[The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

[Kessler]

Krasimir ponders the answers, taking Lord Shawe's response with calm detachment. He lets Lord Adalric answer the invitation to Lord Zabroch's offer of hospitality, before proceeding to ask each Lord individual questions:

“Lord Croom, how far westward have your men ventured?”

“What goods of note does Udwald produce, Lord Zabroch?”

“Lord Tawic, can you tell more of foreigners who visit the Crossing?”

“Lord Shawe, what is your ambition for the future development of Wodengard?”

[Boethius Junior]

The nobles reply to Krasimir each in turn, with varying degrees of intensity.

Croom makes no effort to hide his eagerness to discuss the topic, climbing to his feet and shuffling haphazardly among the papers scattered across the table. "Aha, I am very glad you asked, your grace! A map, has anyone a map? Are there are mariners among our number?" He glances throughout the party, eventually settling his gaze on Brysen, to whom he then seems to speak directly. "You are an Auth-trader, yes? That is what I have been told - well, surely you have ever been grounded upon a muddy bank? How the silt seems inescapable for even the most doughty vessel? The Smear is much like this; oily muck stretching far into the horizon, farther than the eye can see. After many years we have fashioned particular crafts that can carve their way atop the mire. Thus we sluice our way towards the sunset." Hoisting pen he marks three small scratches upon the map, each beyond the murky westward coast. "Here is the extent of our forays to date - three islands of firmament hidden deep in the mire. We have not explored them fully yet, but it is my pleasure to announce to this council that the men of Scawic have begun colonization efforts therein!

Zarboch's smile is lost by Croom's triumphant conclusion. "A fine a time as any to play your hand, my Lord of Scawic. I never would have guessed your strenuous," he coughs dryly, "efforts might bear fruit. My congratulations. I myself lack anything quite so rousing to report - Udwald exports iron ore, mostly, plus hardwoods and furs. What else I can confidently state, is that we produce the finest warriors across all the Fringe."

"The cold hills of Udwald produce fine, brave men, my lord - but they cannot compare to the stout lads of the Crossing, ha ha!" Tawic's laugh seems to your ears strained. "But that must be decided upon the tournament's floor - there will be time enough for that come the spring. To your question, your grace, there is little to report. The majority of traffic across our bridge is from nearby estates, such as your grace's home of Torre. There are some Chauns, especially pilgrims, but they are a rare sight. Moreso still are the Braven Men: those few who cross my threshold are lone warriors out seeking glory. They attempt to claim roadways for Pas d'armes or other such contests, and thus we must set them straight.

Lord Shawe speaks last, staring intently at Krasimir as he speaks levelly: "My only desire is to see Wodengard endure, your grace, and I shall do all in my power to ensure just that."

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric does his best to look grateful but noncommittal in the face of Lord Zarboch's offer of hospitality. "If time and duty permit, I should like to visit your estate whenever you would have us. Is there any particular time that you might prefer?" he says politely.

[Boethius Junior]

Zarboch's smile returns at the Lord of Wodengard's stiffness. He almost smirks his reply: "The time is of your choosing, your grace. My sons and I would be glad to welcome your entire company soon as this dreary council ends. Surely this Abbey has begun to tire you - and if the locals are so committed to unkindness, I expect you would grasp at the opportunity."

Iald, who has been carefully tracking the nobles' gestures, finds all of them ill at ease except this most talkative member. The rest bear their caution uniquely; Tawic obviously feigns mirth, while Shawe is combative. Croom seems oblivious to your eye, while Mull cannot restrain his discomfort.

In the distance, thunder rolls softly.

[Kessler]

Krasimir seems to catch some of the tension, his fingers begin to quietly drum, a gesture he seems to be unaware of.

“So, how are the martial threats to the Fringe - Wallapugs and Thurs? And the efforts to make forests of Fringe safe in Wodengard?” Krasimir addresses Lords Zabroch and Schawe. “How tame and safe is the land nowadays?”

