The first grey light of morning peeks in around the edges of the shutters, and a servant moves around quietly, awakening those guests who had requested to be called before sunrise.  The light seems to carry a chill with it, and for those who take a moment to look outside, they find Fairhill shrouded in mist.  Not uncommon this close to the autumnal equinox.

Of those who requested to be roused, there are two merchants, on their way west, to Reme, who want an early start on the road to maximise their hours of daylight travel along the Tradeway.

And, of course, the Heroes of Fairhill, whose intent is, of course, to bid farewell to a comrade who will be leaving on quite a different journey.

A small pyre has been erected for the Nameless Monk in a field behind the temple of Freya, where the priestess Shandril will conduct a service - one that befits the customs and beliefs of those who seek ancient knowledge at the Lost Library, and serve the Rekindled Light of Wisdom.

While the morning may be tinged with sadness, the sorrow has, at least, been mitigated somewhat by decent food and a good night's rest.  In some cases a bath has helped the general feeling of wellbeing.

A quick breakfast is served - bread and honey, leftovers from the previous evening's dinner, oat porridge and fruit.

And then the adventurers begin their walk through the quiet, misty street to the temple, where they find Shandril waiting for them, clad in robes of dark green.

"Welcome." the priestess says, "I thought we could perform the rites for your friend, and then I will take care of any healing that you need."

Aarnr is out of bed early, pleased to feel some of the chill of the vampire lich-king's touch lifting from his bones, though he's still by no means fully recovered.  The priest prepares himself for the new day with some vigorous stretches, followed by some equally robust verbal tussling with Bowbe as he loudly and rudely demands the god's favours.

So nobody is getting much sleep after the start of that theological wrestling match !
This message was last edited by the player at 12:45, Wed 23 Apr 2014.

"Aarnr..."

Groaning in her room, Eilieen rouses herself at the sound of her companion's prayers.  Might as well get hers done as well, and it's a better 'wake-up call' than she used to receive at the temple.

Once cleansed, refreshed, empowered, and dressed - in that order - she heads out, first to breakfast, then to say farewell to her Nameless friend.  The priestess remains silent and solemn during her eating, dwelling on her time with the Nameless one.

When finally she meets Shandril, it is with a low bow.  "My thanks, Shandril.  Our friend has waited long enough."

Colwyn wakes with a groan.  Not all of the pain in his head is attributable to Arnrr, who is working himself into a berserk frenzy somewhere nearby.  The rogue rolls out from his blanket and rises to one knee next to the embers of the camp fire, looking round to see what the commotion is.

Aarnr and Fergus are about ten yards away, engaged in battle with a ginger cat as big as a cart horse.  The animal's eyes are mismatched, and one ear is badly torn.  Tommy!

Scrambling to his feet, Colwyn picks up his crossbow, only to have it snatched from his hands by Eilieen, who replaces the weapon with a plate of sliced pork and a flagon of ale.  "You're not going to fight on an empty stomach." she advises him.  For some reason Ozzy is playing a merry jig, while Aramil and Bilfro dance.  Further off, Erista is teaching what he assumes is an owlbear to read, rapping the monster sharply across the knuckles with a wooden spoon every time it makes a mistake.

"It's bein' a bloody dream!  Tha's what it's bein'"

The two owl familiars laugh at him from a branch above him, "Oh no, old chap.  I'm afraid it isn't." they say in unison, "If it were a dream, that cat would not be about to eat you."

Colwyn wakes with a groan.  Not all of the pain in his head is attributable to Arnrr, who is working himself into a berserk frenzy somewhere nearby.  The rogue rolls out of bed, and is relieved when his feet hit floorboards instead of earth.  He risks cracking one eye open.  It's the inn.  Then Aarnr's yelling must be his way of praying.  Unless he's having a bad dream too.

Getting ready for breakfast brings a sickening thudding in his head.  Still, at least that means he enjoyed himself the previous evening.  Memory confirms that fact, or will, when it returns from whatever errand it is currently engaged upon.

Breakfast, a plate of cold sliced pork and a flagon of ale, draws a suspicious glare.  The rogue doesn't say much during the meal.

And then he is trailing along behind the others, walking in the early morning mist, when he suddenly remembers why they are all up so early.  "Nadgers!" he mutters.

