Midge dug through the papers himself, but can glean no more from the fragments than did Kithran. The diminuitve mage kept a special lookout for any sort of arcane texts, but while a mage such as this surely must have owned a spellbook at the least - if not sundry magical scrolls - he can find nothing of the sort to have survived the fire.

Cedric was not there.

Eventually, the search was given up, and the party returned to the Nicked Shill. The road still reeked from the burnt carcasses of the dead; it was a mistake to glance at the pile of burned bodies, for several of those that belonged to the freshy dead were not only blackened outside, but split open, revealing the pink flesh inside, like some awful parody of sausages left too long to grill. The unnatural mist hung heavy and oppressive over the town.

After eating breakfast very late morning, Cedric will help people clean up the bodies and tend to the wounded physically and mentally. It was a grusome night.

Once at the Inn, Gib and Kith moved to check Davena's room, while Ch'dau inquires of Nya. The priest and rogue found literally nothing of interest; it would appear that whatever belongings that the woman might have had were taken with her, save one lone exception - a piece of lacy smallclothing was apparently kicked under the bed at some point in prior evening. There was no other sign of the woman, however.

If anyone asks Cedric has not seen Davena or her friend since he got up.

Nya herself had little to offer. The woman and her bodyguard arrived a half hour or so before the party did the night before; they rented a room, paid in good Ertainian coin, and the serving wench had no idea when they might have left.

Inquiries around the village likewise prove fruitless. The night was dark, and the horror of having the dead crawl from their graves and attempt to drag the living into their own prove to be far too preoccupying of a topic for anyone to give much care to a pair of travelers intent on keeping to themselves. Neithr villager nor watchman can seem to recall seeing either of the pair during the previous night at any point after the blond woman retired to the room with Aranwen.

Soon enough, the weary party finds noon arriving. Regrouping at the Inn, they sit for a meal to rejoin the now rested Cedric.

"What's have you guys been up to this morning? I slept fitfully. Too many images to forget." If anyone tells Cedric of the events of the morning he will reply. "Oh Great Solanis, he was killed? What is going on in this town? We must get to the bottom of it."

If everyone is close lipped then Cedric will relate what he has done since he got up.

Midge was disappointed that the search turned up nothing.  A mage should have had something useful.  Perhaps someone else had already ben here or the mage had another storage area.  Either way it was obvious there was nothing of value here.  He returned to the others to make future plans.

A bit disheartened by the lack of information he’d gotten from Nya in regard to Daveena and Gorn, Ch’dau skulked back to the table around which his companions sat. Heaving a rumbling, somewhat dejected sigh, the Kazari found a place among them just as Kith padded down the steps…

“Oy, bladesinger,” the woman called, holding up a dagger with a rather frilly bit of what humans called smallclothes hanging from its tip, “we’ve found you a souvenir. Does this look familiar to you?”

The Silver Cat chuckled at this, amusement causing his eyes to shine a bit as they flicked back and forth between Aranwen and the lacy bits Kith offered over. The roguish girl examined her blades for a moment and, as she made her way to his side, resheathed them.

“And you, Ch’dau,” she queried, looking up at him as she drew to a stop next to him, “did your search find anything more useful?”

The Kazari offered a rueful shake of his shaggy head. “No,” he replied. Then, with a faint gesture to the smallclothes she and Gib had discovered, he continued; “Those are likely more useful than anything I might have learned. According to Nya, Daveena and her man arrived only a short time before the lot of us. They rented a room for which they paid in Ertanian coin but, beyond that, there was little else. No one here saw anything of them after friend Aranwen took the woman abed.” With nothing else to offer, he shrugged his massive shoulders and folded his arms across his chest, attentions keen on anything the rest of his companions might have to say…

The foray into the village that followed, likewise, proved as unrewarding as their inquiries at the Shill. Whoever Daveena and Gorn might have been and wherever they may have gone since last night, no one seemed to know; the pair had simply vanished. It was all more than a little frustrating and, by the time they had all reconvened at the Inn, that frustration had gone some way toward souring the Kazari’s mood. The food was a welcome respite, though, especially since Mort had seen fit to provide him with another bloody chunk of beef with his repast, and, despite his irritation, Ch’dau tore hungrily into the meal.

