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

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

Meanwhile, Bufer leads Emus and Tucker back to the corpses of the four fallen kobolds. Motioning for them to halt before they get too close, Bufer hands the torch to the dwarf.

"Stay well back," he tells them, as he fishes a tourniquet out of his healer's kit, drapes it over his nose and mouth, and ties it around back of his head as a makeshift mask. "I don't need the torch too close to be able to see, and if anything spatters, I don't want it getting on you."

That said, Bufer heads over to the black-robed kobold laying apart from the others to examine it more closely.

"Hmm," the gnome mutters, narrowing his eyes as he examines the robed kobold corpse. "Aside from being cut to ribbons by those skeletons, everything looks to be in order here. I guess Hazel was wrong. I wonder what gave her the idea that something was missing?"

Bufer glances up and around at his companions.

"Looks like someone gave this poor soul a right thorough going-over, though. His robes have been rifled through but good, and it looks like something was taken from this pocket here, something long and skinny to judge from this here indentation.

"I wonder what it was," Bufer says, as he straightens up, and makes his way over to other cluster of bodies. "I guess we'll have to ask Fibber about it real nicely when we get back."

He pauses in mid-step, then cocks an eyebrow over his mask and looks at the others.

"Or maybe Chandler."

Shaking his head, Bufer bends over and examines the three leather-clad corpses, one at a time, paying particular attention to their torsos, and the cysts growing within.

"Hmph, I suspected as much," Bufer mutters as he examines the other three corpses. "These three have been ransacked too, by the looks of it. This one here had a short sword taken right out of his scabbard."

Comparing the cysts in each corpse, he discovers the cysts appear to have grown on random organs in the torso, one per kobold. When he prods them with the dagger's hilt, they appear to be firm to the touch.

Satisfied that there is no danger of them rupturing, Bufer prods each gently with his fingertips. From the feel of them, each appears to be filled with some kind of congealed liquid. Confounded, Bufer frowns beneath his mask and exhales sharply. This is unlike any malady he has ever encountered.

Flipping the dagger over, holding the blade close to the tip for better control, Bufer leans over the nearest of the corpses and brings the point down onto the cyst. He hesitates before breaking the skin, and turns around to look at his companions.

"Keep back there, all right?" he says. "No matter what happens, stay the hell back."

Turning his attention back to the cyst, Bufer wipes his free hand across his forehead, surprised to find himself perspiring in the chill, winter air, and licks his lips beneath his mask. He glances momentarily at the face of the dead kobold.

"I hope you and Kurtulmak both will forgive me, lad," he mutters softly. "I truly mean no offense."

That said, Bufer presses the tip of the dagger into the cyst and carefully makes an incision, leaning well back in case it should spatter.

The cyst is indeed filled with a congealed liquid. Time and cold have made it an inert goo that does not leak from the cyst when its skin is cut. Frowning, Bufer scoops a small amount of the goo out of the incision, being careful not to touch it, and examines it closely, attempting to determine what it might be, and if he's seen the like before.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

Back in the owlbear's den, Hazel steps back from the corpses, deep in thought.

"Not from Maidensbridge," she mutters. "At least, none of my neighbors was a goblin."

Tosh helps the paladin drag the remains into their shallow resting places and then, while the tall man shifts dirt over them, he moves about to heft a few rocks for building a cairn.

"A lot of work for nothing, you ask me. I figure they'd be happy enough lying right where they were. But sooner done, sooner out of here."

As Emmerson shovels dirt over the bodies, the gnome slaps his hands and clothes clean.

"So, anyone want to see what's around the bend to the north?" he grins. Without waiting for an answer, Tosh heads off into the darkness and around the corner from the nest, Tock following a few steps behind. Tosh slows a bit and moves cautiously forward, stopping at each turn to get a better view of the tunnel ahead, but discovers the north corner dead ends a few paces further.

"So can we go now?" Tock asks. "Let's gather up anything we can carry and sell and get the hell out of here. We can come back to study the mirrors later. I'm getting hungry."

"Yeah, yeah, we can go now. But don't you find it odd that we have this natural cavern, which appears to only have entry through a man-made area?" He turns and looks quizzically up at Tock. "Aren't humans even the least bit curious?"

Hearing Tosh and Tock move out, Emmerson stands up, gets his waterskin from his backpack and uses some water to clean the dirt in his hands and the blood off his body. As hurt as he is, he grabs his short sword and shield, just in case.

Tosh walks back out to the main area and pulls out his second empty sack and stuffs the dagger, flasks and the odd tube inside.

"I don't think those two things will fit." he says, pointing to the staff and longsword. He slings the sack over his shoulder. "Are they laid rest yet, friend Emmerson?"

"Yes, they are. An undertaker I am not, but it is a much better resting place than they had. So, did we explore the whole place?"

"As far as I can tell, we have, unless there's a hidden door in here somewhere. The dwarf might have a better chance of telling me I'm wrong, but he's not here. And anyone's free to give it a shot searching if they've a mind." Tosh reaches down and picks up the three remaining pouches and tosses them to the paladin. "In case your conscience about those poor fools gets in an uproar, you can use the contents of these to occupy yourself. Maybe someone will recognize their junk, who knows."

"I'll ask Therurt, but if they are not local, that's as far as I'll take it." Emmerson stores what he can in his backpack and follows Tosh. "But I agree with you: barring an empire-wide inquiry, I seriously doubt we can trace the owners.

"After Therurt's response, the pieces will be part of the loot."

"I could use another belt-pouch, I suppose. But I seriously doubt there's much luck left in the rabbit's foot. And that lock-pick? Pfah." Tosh snorts.

"I meant the weapons."

"I was afraid of that," Tosh mutters under his breath.

The looting crew returns to the chamber with the owlbear. The smelly heap has begun to smell even worse, having loosed its bowels on the stone floor. Tosh slows near the head of the thing and looks among the long feathers growing there. He selects what he considers the cleanest and most perfect example of owlbear plumage and yanks it off the corpse. The gnome looks it over and with a satisfied nod, sticks it in his hair securely behind one ear.

