives Emus a slight nod before turning to her father.

"Da, you've always said 'best done soonest.' Leaving something to fester ain't right, and whatever's in that abbey's been festering something fierce longer than I been alive, I know you don't like letting me go, but I can't sit by and let my friends head off into danger. You taught me better than that, Da."

Jack Sawyer sighs deeply and closes his eyes for a moment.

"I should've let your mother keep you in the house, make a proper girl out of you. Didn't know you were going to take to the woods like a fish to water."

"It's a little late for that now, dear," his wife says quietly, her hand touching his shoulder lightly. "And I'm sure Emus will take good care of her."

"To be sure, ma'am. Won't a thing happen to her that I can stop."

"Go on then, Hazel," her father says, slapping her shoulder somewhat roughly. "But we're not done with this subject."

"I know. I'll be careful." She grabs her cloak from its peg by the door, the folds swirling around her as she pulls the hood up and stoops to pick up her pack. "Let's go."

Reed watches forlornly from the door as Skeeter bounds away into the rain, Hazel and Emus following behind.

The rain has slackened off some, but Raddashin's Eye still looks down on Midwood, pouring seemingly endless amounts of rain on the barony as the group gathered in Maidensbridge Chapel plan the next day's expedition.

Wind and rain blow in as the chapel door creaks open. Bufer squishes inside, followed by Vonmora Farrin, their hoods drawn up against the rain.

"... stockpiling holy water since we done got back from Maidensbridge," he says over his shoulder to the dwarven cleric. "It ain't much -- we can only bless about two flasks a day between the two of us -- but it'll hafta do. Also picked me up an altar case, an' a few aspergillums for sprinkling the water --oh!"

Bufer stops short as he turns and spots of Hazel. Reaching up to lower the dripping hood of his robe, Bufer glances meaningfully up at Emmerson, who merely shrugs and mouths Emus' name. Bufer rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he sighs in resignation.

"Evening lass," he finally says to Hazel, "I guess you heard. To be honest, I was hoping you wouldn't find out until after we'd gone, but I suppose I ought to know better."

Hazel looks from Bufer to Emmerson and back again.

"You don't want me to go?" She gestures toward Vonmora. "Is there a one-woman limit on do-gooding in this town? Because I'm pretty sure I'd lose an axe-fight with a dwarf, cleric or no."

Hazel rises to her feet, clutching some of Nachtmann's journal entries.

"Maybe you won't have to face worgs like Artos, here, did since they ain't been around Maidensbridge in years." She pauses briefly, thinking. "Well, except for the Black Reavers' mounts, but they ain't gonna go running off on their own, because the goblins -- never mind, I'm getting off track here."

She tosses the papers onto the table.

"Point being, even if you ain't facing worgs, there might be other beasties in that abbey, and who's gonna watch your backs while you're all mumbling an' praying and cleansing evil?" Hazel shakes her head, staring hard at Bufer. "Don't even think you're going in there without me. If you don't find trouble, trouble finds you, and I ain't about to let it sink its claws in."

"Well, that settles it then, I guess," Bufer sighs. "But watch yourself: If you die, your father will kill the rest of us."

Before she can reply, the door slams open and Emus marches in, a broad grin on his face.

"Howdy, all! I swear, I just took the longest piss ever!" His cackle is cut short when he notices Vonmora sitting with the others at the table that Emmerson has set up as a staging area. Helping himself to a tankard of mead, Emus joins them, studiously ignoring the dwarf from the rival clan.

"Now, holy sprinklers are all well and good, but the way I figure it," Emus begins after being caught up on the discussion, "We're gonna need lots of explosives. Maybe barrels of gunpowder. It will be hard to get them from the Haurdir in Middleborough by tomorrow, but maybe old Therurt has some lying around. But that might not be enough. If we'd had more time, we could have been stockpiling it. But we'll have to make do with whatever we can scrounge up, I guess. Then, I was thinking that maybe -- what?"

Everyone around the table stares at Emus in silence.

"Emus," Emmerson finally says, "Why do we need so many explosives?"

