The group of bold heroes ascend the rope to the ground level of the tower.  Beyond the door of the structure the rain has stopped, and the sky seems to be clearing.  Patches of clear bright, blue can be seen between the tattered remnants of the clouds.

The fortress is quiet until, suddenly, there is a movement atop one of the walls, and a bird starts singing.

The party's new-found wealth is a burden, but one which will be gladly borne.  Not so the broken form of the Nameless Monk, which lays now in a shaft of sunlight in the ruined chapel to Muir.  The chapel itself, though the filth and destruction still remains, seems somehow less soiled, as if the defeat of the foul half orcish priest of Orcus and his minions, and the destruction of Eralion's  umbral form, have somehow cleansed the place.

Even the expression on the face of the winged statue behind the altar seems less sad, as if she knows that the deceased wizard whose shade had haunted the keep for decades has been laid to rest at last...

Colwyn looks up at the brightening sky, and asks, "Shall I be goin' ter see if'n the cart's still bein' were we left it.  Bit easier ter carry the loot, an' the monk, if'n it are.  Maybe as we can be sparin' a bit of scratch so as ter get 'er a proper funeral, in the village."

"Thank you, Colwyn.  I am unsure of the Nameless One's desires regarding funerals," Eilieen admits.  "I will consider on the way back to the village.  Should I recall naught of her chosen way, then certainly a funeral of our country cannot be disrespectful."  They didn't actually TALK about funerals much, but...it's the thought that counts.

"At least this place has had weight lifted," she notes with a drawn-out sigh.  "And the evil that dwelled within shall no longer prey upon the good."

"Monk?  What monk?"

Bilfro steps forward and notices the body.

"Oh."

The single syllable carries more than all the people added together in the group carry in the way of treasure, expressing both his sorrow over a, to him, complete stranger and the answer to his own question.

A moment's silence ensues.


"What was her name?" asks he gently as if not to disturb anyone.

Ozzy smiles with fond memory as he answers Bilfro, " Her name... was Nameless." He pauses, trying to recall what he could of his travelling companion, but soon discovering he had taken little time to gather her back story. He didn't even know what monastic order she was affiliated with. He flips through his pages of notes, sighing with resignation at his lack of proper journalistic practice. How could he tell her story if he knew so little about her?

Aramil sighs as he looks at the lifeless body of their companion the monk. "She was one of the quiet workers, never wanting the limelight. She does deserve something even if we knew little about her." he says. Then he works on composing a funeral speech to say over the body before they leave.

OOC: I'm busy cooking dinner and looking after the kids. I'll get something done tonight.

"Never understood a gleepin' word the beef-witted bladder said!" Aarnr offers.  "She always fought bravely, though, and died the same way."  Says it all, really.

"Big fire," he reminds everyone of his own preference for funerals, just to be sure they don't try and stick him in the ground or anything so distasteful, "froggin' BIG fire."

Her lack of a name is a subtlety lost on the priest, to whom the twists and turns of the civilised tongue are sometimes a mystery.

Colwyn hurries off, scrambling over the broken wall, since the gate is still rusted and shut fast.  Once outside, he takes a moment to orient himself, then heads off in the direction he believes the cart to be in.

Whether or nor he is correct remains to be seen...

Corian adds his own thoughts to the discussion inside the ruined fortification, "I believe she was part of an order dedicated to recovering ancient lore.  Not really associated with a specific faith, but devoted instead to the belief that knowledge, all knowledge, is valuable in its own right.  I recall her saying that her order had tasked themselves with rediscovering and restoring books from the Lost Library, north of Tsar, on the edge of the Vastness."

"And I believe she said that they gave up their names to make space in their minds for other knowledge, or some such thing.  A sign of dedication to their task, if you will."

The mage shrugs, "I have no doubt that, whatever funerary ceremony is used for her interment, she would find the ritual of interest and worth remembering."

"Eh?"

An eyebrow lifts in confusion.

"Ah!"

The corners of the mouth lifts slightly in revelation.

"Uh...."

The other eyebrow lifts for some reason, uncertain even to itself.