He waits for the torch to get near enough, and then puts down the sack and gets busy scouring the room for some possible clues. After a few minutes of detailed searching, Tosh gives up.

"Tock is right. I'm starting to feel like I could use a bite to eat. What say we join the rest of the group?"

"I'm curious how much this is worth," Tock mutters.

"Good point, Tock. I'd rather we get to the other three before we count it, though. For some reason, people don't like leaving large sums of money in my presence without supervision." He grins. "Go figure."

"Why, Tosh! That's dreadful," Tock exclaims. "It's these small-town bigots, you know. But I tell you what. I will serve as your noble and dutiful witness. Together, I'm sure we can come to a decent account of things. Hell, we can even ask the bean-counter himself."

"And then Emmerson can shake the extra coins out of your pockets?" Hazel eyes the owlbear's corpse, wishing she had a skinning knife. The pelt would make a nice covering for her bed. Slaughtering the animal without making use of it seems a waste, but her handaxe would make a shoddy job of it.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

The groups meet at the bottom of the stairs at the end of the entrance corridor, where the armor and weapons from the skeletons has been piled.

"If anyone has anything they got from the barrow here, put it in that pile so Emmerson can see if anything glows," Tosh says. He opens his sack and puts the dagger and sheath, the tube and the three flasks in the pile with the swords, helms and suits of chainmail. "Who has the staff and longsword from the den? Oh, and Emmerson, you can toss the pouches in if you wish; it couldn't hurt."

Renraw noisily chomps on the bread and the cheese he brought with him and looks on at what Emmerson is doing with a bored expression. He strongly doubts the items will be found to be evil, but his growling belly takes precedent over proving everyone wrong once again.

He takes one more bite from the cheese and stuffs what's left of the food back into his sack. Unfortunately, the last of the crumbs go down the wrong pipe and the wizard must frantically dig for his water, hoping to do so nonchalantly enough so no one notices. When he pulls out his waterskin it ruptures, splashing Ragglus' legs.

Ragglus glances down at his legs. His eyes narrow as they turn on the wizard, but nothing comes of it. With a louder than normal exhale, he returns his gaze to the loot pile.

"HORKKK!" Renraw cries, trying desperately not to cause a scene. "Sorry -- about that -- Chaplin," he whispers through almost blue lips. "Say -- old friend -- have you any -- ACK! -- water to spare?"

Tosh hands Renraw the remainder of his waterskin.

"So, my fine wizardly compatriot, have you perhaps a detect magic spell up your sleeve?"

"Gehhhhrahk! Hraaaa! Ahem. Thank you," Renraw says, his eyes watering. "No, no such spell prepared this day. I could do it tomorrow, but I'm not confident we'd find anything. It's the vials and especially that tube that interest me most. Would you allow me?"

Renraw reaches toward Tosh's sack, which the gnome holds just out of reach.

"If we've all decided to head out, I can examine it on the way back. I don't mind carrying it with my things here," Renraw says.

Tosh considers it a moment, then reaches into his bag and pulls out the tube and hands it to Renraw.

"Just don't forget to pick something else out of the pile as well, if you don't mind," Tosh says. "It appears that the pile was a wasted exercise, then. So do we wait to get all this back to town and have someone detect magic on it? What of the coin? Anyone count that?"

Tosh walks over and picks up the small items and puts them in the sack again. He swings it over his shoulder and then picks up one of the skeleton's helms and situates it jauntily on the back of his too-small head.

"Well, that's about all I can carry."

"I can take all the swords and maybe two helmets," Emmerson says.

"We cain't carry all of this back to town in one trip," Emus says in exasperation. "What say some of you escort the injured back to town, and come back with a wagon? Maybe Fibber can rustle one up. Do more to earn his share. Some of us can also stay here, and watch the loot. Assuming we can trust each other."

Bufer smiles slightly beneath his mask at the mention of Fibber. He looks up at Emus and opens his mouth to tell him how he conspired to have Therurt relieve the boy of his helmet, and likely had him tanned within an inch of his life in the process. After a second's hesitation, he closes it again. Better that the others don't know about that, he decides. Plausible deniability.

Exhaling heavily, he removes his makeshift mask from his face, and uses it to clean the inert goo off of Tosh's dagger.

"Well, I have good news and bad news," he reports. "The good news is that, if whatever these three had was catchin', time and cold seem to have rendered it otherwise. I think we're safe to return to Maidensbridge without worryin' about bringin' a plague home with us.

"The bad news is that whatever is was has me baffled. I can't tell if this is some kind of affliction they picked up here, if they came in with it, if it just affects kobolds, or what have you. I can't even tell why it's affected these three, and not Mister Fancy Pants in the robes over there, unless Tock can lend some insight into who or what he mighta been. And even then ..."

Bufer shakes his head as he sheathes Tosh's blade, visibly frustrated by his ignorance.

"There's some tests could be done on this here goo, I s'pect, but I don't have the equipment -- or, frankly, the know-how -- and no way of taking a sample intact back to those what do." He heaves a ragged, exasperated sigh, and runs his fingers through his hair. "This is gonna have to remain a mystery for another day, I think. Just like those bloody mirrors."

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

"If my Da's not using Twig for hauling today, I can maybe bring her out here with a pack saddle, but I dunno if we could balance the mirrors on her back, and I doubt we wanna haul 'em over the ground," Hazel says as she studies the pile. "I could stuff a chain shirt or two in my pack, if we're gonna try to take it all at once. Or if somebody suitably intimidating wants to join me, we can go see about a wagon. If Fibber can't rustle one up, we could ask Therurt, and let him take a bigger percentage of profit on the swords and chain shirts, if we're offloading those on him."

