Unholy sickness and the feeling of utter hopelessness that stiffens the very center of his being drains slowly from his body. He is living the nightmare still; the sinking teeth into his flesh, the hunger in that creature's eyes... he shudders -- did he really shudder or was his body still unresponsive? No, he's sure his body is coming around, he can feel the bite, the bruises, the pain.

Groaning, he draws in a shuddering breath. 

"Tha -- than -- thank you," he forces out already aware that he only survived because of his friends. Clenching his fist repeatedly, the warrior priest works the blood back into his extremities and rights himself gazing about at the carnage surrounding them. 

"Please tell me that I am imagining that gods-forsaken laughter," he practically groans.

(OOC: Anyone? Beuller?)

His body still protests the pain and he winces as he moves to assess the condition of his companions. The warriors have certainly done their job in keeping the wizards safe but the cost is heavy. Judging by the pain he's in, he can imagine that everyone is feeling more than a little undone. 

"We've Therassor to thank for the strength we managed this night, friends," he grinds the words out through his suffering. "If you come near, I shall plead with the Battle Lord to grant us more favors. And then... well, then it sounds as though we will be needing to don our armor for the night is not over."

Breathless and gore soaked, Ch’dau’s feline gaze panned over the carnage resultant of this latest battle with the dead, the low, satisfied growling that rumbled in his chest reverberating from the blood spattered walls of The Nicked Shill. The strains of maniacal giggling from outside prompted him to want to pursue and bring an end to the chitterers that might remain but the condition of Gib and Aranwen stayed his bloodlust for the moment. “Keziri curse these infernal creatures,” he grumbled, sheathing his blades and kicking the sundered form of the giggler at his feet, “and may Rrowl feast on what is left of their souls!” He reached down, then, hefted the body of the twice dead Lysoran, and carried it toward the ruined door.

“Friend Cedric,” he called as he chucked the corpse into the street and moved to gather up another of the vanquished, “if you would, call upon your god and see to the wounded.” Unconcerned with his own injuries at the moment, the Kazari occupied himself with gathering up the fallen zombies and piling them up outside the inn’s walls. Once the last of them had been removed from the Nicked Shill, he doused them with oil from the table lamps and set the stack ablaze. Satisfied that none of these would be rising again, Ch’dau rejoined his companions as Gib started to come free of the giggler’s paralysis…

"Tha -- than -- thank you," the warrior priest manages, clenching his fists again and again to work the stiffness from his bones as he gazed about at the carnage. 

"Please tell me that I am imagining that gods-forsaken laughter," he groaned.

“I’m afraid the laughter is all too real, my brave friend,” Aranwen replied, “It seems we have foes yet to face.”

“We’ve Therassor to thank for the strength we managed this night, friends,” the battle-cleric said, assessing the wounds sustained by the party, “If you come near, I shall plead with the Battle Lord to grant us more favors. And then... well, then it sounds as though we will be needing to don our armor for the night is not over.”

“We will be most grateful for any healing Therassor can provide,” the bladesinger countered, “Please do not forget to pray for your own health; we cannot lose our mighty companion because he neglects his own wounds.”

“Truly,” the big cat chuffs his agreement with Aranwen’s suggestion, “you and our brave khatun have born the worst of it, Gib. See to yourself and the others before worrying on any of my scratches.” His gaze ticked to the fire outside and, then, swept the common room before settling on the bar and the door beyond it. “I will return in a moment,” he said, moving toward the kitchen, “I wish to let Nya know the danger has passed for the moment.”

((OOC: As stated, while the clerics work their magic, Ch’dau is going to see to Nya… Hopefully the girl made it safely to the cellar. Should there be any magic left when he returns, he’ll accept healing of his own wounds then. ))

The cidal conjurer released his hold on the swarm and, no longer bound by Midge's magic, the insects gradually dispersed back from whence they came. Even as they left, Midge commented to himself mostly, "By nice if I could make them move around a bit. They'd clean up these corpses right nicely, I imagine. Hmmm... going to have to work that into my next study leave."

Looking around at his companions and hearing the sounds of more manical laughter outside, Midge wondered if he had dismissed his servants too soon. He let the thought go. No time for what could have been! Fate's far too fickle for such fantasies.

"Yes, my friends, prepare yourselves. Sounds as though there's more hero work that needs doing. Aranwen, where's your lady friend and her brute gone off to? Not sure how Davena can help, but Garn swordarm might be handy to have." 

