Wolfsbane
GAME: Silmeria rolls diplomacy: (15)+18: 33
The rain it seems, has finally cleared off, leaving the world hazy and hot beneath the glare of the sun. By the time you reach the werewolf encampment there are towering white clouds drifting lazily across a pure blue sky. Which means you've been walking all night. The werewolves don't show any of the effort of keeping up the brutal pace they set, and you come upon their encampment in the Felwood rather abruptly.
One minute tromping through creepy trees made somehow more creepy in the light of day, and the next you're surrounded by at least a hundred people camped out in the forest. Everyone stops to stare at you as you make your way through towards the back of the encampment. There's a wide sandy lake there on the edge of the forest, and a massive tent perched on the end of it.
If any might be struggling and/or winded at the pace, it would be the Mourner. The combination of short strides and the exercise regiment of a librarian do not a runner make. That she spares further effort and breath for commentary does not aid matters. On a more positive note... at least they cannot leave her behind?
"Executor," she manages, "you should know that I am afflicted." Her head tilts towards the nearest lycanthropic escort. "As well, intentionally limited in my abilities." As explanation, she tugs aside her robes somewhat to display a distinct lack of neckwear, pendant, or other Vardaman iconography.
Ranging all over town with a full pack is one thing. It's been quite some time since Silmeria has done a forced march in the wilderness, and *definitely* a long while since last she traveled without rest. Thus, perhaps she's not putting Vardama's best face forward, for the devotees of the Nightmare. Too ready to keel over, panting and wavering on her feet, and supporting Verna as best she can. The miles have been kinder on her than Verna, but at this pace, it's all very relative.
Despite her occasional questions to the Caracorothans on the way -- when she had breath to form them -- as the group enters the campsite, Silmeria claps her mouth shut. Despite the rugged environs, his has all the hallmarks of a site of worship. Let they in charge speak first.
To your surprise, you are not led into the big tent. Instead you are led to the area outside of it which is nominally a pen of some sort. It is a somewhat muddy pen (due to the recent rain), and you are marched into it. "You'll have to wait here until nightfall. Being what we are, all the Alpha's are asleep right now." The guy leading you allows a rugged grin to cross his face. "Except me. I'll make sure that someone brings you something for dinner before the other Alpha's wake."
A pen. How.. quaint. Not that Verna is in a state to complain, as she leans upon Silmeria. At least the rails or bars provide her a support alternative once within. The mud also makes for a softer seat when she slumps down said rail. "Indeed," is her only comment and acknowledgement to the alpha. Let sleeping dogs lie? Not to mention that a nap does sound pleasant at present.
One eyebrow rises at the pen, but it's quite clear that it could serve many functions. Not least as the beginnings of a barricade if their hosts decide to get peckish-- and immediately the Speaker squashes the thought down, turning a bright, if tired, smile to the Alpha leading them to their place of rest. "That would be very much appreciated, Alpha. Best we use this time to get our rest, ourselves, anyway."
Guiding Verna into the pen, the Speaker finds the least squelchy spot she can in the enclosure, and lowers them both down to finally sit. And then produces a roll of oilcloth, her gunsmithing tools, and begins to dismantle her weapon.
The alpha werewolf turns and leaves a few guards behind to keep an eye on you, but otherwise... you are for the moment alone.
After taking some moments to catch her breath, Verna dons her hood. With Silmeria beginning what Verna presumes are mediative tasks, and (perhaps most importantly) hairy ears are not so near, turns towards her ear. "Our respective duties aside, I am both concerned... and pleased that you chose to accompany, Executor. I expect their intentions are unpleasant, at best. I expect you to continue to honor your duty to the temple, the city, and more. Should I become a threat to be stopped, do so. If others must be rallied or informed, then you must leave to do so."
It is something of a meditative task, and one done so often that the meditation is more physical than mental. While Silmeria may not know her artifice well enough to *create* the important parts for a working gun, she can disassemble and assemble one with uncanny precision and speed. "Mourner," she says after a moment's thought, "this was always your choice to make, and I will support you and be behind you however your choice plays out. But, you know as well as I do that death is rarely the only answer to problems like this. Simply the last one."
