Cedric is ready around noon. He will have finished his prayers and had something to eat. He will look around to see if anyone is about. If he finds anyone he asks whether anything has happened.

"What is our plan for the rest of the day? Have we met with Atharis' contacts, yet? What did we find out?"

If nothing else is going on Cedric will check on the wounded and help where he can.

Cedric is still bothered by the attack last night. What is the source of these abominations?

Nya is able to point the party towards the home of Athandar, the only known mage in Crandel.  "Right, then, 'e does wear blue robes like those'a tha young man 'o yours what died las' night.  Older fella, mostly keeep to 'isself.  'as a little 'ouse near the west wall 'o town, only one with a blue door.  Ye canna miss it."

So the party - minus Cedric - blinks away sleep and heads out into town to find this Athandar.  The early morning sunlight is a welcome sight, though it does not seem capable of burning away quite all of the mist.  The air is still sticky and stagnant, and the stench of burned flesh and hair hangs heavily as a reminder of all of the death and worse.

Now, Crandel is no bustling metropolis; it is a simple enough matter to locate the only blue-doored house in town, particularly since it is located in the shadow of the west wall, just as Nya had stated it would be.  The home itself is relatively small and modest, though it has a small, well organized garden in front. 

As you approach, you notice that the blue door is not completely shut - and that the ground in front of it, as well as the door jambs, are blackened by fire. 

"Blessed Battle Father," Gib mutters the prayer as the charred earth and exploded door come into view. Heart racing, the warrior priest unsheathes his sword and rolls his shield from his shoulder to hand. Prepared for battle again, Moreno waits on Aranwen to give the order for their advance and positioning. Straining to hear from beneath his helmet, the cleric attempts to catch hold of any fleeting sounds that might indicate what to expect as he strains his other senses in the same endeavor.

Once the decision was made to leave Cedric to his rest and Nya had offered up directions to the dwelling of the wizard, Athandar, it wasn’t long until the party found themselves standing in front of the place. Ch’dau’s gaze skimmed over the well-tended garden, briefly musing over what some of the strange looking plants there might be used for, then his eyes settled on the little house’s blue door… The thing stood ajar, the planks from which it was constructed, along with the jamb in which it hung and even the grounds just outside the threshold appeared charred and scorched.

“Blessed Battle Father,” Gib murmured, unsheathing his sword and readying his shield as his own eyes registered the apparent damage.

“Mmm,” the Silver Cat rumbled softly with a scant nod, glancing sidelong at the warrior-priest, “It does not bode well, does it?” His hands moved to the hilts of his own blades but, as yet, did not pull them from their scabbards.

“Be on guard, friends,” Aranwen advised, then, “Something is amiss.”

“Let us hope it is not the wizard, yes,” the cat-man muttered, his gaze travelling a wary circuit along the streets and alleyways that passed in front of Athandar’s abode.

“Gib, you're with me,” Aranwen stated, then, taking a step further toward the wizard’s door. The bladesinger then paused momentarily and looked to Ch'dau, “You hang back along with the others. We don't want to scare the occupant, if he's still alive, with a giant cat warrior barging into his home.”

The big Kazari chuffed out a mildly amused chuckle in the wake of Aranwen’s wink and, as the bladesinger turned toward the door, Ch’dau nodded confirmation of the order he’d been given. “Of course, Aranwen-khatun,” he replied as he moved toward the front of the garden in order to stand watch at its edge.

Kithran stood beside Ch'dau as she watched Gib perform the rites and rituals over their fallen ally. Adrenaline still coursed through her veins from both the battle and the pain in her arm from where that giggling monstrosity had left its mark. However, the service was solemn, and terrible, as they always were; and while it helped to ease the pounding in her heart, it did nothing to calm her nerves. After the service, Kith silently offered her own testament of gratitude and respect to Atharis and stepped outside to breathe in the cool, morning air.

She looked around the devestated town. She had never liked the quiet that followed a battle; the soft sobs of the mourning, the whimpers of the wounded, the quiet of the dead. More than anything, she disliked the strange shreds of security that overcame weary fighters after surviving a long night. More than once she herself had succumbed to that false sense of security. It had never gone well, those nights. Her nerves would not calm, and that is what would keep her alive.

