"Thanks, Miss."  Fergus murmurs as Eilieen tends to his wound.  A quick flex of his broad shoulders is enough to assure Fergus that the injury won't hinder his range of movement.

When Eilieen finally stops long enough to see to her own pains, Fergus hastens to help.  "Here, Miss, let me.  I'm not to good with delicate stuff but I can probably tie that off for you."

Whether or not, Eilieen accepts his offer, Fergus stays close enough to say quietly, "He was a bad man, wasn't he, Miss?  Only I've never killed a man before."  The look on Fergus' face shows that the thought is seriously troubling him.  "My ma always said I had to be careful or I'd hurt someone, and now I lost my temper an' I killed him dead."

Eilieen glances up at Fergus, her grumpy frustration giving away to a sunny smile.  "Oh, thank you Fergus.  That would be most appreciated, most appreciated indeed."  Embarassing, using her teeth of all things to help knot off a bandage but...needs must, she tells herself.  "My thanks," she murmurs when he finishes, eyeing his injuries critically.  "I shall do something about those pains, Fergus, when Zadastha sees fit to bless me again with her strength."

But a confession follows, and Eilieen sits back, face growing more serious.  She brushes back an errant lock of hair as Fergus speaks - an automatic gesture, no more.  "Oh dear."  A quick glance around reveals no nearby listeners; a good thing, for she suspects Fergus would not have this broadcast to all and sundry.

The priestess lays a hand on the big man's shoulder.  She doesn't know the right, logical words.  She only knows her feelings, and his.  With them, maybe Eilieen work her way through this dark forest of loss.  "Fergus, it speaks well that you find this troubling; you are a good man.  Yes, he was a very evil man, to do what he did to this poor family.  Killing is not something to be taken lightly, for all lives have value.  That was his terrible, terrible mistake: valuing his own selfish purpose above the lives of these poor people."

The young priestess smiles softly, a sorrowful cast to the expression.  "One can hardly blame you for your temper, Fergus.  Indeed, your rage was righteously aimed.  You stopped this man from future evils.  It is a sad thing that we needed to kill him - I would urge you to never lose that sadness upon taking a life, but I think you never will.  And yet...had you not struck him we might well be dead, and he would have continued onward."

Touching his shoulder again, she points toward the sad little group of graves.  "And the world would have seen more of those."  The priestess sniffles once, emotion filling her again; shock, pain, sorrow for the dead, and sadness for poor Fergus, his innocence stripped away from him in a moment of brutality.

"I do not think your mother would speak poorly of you for this," she whispers, taking his arm and patting his wrist.  "I am so sorry you had to kill a man, Fergus.  So sorry he left you no choice."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:23, Thu 22 Sept 2011.

Colwyn eyes the house before saying, "We was goin' ter stay 'ere any'ow, right?  May's well use the 'ouse, eh?  Might be some grub in there too, so we should eat it ternight, afore it goes stale or sour or whatever."

"I mean, we already 'ad a shufty roun' in there, so it can't do any 'arm to sleep in there an' not the barn, see."  He nods to Aramil, "There's a sword in there yer could prob'ly 'ave too.  Poor bugger must've been a soldier or somethin' one time, to own a sword.  Fer all the bloody good it done 'im.  It's just 'angin' on the wall by the fireplace, an' it ain't like he's goin' ter use it again."

Ozzy perks up at Colwyns' mention of the possibility of sleeping in the house. Ceasing his pouting over the fact that he would not receive his blessing until tomorrow, the little halfling strolls to the little farmhouse, popping the door open as he says, "Don't gotta tell me twice. Dibs on the bed!" then scampers inside in hopes of getting under the blankets before one of the taller folks told him not to.

The monk, having moved over towards Fergus, waits for Eileeen to finish before she too speaks to him.  "Fergus, you did good in defending yourself and the rest of us.  This man lost his way long ago and had chosen to remain lost.  Perhaps now he can find peace, so fret not over your actions."

With that she moves back over to the corpse at the edge of the forest and performs the same ritual she did for the family in silence.  Once that is done she returns to the campfire and sits down to meditate.