The others, too, ate in relative silence for a moment but, soon enough, a revelation seemed to come across Kithran’s mind and she stopped her chewing in order to speak up. "Crandel had not been hit before last night," she said, drawing Ch’dau’s gaze, "those pilgrims we met, they had witnessed those undead creatures before, but not here. They had even said, 'the road ahead must be safer than the road behind us'. He was obviously wrong, since they themselves were consumed by these things, but up until then they had been running away from them. We may, then, find more answers if we continue in the direction they came from."

Ch’dau nodded his own validation at Kith’s train of thought as she paused to take another bite of her meal. "Of course,” she added, swallowing that latest mouthful, “heading that way will likely mean having to deal with more of those laughers, and everyone in that direction could very well be dead already, but we haven't much else to go on at the moment, have we?" Her eyes probed each face around the table, then. “Thoughts?”

“As wretched as those things are,” the Kazari rumbled, wiping the beef juices from his mouth with the back of a furry hand, “the thought of facing more of them is more appealing than finding more nothing, here. It would seem we have little other choice.”

"Indeed," Gib settles back on his tailbone and sets his spoon in the remainder of his stew, resting the stem on the edge of the bowl. "I see no reason to believe that we'll find anything further of value here except to possibly visit the local priesthood and cemetery on our way out of Crandel.

"Perhaps we'll find something more amongst the clergy that will help us solve this mystery and relieve these good people of this blight."

Directly ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that the smallclothes brings, Gib turns to Aranwen, raises his brow and asks, "What say you, Aranwen?"

The common room of the Nicked Shill was unusually quiet. The horrific activities from the previous night seemed to hang on the atmosphere of the Inn like a shroud. Aranwen sat quietly at a table, accompanied by Midge, awaiting the return of the rest of the party. Ch'dau returns quickly from his questioning of Nya. With a sigh that communicates his lack of success, the big cat joins them at the table.

No sooner did Ch'dau recline at the table, when Kith and Gib return from upstairs, apparently finished with their search of Davena's room. "Oy, bladesinger!" Kith calls out, "We've found you a souvenir." She holds out a piece of smallclothes on the tip of her dagger and extends it to Aranwen. "Does this look familiar to you?" she inquires of the Syl.

Aranwen takes the smallclothes from Kithran and gives a wry smile, "Perhaps...little good this does for us though. It brings us no closer to finding her."

Kithran turns her attention to Ch'dau "And you, Ch'dau, did your search find anything more useful?" The Kazari shook his head in response, "No" Pointing to the smallclothes, he continued, "Those are likely more useful than anything I might have learned. According to Nya, Daveena and her man arrived only a short time before the lot of us. They rented a room for which they paid in Ertanian coin but, beyond that, there was little else. No one here saw anything of them after friend Aranwen took the woman abed.” 

The foray into the village that followed, likewise, proved as unrewarding as their inquiries at the Shill. Whoever Daveena and Gorn might have been and wherever they may have gone since last night, no one seemed to know; the pair had simply vanished. 

Meeting back at the inn, the party ate a meal in relative silence, until a revelation seemed to come across Kithran’s mind and she stopped her chewing in order to speak up. "Crandel had not been hit before last night. Those pilgrims we met, they had witnessed those undead creatures before, but not here. They had even said, 'the road ahead must be safer than the road behind us'. He was obviously wrong, since they themselves were consumed by these things, but up until then they had been running away from them. We may, then, find more answers if we continue in the direction they came from."

Several heads nodded in agreement with Kith’s observations. She continued with her train of thought "Of course, heading that way will likely mean having to deal with more of those laughers, and everyone in that direction could very well be dead already, but we haven't much else to go on at the moment, have we?" Her eyes probed each face around the table, then. “Thoughts?”

Ch'dau was first to respond, “As wretched as those things are, the thought of facing more of them is more appealing than finding more nothing, here. It would seem we have little other choice.”

"Indeed," Gib adds. "I see no reason to believe that we'll find anything further of value here except to possibly visit the local priesthood and cemetery on our way out of Crandel. Perhaps we'll find something more amongst the clergy that will help us solve this mystery and relieve these good people of this blight." Gib turns to Aranwen, raises his brow and asks, "What say you, Aranwen?"