Cedric will use cure light wounds spell on the most damaged character and healing skills on everyone else.

"Who is hurt here? Let Solanis help with that. What the heck is going on here where are all these abominations coming from? Is there someone controlling them?"

Cedric rolls up his sleaves and gets to work.

The two priests call out to their deities and lay hands on the wounded, restoring everyone to fighting condition (if not to full health in all cases).  The party members return to their rooms and equip themselves fully; there will be no more fighting in night shirts tonight.

Aranwen finds no sign whatsoever of Davena; she has simply gone, with no clue left behind as to where or why.

Ch'dau moves to the cellar, and finds the door shut and blocked from inside.  When he calls out, he is relieved to be answered by Nya, who is tearfully grateful for the party's assistance.  She is extremely worried about Mort, who appparently sleeps in an apartment above the barn.

Soon, the party assembles and steps out into the dark streets of Crandon.  The oppressive mist still hangs in the air, limiting visibility even further than darkness already would.

The giggling that is such a worry to the safety of all can be heard much clearer in the street - as can shouts and sounds of battle.  The cursed mist distorts everything - including sounds - but if you had to hazard a guess, you would say that there is a fight going on only a couple of blocks away.  If the plan to to rendezvous with the town watch, then this is almost asuredly the way to accomplish that, as itt is highly doubtful that any othr fighting force would be present. 

His wounds tended and what little gear he’d left in his room retrieved, Ch’dau found himself at the inn’s cellar door. A test of the latch reveals that the girl, Nya, had done as he’d told her and blocked the thing from inside. A gently as he could, so as not to startle the girl any more than she already had been, the kazari rapped on the door with the back of a furry hand. “Nya,” he called, “It is safe, girl. You can come out now.”

It took a moment but, soon enough, the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door reached his ears, followed by noises that were likely the girl dismantling whatever barricade she’d cobbled together. Finally, the door inched open and Nya peeked through, her wide eyes darting nervously about as if to verify that there were no more of the horrid zombies shambling across the floors of the Nicked Shill. When her gaze found naught but the cat-man awaiting her, the barmaid finally managed a blink and a breath. “Sweet Mother Miellyah,” she sighed, scarcely able to form the words on that shuddering breath, “An’ ‘ere I thought you’d be th’ mos’ frightnin’ thing what I’d see t’night.” She pulled the door the rest of the way open, then, and, as she stepped into the kitchen, offered the kazari a smile full of gratitude, yet still tinged with the terror that had recently flooded through her. “Thank ye, Mr… Shadow, was it?”

The Silver Cat chuffed in amusement at the girl’s mispronunciation. “Ch’dau,” he answered with a nod of his furry head, “yes.”

“Right,” Nya returned nervously, “Ch’dau… Well… thank ye. Thank ye a hunnerd times! I dunno wha’ might’ve become o’ th’ place ‘ad you an’ yer friends no’ found yer way ‘ere t’night! I…I…” The big cat blinked as a sob of relief squeaked out of the girl’s mouth and she threw herself against him; her arms wrapping around him as best they could and her face buried in his fur. “Thank ye, thank ye, thank ye,” came the muffled continuation of her appreciation.

Not as frightening as I was earlier, it seems, Ch’dau chuckled silently as he peeled the girl away from him. “You are welcome, girl,” he said, holding her at arms-length, now, “The Inn is safe, for now, but this night is far from over. Calm yourself and tell me, where is Greenfield?”

A little bit less terrified (and, perhaps, a bit embarrassed by having hugged the kazari), Nya gawked at him for a moment and wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. “Mort? Errr… Uh…,” she blinked and her eyes darted toward to door and back, “ ‘e’s go’ rooms ‘bove th’ stables. I reckon tha’s where’ ‘e’d be… Gods! I ‘ope them things din’t get in there! D’ya think ‘e’s okay? ‘E were a good fighter in ‘is day, Mr. Ch’dau, but ‘e’s older now an’ no’ as spry as once ‘e were… Oh gods!”

He could almost feel the panic welling in the girl, again, as she worried on the fate of her employer. His hand gripped her shoulders a bit tighter and he stooped a bit in order to look her in the eyes. “I said to calm yourself, girl,” he said firmly, “This is not the time for panic. Are you able to go find him and tell him what has happened?”