"Oooh, I see, yes.  I heard some rumours about that, I think.  Maybe I will head there later on to let them know about their fallen, er, friend," says the scruffy and scrawny user of the magical arts upon reception of such a wealth of information.

"Write that down, little brother of the big brutal one!"

Taking his own advice he sits down on the spot to bring out his large book, which he tosses around to open from the back.  Producing ink and pen he proceeds with scribbling something indecipherable on the page, underneath other scribblings.

"...and there!"

He packs his thingsies away and stands up, approached the body and bows his head in silence for a moment.

"May Fnarferlang watch over your continued journey.  If you see him, tell him hello and that I haven't forgotten about the sock puppet."

He pats himself on the head and rubs his tummy at the same time, three times, then turns away to slowly walk away.

Fergus bows his head respectfully as the group reconvenes at the place where the Nameless Monk lay.

"I think she'd 've been proud of what we done here." he says quietly.

To the proposed funeral arrangements he adds "Maybe Shandril will know what to do, she's good like that."

"Anyway, I should get off after Colwyn.  There's two towers we ain't looked into yet and there might be wild animals in the woods.  'Sides, he'll need help with the oxen if the cart's still there."

Fergus sets off at a fast trot, hoping to catch up with the rogue well-intentioned redistributor of wealth.

While Fergus and Colwyn go to fetch transport, the others take a little while to investigate the remaining unexplored tower.  It turns out to be little more than hollow shells, the upper floors having collapsed and fallen into the structure, leaving nothing but rubble and debris.

It takes Fergus and Colwyn about a quarter hour to bring the cart back.  The oxen don't seem to have been bothered by animals during the night, which reinforces the  idea that something in the fortress, whether the orcs, the ogre, or the shade of Eralion has been keeping wild beasts away from the place.

Possibly all of them.

The cart is brought to the break in the wall and loaded with the loot, and with the body of the Nameless Monk.  And the party sets out to return to Fairhill, leaving the freshly cleansed keep behind them.  Fergus takes the reins again, and the oxen plod along the winding road back to the village...

The journey back to the village is uneventful.  The weather coninues to brighten, as the cloud breaks and allows larger and larger expanses of cerulean to show through.  Shafts of sunlight pierce the expanding openings in the cloud cover, and dance across the countryside, which itself seems more cheerful since the fall of Eralion.

The air is filled with birdsong and the droning of bees.

The group, with the exception of Fergus, who must drive, take turns riding on the cart, and there is a certain amount of celebration, at one point, when Aarnr succeeds in felling a rabbit with an arrow from his new bow.

And so they are in good spirits, for the most part, as they enter Fairhill shortly before noon.  Fergus is, naturally, not as happy about this return to his home as others are.

It doesn't take long for them to be spotted by the villagers, and soon a crowd starts to gather, peering at the group curiously.  A few moments later it becomes clear that not everybody had stopped to gawk, as Shandril the elven priestess of Freya, Baran the one-handed captain of the guard, and Arlen the magistrate step forward.

Shandril raises a hand to quiet the crowd, and calls out, "It is good that you have returned to us, bold heroes.  Tell us, was your quest successful?  Have you recovered the Crucible of Freya, and thereby assured the prosperity of Fairhill?"

On the rare occasion he can join Fergus on the driver's bench, Aarnr continues to observe how the farmer guides the oxen, asking (politely ... at least by his standards) for 'a go'.

The priest shares Fergus' misgivings about the incursion into the heart of civilisation, though in his case it manifests as narrowed eyes, a set jaw and constant alertness for the myriad dangers that will certainly befall the group.

Nor is he pleased to see that the priestess is accompanied by 'the law' (something Colwyn is also undoubtedly wary of), causing him to wonder how she fell in with such evil fellows, though he manages, just, to keep his hand from the haft of his axe.

Fergus is happy to let Aarnr take a turn driving the cart.  The oxen seem happy to have their noses set back towards town and don't appear to need much guidance at all.  The big priest doesn't really have the patience for carting but the oxen pay no mind to Aarnr's colourful language and he's doing well enough.

"We'll make a farmer of you yet." Fergus remarks happily.

Closer to town, Fergus becomes more subdued.  He doesn't pull his cloak up this time, there seems little point, but he has to fight the urge to huddle in on himself.