Aranwen folds her hands in thought, the frustration evident on the face of the usually stoic Syl. After a moment, she looks to the party and responds, "Our course seems clear. I am in agreement with Kithran's thoughts on picking up the trail of the pilgrims, seeing if that might lead to some answers, perhaps making a visit to the local priesthood and cementery before we leave Crandel."

"It makes sense to me. I agree that we should follow this to it source." Cedric tells the group. "It is after noon now. Should we head out today or wait until in the morning. It is possible that we will be attacked again tonight. I am not sure of the best approach."

Cedric continues to eat more slowly thinking as he eats.

"If we encounter these creatures after dark it seems that they only are active at night."

Crandal is a small, rural town, of that there is no doubt.  As such, there is no large temple or the like.  There is a small graveyard near a simple wooden church with markings identifying it as belonging to Miellyah. 

Miellyah, goddess of hearth and home, of fertility and growth, is very commonly worshipped - especially among country folk.  As you approach, a middle aged woman in a long, simple white dress greets you. 

"You must be the heroes the town is buzzing about?  I can't imagine that there are two groups with both a cidal wizard AND a cat-man warrior?"  She smiles.  "The Mother's blessings be upon you.  I am Elia.  What can I do for you?"

Elia shakes her head when questioned.  "Death is part of the natural order of things.  Eventually, we all die.  But this.. this is not natural.  I know not of dead rising from the ground, let alone attacking and killing good people.  This is foul, evil magic for sure - something that I have never seen before, and if the Protector is kind, I'll not see again."

Any inspection will reveal only one fresh grave; Elia explains that it belongs to an elderly baker who died in his sleep four days past.  If there is a conection to last night's events, it would seem to be a convoluted one, at best.

It is now slightly past midday, though the mist still hangs heavy, distorting the light and making the world feel dim.

  The visit to the local priestess yielded no new information.  A single fresh grave and from days ago did not match with the risings.  Perhaps the answers lay ouside the town.  "Do we venture onward as there appears to be nothing to be gained in this town?"

Cedric greets the priestess warmly and gives her a hug.

Then back at the inn Cedric stands to give his two cents.

"I understand how the fighters feel about wanting to fight these creatures. But I think it would be prudent to find where these creatures are hiding and kill them while they are vulnerable and possibly put an end to who or what is creating these things."

"Waiting until morning would be my vote." Cedric says while looking at everyone to see their reactions.

The priestess is less than enthusiastic about accepting a hug from a strange man, priest or no.

After taking your leave, Kithran asks about for a library... and comes face to face with the fact that most people are, in fact, illiterate.  A small rural town such as this has no stores of precious books; the closest thing to a library was probably burned up inside of the mage's house. 

After talking it over, it is decided to rest and heal up, then head out first thing in the moring to the west of Crandel, to see if the source of the undead can be found.  There is real concern over what might happen this night, but instead, it passes without incident.


13th Sempore (Valday), 453 E.R.

Dawn arrives, but the ever present mist is, if anything, thicker and more oppressive than before.  The sun can barely seem to illuminate the ground beneath, so thick is it. 

The party leaves the town, and the mood is tense.  Kithran's warning proves to be inaccurate; there are no dead people, no undead.  Ideed, the road is quite empty.  At one pint, you do realize that it is deathly quiet - there are no bird or insect sounds, merely the occasional wind, and odd crackling noises here and there.

The day wears on, with the oppressive mist and silence bearing down on you.  Dusk begins to settle - rapidly so, due to the infernal mist, when you come across him.

A form lurches towards the party.  At first, you reach for steel, for it seems to be the shambling of the undead, but as the form approaces, you realize that this is, in fact, a wounded man. 

We wears the leathers of a woodsman, but his shirt is torn, with bloodly gashes along his belly.  He is bruised and cut, and his beard is matted with blood. 