Picking up a sliver of metal, she inspects it for damage or grime, polishing some invisible imperfection away. "You have my promise that above all else, I will return to report what I observe. If necessary, yes, without you." Finally, she turns to look at Verna, and behind silver-rimmed spectacles her eyes are crushingly sincere. "But I would prefer we walk back together, Mourner Verna. If only so that your friends aren't in danger from your lady, by the sounds of it."
Verna's formerly firm gaze melts under Silmeria's own (or perhaps her words, rather), to drip down her cheek. "I would prefer that as well," she all-but whispers, now roughly, "if just to see her smile once more..." Other words are considered. Perhaps too many. In the end, Verna's hood turns back to face forward. "Whatever transpires, you have my thanks. We should rest." As if sleep will come so easily, exhaustion or no.
"Mourner," Silmeria says gently, reassembling her weapon bit by bit, without taking eyes off the priestess. "Should the time come. I ask you to remember one thing. If you don't believe you'll rest in peace, even with all you've lived and learned... You need to tell me what you need. Be it a message, an arrangement to make... If the idea of someone living on this world who doesn't deserve to, will disturb your rest? Tell me. On my honor as Speaker For The Dead, *it will be done.*"
Sleep is necessary, even in such circumstances, and your only interruption to that is when dinner is brought late in the evening. It's a surprisingly pleasant affair of slightly over-cooked rabbit on a stick. You get the impression that the folks around here aren't used to cooking their food. In fact, watching the camp there's a lot of raw-meat ingestion going on around you.
Once people have had a chance to eat, the alpha from before returns with a convoy of werewolves. They lead you around the other side of the big tent where some sort of ritual site has been made out on the beach of the lake between the forest and the water. There, in the center of a dimly lit area is a rather average-looking man with dark hair pulled back from his face and green eyes. Unlike the other werewolves he is dressed in surprisingly nice clothing. A rug with some kind of arcane symbol has been laid out over the sand and he stands in the midst of it.
The alpha stops the pair at the edge of the rug. "Only she goes on. You can watch the ritual from here." He indicates that Verna should follow him.
GAME: Verna rolls knowledge/religion: (9)+24: 33 GAME: Silmeria rolls knowledge/religion: (11)+11: 22
The fact that the rabbit was cooked at all is a welcome relief from a question Silmeria wasn't sure how to broach. Thus, it is gratefully picked clean, down to the bones. As she eats, and disposes of her leavings, and waits, her eyes dart around the whole of the camp, taking in any information that might have value or use in the hours to come; group hierarchies, interactions with each other and the Vardaman, subtle gestures or clues as to what awaits Verna... Anything. Everything. This is too important.
When stopped at the edge, Silmeria simply nods, folding her hands in front of her and well away from her gun, looking to Verna with a gentle, fond smile. "Remember what I said, Mourner. Whatever happens, She and I are ever at your back."
With that, she looks to the well-dressed (presumably) Alpha at the center, tilting her head in curiosity, and glancing at the trappings of this particular circle. "I don't suppose," she murmurs to their guide, "that I could be given to understand the purpose of this ritual? Of course you have my word that I'll not be disrupting it unless specifically asked by you, but... If the Mourner's story ends today, I would like to tell how and why."
Verna is not surprised by the lack of culinary skills, though even were they superior, they would fall short of the standard to which she has become accustomed. She attempts to banish that line of thought by devouring the rabbit far more heartily and impolitely than one would expect. A side-effect of her condition, perhaps?
After they are led and paused, she looks to the circle before them a long moment before her hood lifts to the man within it. "What is it you expect to accomplish, and what is my role in that goal? I presume that you do not require my aid to summon fiendish allies, and none have the means to free the Red Maw, himself."
Her hood then pans to Silmeria before dipping in a brief nod, the eyes within conveying much with a glance. "We shall all be judged justly, at our appointed time. She has ever been at my side, and I am grateful that you are, now, as well."
Turning back to the man in the circle, she awaits his clarification. Verna agreed only to accompany them, and so she did.
The man in the circle makes a sort of mocking bow to Verna, then motions to the two men on either side of her to close in. "You are right. None have the power - yet - to free the totality of our God. Yet we can free a part of him. We can free the Nightmare. With you."
The two men go to grab Verna's arm, and pull her toward the center of the rug where their leader awaits her.