"Ah-ha!" Emus points knowingly at the priest. "I was thinking the same thing! But we can't just burn it all down. I did the research, see, and the abbey is mostly stone, right? And even if stone burned (which it doesn't), with all this rain, any flames we start are gonna go right out.

"So, we explode all the buildings, and any ghosts and such haunting the place won't stick around without a place to haunt, see? And if, by chance, anything tries to escape the devastating wreckage, we can use them holy sprinklers -- you can't bless rain clouds I don't think -- to finish 'em off! Problem solved!"

There's another awkward silence, broken this time by Bufer.

"Ah, Emus," he says awkwardly, "As much as I can appreciate the, um, efficiency of your plan, I think the main goal is to remove the undead threat from the grounds of the abbey, without destroying it. And also to try to find out what happened to the nuns who lived there."

There's another moment of silence as Emus chews his beard, thinking about this.

"Well, that's just plain stupid."

"Indeed," Bufer says, grateful that this line of conversation appears to be at an end. "Blessing rain clouds ... I wonder if that's ever been tried."

Still thinking, he attempts to climb into a seat around the table. Once he's fought his way onto his chair, Bufer realizes he can barely see over it. He looks flatly out over the surface for a second, only his eyes and bushy eyebrows visible beyond the edge, before glancing sourly at Emmerson and getting to his feet on the chair.

"Stop smiling, beanpole," he snaps. "This table is speciesist. Anyway, I know we're still waiting on Tucker, but I figure there's enough of us here to get started. Why don't you fill us in, Emmerson?"

Emmerson and Bufer go over what they've learned from the church's documents relating to Maidensbridge Abbey with the others.

"We need to know what we face or there'll be another attempt to find our remains 110 years from now," Emmerson concludes. "Sure, we go in, check every room carefully and keep our eyes open for the slightest movement. But I'd feel safer knowing that we are prepared to face what has killed everyone who's gone there. Bufer, did the acolyte tell you how are we going to cleanse the abbey once and for all?"

"With an exorcism ritual," comes a voice from the doorway. It's the rain-bedraggled acolyte, who ducks inside to get out of the wet. "You can find it in the Chapter of Angels in the Book of the Brilliant Dawn."

He glances at Bufer and Vonmora.

"I assume other faiths have a similar ritual in their holy works," he says, looking for a place to sit down. "The ritual is a dangerous one, however, as it will force whatever is haunting the abbey -- if it is indeed something undead -- to manifest, and it will attempt to kill the exorcist and thus interrupt the ritual. If you defeat it, you can complete the ritual and remove the presence entirely from the site. After that, the bishop has asked you use the scroll I gave you to hallow the site once more, to prevent something like this from happening again, and to give those who died there the peace they deserve."

Emmerson shows the acolyte the chair he reserved for the still-absent Tucker.

"Have a seat, brother," Emmerson says. "We thank your counsel and I wonder if I could ask for a little more of your knowledge."

He shows the acolyte a list of questions he and Bufer have drawn up. The acolyte scans it, frowning.

"Hmmm, I don't know that records survived of most of that. The abbey has not been very kind to those trying to document things after the fact, and the sisters never shared a list of their inventory. I believe there were about two dozen nuns living in the abbey at the time of the incident, however."

"Great," Bufer says flatly, "Two dozen boogey-boogedies. We're gonna need a lot more holy water."

He looks up sharply at the acolyte as something occurs to him.

"Hey, while we're on the subject, we can count on his Excellency to reimburse us for our expenses when this is all over, right? My friends an' I've spent a small fortune on powdered Dwarven silver over the past couple of weeks, not that that's made Therurt any happier to see me at all. So, how about it?"

"I don't know. The bishop only had me deliver the records that might be of use to you." The acolyte leans forward. "But if you get the constable or the sheriff to suggest it to the baron, the bishop might have to compensate you."

Hazel gets up and heads toward the chapel door. She rifles through the pockets of her cloak, taking care not to slip in the growing puddle of water below the coat rack Emmerson provided. She counts quietly to herself as the group at the table peppers the acolyte with questions.