“It would be interesting to see these islands, Lord Croom.” he replies to the Lord’s story of discovery.

“Lord Tawic, where will spring tournament be held? And can you explain in more detail, what draws Brazen men to the Fringe?”

[Boethius Junior]

"The roads are safe enough, especially through Wodengard - though the smallfolk rankle at my tolls, they dare not complain at the guards who ensure the paths remain secured. Once, the whole south was swathed in ancient forest, thought to be impenetrable. My ancestors proved otherwise." Lord Shawe speaks matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders.

Zarboch follows: "Indeed, though it is wise to not travel alone if it can be helped. Wolves, bandits, and the like are not uncommon occurrences." Shawe scoffs, which goes ignored. "We need not worry of the Pugs; they are trading partners any longer - and not a single Thur has been sighted in the valley for near thirty years. They are gone by now, rest assure."

Mention of the hated Theadh brings a stillness to the company, which is awkwardly broken by a laugh from Tawic. "If the tournament has your interest lad, you would do well to attend! The location moves between the homes of these lords before you, the next being held at Udwald actually. Thinking of trying your hand? Everyman is welcome!" He sobers: "As for the Brazen Men - who can say? They are an odd folk. I think their moor touches the minds, to tell the truth. Nothing good about that much open space."

[The Void Dragon]

At this point, Faust leans in, interest evident on his face, and confidence in his smirk. "A good tournament always peaks my interest, Lord Tawic. Almost as much as your talk of Pas d'armes. Tell me, how do you set the Brazen Men straight on the matter?" Faust will then turn his attention to Zarboch. "I must also thank you for your invitation, Lord Zarboche, as I have heard two things about your lands; that wolves are ranging through your northern valley, and that if I don't hurry, your sons will have done all the hunting themselves! Still the fact that you speak of wolves and bandits brings up a concern of mine: chiefly, I ask all of you, why does the Abbey have no gate for its walls? Come winter, those wolves and bandits will be quite hungry, and the abbey is a veritable larder for them to pilfer."

[Tentreto]

Iald gives out a sign and nods when Lord Tawic mentions the Braven men. Skinflints and untrustworthy as far as he saw them. Beside that, at least the Lords were attempting to strike up conversation, despite their unease. Except for Lord Shawe, who had said next to nothing about his holdings. Iald decides now is as good a time as any to ask his own questions:

"How well do messangers and couriers travel in these lands?"

[Boethius Junior]

"By force, if we must - though I prefer it never come to that." Tawic speaks gravely. "I take no pleasure in drawing blood, but I cannot allow foreign interlopers to harass my countrymen. Especially when their cause is so couched in greedy glory." The mood does not last, and soon the nobleman is back to his exuberant self: "You are an eager man, I can tell. If your grace would rid me of such troubles, I would surely sleep more peaceably, ha ha!"

Zarboch shares the cheeriness: "Aye, your graces' aid would be most welcome, though I fear my sons will have driven down the curs upon our return. They are quite the capricious pair of lads, those two. As for the Abbey, think on its location, ser - it has been constructed centrally with purposeful intent. There are no dangers here among the civilized quarters of the Fringe. Is that not true, Lord Mull?" The heavyset man again nods in profuse agreement, sweat pouring from his brow - an omen of the coming deluge should the skies continue to threaten. You note that the Lord of Gristing has become labored in his breathing; producing a slight wheezing with every draw. He clears his throat and gulps more wine in the interim.

Shawe takes the opportunity to answer Iald, though he does so with his typical brusqueness. "Messengers, be they of the Criers or council-appointed, must pay my tolls - as do all others. In doing so they enjoy all the due protections of my rule - as do all others. My law has no exceptions, thusly I can guarantee the safety of all right and proper travelers."

[Henry the 57th]

"May I ask what your toll is, then, my lord?" Adalric asks with a raised eyebrow.

[Boethius Junior]

"The official price is two Shale, though few carry spare coinage these days," answers Shawe. "I will claim an equivalence in goods, materials, tools, and so forth when I am forced."