The whole group are led around to the back of the temple, where the monks body lays upon a funeral pyre, a scroll, a quill and a vial of ink with her.  The village magistrate, Arlen, is there, as is Baran, the leader of the watch.  There are a few other villagers too, and the number grows as Shandril commences a prayer to send the monk on her way.

By the time the prayer is finished, and torches are thrust into the pile of logs, it seems that most of the adults in the village are there to pay their respects.

As the flames take hold, Shandril asks the monk's companions, "Do any of you wish to speak a few words about your friend?"

Aarnr keeps a close eye on both Arlen and Baran during the ceremony, determined that neither of the hell-hated pig-nuts should interrupt the sending off of their comrade.  He does, however approve of the number of villagers gathered for the event, certain that a goodly number of them will be sacrificed at some point in the proceedings ... though he is prepared for disappointment, having little confidence that these civilised folk know the right way to bid farewell to a warrior.

At Shandril's prompting, the priest steps forward eagerly, addressing his choice remarks to the deceased, not those assembled.

"Thou may have been a priblin', tickle-brained prater," who could fail to note that the Nameless Monk's words were at best enigmatic, and at worst barely comprehensible, "but thou always fought bravely, thou gleekin', guts-gripin' gudgeon, and died froggin' well !"

"BOWBE !" the sudden bellow might well startle any who weren't expecting it, "THOU FOBBIN' WELL WATCH OVER HER SPIRIT, THOU PAUNCHY, FULL-GORGED VARLOT !"

Aarnr holds up the axe he recently acquired, lifting it over his head as he quickly checks to make sure the chief magistrate and leader of the watch aren't getting up to any mischief while his back is turned, then tosses the weapon onto the pyre.

"Thou may be needin' this," he tells the Nameless one. "Fight well ..."

Farewells said and duty done, the priest steps back.

"Well said, Aarnr.  A tribute fit for a hero, like the composition of some legendary skald of old."

Corian steps forward and adds some more sheets of parchment to the burgeoning flames.  "I'm afraid I did not know my fallen comrade as well as I would have liked.  Her words were filled, always, with wisdom and, while she had a gentle soul, she was not afraid to set that gentleness aside when some vile creature of darkness was in need of a sound thrashing.  I have no doubt that she will be sorely missed as the journey of her companions continues."

"May she find herself in a place where all the knowledge of the ages is stored."

Colwyn, too, seems eager to add his own eulogy, though the only thing he can offer in the way of a parting a gift is a dagger, which he casts onto the pyre, "Like what Aarnr were sayin', she were able ter 'andle 'erself in a bloody fight.  The rogue shrugs, apparently unsure whether or not to add anything else, then finishes awkwardly. "I were likin' 'er."

Eilieen stands quietly as the prayers and pyre begin.  She stares around at the growing throng of villagers, then quickly turns her face down, studying her feet.  The prayer drones on, and she regains her control, waiting for the crackle of lit torches and pondering the enigma that was the Nameless Monk.

Aarnr's words draw a disbelieving smile from her, and his outcry to his god brings a wince.  But that is the man's way, as is the axe he hurls upon the pyre.  Corian and Colwyn follow with words and gifts of their own.  Eilieen takes a deep breath and walks forward, briefly pausing to place a hand upon Colwyn's shoulder before facing the flames.

"I wish I had known you better, but what I knew of you was enough, my friend."  Eilieen swallows.  "Brave, strong, and true.  And a mystery, in your own way, even to the end."  She manages a smile.  "I think that you would be satisfied."  The priestess pulls back her hood, the morning sun shining on her platinum hair, now arranged into a single braid in defiance of her usual style.

"Zadastha accept you with the love you deserve, and guide you to your true keeper - whoever or whatever that may be.  Know peace, Nameless One.  We shall not forget you."

Gripping the braid with one hand, Eilieen draws her small knife and, with a grimace and wince, saws through the hair close to the nape of her neck.  The tears in her eyes from neither smoke nor pain, she steps close to cast the offering into the flames.  Then she turns away, leaving room for the next as she brings up her hood once more.

Aarnr nods in sympathy.  Though at first he was surprised to see Eilieen with the warrior's braid, the ritual severing of that single strand is significant indeed.

"That was froggin' well done," he tells the priestess, hand on her shoulder.

Erista steps forward as Eilieen moves away.  Then she steps forward twice more, as the first one left her still considerably short of actually forward.