"Well, you know my kin run a trading post on the other side of town near the mountains," Tosh says quietly. "Perhaps, just perhaps, we might find a teamster willing to rent his services out to us?

"I'm certain we could do the hire with the merest of coins in that pouch before we divvy up the rest. I'd go along with Therurt if he could do it for a sane fixed price and keep his mouth shut, though."

"I suggest we go to town with the carry-on items, conduct our business with Therurt and then return here, with the cart, to pick up the mirrors," Emmerson says. "Two people would need to come here, with a cart I might add- the second we leave here to take the mirrors. Highly unlikely."

"Let's hoof it, grab a bite to eat and see if we can get back here and loaded up before dark. If nothing else, we can wait until tomorrow morning," Tosh says, but then looks around at the walking wounded and then at his own bandaged hand. "Or next week, whatever works."

"I hear you," Emmerson agrees. "Renraw and I will need either a couple of day's worth rest, the services of a healer in Maidensbridge today or ask Ebuferpaly tomorrow for a healing spell."

"Yeah, I could use a few days' rest, too." Hazel grinds out her torch, kicking dirt over it to be certain the flame is out. Kneeling beside the loot pile, she stuffs two of the chain shirts in her pack and carefully hefts it to her back. "Let's get moving."

She takes a few steps away from the barrow, waiting for the others to continue into the forest. As Hazel steps away from the cairn and the scrub that obscured the interest, her eyes readjust to the bright light of the snowy outdoors. It takes her a moment to realize what she's seeing, so used as she is to the dark of the torchlight tunnels: It's snowing. Hard.

"Someone up there's having a nice laugh," Hazel murmurs as she gazes at the sky. "Gents! We best get moving if we're gonna go. It's snowing something fierce, and it's gonna take us longer to slog back to town in this storm. I wouldn't expect to get a cart back today, either, so we best forget about leaving anyone behind."

Tosh and Emmerson each grab loot from the pile and set out into the snow. A moment later, Emus grabs as much as he possibly can, grinning at the horrified expressions of the others to his heavy load. Hazel turns to Tosh, the cold snow stinging her face.

"Pass the message along to stick close: I don't want to lose anyone. If visibility gets too bad, we might have to rope the group together so no one wanders off."

She pauses for a weather check, hoping the storm will slack off soon.

"Of course, of course," Renraw wizard groans, hanging back a bit. "I just have to rearrange my things for carrying. Go on ahead and I'll be right behind. Just a quick moment."

Once confident no one is watching, Renraw furtively darts back into the mouth of the barrow. In the gray flat light of tunnel mouth, the wizard breaks the wax seal on the tube and finds a scroll inside. Unrolling it, it takes a moment to identify it as being covered in magical runes for one or more arcane spells. It will take read magic to identify them back in Maidensbridge. He rolls it back up, caps the tube as best he can, and stashes it in his sack once more before following the group, running with knees high to avoid being left behind.

The tracks the party left on the way in are already filling in. The path remains visible, but if the snow keeps going at this rate -- and from what Hazel can tell, there's no reason to think that it won't -- it's entirely possible that the snow will fill in the tracks entirely in the most open glades within an hour or so.

"I like that we when we got here, the most trouble we had was a scared boar. Now that we want to go, the sky conspires against us," Emmerson says. "If the whole trail is covered with snow, we'll still be able to return to the Barrow from Maidensbridge, right?"

"Fib drew us a map, din'he?" Ragglus calls, raising his shield in attempt to block the snow from driving directly into his face. He darts a quick glance back at the wizard in anger, his legs still moist from the broken waterskin now meeting with the cold and snow.

"Aye," Bufer nods, wincing his eyes nearly shut against the stinging wind and snow. "It's an extremely crude one, though. There's a good chance that most of the landmarks on it'll be buried by morning."

"We'll worry about that later," Emmerson says. "In any case, if the landmarks are completely buried, we can always return when the snow melts. Onward to Therurt's."

"And Lothian will doubtlessly light the way," Bufer smirks. "All right, onward. Hazel, I think it might go easier on the wounded, the encumbered and the short if we struck out for the main road rather than making our way back overland."

"Yes, onward!" cries Renraw. "Onward, onward!"

"Snow's gonna get deeper faster in the open areas than it will here under the trees, but we'll give it a shot." Hazel stops to orient herself, then alters course to take the shortest route to the main road.

"Does anybody know the words of 'Onward, Onward, Brave Soldiers?'" Emmerson asks brightly.

"No," Tock scowls.

As he slouches along in the rear, Renraw counts the moles on the back of Emus' neck. When he reaches double digits, he stops counting and begins naming the prominent constellations. He wonders if they'll ever make it back to town and curses whatever fate or deity it is that extends his journey so.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

By the time the party reaches the snow-caked road, much of the party is wishing they'd brought cold weather clothing. Ice and slush cakes everyone's armor and the seams of their clothing.

The least-hardy of the group to begin with, Renraw feels the magical chill of the statues sinking into his bones, making each step painful and stiff.

The days are growing longer, but sundown is still coming soon, and as the party tromps west along the Baron's Road, the gray light of the sky begins to slowly shade towards black.

Hazel tugs her cloak closer, wrapping her arms inside with one hand resting on her axe. She walks more slowly than usual. Pain ripples through her abdomen with each jolting step.

She breathes slowly, attempting to focus her mind through her senses, and peers through the snow at the sides of the road. She hopes the animals, unlike adventuring folk, are tucked safely away from the storm, but she keeps a close watch in case some desperate predator should make itself known.

She hesitates to light a torch, even in the deepening twilight, afraid a spark won't catch or the snow and wind will douse the flame before she takes five steps.

"Stay to the center of the road," she calls back to the party. "And give a shout if you hear or see anything moving out there besides snowflakes."

"My belly's movin' something fierce!" Emus barks. "Let's git back home fer some grub!"

The group crunches through the falling snow in silence for a while, the only sounds Emus' stomach and Renraw's occasional whimpers that someone should carry him back to town.

