The lock pops open with no effort. Once Shiaran manages to get her tools inside the key hole, the thing falls right off, as if it wasn't locked in the first place. As the lid opens, the smell of urine and feces wafts out at Shiaran and briefly overpowers the stench of death in the room.

Inside is a weak and frail man, bound in rags from head to toe, as if he were mummified alive. The rags each have some sort of dark looking rune on them. When feint glints of sunlight filtering through the room land on a rune, the dark writing bursts into black flames. The flames themselves do little more than flare up for a half second or so, leaving only a slight trace on the cloth.

"H...help....m...me" says the bound man, barely audible. His body is unnaturally contorted within the confines of the trunk. He needs to be removed if there's any chance of saving him, but with the way he's twisted around inside, it's likely he already has broken bones. He isn't even able to move his head to face his saviors, though the cloth wrapped around his head would be obscuring his vision either way.

Shiaran ignores the stench and looks at the way the man is situated to see if there are any traps remaining that might kill him if moved.


"It's clear, Sy."

Sypher nods and does his best to lift the man out and lay him on the cleanest bunk available.  While his hands are on him, he pumps the entirety of his healing into him, right from the moment of first contact.  He also makes sure to move the rags through as much light as he can to remove them.

As Sypher moves the bound man to the bunk, Beloc stashes his weapon and takes a look into the trunk to see if there is anything left behind in there.

R.E.B.O.R.T. pulls away from the window and returns to helping Darius clean up the fleshy hulk mess.

The floor of the trunk is a mixture of bodily fluids and more runes. Runes line the side walls and "roof" of the trunk as well. Nothing else of importance is located within the small space.

Shiaran notices a rifle leaned up against the wall in a far corner.

The man, now in Sypher's care, cries weakly as the bandages are peeled from his body. The feel of the runes on bare skin is extremely unpleasant, and produces an itching sensation that practically burns. Much of the dark runes have already burned away from sunlight. Underneath his fabric covering the man is completely naked. His stomach is sunk in slightly, his skin is pale and clammy, and his eyes are deeply recessed in their sockets, which look very dark and purple. He does his best to speak between sobs that rack his entire body. "Wanted... to turn.. me..to... turn me".

Outside the viscera has been gathered in a neat pile, and Krem has managed to find two shovels in the blacksmith's shop. Darius suggest the North side of the smithy as roomy enough and out of sight well enough for a mass grave [l,m,n - 1 and 2, respectively].

"You are safe, now.  We will protect you.  They will not turn you, my friend."

Sypher gently takes the man's hand in his own and kneels next to him.  He bows his head and closes his eyes.  "Father, the world is dark and evil marches across the land.  Innocent blood is being spilled.  We ask that you grant us courage to face it, will to reject it's call, and the power to defeat it if such is your will.  Right now, though, we ask a simple blessing upon this man, tortured by evil but triumphant against it.  Please heal him in body and mind and spirit.  Heal him beyond my feeble capacity and help him endure to stand once more against this foul plague that washes over the land of Fildegarne.  By the authority of your Son, Joshua, I beseech you.  Amen."

The man's ragged breathing slows, and he lets out a small sigh, that of relief.

"Can you-" Shiaran starts, but closes her mouth abruptly when Sypher holds up a hand and shakes his head.  She nods and steps back, refusing to lean against anything or sit anywhere.

Sypher pulls out his waterskin and offers it to the man, helping him to sit up.  "Gently now.  You are still weak and no doubt hungry.  Water first."

The man greedily starts to drink, and begins choking almost immediately given his gusto for wetting his parched throat.

After a few moments he slows his pace, sipping rather than gulping. When the water skin is drained, he takes "inventory" of his body, looking at fingers, toes, and other parts. "They ch-chopped the others to bits. Made.. made me watch. Said I needed to be afraid. They said I" he begins another fit of coughing. He hacks up a wad of phlegm that just manages to dribble on his chin and hang there before he wipes it away with a bare hand. "They said, I needed to be in a dark place in my mind, before they put me in a dark place for real. Those bands of cloth, they burned so badly. I could feel my mind slipping. Thoughts of murder. Of eating the dead. All of it flooding my mind constantly while I was trapped" he pauses to catch his breath. Talking as much as he has already is leaving him completely winded.

"If they were preparing you for some sort of transformation, whether it be similar to that abomination outside or something different, why would they just leave you here? Aside from us, you're the only living survivor of whatever happened here."

