"Very important farmers, apparently," Erista offers.  "I don't want to go all jumping to conclusions, but didn't some of those people we passed mention something about orcs?  I know Orcs Use Poison is sort of like Halflings Have Sticky Fingers, but...well...orcs do use poison, don't they?"

Aramil arrives at the farmhouse after the others and helps search, though not to much benefit. Helping the others with all the preparations helps Aramil get focused. He is strangely better for having something to do.

As they all stand around ready for the fires he is saddened, with tears welling. This is quite unusual and it seems to embarrass the half-elf. The tears stop suddenly when he hears the comment about the dagger and poison. Anger then lurches through his body, anger at the situation, anger at the creatures hunting them and then unfairly anger at Oswald's comment about assassinations. Speaking with this anger in his voice Aramil replies to Oswald "This is no assassination. No assassin would inflict these unneeded and vicious wounds on already dead victims. Also they don't seem to be the usual targets for an assassination. This is work of brutes, and ugly ones at that."

When Erista reminds them of the orcs that are roaming around Aramil shrugs at the suggestion. His knowledge is mainly stories and they are usually fiction with some unexpected fact thrown in occasionally.

Fergus stands perplexed for a long moment.  Aarnr's instructions made good sense but didn't match Fergus' expectations.  When there was trouble and somebody died, you fetched out the constable and the priest; that was how things were done.  Tradition and long habit were difficult to throw off, as Fergus had recently discovered.

As the conversation turns to the way in which the farmer and his family died, Fergus steps closer to examine the corpses more closely.  From the indiscriminate butchery, Fergus had first thought that wild animals were responsible but it seems that's not the case.  He accepts the others at their word, though he knows little about dagger wounds, poison and the like.  The thought that somebody might blame him and his friends for the deaths is particularly troubling to Fergus.

"It wasn't orcs, or bandits neither.  They'd have driven off the animals or killed what they couldn't take."

As first the Nameless Monk, then Eilieen perform their prayers and devotions over the bodies, Fergus turns his mind to the problem that's been bugging him.  "They follow Freya, 'most everybody 'bout here does.  So they should be buried, not burned.  Not that they've minded those words, Miss," he adds, hastily, to Eilieen, "That was real nice.  Loving words, they'd 've liked that.  I don't reckon the folks in town could've said it better."

Eilieen's words are ... strangely appropriate.  These were not folk to whom the sword sat easily in their hands, and such brutality had no place in their world, so while he would not wish such for himself, Aarnr does not begrudge them their peace.

"Well spoke," he tells the priestess, "well spoke indeed."

Though Fergus' revelation that these farmers offered their prayers to Freya is somehow fitting.  "Goddess of love and fertility," the priest remarks, "but fights like a vixen protecting her cubs when they're threatened.  Froggin' wager her Valkyries would want a piece of who did this."

"So then ... in Bowbe's name I'll pledge that vengeance.  Dost thou HEAR me, thou dankish, dog-hearted MALT-WORM ?!!" Aarnr's voice rises, as does his gaze, to the heavens above.  "Lest thou be taken for a folly-fallen pumpion, grant them this !"

His words are uncouth and unkind, but no less well meant than those spoken by Eilieen.

With a last narrow-eyed glare at the skies, the priest lowers his gaze, nodding at those gathered around.  "Thy stick and books," this last pronounced as dire a curse as ever fell from his lips, "will have to wait a short while," he tells Corian. "We may be taking an even longer route to froggin' Bard's Gate than even thee dreamed. !"

"So," he joins now in the discussion between Aramil and Fergus, "the pig-nuts that did this did so for sport ?  Or perhaps looking for something other than coin or stock ?"

"Thank you, Aarnr," Eilieen whispers quietly.  She stands silent while he makes his 'prayer' for vengeance to...or is it against?...his god.  While his words are crude, his purpose is pure, and the priestess can appreciate that.  She hopes the family does as well, and that Aarnr's god happens to be listening; frmo the sound of it, the relationship is a stormy one.

"Vengeance we will find," the slim woman sighs, wiping her face.  "At the least, one hopes to prevent this happening again."

The conversation calls, and she listens to the thoughts of the others.  Eilieen isn't a strategist, nor is she knowledgeable about such things as orcs, but many points here make no sense.  "Poison, the children slain by a single wound.  Why use poison on children?" she plaintively inquires of the air.  "And the coin left behind, the animals ignored, the house untouched."  And yet... "Aramil is right.  Only brutes would savage the bodies so.  Brutes or..."