A slight drizzle begins to fall, and hastily the attendant monks begin to organize the various ledgers strewn throughout. Thunder rolls once more.

[Kessler]

Krasimir adds “I have noticed, that there are no set borders here at the Fringe. Is there an unofficial understanding, which roads are patrolled by which Lord?”

“Lord Mull.” Krasimir addresses Lord of Gristing for the first time. “We’ve heard of the brave soldiers of other Lords. What of the men of Gristing?”

[Boethius Junior]

Lord Mull's wheezing has grown more pronounced, and between gasps for air he attempts to answer. His voice is jowly, yet shallow and clearly labored. "Legally speaking, the Fringe is one singular estate...and not the five that we five pretend it to be." He pauses, emptying his glass with an effort. "Martial conflict, of which surely your graces are aware, has been the sole determinant of our faux nabes. Tis all a sham! And thus no chronicler would dare to mark it."

The others bristle at his speech, Lord Shawe especially who appears visibly disgusted. The heavyset nobleman merely smiles from behind sunken, glassy eyes. The rain has now begun to intensify; fat droplets which deliquesce the earth into a sodden mess - the servants are all scurrying for cover.

Shakily the Lord of Gristing clambers to his feet: he coughs, then chokes, then sighs, and collapses to the ground.

[Tentreto]

Iald reacts quickly, standing up from the table.

"Lord Mull!" he cries, "Are you well?" As he does so, he moves over to the Lord's body, to see how he is.

[Boethius Junior]

Lightning splits the sky, yet the table-mates are transfixed. Quiet reigns among the stupefied lords of the Fringe while disarray erupts beyond: shouts of confusion overlap the trampling of men seeking cover from the sudden squall. Within the Gristing camp there come rallying cries, and the unmistakable flash of blades being drawn. Already the calls of "Murder!" and "To the lord!" are heard - they shall surely reach you soon.

Mull's passing is not pretty - Iald, and the Abbot coming close behind, are witness to his final convulsions. Strenuously he gasps for air as the color drains from his once-flush face to an icy pallor. Spittle flecks at his lips, to be replaced by an unctuous black ichor as his contortions finally cease.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust jolts upright when Lord Mull collapses, and draws his blade when he hears the cries of Mull's men. "Companions, gather your men. We must impose order before chaos engulfs this camp. Then we can have a proper inquisition on the matter." Scowling, he goes to gather his own men-at-arms.

[Kessler]

Krasimir stands shocked at the death that happened before him. Slowly his wits return. He trusts his companions to deal with the Lords and men of the slain Mull. He focuses on servants, who have served food and drink - "Gather them in one room, they must be interrogated." He tries to remember the evening - could anybody covertly tamper with food and drink? Was Mull's food poisoned in advance, during the meting or was he poisoned even before coming to the table?

[Tentreto]

Iald is beyond shocked, beyond stunned. A man he had talked to just minutes beforehand was dead before him, down in the mud and rain. The shouts of his companions rally him however, and he stands himself up. He would guess that Lord Mull had been poisoned, and he has a horrible feeling of why. Iald glances over to the Abbot next to him.

"Good Abbot, gather your people, we must ensure no more blood is shed this day." Iald says as calm as he can manage.

With that, Iald moves a few steps foward, away from the body, making his presence known as best he can to the surrounding men. "Hold!" he yells, in an attempt to forstall any rash actions.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen had been uncharacteristically quiet during the proceedings, his silence the result of a combination of decorum and subterfuge. In the former case, not being a noble he did not want to ruffle the haughty feathers of these would-be Masters of the Fringe and in the latter case, his reticence afforded him the opportunity to gauge reactions and watch body language while his more esteemed colleagues deliberated with their fellow Shambrymen. Truth be told, he wasn't overly concerned with the petty border squabbles in the Fringe. It mattered not to him which jumped-up opportunist held title, so long as trade continued. He did perk up at the mention of the exploration of the Smear and made a note to follow up with Lord Croom about said expeditions when the timing was more propitious.