The man continues to catch his breath before trying to speak. "Spell needs total darkness. No light. That's what they said. The flesh golem was to guard the process. They said the spell would place me under "The Will". Said it would make me a living weapon. Does.. Does anyone have any more water?".

Shiaran brings her own skin over and hands it to the man with a reassuring smile.  "Here you go.  Drink up.  We'll refill it later."

Beloc waits for the man to finish his pull and set the skin down. "What's your name soldier?"

"Padraig" he says. "Corporal Padraig Vims". Padraig is covered in grime, which mats down his sandy blonde hair. His blue eyes stand out against the sunken purple coloring around them. It's hard to say what his muscle tone would have been. Despite only having been a presumed 3 days since the attack on Midway, Corporal Vims looks like he hasn't eaten in a month or more.

Outside, Darius instructs Rebort and Krem to begin a mass grave at the appointed area. Given his limp, working a shovel isn't the best of ideas in his case. He hobbles over to the door of the barracks, and lets out a retching cough at the sight and smell, as if the flesh golem chunks hadn't been bad enough.

"We have a survivor after all. Where are his clothes?".

Beloc looks over to Darius. "Sounds like the Corporal here was being prepped for some sort of ceremony or ritual to transform him into some kind of living weapon. Whoever did this just left him here, but it would appear that the ritual involved wrapping him in these highly volatile rags that ignite in direct sunlight."

Darius' eyes widen. "Did you touch him?". There's a hint of urgency in his voice.

"I did.  I reasoned that I would be the safest one to do so considering the nature of all that has happened here.  Any dark spells would have less of an effect on me.  Shiaran handed him her waterskin, but she did not make direct contact."  Sypher seems unconcerned with Darius' urgency, a symbol of his faith rather than arrogance.  "Neither did Beloc that I recall.  Only me."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:24, Tue 11 July 2017.

Darius places his hand over his face and wipes. "Less effect on you, yes, but an effect none the less. That kind of magic is of a similar strain as the summoning circle you all dispelled earlier. Unless you feel like plunging your sword in to your own gut and praying, I highly suggest you get back to the kitchens and scrub your hands with salt, as well as anything, and I mean anything else he may have touched. That kind of magic behaves like a disease, and can pass on various ill effects simply by touching second hand. I'm not trying to be rude, but this man is to be treated like the most extreme of lepers until we can get him the proper care. We'll have to get you looked at as well, just for good measure. The foul taint of Bleeding Palm necromancy transcends that of what you'd find in textbooks. This is no exception, and I'll preemptively implore you to trust my judgement on this one. The rest of you, gather what you can and let's get out of here. Krem and Rebort should have a burial site ready within the hour or so, and would much appreciate help with getting all the bits and pieces underground before we find ourselves without light".

Outside the distant roll of thunder can be heard. The seasons are slipping from late Summer to Autumn, and already crisp and cool air currents descend in the evening and linger until morning. The sun is on its last few hours of light.

Beloc's eyes widen as Darius explains the grave nature of the magic. "If the magic is that infectious, is there any reason to leave this building standing?" A flicker of flame pops up at his fingertips.

"No, there isn't. In fact, leave everything here, bodies included. I'll have Rebort and Krem stop digging and get the viscera piled in to this building. Rebort is immune to the effects of the magic, but Krem and myself may be contaminated already, so we'll handle the transfer. I suggest you and Shiaran follow suit with Sypher. I'll tend to our survivor. Once everything is piled in, burn it. All of it. I'll leave an arcane message instructing the military to salt the ashes. We don't have the time now that anyone of us could be tainted".

Darius steps outside and calls for Rebort and Krem, and then explains the situation in limited detail for urgency's sake. Krem's eyes grow wide and for possibly the first time ever, a goblin grew pale enough to notice.

Darius summons forth a floating disk for Krem and Rebort to load, and then steps back inside covering his mouth and nose with his cloak, being careful not to touch anything.

Beloc exits the building, paying great attention to not touch anything on the way out.

R.E.B.O.R.T. walks in and scans over the room, taking in all the carnage and destruction. "Such an unnecessary loss of life."

Like a giant campfire, he lays out several bunks to make the base then lines up several footlockers, dressers, and other flammable objects to make a perimeter. After that, he piles up all the dead into the center.

When done, he stands back and waits for the word to light the pyre.

Shiaran makes her way out of the barracks taking care not to touch anything either.  She gives Sypher a backward glance of concern, then is outside in the relatively fresh air.  Color starts to return almost immediately to her pale cheeks.