Darkness is falling when Hazel casually slows her pace to fall in step with Tosh. She leans in close, keeping her voice low.

"Weapons ready. Eyes to the side. Something's tracking us."

With a jerk of her head, she indicates he should pass the message along to the next in line, then resumes watching the woods. Her fingers fumble with her axe beneath her cloak, easing off the blade cover and sliding the haft out of its loop on her belt. She holds the weapon easily against her thigh, hoping she won't have to use it.

She shakes her head, letting her hood fall, and immediately feels the wind bite into her face. But she'd rather have better peripheral vision and hearing than warmth. She listens intently, staring into the trees as she walks.

When the message gets back to him, Bufer stops short and blinks, then looks up at the sky.

"YOU ARE SERIOUSLY TESTING MY FAITH, HERE!" he shouts angrily.

Walking last in line to ensure he could fulfill Ward Bridger's order to guard the adventurers and get them home safe, Tucker was the last to hear the relayed message.

"Whet stone heading? Ice slide? Crackling nuts?" the deputy snaps. "Renraw, what the hell are you talking about?"

The snow begins to slacken as the sun dips below the mountains to the west, sending a long shadow over Midwood, even as the sky overhead still remains lit.

Ahead, the group can see lights being lit in Maidensbridge, visible through the leafless trees around a bend in the road.

"Praise Lothian," Emmerson murmurs.

Bufer blinks again as he catches sight of the lights in the tapering snow, and looks back up at the sky.

"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!" he shouts.

Hazel grins and stifles a laugh at the exuberant shouts, trying to keep an authoritative bark in her tone.

"Stay sharp, gents. In sight of ain't the same as in," she says, "Time to relax is when our butts are by the fire at the Cat, with a mug o' warm cider in our hands, and Therurt countin' out our coins."

"Pick up the pace, Seed," Tucker says, putting his hand between Renraw's shoulder blades and shoving him forward. "Sooner we get back to town, the sooner we can find you a healer that won't make you do backflips before he sees to you."

As the party approaches the hamlet, it appears that no one is around. A stiff cold wind springs up, causing a shutter somewhere to bang against the side of an unseen building.

But then the party draws even with Kramer's General Store, and sound and life suddenly returns to Maidensbridge all at once. Ella stands outside the Cat & the Fiddle, banging a filthy mud-caked fur rug clean with a stick. Therurt is banging noisily away at his anvil. A pregnant mother nods to the group from the doorway of the Maidensbridge Chapel, trailed by four small children.

The party turns and looks back at the Tulgey Wood and darkness and night have seemingly already arrived, making the shadows inky black, the snow bone white.

Hazel does a quick and silent head count. She nods to herself, relieved that she hasn't left anyone wandering in the woods at night.

She starts to tuck the axe away, but, startled, nicks her finger on the blade. Her eyes distractedly scan the edge of the woods, certain something was out there, but the feeling disappears before she can get a handle on it.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

The group heads to Therurt's smithy upon their arrival, triumphantly carrying the armor and weapons they recovered from Fibber's Cairn. The dwarf smith squints across his anvil at the group as they approach, working the orange-hot metal with his hammer and tongs and sending up sparks as he bends it into the shape of a horseshoe.

As everyone piles their loot on the counter, Tucker examines the swords. He selects one that's not in the best shape, but not in the worst, either.

"I need to report in to Constable Bridger. I think everyone's trustworthy enough -- or rather, that there are enough trustworthy people to outweigh the shifty ones -- that I won't get shut out of the rewards. Let Therurt know that he's got one more sword coming, after Bridger takes a look at it. Even if he doesn't recognize the style, Sheriff Glangirn might."

He picks up one of the flasks, as well.

"And either of them might remember a party of adventurers who passed through here on a one-way trip. This shouldn't take long -- I'll meet you at The Cat & The Fiddle in a few minutes."

Therurt finishes with the horseshoe and comes over to the counter, wiping his filthy hands on his filthy apron. His eyes roam over the weapons and armor, analyzing them in detail before ever laying his thick fingers on them.

Bufer winces and begins hopping from one foot to the other.

"Could we please hurry this up?" he grouses. "Some of us have pressing business to attend to!"

Therurt picks up a sword, turning it over in his hands, sliding his calloused fingers down the ancient blade. He then whirls it over his head, assuming a fighting stance, taking some test slashes and stabs at the air. With a nod, he puts it down with the others.

He picks up a chain shirt, running his fingers over it, poking his finger through a hole created by ancient age.

"Mmmm, could stick a mole through there."

Taking it by the shoulders, he gives it a shake, eyes low, watching a few ringlets and flecks of rust drop out the bottom. Then he returns the jingling armor to the counter. He grabs a slate and an irregular piece of chalk, mumbling some numbers to himself.

He examines each of the weapons and chainmail shirts in turn, finally picking up the staff. He looks at the leather hood, and then at the adventurers, who look blankly back at him. He shrugs and pulls off the hood, and suddenly the room is filled with firelight, centering around the tip of the staff. Therurt blinks in surprise before tilting his head quizzically.

"Not consuming the wood." He moves his hand towards the flame, testing it before finally grasping the wood with his bare hand. "No heat, neither."

He swings the staff in a wide arc, bright flames trailing in its wake.

"That's a handy bit of magic."

He slips the hood back on the staff and places the staff on the counter. He picks the slate and chalk back up.

"Seven antique chain shirts. Six, no, seven antique longswords, right?" The chalk squeaks on the slate. "All in need of some refurbishment and repair."

"Th' longsword," Ragglus grunts, turning momentarily to spit. He gestures to a masterwork longsword Therurt has set aside. "Th' fancy one. I'll give 'er a good home, an' count it as m'fair share."

Meanwhile, Tosh, with Tock looking over his shoulder, examine the coins they found in the owlbear's den. The sack contains hundreds of gold coins, stamped with the image of Segaci Fellisti, the would-be emperor who now holds court in Tarsis north of the Prustan Peninsula. There are also platinum pieces of an older minting, bearing the face of the late Empress Addares XXXIII.

Renraw is looking very sickly at this point. The wizard has found a footstool made from a tree stump in one corner of the smithy, and meekly dragged it nearer the forge and plopped himself in it to try for some warmth, ignoring the dirty looks shot him by Therurt.

"I'll have the glowstick," he says, rummaging through his belongings. "And I'll trade you this fine, shining lantern ... and my magical club. I know it may look like a stick that a child found in the woods, but I assure you, this weapon has been wielded by a powerful wizard in battle undreamed of, especially in this little burg. It's faced the undead armies of the Hounds of Paeathon, raging shadow beasts from the Plane of Screaming Mirrors, and sinew-rippingly eager winged behemoths hungry for human flesh and it's come through all of that with nary a scratch. Yes, it's obvious that powerful magic indeed protects this implement."

Therurt glances over, scowling to see the wizard on his stool.

"Five coppers for the lamp and the club I'll use for firewood," he turns back to the others. "Now, finish this up." He waves a grimy hand at the assembled loot. "I got things need doing."

"We could all use a good night's sleep," Hazel says. Her abdomen has settled into a dull throbbing pain beneath Bufer's bandages. "Some more than others."

As the loot is split up, Emmerson approaches the smith.

"Master Therurt, I'll leave you the longsword and armor for refurbishing. Oh, and this short sword, hardly used, for sale."

"My maiden aunt weren't hardly used neither when we sent her back to Mocharum for reforging," the smith drawls, "But no one called her new. I'll give you half."

Bufer scoops up his share of the coins while doing an odd little jig, hopping from one foot to the other.

"All right, now that we've settled that, I'm gonna head outside and consecrate some bushes. I'll meet the lot of you at The Cat & The Fiddle, and we'll figure out what we're gonna tell Fibber. Oh, hot fire below!"

Before anyone can respond, Bufer runs outside at a dead sprint.

Renraw mutters to himself that Kem House would still be the best place to keep the loot, but exhaustion has changed his usual peevishness into a quiet crankiness. He shuffles on home with the scroll tube and staff recovered from Fibber's Cairn. He gently pulls off the leather hood on his staff in order to light his way home.

"Ooh, glowy!"

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

As Bufer blesses the bushes and snow outside, he hears a somewhat uncommon sound in Maidensbridge: a horse nickering in the stables of The Cat & The Fiddle. Most riders in the barony ride a dwarf-bred pony, not a horse, which means someone from the baron's staff is at the tavern, or someone from down below the Anvil Plateau is inside.

Then the rest of the party tromps by, either heading to the tavern or heading back to Kem House. The wizard mutters quietly to himself, playing with the magical flames on his staff as he goes.

As the door opens, the group finds Emus, Tucker and Constable Bridger inside waiting for them, mugs of warm cider in front of every seat. The constable glares a bit at Ragglus and Tock, but smiles and beckons Emmerson over to sit beside him.

"Young Tucker and Graymullet were just telling me about the day you all had. A lot more exciting than throwing apples back at kobolds, eh?"

"Exciting indeed, constable," Emmerson says. He sits and grabs a mug of cider, drinking half of it slowly. "There were some troubled moments, but through steel, spell and courage we made it through them."

Ragglus smiles innocently in return to the constable, downing a mug of cider in one pull, breaking his silence only to let loose a reverberating burp. He remains standing as he claps the mug back down on the table.

The constable drinks deep before putting down his mug.

"Any of you want to add to what Emus and Tucker have told me? The sheriff has standing orders to collect reports whenever anyone enters the barrow."

"Not so much an addition as a question, constable." Hazel looks up from her mug. "You ever remember seein' a party of adventurers with a goblin come through town?"

"No, but there were some troublemakers in Middleborough of that description. Was a squabble at the alchemist's shop, the House of the Transformed Toad," Bridger scowls. "Not sorry to hear they're dead. They were most likely former bandits, to hear the description of them."

"Well, they got their just rewards," Emmerson said. "They will not plague anyone anymore."

"Foul bandits indeed! This world is better to be rid of them, I say, just like our fair-minded constable," Tock proclaims, sitting next to Ragglus with a flourish. "A death warrant to them, I say, a death warrant!"

Hazel slowly nods. She sips her cider and wonders whether to mention the small tube and three flasks. Since the items weren't traded at Therurt's, she wouldn't be shorting the shares of loot any by suggesting they be returned to the Transformed Toad, although Renraw might disagree. Of course, they might not be stolen at all; who's to say?

She looks across the table at the paladin, certain that he would mention the items to the constable if he shared her suspicion.

Tosh plays around with the dagger taken from the dead goblin in the owlbear's lair and he considers that damned statue. He knows he can beat it. He just knows he can.

Meanwhile, satisfied at having spread the word of Garl Glittergold (having written in the snow, and everything), Bufer looks carefully over his shoulder to make sure he isn't being watched, then slips back into the smithy.

"Hey Therurt!" he says, just as the dwarven blacksmith has raised his hammer. "Sorry to bother you again, but I just remembered something I wanted to ask ya about: Has anybody been about peddlin' kobold weapons to you lately?"

The smith sighs with irritation at the new interruption.

"No."

He continues finishing the horseshoe.

"Ah, I see," Bufer shouts over the ringing of the hammer, undeterred. "Well, if anyone should happen by, say in the next day or so, and tries to interest you in something koboldian -- Koboldian? Is that right? Kolboldic? Koboldish? Kobold-enac-ick? -- Whatever, something made by kobolds, you know what I mean. Anyway, if someone does come around and try to sell you something --"

Bufer reaches up and slaps the dwarven blacksmith heartily on the back.

"-- I'd consider it a sincere favor, both to myself and the gnomish community in general, if you'd let me know, old friend."

Therurt mutters something under his breath in Dwarven, but Bufer cannot make it out over the ringing of the hammer.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

Back inside The Cat & The Fiddle, Emmerson has been thinking.

"About those bandits," Emmerson says, "Would there be any more information? I'm especially interested in knowing if they are responsible for stealing anything from Middleborough."

The constable shrugs.

"There weren't no warrant out for them, so I think they just had some words before the deputies were called." He looks pointedly at Ragglus and Tock. "Some folks spend all their time evading the noose, but Lothian guides them onto the gallows in the end, more often than not."

"All hail perfect Lothian, the Infallible Light Amongst the Darkness!" Tock mock-prays loudly. "Let him be a bright lantern that shall show forth all meanness and treachery and magic and warts upon the penis, vagina, and whatever it is that dwarves have!"

"Both of those, only with more hair and fewer warts," Emus grunts after a belch.

"Well, blessed be to Garl for only giving we gnomes one set of privates," Bufer chimes in, as he makes his way towards the group from the entrance. "Otherwise I might never leave my room.

"Evening, Constable," he says, with a twinkle in his eye. "Don't let on that I told you this, but your last letter put Master Barennackle in quite the state. I expect he had plans for that rook. When I left him, though, he was staring at the board and cackling to himself, so I don't think you've whupped him just yet. I'd watch your flank, if I were you."

The constable excuses himself from the table and goes over to a man sitting finishing dinner at another table who wears the colors of the baron -- a black tree on a green field -- who pulls out a quill and some paper. The constable writes a message, and the courier prepares sealing wax, which the constable then seals with his signet ring. The courier stands, finishing his dinner, which the constable pays for, and with a disinterested glance at the adventurers, heads outside, followed by Ella, the tavern girl, who helps him with his horse. A moment later, everyone can hear the horse heading off at a gallop down the dark Baron's Road towards Middleborough.

"Be careful going home, Master Potentloins, if you're headed back to your people this evening." The constable nods to the rest of party before indicating for Emmerson and Tucker to follow him outside into the snow.

"'Your people?'" Tock gasps in horror. "What a racist."

Emmerson stands up from the table and follows the constable outside.

Hazel leaves her mug half-full on the table, shoulders her pack with a grunt, and heads home for the night. She nods to the constable, Tucker and Emmerson as she passes.

"Hey lass," Bufer says, grabbing Hazel's arm as she passes. "You watch that wound, all right? Keep it clean, don't get it wet. I'll take another look at it 'fore we set out in the morning."

With that, Bufer catches Tosh's eye, and jerks his head towards the door.

"Time we were leaving, too, Master Bergin," he says. "It's gettin' on late, and we got a long road home ahead of us."

As the gnomes reach the door, he turns and waves to the remaining members of the party.

"Night, all."

Outside in the snow, the constable leans heavily on his crutch, placing his other hand on Emmerson's shoulder.

"Boy, one of the proudest days of my life was when you took your vows and became a paladin. But you show remarkably little judgment. Young Tucker here followed those folks into that hole on my orders. If you are to associate with the likes of that ruffian and the bard, it needs to be to bring the light of Lothian to them, not to let them drag you down with them. Their days are going to end with them dancing at the end of a rope; don't let them pull you into the dance with them.

"Having said that, I'm glad you both did so well in there. As those bandits showed you, not everyone could have survived what was within. Go home, both of you, and get some sleep. Tucker, depending on if the sheriff replies to me, I may have work for you in the morning.

"Good night."

Emmerson sighs and nods.

"You have my vow that I'll do better, Master Bridger. Have a good night."

He gives his farewell to Tucker and heads to the Stones' house. A couple of chores remain undone before it is time to sleep, and there is much to ponder.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

Dawn has not yet fully broken and the night birds are still on duty in the glen surrounding Wit's End when clockwork figures gently rouse Bufer and Tosh. They lead the pair through a twisty maze of passageways, all alike, before finally arriving in the study of Rubik, Lord of Wit's End.

The senior gnome was today joined by High Priest Boddynok Barennackle, and from the looks of it, neither of them had gotten much sleep since hearing the two junior gnomes' report the night before. The study was strewn with open books and scrolls held open by various paperweights and keepsakes Rubik picked up during his adventures.

A steaming pitcher of hot chocolate and four ceramic mugs sit on a tray nearby and Rubik gestures for one of the two juniors to pour while he speaks.

"It seems to us," Rubik says, pulling on his white muttonchops, "That the Tulgey Barrow is not a barrow after all. Its purpose does not seem to be the burial of those ancient men, but the mirrors, and this concerns us quite a bit."

"The skeletons you found there," Boddynok says, rubbing his thumbs against his red eyes before accepting a cup of hot chocolate, "Were likely just guardians, poor unfortunates doomed to keep curiosity seekers away."

"The relative lack of guardians in this barrow probably means the mirrors you discovered weren't the most important ones," Rubik continues, "But even if the other 'cairns' within the barrow hold more important ones, I want to obtain these mirrors to see if we can discover the truth of them. The bookkeeper is right: Mirrors can be used to travel to a world on the other side of the glass. It is seldom done, as there are dangers there, including some who call themselves the rulers of that realm. If the ancient men visited there often, it might explain what happened to them in the end."

He glowers as he drinks his hot chocolate and the high priest speaks up once more.

"Return to the barrow. Secure the mirrors and bring them back here. If you must, promise the others payment, up to 100 gold pieces per mirror, we will pay the money. But we need to know what is in that barrow and what danger it poses to gnome, dwarf and man. You have another long day ahead of you."

"Aye, that it'll be. I dreamed of the damned things last night," Tosh says softly. He sips the chocolate and considers it for second. "Crazy stuff, of people made of mirror and the realm they inhabited.

"We'll need an ox cart or a team and wagon, with driver, if possible. And I'm not quite whole as of yet, and I'd hate to run into another small contingent of 'guardians.' Oh, and about that rune trap. Any idea on how I could safely fill in those impressions?"

He stops and looks about him.

"Sorry, lack of sleep makes me talkative for some reason."

Rubik nods.

"We'll send a cart behind you. The first thing to do is to secure the mirrors themselves. As for the trap, I would dispel the magic on it if it were me, but I don't believe such a thing is within Young Master Bufer's capabilities at this time."

"Not as yet, no," Bufer says, then breaks into a smile. "Don't worry about a thing, Master Rubik. Tosh an' I will get those mirrors, by hook or by -- oh, who am I kidding: given it's us, it'll almost definitely be by crook."

Bufer winks mischievously at his friend, then sobers somewhat as he turns to address his mentor, High Priest Barennackle.

"Master, what of the illness that appears to have beset the kobolds that permeated the barrow? Surely we mean to investigate this, as well?"

Barennackle picks up a leather bound book, open to a fairly disturbing spread of images. With a grimace, he turns it around, showing it to Bufer.

"A tumor like this, yes?" When the younger gnome nods, the high priest takes the book back, closing it with a sigh. "It's not a naturally created tumor. This book, and others we have confiscated over the years, tells a necromancer how to create such things. Whatever its purpose, it is not a disease meant to spread through the kobolds or any other community. Someone did it to those kobolds."

"If you can find out more, do so," Rubik says, putting down his emptied cup, a trace of chocolate on his whiskers, "But bad things happening to kobolds is less important to us than retrieving the mirrors. Now, go. The humans will be awake before long and it won't do to have them fooling about with the mirrors."

Bufer frowns slightly at Lord Rubik's easy dismissal of the sickened kobolds, but he nods and bows deeply before him and the high priest nonetheless.

"We'll leave immediately, sir," the young apprentice cleric says. "Rest assured, as Garl himself is my witness, once that cart pulls up to the barrow, we'll have the mirrors well in hand. You can count on us!"

Seeming a portrait of boundless optimism, Bufer tugs on Tosh's sleeve and leads him towards the door, where they once again follow a pair of clockworks into the seemingly endless labyrinth of endless corridors.

"Well, have you got any bright ideas?" Bufer whispers to the rogue through his forced smile. "'Cause I got nothin'."

"How many gnomes do you know that'd spend that much on a delivery trip?" Tosh whispers back.

"Do you have any idea how we're going to get hold of the mirrors?" Bufer whispers, frowning. "We might be able to win the paladin over, and Hazel and Emus we can probably get to see reason, but Ragglus and Kem? Forget it. Plus, I guarantee you Tucker's going to want to keep the mirrors for his bloody sheriff. And I'll bet my left nut that the second we offer any money for those things, that bastard Chandler going to smell just how valuable they are, and try to talk the others into holding out for a better deal."

Bufer shakes his head as they follow the clockworks, then sighs.

"Guile and trickery, old friend. That's what it's going to come down to: guile and trickery. Fortunately -- I think we're just the two gnomes for the job."

"Point. I noticed one other bit that got me. Rubik was pretty clear that he thought there might be caches of mirrors in the other cairns in the Tulgey Barrow. That kind of gets a fellow's curiosity up, y'know?"

Bufer nods again.

"Agreed. My first instinct was that we keep that to ourselves, but let's face it: You and me were not built to haul big, heavy, stone-encased mirrors around. Plus, there's a goodly chance of more 'guardians' like that shadow-bird from yesterday. One way or the other, we're gonna need help." Bufer puffs out his cheeks, blowing out slowly as he considers the problem at hand. "All right, the way I see it, Chandler and Galloway are our biggest obstacles. We manage to get them on our side, and Bimblenompkin's your uncle. The question is how? How do we appeal to both greed and duty?"

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

When Emmerson exits Stone House, Deputy Tucker Gallaway is there waiting for him. When the paladin notices him, Tucker holds up a sealed letter.

"A new letter from your parents apparently arrived from Middleborough while we were gone yesterday. Thought I'd run it out here since you're not too far out of my way." He hands Grant the letter and gestures toward the town. "Now come on, we've got business to attend to. We can talk as we walk."

Emmerson takes the letter from Tucker.

"My thanks," he says, opening as they walk. "Good news. I am to be an uncle yet again. My sister Alexa is with child. Father thinks he'll be as rotund and red-faced as my brother-in-law."

He folds the letter, intending to read it more carefully later.

"So, Tucker, we never got time to exchange thoughts on yesterday's adventure. What do you make of it? For my part, I think we need to be very careful of what we get out of the barrow and who handles it. I don't think the mirrors should be held at Kem House, but rather at the constable's. We could see if he has among his acquaintances someone who can decipher them properly".

"I trust the Beancounter about as far as I can toss him. I notice that the tube he volunteered to carry seemed to disappear before the bounty was split last night, and that's when he was injured and we were all with him. What he'd do with those mirrors without supervision and the threat of imminent death is terrifying to ponder.

"But I don't think they'd be best served all lying around Constable Bridger's house, either. It might be a better idea to split them up; if they work in concert, then putting some distance between them might keep any more invisible owls from bursting out."

The town center is just starting to come into clear view, the sounds of early morning life carrying over the snowy ground, when Tucker stops.

"Before we head to The Cat & The Fiddle, I have some things to take care of. You mind a slight detour?"

* * *

Meanwhile, Hazel tackles her morning chores with less enthusiasm than usual, taking care not to aggravate her injury. Sunlight is already rolling through Maidensbridge by the time she makes it to Bridger's Skins & Hides.

She steps inside with her torn leather armor in hand, looking about for Fibber's father. Lars Bridger is busy scraping the hide of a skinned bear when Hazel enters his shop.

"HANS!" He roars, not stopping what he's doing. "CUSTOMER!"

Fibber sticks his head through an open doorway, chewing something, which he almost chokes on when he sees Hazel.

"What -- How can I help you?" He says, flinching away from his father when he fails to greet the ranger properly at first.

Hazel lifts her leather armor, showing Fibber the slice across the front.

"Wondered if you might have some studded leather armor in my size. Barring that, how long you think it'd take to fix this?"

Hazel smiles at Fibber, tipping her head lightly toward his father and shaking her head once, slowly. She won't tell his dad what he's been up to unless there's no way around it.

Fibber carefully swallows his breakfast, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly, and slowly nods at Hazel. He takes the armor, running his eyes across the gash and the dark stain surrounding it, his expression a little wild. It takes him a moment to remember Hazel's questions.

"Twenty-five gold for a suit of studded leather," Fibber says. He runs his tongue over chapped lips. "This is one straight cut, it looks like. Two gold to repair it."

"Think your Dad will knock down the price of the studded leather down some if he can keep the damaged armor? Sounds like ya'll could repair it quick and resell it."

"Yeah, sure. Deal."

Hazel fishes around in her pockets for 15 gold to cover the rest of the cost for the studded leather armor. She holds onto the gold with one hand and waits for Fibber to hand over her new armor before dropping it in his palm.

"Thanks, Hans." She pauses, casting a quick glance at Fibber's father, and continues in what she hopes is a good imitation of her sister's snagging-a-boy voice. "You gonna be working all day? Maybe stop by the Cat for a cider after supper, yeah?"

Fibber goggles at Hazel and mumbles something unintelligible.

Hazel stares at Fibber for a long moment before she realizes that the indirect approach isn't going to work on the teen. She shrugs, hoping he'll stay out of the party's way without the need for legal trickery and that he'll show up at the tavern tonight to collect his share.

"Right. Thanks for the gear. See you later, then."

She heads up the road to The Cat & The Fiddle with her new armor slung over her shoulder; no sense putting it on before Bufer has a look at yesterday's wound.

* * *

Katadid Leach coughs and holds his chest as he walks out of the apothecary. His neck aches from having fallen asleep hunched over a table again, but he rapidly forgets this looking at the packet of pungent powders in his hand. Still walking, he dips a finger inside and tastes the concoction. Satisfied, he continues walking to The Cat & The Fiddle, stumbling over unnoticed obstacles as he runs his free hand through his hair and muttering.

Before he gets there, he realizes he doesn't know the exact number of tombstones in the cemetery. This has to be rectified. He walks past the tavern and makes his way to the gates.

A pair of girls around 12 years old, out walking the family dogs, stand in the slush, watching Katadid crunching around through the iced-over snow of the cemetery, giggling to themselves as he counts.

Finished, Katadid leans against a tombstone of a Bridger and coughs again, seemingly not even noticing the giggling children. After he recovers, he turns around and makes his way to The Cat & The Fiddle, opening the door and peering inside to see who hits the tavern this early. An annoyed Milos Fordham jerks a thick thumb toward the stairs and upward when he sees the apothecary's son enter the tavern.

"She's upstairs. She has work to do."

Katydid blinks rapidly as he suddenly becomes aware of Milos' presence. He nods and mutters something unintelligible. Before walking up the stairs, he walks to each trophy head and touches the base of each one. After finishing with the hasenbock, he looks over to the innkeeper's glare.

"There are 79 tombstones in the cemetery," Katadid says, trying to break the ice. Lars says nothing, so Katadid walks past the bar and up the stairs to listen for potential yodeling.

* * *

A distinct shiver forces Ragglus awake. He raises his head, peeking through a single eye from behind an altar inside the chapel. His bones creak as he lifts himself up, stretching and grunting.

A hushed voice nearby grabs his attention. Ragglus opens his eyes instantly.

Kneeling on the other side of the altar, a wide-eyed young boy stares up at Ragglus, frozen. Closing his eyes quickly for a hurried prayer, the boy then suddenly leaps to his feet and breaks toward the exit, flinging open the doors and escaping across the terrace, away into Maidensbridge.

Ragglus steps out from behind the altar about to give chase, but then decides to burst out into laughter instead.

"Hope ya weren't prayin' fer a miracle," he mutters over his shoulder to the altar, its flat surface adorned with various icons dedicated to Valarian and Bahamut. "I certainly ain't it."

His chuckling ceases as his eyes cross to the other side of the sanctuary, where the more distinct altar dedicated to Lothian stands. He sneers, about to speak, but then waves it off. If Lothian was good for nothing else, at least he'd provided a roof over his head when Raggls needed it. Ragglus, even at his most blasphemous, could find no fault with that, no matter how hard he looked.

The ex-paladin makes sure his unused belongings are safely stored away behind the altar, tucked behind a hanging tapestry depicting a light from above shining down on a white doe, then turns and makes his way toward the chapel exit. His newly acquired masterwork longsword feels different at his side, though he could not discern any differences in weight when testing it the previous night. He hopes, not prays, that it will make a difference in any upcoming battles.

Rested, though not comfortably, he ambles toward The Cat & The Fiddle.

* * *

Tock Chandler sneaks quietly out of a house occupied by a family whose name he's not sure he remembers. He neatens his hair and walks over to Master Therurt. He's finishing a transaction for a repaired chainmail shirt, dropping the last of the coins into Therurt's short, thick hand, when Tucker and Emmerson enter the shop.

"Glad to see you didn't have to spend all yesterday's earnings on companionship for the night, Tock," Tucker barks. "Provided anything can ever find its way past those arrows of yours, that shirt should serve you well."

The bard, mentally composing an ode to his new armor, doesn't immediately respond.

"Constable Bridger wants me to check up on Renraw, make sure a night's rest has him feeling better, and he figured Grant could provide the Beancounter some of Lothian's comfort and reassurance," Tucker continues, snapping his fingers to get Tock's attention. "As for you, he was hoping you would grace him with your presence at The Cat & The Fiddle, sooner rather than later. I'm sure you won't mind."