Nya blinked more than once at that and here still wide eyes danced back and forth between the doorway and the big kazari for a few seconds before she was able to manage a reply. “Out… out there?..” Ch’dau was almost sure he heard her swallow the lump in her throat. “…Me? I’m naught but a servin’ girl! Only thin’ I ever held a blade fer was peelin’ taters an’… an’… What if’n there’s more o’ them things out there?”

The growl that threatened to rumble in Ch’dau’s chest escaped as little more than a resigned sigh. The girl was scared, he knew, and, if there were more shamblers between the inn and it’s stables, Nya wouldn’t be a match for one let alone more. “Very well,” were the words that followed on his breath, his hands falling away from the girl’s trembling shoulders, “I shall see to him, myself, yes? The choices you have now, Nya, are whether you will follow along or return to the safety of the cellar…”

((OOC: Up to Nya what she wants to do, here… Not going to make an assumption one way or another. If she chooses to follow along, so be it – Ch’dau will protect her en route to the barn and, with luck they’ll find Mort alive and such. If she chooses to return to the cellar, Ch’dau will wait for her to be safely barricaded behind the door before returning to join the rest of the group and, upon leaving the Inn, will suggest a detour by the barn in order to check on Mort (and rouse him to action as need be))

The miracles of Therassor never cease to amaze the warrior priest. I am truly blessed to be the vessel through which such power travels, Battle Lord, he acknowledges upon finishing the honor of healing his companions to the best of his meager ability. Feeling much better himself after Cedric's god's healing, Gib returns to his rented room and shoves aside the weariness that threatens to coax him back to bed. Doing his best to shorten the time to don his armor and gather together the gear he feels necessary to do battle with more of these beasts, the Priest of Therassor leaves behind his heavier and more cumbersome equipment. Armored, helmeted, with his shield on his arm and his sword in hand, Moreno makes his way back to the commons room to meet his allies and join in the fight to save others from such a fate as those poor pilgrims experienced.

"Are they well?" he queries the large Kazari as soon as the Silver Cat emerges from the cellar.

(OOC: Answer.)

"Good. Perhaps we can rely on them to tend to the corpses while we deliver more of the enemy to the Lands Beyond?" Turning from Ch'dau to Aranwen, Gib adds, "We best be about this, lest we find more corpses of the fresher fare."

More of that damnable fog hangs heavy in the street and Gib resists the urge to shudder, but just barely. Straining to determine his best guess as to the location of the laughter, the warrior priest picks up on the faint, yet discernable, unmistakable sounds of battle accompanied by the foul giggling.

"I believe it is this way," he points with his sword towards the sounds. "We must hurry!"

He hopes that they are not too late, and as they rush along, moving at the pace of their slowest member, the priest discusses strategy with his companions. Perhaps, this time, they will approach the battle in a more organized manner. Of course, a lot depends on what the field looks like when they arrive, but he trusts in Therassor and these companions have been able to weather the storms thus far...

Once his friends had finished gearing up and calling down miracles (Midge was always amazed how much the gods loved his companions), the Cidal conjurer followed his companions out of doors. Finding his place amongst the company, Midge moved towards the sound of combat, letting Gib and Aracron take the lead. 

As they moved deeper into the fog, Minto turned to Solanis' faithful, "Cedric, can't your dear god do something about this dreadful fog?"

Cedric thanks Solanis for his help. "Sorry that I could not do more. I am but a weak vessel for my god."

Cedric dons his armor makes his way to the front door.

"Do you think a little light would be of help here?"

Nya’s eyes fluttered as she considered the options presented to her by the kazari. On the one hand, she’d been safe in the cellar during the initial attack; on the other, though, if Ch’dau and his friends were pursuing these horrible creatures into the night, what was to stop them from tearing down the cellar door and carrying her off… or worse…???

“If ye don’ mind, Mr. Ch’dau,” the girl sputtered after a moment, “I’ll come with you an’ yer friends… far as Mort’s rooms, anaway.”

Ch’dau offered a grunt and a curt nod in answer. His gaze panned the kitchen, then, and found a decent sized knife – no true weapon, for sure, but it was enough that Nya would have a chance of defending herself with it if need be. “Take this,” he said, handing the blade over to her, handle first, “and stay close to me. We will see you to Mort’s.”

Gingerly, Nya’s fingers closed around the knife’s handle and she swallowed hard before silently bobbing her head in understanding. At that, the big kazari grunted, again, and strode for the kitchen door with the serving girl following close behind.

“Are they well,” Gib asked as Ch’dau came through the door into the common room.