A search of her pockets turns up the handkerchief she often carries lunch in; Hazel dumps a handful of coins in and knots the ends before rejoining the group. She tosses the bag on the table in front of Bufer. At his curious look, she explains in clipped tones, still miffed by his lack of trust in her abilities.

"Fifty gold. For more holy water."

Bufer glances from the bundle of coins to Hazel, and nods.

"Thank you, lass," he says evenly. "I'll run out to Therurt, and we'll bless up a couple of batches tonight. If Vonmora could talk him into obliging us with an extra dose on credit, that'd give us -- well, still not nearly enough, but it'll have to do.

"That being settled, I think we've accomplished about as much as we can tonight. Unless anyone has any more questions for Mister Fancypants, here, I think the best thing we could do right now to prepare for tomorrow is get a good night's rest."

Skeeter thumps his tail against the floor and stands as the chapel door opens. He attempts to leap up and greet Tucker with muddy paws, but the deputy blocks the dog, and scratches his head while looking up at the assembled group.

"I got nothing. How's everybody here?"

"Constable Bridger didn't have any advice?" Emmerson asks as Tucker closes the door, shutting out the rain once more.

"Same thing he says every time you people decide to go on one of your adventures: 'stay home.' But you've never listened before, so I don't know why you'd start now."

"The reason they do not stay is that they are charged by Bishop Lehmann himself, with the holiest of missions," the acolyte offers. "The devotees of Lothian deserve their final peace!" His last word squeaks out, as Tucker rounds on him.

"I don't know you."

"Oh," the acolyte stutters, "I-I'm--"

"I didn't say I wanted to know you." Tucker takes a step back, giving the young man room to breathe. "I assume you're the bishop's man."

"I serve in the light of Lothian, creator of --"

"Yes, but unless Lothian himself came down and signed the papers to send you here, you're the bishop's man. Will you be going with them to the abbey?"

The acolyte nearly has a convulsion at the suggestion.

"Sir, I'm, I'm ... I'm a librarian."

Bufer blinks as he looks from the acolyte to Tucker and back again.

"That works. I understand they had lot of books at the abbey that need taking care of." He glances back over to Tucker. "I assume you got the authority to conscript him?"

"You know, I believe he's right," Tucker grins. Before the acolyte can protest, the deputy produces a folded sheet of paper and holds it up between them. "By power of Lord Nicodemus Midwood, and as witnessed in the light of Lothain, I hereby charge Acolyte ... say, what was your name, anyway?"

The young man opens his mouth to answer, but Tucker cuts him off.

"Doesn't matter. I hereby charge you, acolyte, as a defender of the Tarsisian Empire and the church. It is your legal and spiritual duty to protect both body and soul of all legal, law-abiding citizens, to render unto them whatever aid is within your power, even unto death. Do you accept this holy vocation?"

Before the librarian can refuse, Tucker continues.

"Good man, I knew you had the steel in you. Lothian will be pleased! He'll surely welcome you directly to his side in the afterlife."

"A-afterlife?" The word comes out as a squeak.

"Oh, yes," offers Bufer. "I understand martyrs are always given a special place in the Heavens. That's right, isn't it, Father Grant?"

"Martyr?"

"Indeed it is, Brother Bufer. And the more horrible the manner of death, the more honored the soul."

"Horrible death!" offers Bufer, testifying, waving his hands and waggling his fingers.

"Why, I'd imagine Lothian is clearing a space in his court for you even now. Possibly right next to him."

"Horrible death!" repeats Bufer, and he begins to hum.

"Next to him, Emmerson? With what we're going to be facing tomorrow," Tucker throws an arm around the acolyte's narrow shoulders, more to keep him standing than to console him. "I wouldn't be surprised if Lothian offered you his own chair when you arrive in his holy presence."

"Horrible, mutilating death!" Bufer seems, clapping his hands in time to the song he hums.

"Ah, you're probably right, good deputy." Emmerson lifts the pile of papers on the table. "You've read of the way the abbess killed her nuns, haven't you, acolyte? The things she did to them." In unison, Emmerson and Bufer cross themselves. "Who knows what may happen to us when we venture there?"