Taking in a deep breath, she closes her eyes.  "I hope that she has gone someplace where everybody knows her name.  Where they will always be glad she came.  I hope she can be where she can see that our troubles are all the same.  That she can be, where everybody knows, her name."

Astral makes a soft cooing sound; four short notes and two longer, and then Erista returns to her original place behind Fergus.

The flames leap higher, and still the congregation of villagers stand in silence behind their leaders, heads bowed in many cases as they offer prayers of their own to guide the Nameless Monk on her way.

Aramil is the next to make his way forward, "I have nothing to offer my fallen companion except my words.  I will use those words to keep the memory of her deeds alive in the minds of others.  She was reliable and trustworthy: not one to hold back in a crisis, nor one to rush blindly forward heedless of risk.  At the same time, mere risk would not stop her offering aid.  She cherished peace, but was prepared to fight in defence of that peace.  She sought knowledge, and understood its value.  And she understood that sharing knowledge increases its value."

"I know little of her order, but I feel that it has been significantly diminished by her loss."

At the end, he bows his head, and adds a few words in his own tongue... [Language unknown: "Eewiof riaspe, t tinatiwhe, allni wa allstienthat ce nc ursaatek kor."]
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:28, Fri 02 May 2014.

Through the funeral its all Ozzy can do to keep his eyes open and his head up. Not that he was bored, but his head hurt and the morning light felt like sharp blades stabbing him through the eyes. Too many pints taken too quickly had left him with the mother of all hang overs, clouding his brain and thickening his tongue and leaving him wholly ineffective as a bard. He had no song, he had no poetry, he only had the pain of trying to live like his blood brother. He keeps his head down respectfully, chancing silence over slander lest he open his mouth and say the wrong thing.

His expression dour, Colwyn nods as each of his companions says their piece, impressed by the quality of tributes to their fallen comrade.  One hand taps Ozzy on the shoulder, as Aramil finishes speaking, and he whispers, "Don't be fallin' asleep, mate, or Eilieen'll like as not be chuckin' yer in the fire."

Fergus is the last of the original group to speak, keeping the hood of his cloak pulled up the whole time, as he wishes the monk well on her journey to the next world, and scatters a handful of earth on the pyre.

"My dad was always telling me," he explains, "about how good soil makes good crops and strong people.  Wherever she goes next, my friend will take part of Fairhill, and its people, with her."

The service continues for some time, with prayers from Shandril at appropriate times.  Nobody is sacrificed, not even a sheep, and Bilfro remains a silent observer throughout, perhaps feeling that it is not his place to speak about a person that he has never met.

At last, thogh, it is over.  The flames are dying down on what remains of the pyre, and apart from a few villagers who remain to ensure that drifting embers don't ignite any fires, most of them start to drift away to their daily duties.

Shandril leads the party into the temple, where she says, "A sad business, but her death was not a complete waste.  We will remember her, and how she gave her life to defend people she had never met."

A sigh, as she gathers her wits, "Which of you require healing?"

"I am well enough, thank you," Elieen quietly replies.  She keeps her hood up, the feel of the tips of her hair brushing against the nape of her neck terribly unfamiliar.  Stepping back, she considers the priestess' words.

'Not a complete waste'.  Such a terrible phrase, she thinks.  No fault to Shandril, who meant well, but.

"Her death was a tragedy," the priestess whispers.  "I shall need to grow stronger, that I can save my friends from a similar fate."  Then she blinks.  Enough monologuing, Eilieen decides, grimly going over the prayers she has requested from Zadastha today.

She needs to be ready.

Shandril sets to work, there before the altar of Freya, calling on the will of her goddess to heal those who were injured during the quest to recover the village's sacred treasure.  One by one the injured stand before her, and she murmurs prayers to Freya.  Even the chill numbness that Ozzy and Arrnr still feel after Eralion's icy touch succumbs to the strength of Freya, and the pair soon feel their strength returning as warmth spreads through their limbs.

Before long, everybody in the party, including Bilfro, is in the best of health again.

With the healing over. Shandril asks, "What are your plans?  Will you stay with us a few days more, or do you intend to carry on?"

Corian clears his throat, "I do not intend to move on at all.  Fairhill was always my destination.  I have what I came here for, and in all likelihood I will stay here for a few days, before returning to Reme."