"Gods be praised!" he exclaims when he draws near.  "Ye are livin' folk!  Please, 'elp me!  Me wife and boys, they're in tha cabin, but tha dead 'ave crawled from the ground, an' are tryin' to drag us down wit' 'em!  The 'ad me, nearly killed me, but I go' away, went fer 'elp, I did.. gods be praised, ye lot are 'ere!  Please, there are too many fer me, I canna save them meself!  Please, I beg 'o ye, I'll do anythin'... please save me family!"

The meeting with Crandel’s priestess of Miellyah seemed to have exhausted any leads that might have been found in the village and, to that end, the party had returned to the Nicked Shill. There, over a meal, it had been decided that they would do best to rest up and, in the morning, venture west in hopes of rooting out the source of the evil that plagued the area. Ch’dau had argued for leaving sooner – in the evening when the cursed shamblers were more likely to be about – but in the end, a full night’s rest was deemed best. The following morning, the Silver Cat of Coria said his goodbyes to Mort and Nya and set out with his companions into the mist-choked countryside.

The day, like the march, dragged on uneventfully; too much so for Ch’dau’s liking. The morning hours reminded him much of the trek that had brought them to Crandel, in the first place. Then, in the afternoon, he noticed the distinct lack of noise; there were no birds singing, no insects chittering, nothing but the occasional whistle of the wind and, once and again, an odd crackling noise, but nothing more. The deathly silence and the oppressiveness of the mists had gone a long way toward raising the Kazari’s hackles along with his wariness and when, as dusk began to settle, the party was confronted by a single form shambling out of the fog, Ch’dau was among the first to reach for his steel… in fact, he had all but pulled his baldes and was poised to hack the shamble to rotting pieces when, almost to his disappointment, the figure reveled itself to be a more or less living human.

"Gods be praised!" the battered and bloody woodsman cried out as he stumbled toward them.  "Ye are livin' folk!  Please, 'elp me!  Me wife and boys, they're in tha cabin, but tha dead 'ave crawled from the ground, an' are tryin' to drag us down wit' 'em!  The 'ad me, nearly killed me, but I go' away, went fer 'elp, I did.. gods be praised, ye lot are 'ere!  Please, there are too many fer me, I canna save them meself!  Please, I beg 'o ye, I'll do anythin'... please save me family!"

Ch’dau moved to intercept the man or, at least, prop him up before he fell face first into the dirt. “This cabin, human,” he rumbled, waiting for one of the clerics to come see to the man’s injuries, “Where is it?”

((OOC: Assuming an answer of some sort… ))

At the man’s words, the Kazari looked to Aranwen and the expression on his feline face was not one seeking orders or even asking permission. Instead, without the words needing to be spoken, the big cat’s look said; “I’m going. Who else?”

((OOC: Ch'dau's not going to wait long, I don't think. If the rest start to 'debate the best course of action' ol' grumpy cat may just head for the cabin whilst they do... even if he knows it's probably a bad idea... *sigh* playing to character is dangerous, sometimes. ))

Cedric will ask the man to show us his house as he does not think that leaving the man alone here would be a good idea. If the man is injured then Cedric will speak a prayer to Solanis and use a cure light wounds spell. And will lead the man back to his house where we will try to save his family.

"When did this start?" Cedric asks the man. "How many creatures did you see?" Cedric is trying to learn as much about this man as possible. "Have you noticed anything strange over the past few days?"

"Come on guys! This man needs our help."

Grateful for a full night rest, fitful as it was due to the haunting images living in opposition to the dead from the night before, Gib rises out of habit just as the false dawn is beginning to color the sky—or will be if it isn't for the persistent blanket of pea soup mist that refuses to lift. Even before dressing fully, chilled a little by the cool night air, the priest sets about his prayers and the study of his holy scriptures. Candlelight is necessary for the reading and the flickering flame is a lonely reminder of the pressing heat of the day.

Dressing, packing his gear, and armoring himself, Gib eventually makes his way downstairs to join those of his companions who are already up for the day. Thoughtful and caught up in his own musings, the warrior-priest dines on as hearty a breakfast as can be mustered. He isn't rude to those who speak to him, nor is he thoughtless in his manners; the cleric of Therassor is merely locked in contemplation seeking some guidance from his deity.