"Horrible death," offer the rest of the group as one, before Bufer can get it out. He shoots them a dirty look.

"Oh, now, if I thought it would be that bad, I wouldn't have conscripted the librarian, here," says Tucker. "And acolyte, don't fret: even St. Daris was a simple man before he took up his hammer. In Lothian, you shall find greatness."

The acolyte looks slightly relieved.

"Find it, of course, when we go to face horrible death," Tucker finishes.

"Now see here!" The acolyte shakes off the deputy's arm, and steps away from the three who have been badgering him. "I am a librarian, and a messenger for the bishop, nothing more! I have brought you your message, and I will wait in town until your expedition is completed, one way or the other, at which point I will report back to Bishop Lehmann."

He turns toward the exit, only to find Emus leaning against the door, his great club leaning next to him.

"I am no soldier!"

Tucker rattles the paper he held up earlier.

"There are other ways to serve your duty once conscripted," he says. "There is more to a battle than fighting."

"Such as?"

"You arrived just today and presented us with an incredibly brief timetable. It leaves us almost no time to prepare for this quest or to ready our equipment. Though another set of hands would not be turned away if you did want to come, what we really need now are supplies and the gold to buy them.

"Now, a simple rural priest may rely on the kindness of strangers when traveling, but I've met the bishop, and seen his public rooms. No man who loves opulence as much as he does would ever think to send an acolyte on a journey this far into the wilderness with no provisions. You bring us any supplies you brought with you, and any coin you have, and we can consider your conscription fulfilled. We'll make sure your room and board are taken care of for the next few days until your return to Middleborough, and you'll have an official, successful service marked on your record -- a great boon to one who wishes to advance his standing in the church.

"So tell me, acolyte, how would you like to fulfill your charge: with gold, or with steel?"

"By Garl, I do believe the boy's onto something," Bufer mutters in Gnomish.

As the acolyte sputters, Bufer looks up at Emmerson and gestures for him to lean closer.

"Does he really have the authority to, you know, extort money from folk like this?" he whispers to the young priest.

"I assume so," Emmerson whispers in return. "Tucker's a law-abiding soul, and I've never known him to lie. And he is the deputy, after all."

"Wow," Bufer says, looking at Tucker in a whole new light. "For the first time today, I'm glad I'm penniless!"

The acolyte sputters with fear and outrage.

"I am subject to church law before all else and thus under the bishop's rule before the sheriff's! And, in any case, I have only what I need to stay at the inn. I am merely an acolyte, not a curate or high priest!"

"Ah," Bufer nods. "Steel it is, then?"

"Steel." Tucker draws his sword, then offers the handle to the acolyte. "Have you ever had any training with one of these? Time is short, but I'm sure we could at least teach you how to not lop off your own legs when you swing it."

"As I said before, I am bound to church law, not the sheriff's."

"Ah, true, you did," says Emmerson, tapping a prayer book with a knuckle, "But that's not entirely accurate. It is Lothian's law that is be your highest calling, not the church's. And while the temporal church may not fault you for leaving us to our fate, I do not think Lothian approves of broken vows.

"We are not asking you to serve a mere sheriff above his holiness the bishop: We are asking you to serve Lothian himself. It takes more than the Order of the Dawn to defend the faith: It takes all of us, every day, in the choices we make. The times we choose to stand for our faith, rather than sitting quietly. I ask you now, here in the house of Lothian, will you stand for our lord and god?"

"Look, nobody's trying to get you killed, lad," Bufer adds, suddenly serious, "But I already told you, I ain't much on book-learning. You've got more'a this stuffed into you noggin than all of us combined are gonna be able to absorb in one night. To me, it's pretty clear: bring all of this, or bring you. And I don't want be wasting time paging through a book in a life or death situation. You might very well be the one who keeps us all from an early grave, tomorrow.

