Country Killings

[Malaroth]

Cinnabar Calomel,
High Constable of Myrken Wood
Acting Governor

Greetings,

I write to you with a heavy heart. Over the past two days I have received reports from my knights that many of the farmers who live in the countryside have gone missing. This is not a mere person here or there, but entire families whose homes show signs of struggle and, possibly, death.

Yet there are no bodies.

Word has reached me of the goings on in Myrkentown lately, and how the Ashfiend is behind such horrid assaults. It may very well be that these disappearances are also his handiwork.

He has not returned to Snowstill, of that much I am sure. On behalf of the people, if you have any knowledge of the creature's whereabouts or plans please let me know. I am only too willing to assist.

Sincerely,

Sir Malaroth Deucalios of Zachea
Grand Master of the Shepherd Knights

[Cinnabar]

To Sir Malaroth Deucalios of Zachea, Grand Master of the Shepherd Knights

Sir Malaroth

My thanks for bringing this to my attention, though the news is disturbing indeed. We are still seeking the whereabouts of the Fiend, and indeed those he took from Myrkentown several nights ago, but have had little success thus far. We shall continue our search.

Meanwhile I have dispatched mounted Constables to make a tour of Myrken Wood's farms, to check on the welfare of their residents and warn them of the threat the Ashfiend poses. However, I have a limited number of men, and much ground to cover. Your aid in this matter would be greatly appreciated.

As such, please find with this letter a list of farms known to be recently inhabited, drawn from this last harvest's tax records. You have faced the Fiend as I have and know of his strength, and thus have some idea of what force of men to assign to these duties. My own men will be making a patrol of abandoned and derelict properties as well, since it is reasonable to suppose that the ghoul makes his lair somewhere nearby.

I do not know for certain his intentions in harvesting the people of Myrken Wood in this way, but from the attack upon Snowstill I can only guess that he strives to raise another army with which to assault the land. We must be prepared. I am already conferring with Father Eine of the Chapel of St. Iona on this matter, and would suggest that you take similar precautions. Cold steel and firm resolve may not prove sufficient on their own.

Good hunting, sir.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel

[Malaroth]

Sir Talbot grumbled to himself as he regarded the fork in the path. Amongst the capital streets of Trae Kelsa one did not have to bother with the dust of the road, the gleam of the sunlight slanting so early in the morning into one's blissfully closed eyes, or the perpetual stink of horses. Yet, he supposed while rubbing his forehead, there was not so much glory waiting to be had either. Soft-soled shoes and graceful dancing earned one only so much respect and if he were to ever finally rise head-and-shoulders above his competitive peers, he required a trump card.

Hence his joining the knighthood.

If the Zachean Grand Master found honor in the unharvested fields before him, then Zachea was a place with little glory. Perhaps they even preferred to dine with the pigs as he had once quipped at the dinner table.

A sigh drew him back to reality as he took in the lay of the land before him. A handful of knights had failed to report in at the chapter house last evening and their last known direction had been this way. The armored horse stirred beneath his thighs, causing him to sway, while he squinted in thought and against the rising sun.

"Does anyone know where these roads lead?" he called over an armored shoulder, unwilling to turn lest he catch an eyeful of sunlight reflecting brightly from a hammered pauldron. Myrken Wood had always confused him and, despite Deucalios' commands, he had not brought himself to stoop to reading the peasant man's intricate, spider-web maps.

One of the knights stirred his horse forward, coming to a stop beside the group's passing leader with the stirring of mail and spurs. "Yes, Sir. They both lead west, towards the North Passage Down. Though it is a bit of a journey as they wind quite a bit across the forests and fields."

With every word of knowledge, Laurence slouched further upon his saddle. A slow, coiling pursuit of men who were undoubtedly lost or gone off on some merry hunt leaving him to pursue them tot he main road through the backwater province.

"Well," he offered at last, affecting a firm, authoritative timbre. "If the roads both lead that way eventually, then the other patrols will likely find them first. Still," he added with a raised hand, articulated with ane xtended finger pointed heavenward. "We would be remiss in merely abandoning the trail. Therefore," he gestured towards four of the knights, with their squires, who had accompanied him. Immediately he saw their distaste for him, these country knights. who knew nothing of courts and formal dances. "You two, shall take this road. And you two, shall take that road. The rest of us," he nodded towards the remaining five, compatriots of Trae Kelsa itself, or at least of a tolerable mindset. "Shall remain here in case they double back."

The four outcasts of his small party nodded, one of the squires groaning, one of the knight's with a head bowed in frustrated resignation, turned to follow Talbot's orders. For his part, Laurence smirked and watched them ride off before slipping from his steed and proceeding, quickly, towards the waiting, vacated farmstead.

"If the Ashfiend has driven these good folk off," he called, beckoning for the rest to follow. "The least we can do is, keep an eye on things, until they return right? Come on then!"

With broad, lazy grins and chuckles through exchanged jokes, they followed Sir Talbot into the farmstead. Heedless of the broken furniture, they righted a few chairs and began to help themselves to the foodstuffs and ale.