Erista opens her mouth when Oswald claims the bed, and then thinks better of it, snapping teeth on whatever she might have been about to say and shrugging.  She wanders over to the semi-decapitated mage, instead, and starts methodically checking his pouches and pockets.

Dealing with the dead is not something Aramil is used to. He stands by at first watching the others and listening to their comments. Looking at the Aarnr and Eileen he again asks "Should we bury or burn the bodies again? Or leave them for the scavangers of the forest? I'm tired, a little still and the emotions of the last few days have left me with little energy. I'd rather rest now in the house." Waiting for a response Aramil seems ready to move quickly to the house and settle in for the rest of the night.

Eilieen gives the Nameless Monk a small smile as the other woman joins in the attempt to comfort Fergus.  She glances up at Aramil's question, her brows knitting as she studies the weary ranger.  The poor man seemed utterly exhausted.

"Sleep, Aramil," she calls back.  "This is priest's work."

While Corian's answer doesn't exactly inspire confidence, least of all that the onion-eyed giglet knows so much of the rituals associated with both raising undead and joining them.  Fergus's remorse, on the other hand, is more of a puzzlement than a concern to the priest.

"At least the puttock gave us a good fight, for all he was a bone-sucking, bat-fowling maggot-pie," he offers the young man as a comfort, "and thou proved thou were the better man."  He forebears from mentioning that his own mother would have spat upon his grave had he lost the fight.

Aarnr suspects that sticking this Vortigern's head on a sharpened pole and nailing his body to a tree for wild animals to feed on is probably not what Eilieen had in mind, though he's happy to assist if that's on the table.   And seeing the priestess has spent herself in caring for the injured of the little band ...

The priest turns his attention to searching the turned earth, poking at clods with his long blade, as he spouts a litany of foul imprecations.  Perhaps they're aimed at Vortigern, perhaps at Bowbe, the weather, Corian, or even himself, but they eventually cease as he exclaims in triumph, squatting to recover the symbol of his god from the ground, banging it against his boot to somewhat clean it.

"Thou did well," he tells Eilieen. "Thou bore thy wounds and helped thy friends. I am less versed in the healing arts than thou, but Bowbe grant I can at least take thy pains away."  More a demand than a request of his god.

If the priestess permits it, Aarnr will call upon his god to "froggin' heal her thou lumpish guts-griping skains-mate ! It's all thy fault anyway ! If thou had froggin' paid attention and smoted those hell-hated marrow-marms when thou should've ..."

"Thanks, Miss." Fergus seems to take some comfort from Eilieen's and Nameless' words of encouragement.  Fergus knows Aarnr means well but his sentiments are so foreign to Fergus that he doesn't know how to react.

After a moment, Fergus follows Nameless back to where they fought Vortigern.  He picks up the shovel, which is still nearby.  It's not in great shape, having hit the tree quite hard, but it might still be usable.  He waits for the monk to finish her prayers then says, "I guess I'll dig a hole for him, too.  He should get that even if he was bad.  And I'm not like to sleep any time soon."

Quiet words are spoken over Vortigern's corpse in the hopes of ensuring that he gives no more trouble, after which the bold heroes make their way to the now tragically vacant house, where they will spend the night.  Erista stays with the body, even after her companions have departed...

Colwyn searches in the house until he finds some cheap tallow candles, which are soon providing a meagre yellowish illumination, which gleams brightly off the blade of the shortsword the rogue had mentioned to Aramil.  Then he sets about kindling a small fire in the hearth to heat some dinner.

Just as small flames finally start dancing in the simple fireplace, Erista returns...

"My thanks, Aarnr," Eilieen whispers, closing her eyes and letting her body relax as the familiar power of healing washes over her.  The prayer itself is...disturbing...but she has grown used to Aarnr's curious relationship with his Deity.  With a quiet sigh, she shakes off the lingering echoes of pain, and pats Fergus' hand a final time before releasing the man to his choices.

Unsurprisingly, he elects to give Vortigern a burial.  Assuredly a good man, she notes to herself.

Once in the house, she again requests to see Corian's injuries, and calls Aarnr over to look.  "Corian," she murmurs, "I don't mean to alarm, but there might be something in your wounds.  Aarnr, can you have a look at these, and attempt a healing?  I would see if it cures the issue."