"Besides, ain't there at least part of ye filled with a healthy academic curiosity about the place? If we succeed in this, you'd be the only scholar to have had a front row seat at the proceedings, and the first to catalog just what happened at the abbey in the first place. At least a couple books gonna be devoted to that, I figure. Someone's gonna write 'em. Why not you?"

The acolyte miserably nods.

"I'll come with you, may St. Gustav preserve me."

"Good man!" Emmerson says. "As long as I draw breath, you shall be safe from harm. Incidentally, brother, would you happen to have -- or know -- of the abbey's layout? I'd like to know how many rooms are there and spread over how many floors and the like."

The acolyte sighs.

"I'm told there's a church on one side, but that the whole is built around a large courtyard where the sisters did their exercises, gathered for dinner and so on. There are dormitories, libraries, reading rooms and so on, all wound around the central cloister."

"Ah," Emmerson says. "I hope we can find the map among that mass of paper. But if not, we go in by the first opening we find and keep our eyes and ears sharper than a dwarf's axe blade."

"Chapel's on the north side, all tumble-down now, though," Hazel interjects, still looking through the papers. "Best head for the door to the west, I think, unless Emus has been by and seen a better way in. It's been a bit since I wandered out that way. Animals don't like it there, and the plants are all twisted."

"Do we have a plan once we get in there?" Tucker asks. "Or is it just 'try not to die?'"

"If Nachtmann's notes are anything to go by, whatever it is gets inside your head," Hazel continues. "I'd say 'stick together, get the hell out before dark, and don't turn on each other.' Which means trusting each other to watch all our backs."

"You mentioned the exorcism ritual and the hallowing after, did you not?" Emmerson asks the acolyte.

"Aye."

"Tell us more."

Some color returns to the acolyte's face.

"It's a 24-hour ritual and will re-sanctify the abbey in Lothian's grace. His blessing extends to a magical effect tied to the location for the next year."

"If we're using the spell, it would serve us best to cast it as close to the abbey's center as possible."

"Twenty-four hour casting time?" Tucker says. "I hope your arms don't get tired."

Vonmora slowly tilts forward until her head hits the table with a loud thunk, and then she begins to snore. After a moment, she leans back up, waving a hand dismissively.

"Blah blah blah! Let's goooooooo."

"What?" Emus glares at her in outrage. "We need to go over the strategy for this one! We need to know what we're going to face or they'll be lookin' for our remains a hundred years from now! Sure, we go in, check every room real careful and keep our eyes open for the slightest movement. But it'd be better knowing that we're prepared to face what killed everyone who's gone there afore us."

The acolyte coughs.

"I know these records as well as anyone alive does. If anyone knows what's at the abbey, they haven't written it down."

"In that case, I think we're ready to assemble our plan," Emmerson says. "Is there anything else we need?

"Gunpowder!" Emus roars.

"We leave tomorrow at first light," Emmerson continues, ignoring him. "We carry our gear and the materials for the exorcism ritual and cleansing. We go in the abbey by the west entrance. We clear a space and begin the ritual."

"Refectory would be good," Bufer interjects. "Cloisters even better."

"Agreed. We start the exorcism and fight whatever it is that haunts the place," Emmerson nods. "Hopefully, searching the abbey beforehand will uncover supplies from other expeditions that might be helpful I don't think Nachtmann went there with just parchment, pen and ink."

"I still say we should use gunpowder."

"I think that covers it," Emmerson finishes, his jaw clenching and unclenching the only sign he's heard Emus. "If anyone has anything else constructive to say, speak now."

"So, first light?" Hazel says, scooping up her gear and pulling on her cloak.

"First light it is. May Lothian watch over and keep us safe in what once was his house."

Dawn is just breaking on Godsday when the adventurers begin to congregate outside Maidensbridge Chapel.

The acolyte sent by the bishop is there, looking miserable in a chain shirt he clearly begged Therurt for, despite it being made for a much broader man than him. His red woolen sweater sticks out of the gap at the shirt's neck and he holds a footman's mace like it might turn and bite him without warning.

But the weather is better today, although the fast-moving clouds overhead might still bring rain.