As the crowd gathers and Shandril approaches, Fergus halts the oxen and jumps down from the bench.  Reaching back to his pack he retrieves the chalice, which he has wrapped in his spare cloak for safekeeping.

He carries the bundle to Shandril and, bowing awkwardly, offers it to her.

"We did, Priestess.  It's been used for some bad things.  You...you're going to need to clean it."

"Praise be to the Goddess!"

Shandril takes the Crucible from Fergus' hands with a smile, and holds it aloft for all to see.  "These heroes came to us in our hour of need," she proclaims, "and have returned the Goddess' favour to us."

A bow of her head, and she adds quietly, her voice almost unheard above the cheering of the gathered villagers, "Our thanks to you, Fergus, and to you companions."

Behind her, Arlen looks about, and calls out, "Glarian!  Whatever these brave souls want at the Cockatrice, today and tomorrow, will be paid for from the village coffers."

Shandril, meanwhile, lowers the chalice and peers inside.  Her expression drops, "What sort of foul animals did this?  I will need to consecrate it again before it can be used in the temple."  She looks around the group, "Were any of you injured?  Do you need healing?"

"Thank you, Shandril."  Quite overcome, Eilieen bows.  While she'd do it for nothing, gratitude is always appreciated.  It makes the task so much more worthwhile when she knows she's doing something of value.  "A sad thing that the Chalice will require cleansing...it had fallen into the hands of undead.  We dealt with the abominations, but their taint remains."

She waves to the cart.  "Sadly, one of ours paid the final price.  The Nameless Monk, as she was known."  Which might sound ridiculous in other places, other times, but here?  Only pathos.  "We know little of her order.  Burial ceremonies or to ashes, we have not yet decided, for her ways were not ours.  Perhaps you might shed light upon them, knowing other things of the world than us...or give her a burial."  Her lips tremble and Eilieen swipes at her eyes.  "A burial worthy of one who gave her life that others might be safe."

"And orcs." Fergus adds quickly before waiting for Eilieen to explain the rest of their situation.

"Can you help us do it right, Priestess?" Fergus asks hopefully.  "She was nice and brave and strong and I'd like to say goodbye properly, even if I never did work out what to call her."

With people's attention having moved to more important matters, Fergus completely forgets to mention that several of the group are still injured (and to ask how Shandril knew he was with the group).

"Were any of you injured?  Do you need healing?"

At the back of the wagon Ozzy lays with his legs dangling off the tailgate. In response to her question, the little Halfling raises one hand, struggling to hold it up as he says weakly, " Yes please. When my blood brother and I were battling the ancient dead spectre of the corrupt wizard... I got a little... too close. You have anything to help with the chill that even now weakens my strength?" He feels a nice warm brandy might help, but any blessing is most welcome at the moment. He had never felt so tired in all his life.

Shedding blood is one matter, and certainly his own is in plain sight, from the wounds he has suffered ... but for all that a sign that the battle was hard-fought and victory came not easy.  However, the sapping of his strength Aarnr takes as a personal affront.

Before he can speak, however to claim succor for both Ozzie and himself, the halfling surprises him by voicing the same request, though decidedly and not unexpectedly with much more tact and politeness than the priest would have employed.

"Froggin' gangrel mold-warp unmanned us !" Aarnr exclaims to Shandril, glaring at the guards lest they dare to raise a jest at the pair's expense.  Shame to admit such a thing, but doubly shamed should he let his blood-brother alone admit to such weakness.

So too Fergus' honour is upheld as the farmer pays respect to the Nameless One and does not mention his own hurts, though he was barely dragged him back from death's gate to accompany her on her journey.  And since he is a follower of Freya in any wise, it is just that her priestess intercedes.

"My friend is hurt."  Best he say little, else those shifty guards use their lackwittedness as an excuse.

"Hello," says the scruffy wizard trailing and gives a small wave and then allows the others to take up the front stage, so to speak, while he hangs back and watches everything with interest.

He ponders what comes next, nay, what comes after what comes next, because what comes next is a long, hot bath.  It will have to be early this year, health risks be damned.