Away from the village of Crandel, however, he does not indulge in such luxuries as a blatant disregard for his surroundings. Here, in the wilds of Northern Ertain, life is far too dangerous for a man to wander blissfully as though enjoying the blossoms of a temple garden. Odorous mists have a grip on the countryside here as well but Moreno is more than a little hopeful when the lack of undead or bodies present themselves; despite the lack of Nature's sounds. It is, in fact, the lack of Nature's sounds and the thick ichor that drifts through the air that insists he keep his eyes sharp, ears open, and head on a swivel. Thus it is that he reacts to draw steel at the lurching shadow approaching them. 

"Gods be praised!" the battered and bloody woodsman cries out as he stumbles toward them. "Ye are livin' folk! Please, 'elp me! Me wife and boys, they're in tha cabin, but tha dead 'ave crawled from the ground, an' are tryin' to drag us down wit' 'em! The 'ad me, nearly killed me, but I go' away, went fer 'elp, I did.. gods be praised, ye lot are 'ere! Please, there are too many fer me, I canna save them meself! Please, I beg 'o ye, I'll do anythin'... please save me family!"

Ch’dau moves to intercept the man or at least prop him up before he falls face first into the dirt, “This cabin, human,” he rumbles, waiting for one of the clerics to see to the man’s injuries, “Where is it?”

((OOC: Assuming an answer of some sort… ))

At the man’s words, the Kazari looks to Aranwen and the expression on his feline face is not one seeking orders or even asking permission. Instead, without the words needing to be spoken, the big cat’s look says; “I’m going. Who else?”

Gib slips his backpack from his shoulder but is wary still, his eyes flitting about the wash of mists as he releases the grip of his sword and begins to open his luggage in search of bandages and healing salve. 

"There does appear to be a need for alacrity," Gib reluctantly agrees, closing his bag as Cedric begins the prayers to his god for a miracle. Looking directly at Ch'dau he continues with his advice, "Rushing into such a situation without any surveillance would be folly. Should the God of Light and Life find it prudent to provide this poor soul some healing, I'll take that as a definite sign that the Divine are in favor of the goal.

Now looking to Aranwen, he continues, "If we are to break from the road, I suggest we do so in formation and with all due caution."

Keeping his more critical thoughts to himself. If the poor man is a victim as he claims—a look he wears—and he was forced to leave his family in search of assistance—assistance that he is as unlikely to find unless he ran all the way back to Crandel as he is to defeat a horde of zombies led by those laughing menaces—then the warrior priest holds out no hope for the defenseless family's survival.

Grimly sliding his pack back over his shoulder, the dour man shifts it about until it rests comfortably with his shield once more. Hand on his hilt, he awaits the decision that will change the course of the companions' day.

The meeting with the priestess had proved fruitless, but then so had her attempt at research. It served her right. Book research had never really been her thing. Resigned in their conclusion that continued pursuit of information on the horrifying goings-on would likewise turn up nothing more than further wasted time, their party decides to spend one more night in Crandel before leaving in the morning. Kithran, usually a light sleeper, ready to act at any moment, passes out the moment her eyes close, her fingers still tightly wrapped around the handles of her daggers under her pillow.

She's almost surprised as she wakes up, having expected to be woken up by either more screams or with a set of mangled teeth baring down into her neck. It was a nice surprise though that neither had occured and she woke up feeling pleasantly well-rested.

That pleasant feeling lasted all of breakfast, and then their group ventured out into the mist. It was even thicker now, even more obscuring, and the eerieness of the silence had Kith's hair's standing on end. As the day wore on it prove far less eventful as she had expected, but the lack of any sort of life was hardly reassuring. Even if creatures had fled, leaves made sound, brush rustled, branches creaked, but not here. Every now and again a breeze floats by and moves some twigs around and she's convinced for a moment that they aren't in purgatory. The feeling doesn't last, and the party moves forward.

And then, as the mist begins to turn into shadows around them, she hears it. Strange now in the abundance of this suspicious silence, that the moment she finally does hear a familiar sound her hands are immediately on the hilts of her daggers, almost perfectly in sync with the Kazari beside her. Of course, the sound of a shambling man approaching them from the mist was far from reassuring, considering their last couple days.

The man is wrecked. Gashes along his bellyl leak blood, and he appears to be living by shear will alone.