The hamlet is quiet, the only sound other than the adventurers being a skinny yellow dog inspecting every corner of every building and marking it as his own.

Hazel absent-mindedly spins her quarterstaff as she approaches the chapel. She nods affably to the acolyte and takes a seat on the steps to wait for the others.

"Good morning, friends. I trust you are well rested," Emmerson greets the pair as he opens the chapel doors for the day. He's been up for more than an hour, praying for guidance and preparing his equipment for the expedition. "I picked up some of the items we need, but I will require assistance taking the rest of the holy water and the items Bufer purchased."

He looks up at the overcast sky.

"I hoped today would not be so cloudy."

Emus arrives at the chapel, greatclub on his shoulder, pack on his back, and Skeeter trailing along behind. Skeeter seems to notice a change in his master's demeanor, however. Instead of his usual casual swagger, Emus walks a confident soldier's step. He knows that battle is not too far in his future. Reflecting his master's mood, the dog seems similarly grim.

"Morning, folks," Bufer says from the doorway of the chapel, peeking out behind Emmerson. "Happy Godsday, if it ain't out of keeping with the situation."

Unusually, the little gnome cleric is dressed not in his usual brown sackcloth robe, but in the freshly laundered and pressed vestments of his order. The white robes and gold embroidery practically gleam next to his dark skin. His normally unkempt hair has been neatly combed and slicked back away from his face, and even his holy symbol looks as though a fresh coat of gold lacquer has been applied to it. Bufer reddens at the looks of surprise he gets from his friends, and scratches his nose self-consciously.

"Yeah, I know, I know," he mutters. "These ain't proper adventuring clothes, but I ain't got no armor or anything anyway, and today just seemed to demand more, somehow. Anyway, just so's y'all don't think I've gone too fancy on you, I still got my crapkickers on underneath."

With that he raises the hem of his robe to reveal his father's battered and dusty old leather boots.

"So listen," he says, "Once Tucker and Vonmora get here, if it ain't too much trouble, I-I'd appreciate it if y'all would let me lead you in a prayer. I know ain't none of us share a common faith, except for Beanpole, Tucker and the librarian there, but that's kind of the point of today, ain't it?"

Before anyone can answer, Bufer sets down his pack and the folded-up altar case, and squats down next to Hazel on the chapel's steps.

"You and me ought to talk before we leave, lass," he says quietly. "I don't want to head out there today with you not looking at me the way you've been not looking at me since last night."

Hazel scowls at him in silence. But Bufer's composure doesn't change, and no more words are forthcoming from the typically chatty gnome. Hazel sighs. She casts a sidelong glance at the others, grateful for Emmerson, who's struck up a conversation with the acolyte about Godsday celebrations across the barony.

"We're friends, Bufer. But next time you try heading off somewhere dangerous without telling me, I'm going to stuff you in a sack and hang you from a branch." Her fingers pluck a few worn threads from her cloak, letting them drift in the breeze. "I have a Da already, and I don't need a second one. You think something's beyond my skills, you tell me. You and Em don't get to just decide for me."

Vonmora had intended to enter quietly, but she ended up tripping over a wagon rut with her knee breaking the fall. She grimaces and then straightened up, adjusting her ample chest beneath the chainmail, mentally taking note of how many had arrived.

Upon noticing Bufer and his fancy threads, she lets out an appreciative whistle and enjoys his obvious embarrassment.

"Good morning, everyone," Tucker says, a moment behind the dwarf. "Are we all ready to go face horrible death?"

There's a slight squeak from one side of the group, and the acolyte nearly drops his borrowed weapon.

"Ah, good to see you again, brother," Tucker grins as Emmerson helps the scared young man up. "I half expected you to skedaddle overnight. Obviously you've got the steel of Lothian in you, er ..."

Tucker pauses, thinking back to the conversation the night before. The acolyte fidgets with the bit of crimson sweater that is poking out of his armor and irritating his neck.

"What's your name, anyway? Just because you're the newest random member on this little adventure, it doesn't mean it would be right for us to spend the day calling you 'Red Shirt.'"