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (1)+12: 13 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (6)+12: 18
The werewolves move for Verna in the same moment, though one of them slips and falls in the sand and ends up on his knees rather than in a position to aid his comrade who neatly swoops in and grabs Verna by the arm and starts to drag her toward the center of the rug. "Don't make this difficult." He growls at her. Their leader simply watches for the moment, but its clear he will act if he needs to.
GAME: Verna rolls cmb: (20)+10: 30
"NO!" Logic dictates that his claim is highly dubious... but it cannot be wholly discounted. Fear, on the other hand, is perfectly willing to accept that as stated. This, in turn, promptly leads to rage. Verna has neither mass nor might: any illusion of the former is due to her voluminous robes. In this instance, however, it proves to be a boon as she pulls herself out the hem of her robes rather than them from the lycanthropes grasp. "Executor! We cannot allow this!"
GAME: Silmeria rolls intimidate: (3)+17: 20 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+24: (8)+24: 32 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+5: (20)+5: 25 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (13)+12: 25 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (16)+12: 28 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+21: (8)+21: 29 GAME: Aftershock rolls 10d6: (26): 26
Once again, Silmeria's gun seems to teleport out of her hand, leveling at the priest. "Explain, Alpha," she says, her voice dropping in tone and temperature. "Help you sought, and your fellows terrorized our people and our supplicants to force that help. Perhaps you thought us cattle, unworthy of answers, but I promise you this; I came to ensure that Mourner Verna's choices *remained her own,* and if you force this upon her? You will have declared war on Death, and A HUNTER SHOULD KNOW VERY WELL WHAT THIS MEANS."
Glittering silver-white light limns her form, and the barrel of the gun sights between the leader's eyes. "Stop this, *now.*"
"We do not fear death." Says the man standing in the center of the circle. His minions grab Verna more forcefully this time, and drag her toward him. He waves his fingers in Silmeria’s direction and yet looks at Verna. "Cease your struggling, or I will end your friend's life by pulling the very essence of her being out of her."
Indeed, his little hand-wave has done _something_ to Silmeria, because she looks _drained_. His green eyes glitter in the night as he shifts aside, revealing a massive statue of a twisted person. It looks like the little statues that Verna has seen but this one is nearly human-sized. "It is you who will die here if you fight us."
GAME: Verna rolls spellcraft+4: (6)+36+4: 46
Verna knows necromancy effects when she sees them. They are her specialty, afterall. This sparks a sudden thought-that is then summarily interrupted by her being grabbed bodily by the pair. Her struggling is token (perhaps even at full attempt) and brief before she stills. "Very well," she notes to the man. "Release her! Nor do we fear death..."
Her hood pans to Silmeria, pointedly seeking her eyes, ".. but I will not be held accountable for her judgment, nor that of any others before their time when I, myself, am judged." The firmness in her gaze softens. "If such is now, I would see Her without that burden."
GAME: Silmeria rolls intimidate: (11)+17: 28 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+24: (15)+24: 39 GAME: Silmeria rolls ranged+2+2: (5)+9+2+2: 18 GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d6+2+4d6: (3)+2+(17): 22
"...As you wish, Mourner," Silmeria says, before looking to the leader. "Perhaps you do not fear Death. But you *need* it. Without Death there is no hunt. Without Death there is no *fear.* Without Death there is no prey, and no *food.* But we? We *love* Death. Every final breath is an exultation to Her name, every stilled heart a gift, every freed soul company for Her. We *love* the Lady, and all the peace She brings to this world."
The barrel of the gun moves a fraction, and a faint ((Protocol -- Murder)) sounds from within the weapon's heart.
"Peace be with you, Mourner Verna."
- BLAM*
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (16)+12: 28 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (4)+12: 16 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+21: (14)+21: 35
The wolves grab Silmeria, trying to bear her away from Verna by force while Verna is dragged further away from the gun-toting woman. They don't it seems intend to allow Silmeria to finish what she began with her first shot.
Meanwhile the leader grabs ahold of the statue and lifts it. (My what strong arms you have.) With the twisted, horrible-looking thing in his hands he thrusts it _into_ Verna. It passes right through her robes and into her body with a horribly painful sensation like being run-through by a statue, but no blood pours free.