“No they,” the cat answered, “just her…” Nya stepped out from behind the kazri, then. “…and, yes, my friend, she is fine.”

“Good,” the warrior priest returned, “Perhaps we can rely on them to tend to the corpses while we deliver more of the enemy to the Lands Beyond?”

“Perhaps,” Ch’dau nodded, “but she worries on the proprietor of this place and may be more inclined to do so if we get her to him. He keeps rooms above the barn nearby and, also, is a former mercenary of the Lockshir Regulars. He will certainly be of use in, at least, rousing the town to action and, perhaps, tending to these unholy things.”

((OOC: Going to cut it off there, for the time being… Ch’dau will follow along with the rest, of course, prepared to do whatever needs to be done to get the girl to Mort and rid the town of the gigglers and their goons.))

Returning from his room, after doning his leather armor and finding no sign of Davena, Aranwen arrives in the common room. Feeling much better after recieving healing from the clerics, she is anxious to pursue the source of the maniacal laughter coming from outside.

Ch'dau brings Nya up from the basement, she is obviously scared and concerned for the safety of the proprietor of the inn, Mort.

Aranwen looks around at her companions, all seem ready to continue the fight and put an end to the evil plaguing this town. Drawing her blade and heading for the door, Aranwen calls out "Let's head to the barn and find Mort as quickly as possible, then we can deal with these monstrosities in the streets." 

Midge looked up at Cedric, "Only if you think your god's favour will burn away this blasted fog? Otherwise, I think you'll just make matters worse."

Turning their sylvari leader, the little mage questioned, "So, where is that woman who took you bed last night? Did you pursuade her and her bodyguard to join our little company?

DM's note: things have gotten a little wonky; Ch'dau was supposed to be backposting about gogin to look for Mort, as the party had already left the Inn, but peope started reponding to that.  So in an effort to make things make sense, I'm mashing it all together.

The mist is thick and sticky, but the stable is the next structure over from the inn, and the party is able to make their way to it with no trouble.  Inside, they spot three bodies crumpled on and at the bottom of the stairs.  Two are rotted, missing chunks of flesh - and each have their skulls staved in.  The third is that of the big innkeeper, Mort. 

Nya sobs at the sight, whcih causes the prone form to start and sit up.  "Aye now, wha's all this?" be grumbles. 

The serving wench rushes up the stair to embrace him as the Innkeper groans and grimaces while trying to take his feet.  "Damned walkers came shamblin' up tha stairs," he explains.  "I 'ad 'eight on 'em, bashed their damned 'eads in right proper, but one 'o tha bastards caught me bad knee an' I fell like a sack 'o taters.  Musta clipped me 'head on tha way down," he adds with a sheepish grin.  "It looks like ye're all well, then?"

Nya recounts the attack on the Inn and the bravery of the party, and Mort shakes his head.  "I cannae thank ye lot enough.  So much fer me repayin' me debt, eh?" 

He gives the group a critical once over.  "I expect tha watch will nae object to tha lack 'o peace knots now," he states with a chuckle.  "Ye'll be seein' to the trouble, I'd wager?"  He tries to fall in with the group, but his limp is extremely pronoucned.

OOC: assuming some positive response. 

Mort nods.  "Right, then.  Nya and I'll go back inside tha Shill an' 'unker down there.  May Shinara watch over the lot 'o ye."

************************************

The party follows the sounds of the fighting to discover the town watch - or what is left of them - locked in a mortal struggle with multiple zombies, as well as at least  two of the gigglers; it is difficult to tell due to the heavy mist. 

A handful of uniformed, armed men are pulled in tight, desperately fighting as they are surrounded.  At least as many lie motionless on the ground.   The undead press in from all sides; it is obvious that without intervention, they will all perish. 

Minto rushed forward, breaking rank to get a head of the party. Knowing now how the laughing undead were the darker and more dangerous of the shamblers, the Cidal conjurer moved in to get into striking range. His little hands formed together in a fan shape as the ancient words of arcane power formed in his mind were echoed on his lips. "Bjartr Isaltri, eldrvari pömnuria fjandi!"

OOC: Midge is looking to step out and set one of the gigglers on fire with Burning Hands (jets of flame 5 ft out in 120 degree spread in front of the caster, 1d3+6 damage, save for half damage). If possible, he'd love to hit both gigglers. If not, he'd love to hit as many undead as possible. If not, he'll just hit a giggler.