"Why would --" he stops, looking down at his sweater, realization spreading across his face. "My name is Oktav Grosskopf. Thank you for asking."

"Wow, when they were handing out names, were you holding the door, Redshirt?" Bufer asks. "We'll get underway in just a minute, folks, but before we head out if y'all wouldn't mind standing in a circle and joining hands ..."

Emmerson grabs Hazel's other hand and joins his with Oktav's. As he bows down to pray, he is intrigued by the enormous disparity between them: Hazel's hand is strong as an oak tree and Oktav's shakes like a leaf on a tree.

As the others close the circle by joining hands -- Emus and Vonmora eye each other warily before Tucker interposes himself between them -- Bufer closes his eyes and begins.

"O almighty gods," he intones, "We pray to you on this, the most holy of holy days, to seek your blessing, for it is only through your divine grace that we shall succeed in our holy mission this day. Almighty gods, hear our prayer.

"Almighty gods, hear our prayer," Emmerson repeats, with the others joining in halfway through.

"Lothian, Lightbringer, we pray you guide us and shepherd us. Keep us on the true path, and correct us should we stray. Lend us your light when the path is darkest, that we might find our way. Help us bring peace to those of your servants who have earned their rest, and restore order whence reason has fled. Lothian, hear our prayer."

"Lothian, hear our prayer," the others mutter in response, the priest and the acolyte the loudest.

"Garl Glittergold, Watchful Protector, we pray you keep watch over us this day. Protect us from evil, from those who would trespass against our cause or visit harm upon us. Grant us sanctuary when evil doth surround us, and lend us your guile that we might have cunning enough to survive the trials to come. Garl Glittergold, hear our prayer."

"Garl Glittergold, hear our prayer," comes the response.

"Yurrabbos, Runecarver, we pray you lend us your will when the spirit is weak, to bolster our conviction, and to resist doubt and temptation. Aid us in fulfilling our oath to cleanse this land, and steel us for the sacrifices we may be called upon to make to rid it of evil. Yurrabbos, hear our prayer."

"Yurrabbos, hear our prayer," the others reply, Vonmora's voice drowning out those of the others.

"Hanseath, Bearded One, we pray you grant us freedom from restraint and inhibition in the battles ahead. Gift us with the strength, the courage and the will to overwhelm our enemies, though they number many and we be few. Hanseath, hear our prayer."

"Hanseath, hear our prayer," the others repeat, and this time it is Emus' booming voice that dominates the response.

"Estanna, Hearthtender, we pray you give us the wisdom to put aside petty mortal differences for the sake of the greater good. Lend us your divine grace that we might return to our homes and our families once our appointed deeds are done. Estanna, hear our prayer."

"Estanna, hear our prayer," returns every voice but one. Stunned into silence, Hazel looks at Bufer with surprise, for Estanna is not often called upon -- and, in fact, is frequently forgotten -- in situations such as this, and she knows that he's included the goddess strictly for her.

"Bahamut," Bufer continues, "the Platinum Dragon, dragon saint, we pray you assist us in our struggle against the evil that has tainted this land, and to aid us in shepherding those helpless souls who have succumbed to it to their final and deserved rest. Bahamut, hear our prayer."

"Bahamut, hear our prayer," the others answer, and here Tucker and Emmerson share a smile, for although they worship Lothian, both men have long been tutored in the ways of the Platinum Dragon, through their close association with Constable Bridger.

"O almighty gods," Bufer resumes, "We beseech you, set aside your quarrels and your strife on this holiest of days, and join together to assist and protect these what pray before you, this company of your most devoted agents in this land. For our quest is just, our motives are true, and no matter how the envoys of your adversaries may test us, we shall not rest until it is done. No, not even if forced to march into the infernal fires of the Hell itself, we few -- we happy few -- vow that we shall not waver in this, your divine cause, so long as even one of us draws breath. So pledge we, your most humble servants and defenders of faith."

"Almighty gods, hear our prayer," the others respond, without being prompted.

Bufer keeps his head bowed and remains silent for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, before looking up with a wry grin.

"I think that just about covers it, folks."