She paces in a circle, pausing for a weak smile at Fergus.  "My thanks, Fergus, for your kind words.  And if it is Freya to whom they prayed, then they will be buried.  Surely I can find a shovel somewhere in this farm."  She will work all night if need be.  Splinters, blisters, oh it will ruin her hands, but Eilieen shrugs such concerns away.  They are for those who remained in the Temple, not her.

Pausing, she touches Aramil's shoulder.  The half-elf fairly vibrates with fury and sick sorrow, and Eilieen wishes she could mend hearts as easily as she mends bodies.  "We will come to the bottom of this confusion, my friend," she whispers.  "And stop it from happening again..."

Abruptly pieces begin to click into place.  She might be wrong, but...  "'Happening again'," Eilieen murmurs.  "Made to look like brutes, but so much is wrong with that.  Might it be that the wounds were caused to hide the truth?"  She waves a hand at the poor, silent bodies.  "Two children - only the children! - slain by poisoned daggers, then the bodies of all hacked and cut!  Why?  To hide the poisoned wounds from farmers who would not know what to look for!"

She strides to the pyre that they may not now use and stares down at the dead, her pale face like ivory in the growing darkness.  "Why kill two children with poisoned daggers, unless it is NECESSARY that they die by poisoned daggers?  Surely children are not so s-strong!"  Her voice cracks on the last word, but Eilieen forces herself to continue.  "The poison...the poison was a critical part of their deaths!"

"Might it have been a sacrifice?" she whispers.  "A ritual?  Erista, have you heard aught of such things?  Aarnr?"  She wracks her own brain, considering the gods of the world.  "Hecate asks for sacrifices of blood, but not poison.  Grotaag would disdain it as cowardly.  Tharizdun?  I know nothing of his practices...  Set?  That would explain the poison.  Tsathogga?"  She sways.  "No.  Too...clean.  Jubilex?  It does not fit the faceless lord."  Her lips thin.  "Hel.  Poisoned knives."

Turning, she faces the others.  "Were this a ritual, one to be hidden...Set or Hel, I think.  Have any heard aught of plagues in the land?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:40, Thu 25 Aug 2011.

The others conversation rolls mostly over his head, but a few key words filter down and gets his small mind puzzling on the Conundrum of the Cut-up Cultivators (he would have to work on that title later) and what he recalls about the surrounding areas of the farm; including religions, relations, rapscallions and reputables worth remembering. He once again holds his lute in hand, plucking out a funeral dirge while he considers the possibilities.

Bardic Knowledge Check: 14.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:49, Sun 28 Aug 2011.

The idea of the body mouldering in the grave isn't one that appeals to the big priest, but in the bogs and fens of the Vastness, the ground is not a place where spirits might lie quiet, especially with Tsoathogga's spawn around.  Far better the cleansing fire, if enough dry wood can be found.

So it seems a pity to waste a good pyre, but Fergus is undoubtedly right. "Thou find us some shovels, lad," Aarnr suggests, and we'll bury them."

The Frog-god he knows and hates, and while Eilieen dismisses his hand in this, the priest is not so quick to do so.  "Whichever one of the almighty scuts the murders worshipped matters not," he rumbles.  "They'll all froggin' die for it."

The prayers and blessings spoken, a decision is taken to bury the bodies instead of burning them, though it will mean working far into the night.  Tools are fetched, and the work of digging the graves commences as the sun sets.  The wood for the funeral pyres is not wasted, and a bonfire soon provides light for the grim task.

The graves, when completed, are shallow and even the adult ones look pitifully small to hold a person.

The work of moving the bodies into them, accompanied by further prayers does not take long. 

As the earth is being pushed back into the first grave, a voice suddenly calls out from the darkness beyond the firelight, "Cyfod!  Cyfod plant o'r bedd!  A yw fy bidio!" and an instant later an arrow thuds into the dirt at Fergus' feet!

A short distance away, the ground seems to churn and roil, and a skeletal hand suddenly thrusts up from it, followed by a second, a third... and more follow...



OOC: Those of you who are not suffering the effects of surprise can roll for Initiative and take a partial action this round.  The rest of you should just sort of say, "Oh!" and "What the...?", or the like.  Or squeal, or something.

Listening in grim silence the monk assists with the burial, still in silence.  Moments before the voice is heard she looks up and peers into the darkness.  And so it it that no sooner has the arrow landed at the feet of Fergus than the monk sprints off in the direction from where the voice came.  Perhaps now is the time for the most foul culprit to pay this bloody debt in full.

Aarnr froggin' knew that no good would ever come of burying corpses - cleansing fire is the only sure way to stop the spirits of evil from befouling them ... so the skeletal forms clawing their way up from below comes not so much as a surprise as a personal affront !