"I'm fine, really." Corian assures Eilieen, "It burned when the thing, Vortigern's familiar I suspect, first hit me.  And it itched for a little while after that, but it's fading away, even as we speak.  Dashed creature must have had some sort of venom.  I really wish I'd paid more attention to Dasidar's interminable ramblings about such creatures.  He didn't have a familiar himself, but he would speak about them at great length."

The young arcanist sighs, "If only he hadn't been dull enough to kill flies just by talking to them, I might have learned enough to recognise Vortigern's beastly little friend."

Colwyn moves away from the fire and searches around in the house, eventually coming up with a battered, but clean, iron kettle.

"'ere we go.  We can 'ave us some tea with our dinner.  I'll just go fetch some water from the well, an' we's laughin'."

With that, he heads back outside in search of water.  A few minutes later he's back, and hanging the kettle above the fire.

"Vegetable soup."

The monk walks over to the fireplace and looks into the flames thoughtfully.

She nods, slowly and then walks over to the table and taps a finger on it.

"Yes.  Very much so."

The priest nods his gruff acceptance of Eilieen's thanks, and is more than keen to see Vortigern interred, given his views on the prospect of being buried beneath the ground and the ill that can come from such.  "If Bowbe calls me to his side, be sure thou burn my body," he warns Fergus as the pair labour away (though this time he keeps his sword much closer to hand), "don't thou be puttin' me in a froggin' hole in the ground !"

At the priestess's prompting Aarnr reluctantly eyes Corian's wounds, though takes a step back at her suggestion that there might be 'something' in them, lest it be catching.  Corian's words are welcome, however, as "belike Bowbe'll not be paying a froggin' bit of notice to me till I've had chance to get my strength back to argue the point with him."

A bit of blood never hurt anyone, but he'd rather wash away the foul touch of the undead upon his person, and so the priest heads back out to the well to sluice down.  Again with his sword handy.

Vegetable soup and tea is the cap on an unpleasant day all round.

"So ... despite all thine artifice, this Vortigern learned of thy plans anyway," he looks to Corian, "probably that damn bird of his pokin' its beak in and spyin' on us."

"You think we can expect a visit from ..." he racks his brains trying to recall the name, "Feriblan next ?  Whether he's after the same books and staff that thou seek, or seekin' vengeance for Vortigern ?"

Corian shakes his head in reply to Aarnr's question, "I would think not.  Feriblan is somewhat... addled.  Others who know of him often refer to him as 'Feriblan the Mad'.  Add to which that much of what Vortigern did was without his mentor's knowledge.  In fact I suspect that, if Feriblan were entirely compos mentis, and had he become aware of some of Vortigern's activities, he would have, in all probability, dismissed the man from his apprencticeship immediately."

"I have, for example, long been of the belief that Vortigern was selling Feriblan's library, piecemeal.  Volumes that my master had consulted were, on occasion, no longer to be found upon our next visit."  He chuckles, "In fact Dasidar joked with me about it on one occasion, saying that he he thought Feriblan might be eating the books."

"So, no, I do not believe that Feriblan is aware of Vortigern's little expedition, and is probably too far beyond caring to wonder about where his apprentice has gone to."

Erista walks into the house with her arms loaded, looks briefly at the human-sized tabletop, and then dumps a pile of...stuff, rather unceremoniously onto the floor, save a small crystal flask actually held in her hand, which she then sets more carefully onto the tabletop.

"Well, selling off spare books must pay pretty well, because your friend was pretty set."  She nudges at the pile with her toes, pushing the pair of engraved daggers to one side, the two bronze tubes to the other, leaving the leather pouch and coin purse in the middle, looking down at it.


"So, before anybody gets all grabby, give me a minute to have a look over."  She holds her hands out, calling out, "偵查 魔法!" looking down at the collection in front of her.

"Please let me know if anything changes, Corian," Eilieen requests of their 'employer'.  "And I will have to examine it again in the future."  A bite.  How curious.  Well, that does explain the poison.

