Cann:
The inn you find is a seedy little place. The owner, a greasy, balding old man, eyes you suspiciously, but accepts your coins without argument. The room is nothing impressive: the walls are cracked and mildewed, the bed hard and uncomfortable, and the sheets, though clean, are frayed and paper-thin from overwashing.
You read through the letter. The watchman is named Brenat. He has known Mordia from childhood, but has apparently never made his feelings known. He also could not spell. The letter contains no addresses: perhaps he intended to deliver it in person, or perhaps he never intended to deliver it.
You decide to get some rest. Despite a flea-bitten bed, you fall quickly into a deep slumber.
[one hour later]
Someone is shaking you. You wake, immediately noticing that your arms are shackled. The one who is shaking you, a woman in black robes with most of her face covered, stops and steps back, all without a word.
A voice sounds from a corner of the room, its tone jovial. "Ah, I see that the murderer is awake."
Turning your head, you see a handsome, regal-looking man in his mid-thirties. He is in exquisite clothing, sitting comfortably with his legs crossed and his hands folded on his lap.
Looking around the room, you notice three other figures in black robes. Your gear is stacked in a neat pile on the floor.
At the Church:
The old woman looks puzzled for a moment. She tips her head slightly, as if listening to some voice only she could hear. Then she produces a small, gold-handled knife from her pocket and gestures Lessa to stick out her hand. When Lessa does so, she makes a small incision on her finger. [Lessa notices that the wound closes almost immediately - the knife likely has magical properties.]
She smells the blood on the knife, then gingerly tastes it. She spits it out immediately. Her expression turns grave.
"I see."
"I have heard of such cases from the front lines, good, noble men corrupted by the power of the Eye, warped into bloodthirsty lunatics and worse. But those can be cured by magic of sufficient power. This, however, seems to be a part of your very soul..."
She turns her milky white eyes towards Moreth and Rhakzan. Though she's blind, you know that she is studying you in detail.
"I see..."
"I see." She thinks for a moment, then chuckles. "You have some nerve coming here, the two of you, Ethergaunt and ur-priest."
"No, do not do anything rash. I will not summon the Legionnaires. Because," she smiles, "I would be dead before they arrive, yes?"
"These are extraordinary times, and one must make allowances as such. You seek an end to your pain? I will tell you now: I have no ready solutions, no magic balms that will cure you once and for all. I have... speculations. That is all."
"But an oracle does not offer her wisdom to those unwilling to earn it."