Oblivious to the threat of arrows, Bowbe's priest takes a single step towards the undead, lifting the leather thongs that hold the wooden disk over his neck, as he bellows at the fiends.

"THOU GUTS-GRIPING, POTTLE-DEEP SKAINS-MATE, he challenges his god, "DO THOU DRIVE THESE CARRION BONE-BAGS BEFORE THEE ... OH FROG IT !!"

This last as the thin thongs slip through his fingers and the symbol of his god falls to the dirt at his feet.

Erista takes a couple of quick steps away from the skeletal hands reaching up.  "Let me try," she offers to Aarnr, pointing towards the bones.  "破壞 幽靈!"  A lance of white light spears out from her finger, into the dirt.

Ozzy is deep in thought, pondering an answer to it all. Most of the area were simple Freya worshippers which was understandable as they were surrounded by fertile farmland as far as he could see. Homesteads like this were uncommon however, with most of the farmers preferring the safety of a community rather than risk everything to a random monster attack. It is while he is fumbling for a rhyme with Freya that the attack hits starting with an arrow in the dirt "Oh!" and then followed by the rise of the dead, "What the...?" The skeletal hands completely freak the little bard out and he drops his lyre with an abrupt -CLANG- as he lets out a squeal and draws his sling from his belt, reaching quickly to load a bullet...
This message was last edited by the player at 09:28, Mon 29 Aug 2011.

Eilieen is deep in sorrow and anger at the tragedy of the farm, and still cannot work through the mystery.  The ritual of burial is...unconventional at the least, and very curiously carried out, but she takes Fergus' word for it and soldiers through, somehow without breaking down into tears again at the sight of the sad graves they have dug.

As expected, her hands are filthy and blistered.  A small thing next to the deaths of those they bury, not even worth consideration.

Then comes the arrow.  The cry.  The dead hands spiking out from the dirt.  And Eileen stumbles backward, fumbling for spear, fumbling for holy symbol, failing both and jerking around in confusion, uncertain where to turn.  What a nightmare this day has become!

<backpost>
"No plagues, Miss.  This is Fairhill land, or close enough.  Freya provides."

Fergus was happy enough to pitch in with the digging.  Eilieen tried and Fergus appreciated her efforts, but it was plain she hadn't much experience with a shovel.  For Fergus, on the other had, manual labor was second nature and he had the calloused hands and broad shoulders to prove it.  He turns some of his anger into a determination to dig a proper grave in record time and soon dirt is flying everywhere.
</backpost>

Fergus stands leaning on the shovel as the funeral services are conducted.  He'd still have felt better if they could fetch out a priest from Fairhill but Eilieen and Aarnr do a good job and Fergus is satisfied.  They've barely finished when a slight noise alerts Fergus to danger, followed by a soft thud as an arrow embeds itself in the dirt close to Fergus' feet.

Almost immediately, the nameless monk is off and running towards the sound of the voice.  Fergus is a half-step behind and gaining, hoisting his shovel in place of any more conventional weapon.

Aramil just stands and watches as the others decide to dig the graves for the farmer and his family. He stares around nervously watching for the creature hunting them and for possible others that might mean them harm. When the graves are finished Aramil gathers with the others to bless this poor family to the afterlife that they have gone to. But due to his unsettled nature Aramil has one ear on the prayers and one on the dark surrounding them.

Something seems to be moving in the dark. Before Aramil had time to comment a voice calls out in a language that is strange to the half-elf and then the arrow flies to Fergus' feet. Springing onto the balls of his feet Aramil slides the sword from his scabbard and waits to see what the others do before running off into the dark again.

Colwyn had been watching the funeral rites, muttering  phrases indistinctly when it seemed appropriate, and keeping his head bowed the whole time.  Not that he's particularly pious, but he knows enough to avoid annoying the likes of Aarnr.

His mind is actually on other things though.  Like what were the people who killed this family actually after?  And is it still hidden somewhere?  Did anybody take a look up the chimney?

The attack, when it comes, catches the rogue completely by surprise...

The voice sounds out of the darkness, speaking words in a strange tongue.  Corian turns to face the direction it seems to come from, and his face contorts into a mask of fear and anger, as he spits out a single word...

"Vortigern!"

In the confusion, Aramil is the first to react, drawing his weapon even as the attack commences.  The heat and light from the fire effectively blind his elven vision, making it impossible for him to see the enemy clearly.  Wisely, he chooses to wait and see what happens.

The Nameless Monk runs out, away from the simple graves, heading for the source of the voice, determined to silence it.  Fergus is a hair's-breadth behind her, apparently with a similar goal in mind. 