His comfortable surveillance of the party is broken by Lord Mull's collapse. Instantly, Brysen is on high alert, scanning his surroundings and sending hand signals to whichever of his staff are in attendance to keep watch as well. While his companions attempt to bring order to the chaos, Brysen watches from the edges of the gentle melee, trying to pick out any signals in the noise of the noblemen cawing like a disrupted flock.

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric's eyes grow wide as saucers at Lord Mull's collapse. He wasn't quite used to or comfortable in noble functions to begin with, but to see a man he had been speaking to just seconds before collapse in front of him... well, he wasn't exactly feeling up to dealing with it. Instinctively, he clutched at the pendant around his neck, drawing strength from the idea that his god was with him. He was a man of the church, he couldn't simply do nothing.

"SILENCE!" he bellows out to the crowd in his best sermon voice. "STAND DOWN AND HOLD YOUR PEACE!

[Boethius Junior]

Thunder's deafening retort beats upon the heartbeat-drum of discord, and amidst the hurling masses there comes an answer to Gristing's challenge - a band bearing the axe of Wodengard are all to eager to stymie their advance, and the brief flash of swordplay leaves one of Mull's less a hand. There is little better to be had among the nobles, who have flung from astonishment into animus. Senselessly they bicker, levying charges yet impossible to prove; Tawic stabbing his finger at Shawe's chest with an accusation of blood.

Then, as though spoken with the voice of THROM, Lord Adalric roars for quiet - and quiet there is, save for the gushing howls of the injured. The moment of stillness is opportunity for Faust's call, and your seconds quickly take to the field at your side. Among the company Lord Crofte stands weary, hand upon his pommel but waiting yet to draw.

At the foot of the corpse the Abbot breaths heavily; Iald can tell that he may be struck by panic - yet at your calming presence he finds courage: "Yes...yes I shall gather the medics. We must prepare the funerary rites, as soon as possible..." His voice is weak, but he rushes to the medical pavilion with a purpose nonetheless. Meanwhile Krasimir wracks his mind, but at the moment you are unable to remember who specifically from among the servantry filled Mull's glass, save that you know it to be one of the monks. They alone attended to your council's needs and staffed the kitchens for your supper, while the lords' men remained outside.

The calm remains, but you can feel how feeble its hold. From among the assembly come many dark glowers, all pointed your way.

[Tentreto]

Adalric had worked a miracle stilling the tensions, and for now that was enough. Iald steps foward, his arms brought up slightly, allowing his outfit to be seen, as a reflection of who he serves. Hopefully this would calm nerves, and be a reminder to everyone of the powers invloved.

"Lord Mull is dead." Iald pronounces. "He has been poisoned by some malevolent force." He sweeps his gaze across the many faces around him. "To find his killer, we must act swiftly and orderly." Once again he sweeps the crowd, gauging their temperment, and giving time for Adalric to continue.

[Boethius Junior]

From among the combatants pushes forth a slight, bookish man with anger and worry plain upon his face, outlined in crimson from a gashed brow. He bears an arming sword, though it is lowered yet. As he speaks, you recognize his as the voice that rallied the Gristing camp. "I am Guisa, majordomo to Lord Mull," he shouts, "Disperse and grant us our lord's remains, if what you say is true!"

[The Void Dragon]

At the majordomo's demand, Faust does disperse his men - by quietly sending them to the outermost parts of the camp, with orders to apprehend anyone trying to leave. Faust himself tries to find a vantage point from which he might see any assassins fleeing under the cover of the storm. His right hand, once resting lightly upon the pommel of his blade, now tightly grasps the blade's grip.

[Kessler]

Krasimir stands, full of worry and concern. How could their mission take such tragic and dark turn right at the beginning.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen edges to the rear of the room as Guisa steps forward to confront Adalric. He whispers to his crewmen, directing them to reinforce Faust's men, catching his companion's eye and nodding his unspoken agreement and understanding.