No need for it to go to waste, after all.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The farm house had a stubborn closet whose swollen doors proved remarkably secure. Age and weather, what had once been a leak through the roof, had wreaked havoc upon the hinges and wooden planks used to fashion the sturdy and dependable wardrobe for a family that pretended to more than it had. Now the family had nothing.

"Can you believe all the ale these poor sots had?"

Soon they would have even less.

Teron listened to the handful of figures, clad in their mail that rattled along with the sharp dissonant jangle of their spurs. Such things bespoke of horses, and most likely of knights, given the constabulary's usual limit to Myrkentown itself and the surrounding environs. One of them had stumbled into something, perhaps a table, that scraped against the floor with a harsh abrasion.

One of them cracked some sort of jest and most of the others laughed. Save for one. One who complained about not liking ale and had begun to rummage around the rest of the small homestead.

Teron's hand descended upon his sword's handle in near silence, armor gently pressing with an intimate knowing. A familiarity that caused the heel of his palm to press firmly against the tiny silver skull anointing the weapon's handle.

A few stumbling steps led the knight closer, as Teron's free hand balled into a ready fist. He held no breath, did not even breathe, but waited in silence and shadow like some nightmare to be unleashed. A chilling nightmare of burning eyes and merciless strength.

A nightmare climaxing in a startled scream as the Ashfiend tore free, as the sword rose.

And fell.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

It had been a while since he had crossed through the shadows to the same degree that he had been lately. In a land like Myrken Wood, where many people of distinct power seemed to inevitably congregate, it might pose an interesting problem should one of them discern a means to manipulate the curse that enshadowed the ashen remnants of his soul.

Crimson eyes penetrated the haze that nested and coiled within the smoke house. At the center of the room rested an aged slaughtering table, with a hatchet left buried in a tree stump that erupted through the floor. Around the base of the table rested a handful of men in bloodied, broken armor and black tabards bearing the silver shepherds' crook that identified them as Malaroth's men. They stared up at the rafters with dim eyes and pallid expressions shrouded in lank hair and damp blood. Upon the table itself rested the body of their commander, some dandy of a fool who had evidently been promoted into the knighthood.

The Ashfiend approached silently, the length of his cloak a dim shadow in the choking haze that filled the room. His crimson eyes burned livid illumination upon the slain while the smoke hissed as it rolled against the ancient, scorched and scarred plate that served as his armored tomb. Drawing near, he rested a mailed palm against Talbot's armored chest and bent his will towards the dead husk before him. These would not join the pile in the corner. There would be special orders for this lot, a new order of knighthood for them to join.

A new terror for them to unleash.

[Malaroth]

Cinnabar Calomel,
High Constable of Myrken Wood
Acting Governor

Greetings,

The knights patrol the countryside as we speak. I have struck upon the idea of some sort of warning system to distribute to the farms and other dwellings far from the reaches of Myrkentown and the Chapter House. Perhaps a system of bells, one per household, to be sounded in dire emergency?

We have found several farmsteads that show signs of violence. The records you sent have served us well so far, greatly aiding us in our planning. Yet we seem to have done little more than catalogue the extent of the Ashfiend's murderous spree. We estimate that another twenty to thirty people have been taken by the Ashfiend in the countryside and, as ever, there are no bodies.

I am curious as to how we expect to destroy the Ashfiend since we know that mundane means have little effect other than distracting or possibly holding him off for a while. The Ashfiend does not grow tired nor does he lose the will to fight. As we must not be subject to his attacks forever we must put a final end to him. And yet we allowed him to murder Sin'Vraal who, while not trustworthy, was surely the only one who knew what was required to end him.

Perhaps it was not the best idea to take the Ashfiend's side in their struggle after all, Constable?

Regardless, if you have any ideas I am open to them. Under Lady Valaeli's tutelage I believe some of the knights, myself included, may be able to work a magic to eradicate the shadows to prevent him his mobility in any given fight. Yet even this means little as he does not grow tired.

Suffice to say that, unless we are able to learn how he may be destroyed, all this is for nothing. Perhaps it may prove possible to commune with Vraal's spirit?

Sincerely,

Sir Malaroth Deucalios of Zachea
Grand master of the Shepherd Knights

[Cinnabar]

To Sir Malaroth Deucalios of Zachea, Grand Master of the Shepherd Knights

Sir Malaroth

I am grieved by the news of further attacks by the Ashfiend across Myrken Wood, and thank you and your knights for your work in watching over the countryside. I agree that some sort of warning system would be most valuable, but fear that, given the swiftness and ferocity of the Ashfiend's attacks, most who fall prey would have little chance to sound the alarm. Something to be explored, perhaps. In the meantime, it is of prime importance to discover where the Fiend is taking those he has slain; I do not wish to see another Snowstill, in which he has had adequate time to gather his army against us.

Our Artificer is working on a way by which the ghoul might be subdued, perhaps even ended; at the very least it may be possible to capture him, perhaps bind his spirit to some containing vessel until a more permanent solution might be found. When we embark upon this endeavour your assistance would be most useful, particularly if, as described, you have some means by which the ghoul might be prevented from escaping through the shadows.

As to your final suggestion of summoning Vraal's spirit, however, I am absolutely opposed to such a course of action; at the very least this would be an act of rank necromancy, and at worst the very blackest diabolism. It is madness.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel