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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Desdichado" data-source="post: 1699110" data-attributes="member: 2205">Module I: "Blasphemous Rumours" Part V(Quick little update today -- I want to move along, but I've been a bit busy, so I couldn't write quite as detailed an account as I like.  I'm also a bit sick, so this update isn't as well-written or coherent as I'd like, but it'll do.)After sleeping for a few hours, the three were back at The Singing Sword to see if they could have better luck than before. It was lighter now; it wouldn't be for several more cycles that it would be dark again, when the sun passed again behind the enormous disc that was Fallare, hanging like an orange and gold striated Yule ornament in the sky. That made the atmosphere in the tavern itself somewhat lighter, as shafts of golden sunlight shone though small greasy windows in most of the rooms. The crowd was less rowdy tonight; more abuzz with pleasant conversation rather than highly drunk. The music was also toned down; the songs were more about the quiet delights in life rather than bawdy exploits. Tson commented on this to the bartender as he ordered a drink and said hello again. "Yeah," the bartender answered, "it's the way of things up here. Now, me, I'm from down below the Cloudwall, and a little darkness ne'er bothered me much, but folks up here, where it's usually so bright and sunny, they don't handle a little shadow very well." He stopped and shook his head wistfully. Tson thanked him and asked him if there was any improvement in the caravan situation from the cycle before. On a tip from the bartender, he winded his way further through the tavern to a table with several relatively tough looking folks, including a reddish brown Hulk that was spiderwebbed with nearly as many scars as Tson himself. They stopped talking and stared at him as he approached them. "Umm, hello?" he said. "Mind if I have a seat?" There were a few glances and scowls around the table, but slowly a space was made and Tson gingerly sat at the table. It took him a little while, but he gradually gained their trust enough to hear their story. This small crowd of former caravan guards had been en route from small mining settlements near the Ledge, having gone around Cassant entirely and come through the Cratered Desert. As they were nearing the Wellhead Swamp, that sprawling fetid marsh caused by the centuries of leaking and condensation around the ancient pipes and pump mechanisms that brough the water from some vast subterranean aquifer to water the arid lands around Razina, they had their "incident." A tall woman, of a race unknown to any of them, attacked and killed everyone in their caravan except themselves, who feigned death with the help of a narcotic drug that lowered their pulse to an almost inperceptible level. This woman had dark, soot-colored skin, and her head was as bald as a melon. She had two wicked blades, and she somehow seemed to "magick" herself all over the place to kill without remorse. But the worst part of it was that she had an army of the living dead with her, who rampaged through the caravan ripping their associates limb from limb. The guards went quiet, and somewhat pale as they finished their account. Nobody said anything for a few moments, then they each took a long pull on their drinks. "But what was it all about, I wonder?" Tson asked. "Did she take your cargo?" The other hulk answered, "That's the strangest thing about it... she really didn't seem very interested in our cargo. The only think missing was a locked box that was to be delivered to Eiji Kisaragi. You can imagine how we felt telling him we had lost it!" "Err, no, actually," Tson said awkwardly. "I'm new in town. Should I know who he is?" That finally got a bit of a chuckle out of the dour guards. "Yeah, Mr. Kisaragi -- he's a big name in Bricktown. You don't want to cross him. But if you help him, word is that he pays very well. Of course, Bricktown don't have no proper law and order, but Kisaragi's reach can find you anywhere in Razina, and beyond from what I hear." "And if one wants to help him, how does one find him?" Tson asked carefully. "Don't rightly know," said the hulk guard, "but a lot of deals are made in his name at the Steams, a bath house in Bricktown. That's a good place to start, I'd reckon." They all broke off conversation as Konrad walked up to them, and spoke quietly to Tson. "You better come with me. We've got an interesting visitor." Tson stood up, gave an awkward smile to the caravan guards and followed Konrad to a room further in the back. There, Rohsam was speaking to a thin man with gray hair. His eyes kept darting across the room at any unexpected sound. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but his voice sounded somewhat shrill. "Who is he?" Tson asked. "He claims to be Alexander Nevsky, the porter Gauvain mentioned earlier. Rosham's trying to coax his story out of him, but I don't think he's buying it..." Suddenly Nevsky decided he had enough as he stood and bolted towards the door. Rosham, followed by Konrad and Tson leapt after him, tackling him heavily in an alley right behind the tavern. Konrad closed the tavern door on the faces of some curious onlookers as Rosham and Tson wrestled the surprisingly strong man to the ground. And then Nevsky went suddenly still. "It's OK," Rosham said softly to the man. "We're from the Inquisition and we're here to help..." Nevsky's eyes seemed to sink further into his head. "Oh, please!" Tson said gruffly. "Whoever's going to trust a gray with their secrets anyway? Let's just take him home, clean him up and calm him down. We'll get his story yet." So they did just that. Elroy the butler outdid himself with a steaming hot meal that put a lot more life back into Nevsky's pale face, and a hot bath seemed to do him wonders as well. He no longer seemed quite so paranoid, but was very exhausted. He gave them a story that was similar to the account the guards had given Tson of another attack. This one was coming back from the northeast as well, and this black woman had attacked the caravan with a squadron of dead creatures, sparing no one except he himself, who was away from the caravan digging a latrine at the time. Nevsky's speech was slurred by this point with exhaustion, so they decided to let him sleep and try and get more details from him, if possible, the next day. With that they all turned in. When they woke up it was to a hoarse shout from Elroy. They came running, still in their bedclothes, but scrambling to hold weapons. Elroy was in Alexander Nevsky's room. Nevsky was as well, but his body was thin and contorted -- brown and parchment dry like an ancient mummy. He was clearly dead -- but he looked like he'd been dead for centuries.</blockquote>

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