Focussing on the clawing, skeletal hands, Aarnr summons the will of Bowbe to destroy the undead things, without much success.  The skeletons, five of them in total, claw their way out of the earth, their fleshless faces fixed in grins which might be termed "idiotic" if only they were not so horrific...

In the darkness, the voice speaks again, "Hud taflegryn!" and an instant later twin bolts of energy come whirling out of the gloom, swooping round in wide arcs to strike Corian and knock him off his feet.

Aarnr stoops to retrieve the holy symbol of Bowbe, and an arrow passes through the space where his head had been an instant before.  A second arrow misses the rapidly moving Nameless Monk.

Erista too decides that the skeletons are the primary threat.  White light flares from her fingertips, but seems to have no effect on the skeletons as they continue to scramble up from the ground...

OOC: Surprise round over.  Everybody who didn't act this round can now do the whole Initiative and actions thing.  Get 'em!

Combatant         Init
Aramil             22
Nameless Monk      18
Aarnr Foultongue   17
Fergus Andarson    17
Spellcaster        16   AC=??
Skeletons          16   AC=??
Archers             9   AC=??
Erista              5
Colwyn Akbar        0
Corian              0
Eilieen             0
Oswald Osbourne     0


Characters' Apparent Health
Aarnr Foultongue: Good
Aramil:           Good
Eilieen:          Good
Erista:           Good
Fergus Andarson:  Good
Nameless Monk:    Good
Oswald Osbourne:  Good

Corian Barade:    Critical

This message was last edited by the GM at 06:17, Thu 01 Sept 2011.

Not missing a beat, or a step, the monk adjusts her course towards the point of origin of the twin bolts that zipped past her towards an unknown goal, ignoring any arrow that may come her way - she will deal with that momentarily, or so she intends.

She does not stop until she can reach out to touch the enemy, at which point she halts abruptly to extend a hand towards the middle of the chest of the magician, the heel of the hand first, uttering a guttural sound as she does.

Her companions move swiftly, already taking action against their attackers.  Eilieen gathers her wits and takes a precious heartbeat to assess.  Spellcasters, undead, and one injured friend; an easy choice, save that Aarnr seems to have dropped his holy symbol and the skeletons are moments from attacking.

Her attention torn between the injured Corian and the skeletons, Eilieen steps forward to assist in driving the undead away before they can make the situation worse.  Sadly, she promptly trips over a stone and ends up on her hands and knees, her own holy pendant swinging back and forth harmlessly.

"You dropped this," she sighs, holding up Bowbe's crossed sword and hammer for Aarnr to retrieve.

Erista continues to back away a bit.  "魔術 鎧", she mutters, although nothing further seems to come of it.

Ozzy manages to get the sling loaded and starts it spinning as his dark little eyes look for a suitable target. One of the skeletons is too close for his own comfort so he releases the shot, ...and then groans as it flies well over the undead skull and it goes skittering off into the trees. He was seriously out of practice with this thing. He considers abandoning the fight and singing along instead as he was so much better at inspiration than perspiration...

Initiative: 23
Sling a skeleton: 10

Aarnr stands, affronted as the arrow flies over his head, staring belligerently into the night to try to spot whichever milk-livered lout was responsible. And, lacking his sword, he is on the verge of taking his shovel and setting out to beat some manners into them, when Eilieen's presses his holy symbol upon him.

For a moment he hesitates ... then with a gruff nod snatches the amulet from her, turning back to the skeletons, holding it up before him once more.  "Last chance," he mutters threateningly to Bowbe, his voice rising to a roar as he yells at the skeletons.

"THOU YELLOWED, FOLLY-FALLEN MOLD-WARPS !  GAZE THEE UPON THIS SIGN OF BOWBE AND GET THY POX-MARKED, FLESH-PICKED BONES HENCE !" he demands.

Waiting to see what happens, Aramil is surprised to see the skeleton hands clawing their way to freedom from the soil. His shock at this new development makes Aramil think maybe he was not cut out for this adventuring lark. Maybe he should have stayed home rather than seek excitement that contains the horrors of stories and songs that he always didn't quite believe.

Seeing the others struggling by the hands Aramil decides to help the group in the light of the fire. He steps forward and swings him sword at the closest skeleton.  Yet he seems distracted again and the swing is just awful.

Colwyn draws his shortsword and rushes over to crouch beside Corian.

The man's gasping breath and muttered imprecations at least tell the rogue that he is still alive and conscious.  "Get yerself up, man.  There's too many buggers 'round 'ere jus' layin' in the dirt, an' not a few as should be but ain't."

Keeping an eye on the skeletons and holding his blade art the ready, Colwyn assists Corian in clambering to his feet.