Soon the rest of her party, sans Cedric, stepped out of the Nicked Shill and she marched alongside Ch'dau toward the home of the wizard Athandar, their reason for having come to this godsforesaken speck of the map. Her eyes scanned the roads and her ears perked at any strange noises. While she was indeed fatigued from the night of fighting and lack of sleep, Kith refused to let it get the better of her, focusing instead on the road before them, her hands resting on the hilt of her daggers.

Kith froze along with her party for just a moment as they took in the scene at the wizard's house. It was small, quaint, with a well-maintained garden out front, and blue front door lined with scorching fire marks.

"Blessed Battle Father," Gib muttered near her as he unsheathes his sword and shield.

"Blessed indeed," Kith herself muttered as her fingers tighten around her daggers' hilts, and she scanned the area for any signs of the perpetrators.

“Mmm,” Ch'dau's voice softly beside her, “It does not bode well, does it?”

"Be on guard, friends. Something is amiss," Aranwen warned, and Kith grunts her agreement to the obvious.

“Let us hope it is not the wizard, yes.” Ch'dau replied.

Aranwen continued, "Gib, you're with me," she turned to Ch'dau, "You hang back along with the others. We don't want to scare the occupant, if he's still alive, with a giant cat warrior barging into his home."

“Of course, Aranwen-khatun,” the Kazari agreed and moved to stand guard at the front of the garden while Aranwen and Gib headed toward the front door.

Kithran made her way toward the garden as well, pulling out her daggers should the need arise.

Cautiosly, Aranwen pushes the door open.  It quickly becomes apparent that Athandar isn't going to object to a lare cat man barging into his home; the mage will never object to anything again, as a matter of fact.

The corpse of middle aged human man dressed in blue robes lies on the floor here.  His long gray beard is matted with blood, his eyes are fixed and cloudy.  The man's stomach has been torn open, and by the looks of it, most of the contents of his abdomen are missing.  His throat is likewise opened; the majority of the neck is missing, with the head barely remaining connected in any manner to the body.  Several of his fingers appear to be missing, and there are multiple other random chunks of flesh gone, with obvious bite marks around them. 

His body is not alone; several zombies lie scattered around the room, as well.

This was once a cozy little home.  The interior is now largely ruined; every surface is charred, and black soot drifts around the room.   On top of that, it appears that the house has been ransacked; the furniture is turned over, papers and odd belongings (or what is left of them) are scattered haphazardly. 

There is a second room, a simple bedchamber; the charring is not as extensive here, though it is clear that a flash fire rushed through the doorway at some point.  The bed itself is ripped open, feathers are spilled from the pillow and scattered around the room.  This room itself stinks of urine, with the smell seeming to be concentrated at the bed.  This room is also ransacked, with items strewn haphazardly about. 

Peering at the corpse of the middle-aged wizard dressed in the blue robes of his order, Gib steadies his emotions. His body is not alone; several zombies lie scattered around the room, and it is easy for the warrior priest to make the assumption as to how the poor man met his end.

"He put up a fight, this one," The cleric of Therassor remarks solemnly and with respect, wrinkling his nose at the sudden wafting odor of bodily waste that strikes his nose. Scanning the body's gore and ichor, his mouth growing dry in the process, Gib cannot tell whether the man's bowels and bladder were released upon death or if one of his attackers had been particularly disrespectful. 

Coughing into the back of his hand, the priest shakes his head and turns back to the door, calling, "There's no threat here. But mind yourself as it is rank within."

Then turning back to Aranwen, he adds, "Perhaps there's some indication as to what he had summoned our friend for amongst—" sheathing his sword, he tips his helmeted head towards the messy interior, "—this."

Shouldering his shield, the warrior priest of the Battle Lord moves about the room using the toe of his boot to push papers aside or reveal their writings. 

"There's no threat here," Gib called to the party outside, "But mind yourself as it is rank within."

"Shall we?" Kithran resheathed her blades and nodded to Ch'dau and the others. Heading into the small house, her nose scrunched immediately at the shock of stench that hit her as she crossed the threshold. The old man's body lay shredded open before her, and several bodies of the dead undead are strewn about, making the small interior even more cramped.

"This man fought and died bravely," she said, more to herself than to anyone around her, and crouched down to further examine the wounds and tattered clothes.

Kith listened to her compatriots distractedly as she moved from body to body, then around the thrashed room. The fight must have been one to behold, based off of the shear distruction this little house held. She examined this room as thoroughly as she did the bodies before finally making her way into the bedroom.