After giving the orders, Brysen turns back to the majordomo and bows deeply.

A terrible crime has been committed, and under Wit's own roof. No more blood need be shed tonight. If - emphasising the word slightly - what my companion says is true, surely we all have an interest in confirming those suspicions. The most neutral of us are the monks and with your supervision, Majordomo, perhaps those skilled in medicine could exam Lord Mull before rites are performed as befitting his station?

[Boethius Junior]

The scattering of Faust's arms-men, and Brysen's words thereafter, puts the majordomo more at ease - such as is possible given the circumstances. Shakily he agrees, sheathing his sword and pressing forward to take his fallen master's side. He is followed by another half-dozen of Mull's guard, who position themselves to defend the corpse. Beyond the garden's center, the stalemate persists, punctuated by whimpers from the wounded.

The Abbot returns presently, a troupe of heavy-laden medics in tow, bearing the many tools of their trade. At once taking to their unhappy work - yet soon they are given pause, for upon stripping the nobleman's shirts they find a coat of mail hidden beneath.

[atlastrembles]

The scattering of Faust's arms-men, and Brysen's words thereafter, puts the majordomo more at ease - such as is possible given the circumstances. Shakily he agrees, sheathing his sword and pressing forward to take his fallen master's side. He is followed by another half-dozen of Mull's guard, who position themselves to defend the corpse. Beyond the garden's center, the stalemate persists, punctuated by whimpers from the wounded.

The Abbot returns presently, a troupe of heavy-laden medics in tow, bearing the many tools of their trade. At once taking to their unhappy work - yet soon they are given pause, for upon stripping the nobleman's shirts they find a coat of mail hidden beneath.

Brysen frowns at the revelation of the mail surcoat, but is not surprised. Turning to the Majordomo and pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by him and his companions, but not necessarily the thronging crowd of the other Lords' staff and various hangers-on, Brysen gestures to the armor A sensible precaution, but sadly ineffective at preventing choking. Why did Lord Mull believe himself in danger within these walls?

[Boethius Junior]

"It hardly matters now, does it?" sneers Lord Shawe, brushing to the fore. "His precautions were proven fruitless, and now he faces judgement eternal." He gestures to the medics, presently struggling to invigorate the flame within an iron brazier. "Soon we'll see what he left behind; what kind of man he was."

Meanwhile, Faust has followed the path you were led before, and traces his way through the monastery towards your occupied spire. The stone passageways seem emptier than before; fewer monks at their business, the hum of song replaced with the dull hammer of rain. Without delay you ascend, and having recovered your full armament surveil the grounds from above. The nobles' entourages loiter cautiously amongst themselves, as do the council servantry and Abbey's brethren, who mostly occupy the garden beyond the various camps.

[Boethius Junior]

Their flame at last stoked into a hearty glow, the lead medicae begins to heat his iron pokers and brands into a beating orange heat, readied for the rite of disposal. The others wrestle Mull's mail aside to reveal his bloated chest and their captain plunges the hot iron against his bare belly - releasing twists of foul-smelling smoke as the flesh sears. Raising their voices in song, they recite a hymnal of banishment.

Leaving them to their work, Abbot Caleah approaches your number. He speaks quietly such that none beyond the garden's center might hear: "The medics have concluded their autopsy, and thus have begun the funerary rites. They have concluded that Lord Mull was indeed poisoned by monkshood; which you may know as wolf's bane. They suspect that he was poisoned quite recently; today in all likelihood."

Spoiler: The Funerary Rites

Show

These practices of Disposal are utilized to forcibly draw out the Kuan after it has spawned. More "barbaric" alternatives require butchery, to seek out the worm by hand, or the burning of the whole corpse - an affront while the Kuan is still within. Experienced Cantors may utilize Harmonic Magic to kill the creature without disturbing the body, but that practice requires a level of expertise uncommonly found outside the Basilicas or major metropolitan regions.