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Message: <blockquote data-quote="arwink" data-source="post: 595055" data-attributes="member: 2292">Sunday, August 20th, 508 AFThe rain lasts for the better part of the day.  After a quick breakfast on soggy bread, the soaked and grumpy adventurers head once more along the path to the Moathouse.  It's a slow slog through the muddy track.  Twice Durhon slips in a muddy patch, coating himself in a thick layer of brown that is slowly erroded by the pouring rain.  After three or four hours of trecking through the downpour, even Warwind's threats to use soap and magehand to give the dwarf a good scrubbing fail to raise a reaction.  The wizard swaps to whistful commentary on spells he'll craft in his future "Warwind's Dwarven Deodoriser" and "Warwinds Rain of a Thousand Soap Drops," but it's no good.  The only reaction he gets is a snarl from Durhon after a slips a third time.It's late evening by the time the rain lets up, and the four companions come to a halt on a hill-top overlooking the ruined structure.  The sky starts to clear as the sun sets, showing a bare scattering of stars, and in the amber light they can see a number of changes in the wake of their defeat of the dragon.  Utreshimon's corpse is laying outside the Moathouse's walls, pushed over a crumbling wall and left to rot next to the moat.  Worse, a pair of familiar corpses hang rotting from the wall over the gate."Is that..." Warwind asks, but he doesn't get out anything more than that as he looks at his own dead body swinging in the gentle breeze.  Taranos doesn't comment, just turns a pale white and sniffles.  He's picked up a cold during the down-pour, and it's made him grumpier than even his normal dwarven self for the duration of the journey.  No-one says anything, and they quickly break out a camp a little below the crest of the hill, out of sight of the Moathouse and it's new inhabitants.  "I don't know who or what's in there," Warwind snarls over dinner, "but we rest up, we replenish spells, and tomorrow they pay for that."There is a silent murmer of agreement.Dinner is finished, and watches are set for the night.  Warwind, Durhon and Yip settle down in the dryest patches they can find, leaving Taranos to stand guard.  The dwarven preist sits grimly on a rock, sword at the ready and watching the darkness past his blades dim radiance.  His nose runs constantly, a steady drip that is wiped on a sleeve every few moments.  He curses quietly the luck that lead him to being such a bad example of dwarven health.Towards the end of his watch, the monotony of the dripping nose is broken by a loud sneeze and a gobbet of flem flying off into the darkness."Ferkit," Taranos grumbles quietly.  "I need sleep and time in a warm bed."Then he hears the splash of a footstep in a puddle, a strong arm looping around his neck, and the point of a dagger slicing through his neck.  There is the breifest glance of a man in black leathers, his face covered by a cowl and kerchief over his nose, as the dwarfs lifeblood spills over the earth...</blockquote>

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