Digusted with the condition of her own clothing, she waits until Aarnr is finished and takes a turn at the well herself, cleaning her now-ragged clothing as best she can and washing blood off her own body.  Finished, and again in her damp clothes and cloak, Eilieen returns to the farmhouse in time to catch Erista's spellcasting on the items discovered.  Cocking an eyebrow in interest, she moves to a chair and sits, utterly fatigued by the day's exertions and stress.

Erista works a spell, while gazing at the collection of items spread out before her, and sits, concentrating on them for some little while...

"Man would have to be as mad as a froggin' clot-pole not to have noticed what that gorbellied, dog-hearted foot-licker was doin' !" Aarnr agrees with Corian.

He doesn't share Erista's optimistic view of the spoils, however.  A good knife is worth a great deal, but a bit light for anything other than a friendly brawl.  While it is traditional to sacrifice a foe's arms and armour to his god, he doubts Bowbe would be that interested in cutlery.

"How about a song to cheer us up ?" he looks to Aramil and Oswald pointedly.  "Something with a bit of a beat," the priest warns the pair.

Corian chuckles at Aarnr's assessment of Feriblan, "I've not heard him described in quite those terms, but they do seem to fit."

At the fire, Colwyn starts preparing tea as the water begins to heat up.  Perhaps in an automatic response to Aarnr's request for music, he starts whistling a well-known popular melody, He hanged with a smile on his face.

Moving to one side, to give others a little room to work close to the fire, Corian starts examining some earthenware jars standing on a shelf, uncorking each and sniffing carefully at the open neck, "Basil.  Fennel.  Thyme...  It seems that the farmer's wife may have had a talent for the culinary arts, judging by the array of herbs she had amassed."  he shakes his head and sighs, "Feriblan should have dealt with Vortigern long ago."

"And there's chickens," Erista points out absently.  "Huh.  Not bad.  Not bad at all."  She looks up towards Colwyn, and then pauses.  "And hey - our farmer or his father was definitely somebody.  That's got an aura to it, too," she says, pointing towards the hanging shortsword.  "Interesting.  So, this," she puts up the scrollcase, "Is about what we'd expect - necromancy.  Which isn't always about waking up the dead, but, yeah.  And this one," she picks up the pouch of dust, "Does something sneaky.  Illusory.  Might hide tracks, or something.  And the potion's got a creating kind of power to it, hopefully healing, nothin' against the job Eilieen's doing for us there," she adds, quickly.  "Daggers seem awfully nice, but not magicked," she adds, laying them, too, up on the table.  "Should sell for something decent, if nobody wants 'em.  But that's as far as I can figure it all."

"I'll hold onto the pouch for now, divvy up the rest as you like."  She picks up the coinpurse, hefting it a little bit.  "This'n only has the magic of coin, but that's a power I think we can all agree on.  I'll count 'em out while somebody cooks."  She moves over to the corner to start separating them into piles, keeping everything quite visible in case anybody's worried.

Ozzy had never been a fan of vegetables, even if in soup. He was of the belief that they made a person fat, after all, the larger mammals he had encountered in his short life had always tended to be herbivores. He had yet to meet an overweight carnivore. Not wanting to give up the bed, he gnaws on beef jerky, not much of a meal but enough to fill his belly. The bed was the important thing; for his father had insisted that he own a good pair of shoes and a good bed, for as Dad had always said, 'If you're not in one, you're in the other'.

Even as the treasure is sorted through the little halfling bard holds his place under the blankets (with his good shoes at the foot of it) and Ozzy shows little interest in getting his share. He wasn't in this for the money, this whole grand adventure was going into his next big performance...

...assuming he lived long enough to sing about it.

Fergus accepts Aarnr's preference for cremation with a simple nod, too caught up in the labour of digging to respond further.  Once the grave is dug and Erista has finished searching Vortigern, Fergus lowers the mage's corpse into the (shallow) grave and fills it in with a minimum of fuss.

Satisfied that there is nothing more he can do, but still unwilling to join the others in the farmhouse, Fergus goes about seeing to the farm animals.  Fergus goes armed and never strays too far from the farmhouse but it is almost certainly a foolish risk when there may yet be archers or an imp lurking in the darkness.  Still, Fergus feels that somebody ought to look after the livestock and he takes comfort from the familiar chores.


It is quite late before Fergus is ready for dinner.