The smell of piss mixed harshly with that of the the charred wood, bodies, and decomposition.

((OOC: Kith is going to really take in the urine scent to see if she saw or smelled any signs of it on what was left of the wizard or his robes in an attempt to verify if it was from the him or some other thing))

Items are strewn about here just as in the front room and Kithran wondered if there was any agency in their displacement or in the displacement of the items in the front room. Not that someone laid them about the floor purposefully, but were they knocked there by a struggling wizard and some undead monsters? Or were they thrown there in search of something? Obviously the struggle here was intense, and the force of the fireball that destroyed this place could have been as much a culprit as anything else, but these creatures didn't come from nowhere.

In a manner that may have seemed disrespectful, Kith searched the wizards room in its entirety. She did well to replace anything she displaced, but there was no inch of the room or the wizard's belongings left untouched. When she was finished in here she rejoined the others in the front room.

((OOC: If she finds anything that leads her to believe someone/thing other than the zombies and gigglers are responsible here, or anything pertaining to Midge, she'll share it with the group here))

It wasn’t long that Ch’dau, flanked by Kithran and Midge, stood his watch at the edge of the wizard’s garden. Mere moments had passed, it seemed, when Gib’s voice sounded from the charred doorway; “There’s no threat, here, but mind yourselves as it is rank within.”

As his shaggy head turned in the direction of Athandar’s house, the Kazari’s nose wrinkled, scenting the air that still bore the smells of the funerary fires from last night, and he chuffed out a faint sneezing sound. “It does not exactly smell like a garden out here, either,” he rumbled, waving a paw at the wizard’s patch of lawn, “despite all of this.”

“Shall we,” Kithran asked, sheathing her blades and turning to stride for the door.

Ch’dau’s gaze flicked to Midge, then back to Kith, and, with a faint grunt, he returned her nod and followed along behind her. As they entered the wizard’s ruined abode and the rankness Gib had forewarned of fully assailed them, the cat-man’s nose wrinkled, again, with enough intensity, this time, to pull lips away from teeth. Another chuffing sneeze followed and Ch’dau shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the stench from his nostrils. “Merciful Kh’ra,” he snarled, his eyes sweeping the carnage even as he fought to ignore the putrid smells permeating the place, “someone has marked this territory with a vengeance!”

“This man fought and died bravely,” Kith murmured as she crouched to inspect the mage’s mutilated corpse.

Given the number of zombie bodies strewn about the room, Ch’dau could do little else but grunt in agreement. From the looks of things, though, something more than just a fight happened here. The way the wizard’s belongings and sundries were strewn about, someone or something had ransacked the place either during or after the battle. Curious, the Silver Cat mused, as he watched Kithran move from point to point, carefully inspecting the scene, Surely, it could not have been these twice and thrice dead creatures. Their thoughts, should they have any, seem only inclined to destruction, not discovery. He let the thought go unvoiced for the time being, content to let Kithran go about her own study of the place before he concerned himself with lofting opinions of his own. He stayed close to her while she did so, though not so close to be in her way, and, hands on the hilts of his blades, loomed in the doorway between living area and bedchamber as the half-syl girl inspected the sleeping quarters.

“So, Little Kitten,” he rumbled softly as Kith wrapped up her examination of the ruined bedroom and moved to rejoin the rest of the party, “what have your keen eyes uncovered?”

((OOC: Not really much for the battle-beast to do, here, I suppose. If his sense of smell is sharp enough to do so, though, he'll remember this particular urine smell just in case he chances upon it elsewhere - not sure if his hunting NWP might play into that or not - otherwise, he'll simply proceed as posted and/or as directed... heavy lifting, that kind of thing.))

Kithran takes her time to examine the scene.  There is no doubt that the violence done here had something to do with the disarray - but there is no reasonable way to think that it had to do with all of it.  Unless, of course, you buy the theory that the wizard was emptying his junk drawer in the face of the undead as a means to prevent their attack.

No, it is clear that the house was ransacked after the right, after the death.  There are footprints that track blood and gore all over the house, but the majority of them (and the majority of the char) lie under the debris, as if the papers and items were scattered after the fight - not before or during.

As for the bed; Kithran is likely no counissuer of urine, but the bed does smell particularly fetid, and the puddle and stains are mostly around the pillow and head area of the bed.  This was an act of defcacement, not some byproduct of the fight.