Verna is a scholar: curious, studious, ever open to new experiences and new knowledge. That said, the topic of impalement with a blunt object was not one she had considered, much less one she desired to gain a deeper understanding concerning. She does not notice that there is no blood, distracted as she is by the entirely novel sensation. Her first reaction is to scream. Her second is gasping to recover her breath from the first.
Her third is to pray; while more panting whisper than glorious call, it is prayer all the same. Mantra. Plea. "May she not be judged before her time. May she not be judged before her time. May she not..."
GAME: Silmeria rolls knowledge/religion: (15)+11: 26 GAME: Silmeria rolls intelligence: (18)+2: 20 GAME: Silmeria rolls ranged+2+2-5: (12)+9+2+2+-5: 20 GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d6+2+4d6+4: (1)+2+(16)+4: 23 GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d4: (3): 3 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (13)+12: 25 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+12: (1)+12: 13 (EPIC FAIL)
"No... NO!" Silmeria rails, hauling against the werewolves' grip. She looks from Mourner to statue to priest, and there's a moment where she considers a very bad idea indeed. Instead, she manages to tear one arm free before a solid grasp can be gotten, and grabs for her gun. The light surrounding her changes, becoming something more akin to the gleam on the edge of a well-sharpened blade, and with one hand she raises her pistol. Only one shot, no chance to reload...
And she takes the shot, carving a bloody furrow against the side of the leader's head, and popping a chunk off the top of his ear.
One of the wolves tries to grab Silmeria, and aid his comrade in holding the woman down, but he just barely misses her as that self-same comrade slips in the sand and releases the woman he was briefly holding onto. They both cuss irritably and look at eachother with blame. There's no time to be concerned about them though, because the leader of these wolves is _still_ shoving the statue into Verna's body. There's a darkness gathering all around Verna, and the werewolves holding her seem unnaturally uneasy. Their leader doesn't seem to care though, his head ringing from the bullet to his skull all he can do is focus on the task at hand.
At some point, between the shoving of statues and and nearby wizzing of slugs, Verna's mantra has changed. It is still quiet and more broken as the breath is all but pushed from her to be sucked in small gasps. Her focus has shifted from blessings to one, to ...blessings for all as she sees it. Peace, as she and Silmeria sought. Her words gain a sudden clarity and strength. "... judged ... time ... I would be judged now, Harpist, for what I have done... and not for what I might be forced to do..."
Stumbling free, Silmeria breaks her gun and slaps another bullet into the breech, muttering a desperate prayer under her breath. A quick look to either side tells her that the power gathering around Verna was *unexpected,* and *terrifying* to the devotees of the Hunter of Nightmares. This does *not* bode well. "Lady guide my hand and eye," she whispers, leveling Memento Mori at the casting priest. Loosing a breath, she pulls the trigger, training instantly moving her hands to load another bullet and fire.
Time slows, and the Speaker can *see* the leaden balls curve through the air, nudging just enough to arrow down and pierce the Mourner's heart, less than a finger's breadth apart. And as her perception returns to normal, the cheery blond closes her eyes, a tear sliding down either cheek. "Thank you, my Lady..."
Verna's body hits the ground. The last of the statue fading into her body but there's an echoing silence. The darkness around her fades and the werewolves all turn toward Silmeria. Their leader stares at Verna's body dispassionately. "You killed her." He sounds... surprised. He lifts his head and his green eyes glitter gold in the dim lighting. "You should run little woman. Back to Alexandria. Tell them what you did. Run, because I can not hold my servants for long, and they _will_ kill you."
"It seems as though you've been lying to your people," Silmeria says, lowering the pistol. "I saw *fear* in their eyes, when they beheld the shade of what you summoned. I were you, *Alpha,* I would worry about more immediate concerns. Because I am taking my sister home to see to the dispensation of her soul, and to inform my people that the Nightmare has called war on Death. And you, Alpha, will regret this day for a long, long time."
Showing no trace of fear, surrounded by wolves, the Inquisitor moves to collect the corpse she had created, and sling it across her shoulders to carry home.
GAME: Silmeria rolls intimidate: (19)+17: 36 GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+24: (6)+24: 30
-End