"I have considered this during the night," Aramil adds, "and have decided that I will not be travelling onward to Rappan Athuk.  I will stay in Fairhill for a while, at least, and ensure that travellers hear the true story of the fall of Eralion."

"Or better yet," Erista suggests, "You could tell the good version!"  She grins, but then says, more seriously, "You know we'll miss you, but, as nice as Fairhill is, I'll be going on," she says, resolutely.

Aarnr's pride would normally forbid such indignities as admitting any hurt, yet the priest finds the sapping of his strength an almost equal affrontery, and besides at least that injury was sustained (or thereabouts) in the retrieval of Freya's blessed cup, so he lines up with the rest of the impatients ... and is pleased he did so once his full vigour is restored, even forgetting himself enough to almost politely thank Shandril.

"Where's Reme ?" he asks Ozzie.  "Worth a visit ?"

Rappan Atthuk !  Aramil's reminder of the dangers and battles that await go a long way towards compensating for the loss of a treasured companion.  "Keep an eye on those two puttocks," he advises the minstrel quietly, indicating the mayor and the captain of the guard.  "An' teach these soft city-folk what it froggin' means to be a warrior."

Colwyn sneers at Corian's intent to leave the party - he hadn't really seen eye to eye with him since his original declaration that he had lied to them, so the news that he will not be continuing on with them, but will instead return to the start of their journey, brings mixed feelings.

The announcement of Aramil's departure is more sadly felt.

Still, Rappan Athuk and its wealth await.

Aramil bows his head to Erista, then to Aarnr.  "I shall do my utmost.  And speaking of warriors... "  He draws his shortsword, and speaks to the party as a whole, "Who will have this blade?  I took it from the farmhouse where we fought Vortigern.  It bears a little magic, and I doubt I'll have much use for it here.  I feel its size will suit Ozzy or Colwyn best."

Ozzy answers his blood brother, " Reme? Dunno, never been there." he says. Then Aramils sword is offered and he is quick to stand in front of Corian. Javelins and slings had kept him alive this long, but more than once had he felt the need for a blade bigger than his daggers. " I would love a new sword! Maybe later Aarnr can show me the skills needed to wield it."

"We will find a monster for thou to slay," Aarnr grins at the halfling, nodding his approval at Aramil's generous gift.  Training is very on-the-job with the priest and can best be explained as 'kill or be killed'.

"Ah, Aramil," Eilieen murmurs, patting the half-elf upon the shoulder.  "We shall miss you, your support, and yes, your tales.  I would hear your songs in the future, when we return - so stay well and safe, my friend."  She suddenly smiles.  "And should another disaster befall the town - perhaps another night where Tommy goes missing - I am sure you will stand ready to defend it."

Half-joking...but only half.

"I am with Erista, and will journey onward to Rappan Athuk," Eilieen announces.  "If it is a danger to good folk, it must be investigated.  Perhaps there is something we can do to stem the tide of darkness...failing that, we might at least bring word of the dangers."  A firm nod follows.  "Good luck, Corian.  Be well, here."

Shandril leaves the room, and returns a short while later with some rolls of parchment, "In my youth I was an adventurer, and travelled extensively."  She starts to unroll one of the parchments, "I created maps of large areas of the countryside between the Great Sea and the Inland Sea, and from the Azure Mountains in the north, to the Forest of Hope in the south.  This one shows the Tradeway.  Perhaps it would be of interest to you, providing some idea of the lay of the land between here and Freegate"

"I will wish you all good fortune on your journey." Corian says, with a bow, "I will take my leave now, having little further interest in the road from here to Rappan Athuk.  Perhaps I shall see you at the Drunken Cockatrice before you leave.  I intend to stay there, for a while, at least."  He starts towards the door, waving self-consciously.

Colwyn, meanwhile, makes a great point of examining the map, while ignoring Corian.  "'ere look, it's bein' Reme, right there.  An' that's bein' where we is now.  It's not bein' far ter Bard's Gate neither.  Then straight 'long the road, east ter Freegate.  Easy as pie."

"Perhaps not that easy.  The road goes through the Forest Kingdoms.  They are small realms, kingdoms scarce bigger than the palm of your hand.  Fierce people, who are not above a little theft and brigandage, when the need and the opportunity present themselves."  Shandril lays a finger on the map, indicating an area just east of Bard's Gate.

"Beyond, you come to Derindin, which lays on a bridge over a chasm.  From there, you have two choices.  Follow the road road to Freegate, then go down the Coast Road to Rappan Athuk, or cut across country to the Forest of Hope, and the den of evil itself."

"Thou are a gleekin' guts-gripin' barnacle," Aarnr informs Corian. "But thy quest was indeed most enjoyable and I forgive thee all thy lies.  When we return, thou can ply us with food and ale and we shall look back upon this time with pride."

With the party's pernicious patron properly farewelled, Aarnr looks over this 'map' that the priestess proffers, growing more and more puzzled until Shandril's explanation is forthcoming.  "Fierce, perhaps, but froggin' small," he tells her, examining his palm.  "They shall trouble us but little."

Erista looks rather doubtfully at the palm of her hand.  She suspects that Aarnr's palms might offer a span worth ruling over, complete with rough badlands, a small mountainous region in the north, and possibly even a sort of forest until his next ba-- quite probably even a sort of forest.  But in her own case, Shandril's metaphor may be stretched a little too thin.

Looking up again, she smiles politely, setting aside her thoughts.  "Well, thank you.  The Forest of Hope sounds pleasant, at least.  Up until the den of evil part, at any rate," she allows.  "I'm sure we'll be safer for your warnings."

"I have little doubt that your words will prove to be true, bold Aarnr, knowing what you faced at Eralion's keep."

Shandril's face falls, "Once, years ago, the Forest of Hope was just as its name implies.  A pleasant land, filled with all manner of woodland creatures.  Elves lived there, and satyrs and centaurs.  Then the cult of Orcus, driven out of their former stronghold, came to the forest, and discovered a labyrinth of caverns below.  They established themselves there, mining and constructing a vast underground complex, and tainting the forest with the foul stench of evil."

"Eventually, when they were done, the forest became home to trolls and goblins, and other creatures of darkness, and the elves were forced out, or slain.  The cult built a mausoleum, a suitable place to house the temple of their evil death god, and around it a graveyard, said to hold the twisted remains of ancient heroes, corrupted by profane rituals and the blackest of magic."

A sigh, and the elf shakes her head, "Now the name, Forest of Hope, exists only as a mockery, or a reminder."

"Or perhaps as a wish for the future.  Perhaps, one day, Rappan Athuk will fall, and the cult of Orcus with it."

With a wave to Corian and a small bow, Eilieen turns back to the map.  She'd have hugged him, but people tend to misinterpret, in her experience.  "Our thanks for the use of the maps," she offers to Shandril before studying them in her own turn and pursing her lips at the explanations.

"The Forest Kingdoms sound quite threatening," she murmurs despite Aarnr's conclusion, "but it seems we have little choice but pass through them.  The way around would be lengthly, and no-doubt full of its own hazards.  Better to face the threat we know."

"As for the Forest of Hope, such as it is..."  She considers, tapping her finger against her lips.  "Perhaps t'would be best for us to consider which path to take once we have passed through the Forest Kingdoms.  That will be our proving grounds, I suspect - should we win our way through with ease, perhaps we should attempt the Forest of Hope.  If not...maybe the city would offer a safer journey to Rappan Athuk."

The discussion regarding the road ahead continues, the weighing and balancing of dangers and advantages to be found on the various routes, and at Rappan Athuk itself.  Colwyn is quiet for the most part, leaning over the map to study it in greater detail.  Occasionally he voices his opinion on suggestions and questions put forward by the others, mostly to do with the difficulty of taking an ox cart off the road, but since Fairhill is the furthest east he has ever travelled, he doesn't really have a lot to say.

He does, however, have one question of his own, "When's we plannin' on leavin'?  I's meanin' it's still bein' early, like, so's we can be gettin' a good start on the road terday.  But it'll be takin' a few days ter get ter Bard's Gate anyways, so's a day won't be makin' much difference in the end."

"What's yers thinkin'?"

" Not thinking about much." Ozzy answers, holding little interest in the map, " We travel as far as Bards Gate and then decide how best to approach Rappan Athuk. Looks like we would travel on to Deriden and then take the south road." he adds after a quick glance at the map. He shrugs, sliding down off his chair as he shoulders his pack.

" I'm ready to start walking when you are."

These map things still greatly puzzle Aarnr, but then he hasn't got the hang of roads yet either, the man of the fens still of the firm opinion that the quickest way between here and there is with a horde at your back.

Nor does he have much truck with 'safe', happily dividing the world into 'easy to kill' and 'hard to kill'.  But the mention of Orcus and the foul undead that now lurk in the Forest of Hope has him keen to make haste, and he applauds Ozzy's enthusiasm.

Bard's Gate sounds like an auspicious place from which to begin their quest ...

"We must go now," the priest opines.

The discussion continues for several minutes.

There are things that need to be decided.  Do they need to get supplies before leaving Fairhill, or will they rely on hunting and foraging along the way?  Should they sell the cart, meaning that they can carry less provisions?  Or should they keep it, and possibly be faced with the difficulty of taking it across country from Derindin?

And, in the midst of it all, and with considerable surprise, Bilfro suddenly realises that his new friends are going to Rappan Athuk (which, in all honesty, somebody might have mentioned before, but he was fairly sure that they hadn't).

"Leave the cart," Eilieen states.  It's painful, but... "What shall we do with it, should we decide to go across country?  Leave the horse to die?  No, such would be a terrible thing to do to a poor creature who depended upon us.  We could sell the cart here, for a pittance, and use the pennies to purchase provisions.  Perhaps we might supplement the food with forage found in the forests."

She beams, obviously pleased at having come up with The Logical Answer™.  Though Eilieen then deflates somewhat at the realization that this will mean more sleeping on the hard ground, more carrying the food herself, and more discomfort in general.

Honestly, the things one must do to bring light back into the world....

"We could eat 'em," Aarnr suggests practically, the priestess having added to his understanding that 'horse' is the local term for a pair of oxen.  ;>

Ozzy shakes his head as he considers the option of travelling without the cart. " Without a cart, how we supposta' carry all the gold when we come back?" He looks at his own pack doubtfully, not relishing the thought of walking any distance with a hundred pounds hanging from his shoulders.

Never having had a cart, Bilfro was used to travelling light.  At least in body.  His mind was dark and brooding and he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Oh no, wait, that was his broody twin brother he did not know he had.

But travelling light he was used to, plus it made passing over any creaky things less stressful.  Stress he did not like at all.  It was very stressful and that stressed his stressfulness to a stressed state of near distress.  And few words improve by adding di in front of them, except when it did.

But he was curious, and so he spoke for what felt like the first time since last he spoke, which probably was not unlikely.

"Why?"

Realising he may need to expound upon his query he spoke anew.

"Why Rappan Athuk?"

"I's not knowin' bout the rest of these 'ere buggers, But I's 'eard as 'ow there's bein' a 'ole area what monster's isn't bein' able ter get ter, on account of 'ow it's 'avin' some sort of magic door." Colwyn says, his mismatched eyes gleaming, as they simultaneously focus on two points located one above each of Bilfro's shoulders, "So no bleedin' monsters, jus' 'eaps an' 'eaps of jewels sittin' in 'normous great 'eaps on the floor."

"I's meanin' ter be openin' that there door, Bilfro mate.  An gettin' rich as a priest."

His mouth twists into a blissful smile, as he imagines the value of a cart filled with gems, even after some thieving fence has taken his cut.

Shandril, though, looks horrified, especially at the rogue's mention of the wealth of clergy.  "I don't believe that story to be true."

"Maybe as not, but there's only bein' one way as I's goin' ter be findin' out fer sure."

Ozzy looks at the elderly Bilfro and tells him, " Inside a great labyrinth deep beneath Rappan Athuk grows a strange mushroom which can restore youth to a human!" He nudges the old wizard and adds, " Certainly you'd like to try a bit of that, eh?"

"Monsters.  Spoils.  Glory."  Aarnr tries to think if he's left anything out.

"I heard there's a whole city of gleepin' goblins down there, an' the gore-bellied trollocs are just waitin' to be killed !"

"Safety," Eilieen firmly states.  "Not...safety for us," she hurries to clarify.  "Safety for those innocents who suffer, thanks to the evils released by the dread dungeon.  We shall clenase it."

She pauses a moment, then shrugs - it actually seems appropriate.  "With fire."

"Well," Erista pipes up, not to be left out entirely, "I heard there's magic black skeletons that aren't afraid of the Gods!"  She brushes her hair back, and shrugs a little.  "...That's not why I'm going, of course, it's just something I heard.  Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure he told me that to try to talk me out of going.  But then he patted me on the head and said I'd best be getting home before my parents got worried, so."