As for the debris itself - it seems of little value or consequence overall.  There are no coins, no gems, nothing of notable value.  Much of the parchment is singed, outright burned, or otherwise obscured.. almost as if someone made a systematic effort to ensure that this man's thoughts were not left for posterity.

In depth investogation reveals that the mage apparently had an interest in cults of some sort; he makes more than once reference to a "death cult" in his notes or letters, though it is difficult to find any detail in the damaged writings.  He also speaks of "the ritual", or "the rituals" in many places, though it is unclaer if they are tied to any cult in any manner.   A fina; frequent term is "anchor", though what it might mean is anyone's guess.

Kithran gathered and quickly organized the remnants of relevant papers she could find and made her way to the door, “So, Little Kitten,” Ch'dau says softly as they rejoin the rest of the party, “what have your keen eyes uncovered?”

"As may be obvious, this was not a random ambush, as the other attacks around this city. Athandar was targeted." She gestered to the debris covering the bloody footprints, "By who or for what I cannot say." She turned to Midge and held out one of the piles of papers, "It isn't much, but these seem to be some of his personal scribblings. There may be something of interest for you here."

((OOC: I'm assuming Midge grabs them, if not she'll just shrug and drop the pile on the floor))

She turned back to the others and held up another small pile of papers,"As I said, I couldn't find what, if anything, may have been sought after here, however, I did find something interesting. These notes and letters all reference something he called simply a 'death cult'." Kith felt the ghost of a rare smile creep slowly across her lips, and quickly banished it. She would be lying to herself if she said she didn't also feel a slight ping at the party's lack of excitement at her news that they could be dealing with a "death cult".

She continued, "It is difficult to make out much of what is said as these papers have all been severely damaged, but there is talk of some 'ritual' or 'rituals', which may also have something to do with this death cult, as well as an 'anchor'. Again, I've no idea what that could be in reference to, but it is repeated often in what is left of his writings. Have any of you heard of anything like this or know of anyone who could make sense of all of this? Midge, are there any other mages that may have known more about Athandar or have been familiar with his work?"

“So, Little Kitten,” Ch'dau says softly as everyone gathers together once again, “what have your keen eyes uncovered?”

"As may be obvious, this was not a random ambush, as the other attacks around this city. Athandar was targeted," She gestures to the debris covering the bloody footprints, "By who or for what I cannot say." She turns to Midge and holds out one of the piles of papers, "It isn't much, but these seem to be some of his personal scribblings. There may be something of interest for you here."

Moreno glances at the top paper in the passing and confirms that these appear to be what he was toeing through earlier. Returning his gaze to the quiet woman's face, he focuses on her lips—something he's done quite unconsciously since he was a young man; an act that helps him process and comprehend the discourse better.

Kith turns back to the others and holds up another small pile of papers, "As I said, I couldn't find what, if anything, may have been sought after here, however, I did find something interesting. These notes and letters all reference something he called simply a 'death cult'." Kith feels the ghost of a rare smile creep slowly across her lips and quickly banishes it. She would be lying to herself if she said she doesn't also feel a slight ping at the party's lack of excitement at her news that they could be dealing with a "death cult".

She continues, "It is difficult to make out much of what is said as these papers have all been severely damaged, but there is talk of some 'ritual' or 'rituals', that may also have something to do with this death cult, as well as an 'anchor'. Again, I've not idea what that could be in reference to, but it is repeated often in what is left of his writings. Have any of you heard of anything like this or know of anyone who could make sense of all of this? Midge, are there any other mages that may have known more about Athandar or have been familiar with his work?"

Gib turns his attention to the Cidal and awaits his reply. He doesn't have anything really to offer to Kith's findings. No piece of information spurs anything he considers worth bringing up and his knowledge of D'hurgen's religious appendant organizations is severely limited—D'hurgen being the god of death thusly being who he naturally turns his attention. Ritual is a complicated thing for any religion with most not understanding the deeper meanings—the esoteric side—of the rites, even amongst priesthoods. For some, that is a lifetime journey which destination is never achieved. And, for all he knows, a death cult could be a part of D'hurgen's church or a rebirth of an ancient and even more pagan religion. All of this being conjecture, he holds his tongue, for no wise advice is ever given without fact or experience as a foundation.

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. 

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.

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.

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.