RP Crowsong

The smoke looked a thin, cheerful, greeting thing on such a day of sucking mud and damp clothes. Not quite full in the grayness of its puffs to promise a fire raging strong, but enough for warmth while sitting close with a familiar face. She reached the top of the hill, her pace no faster than it had been through the village. Sana had learned that such things didn’t require rushing to and fro as if she were still some chick in her sixties, the building would remain where it was even if she arrived a handful of hours this way or that.

Years were more troubling, but perhaps in a life after she would be born as a thing so brief that it wouldn’t have time to be bothered by the years.

Still, she was at the door now, so she knocked, and felt a little troubled in so doing. It was the voices that made their way through the wood, less joyous as they were... creeping. Sana didn’t wait for a call to enter, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The house was in a touch of a mess, and the people, familiar faces most, all seemed to be in a touch of a tizzy.

“Good day,” Sana looked first to Dzwoynr with a questioning hum, then to Pyotr with a narrowing of her eyes. “What seems to be troubling us, friends?” She asked, cheerfully enough for the cold in the room and the chill on her shoulders.
 
In the back garden, illuminated by a flash of lightning high above, what Dzwonyr had seen would be revealed for all who looked to see; a corpse, haphazardly buried, arms and legs splayed out in treelike fashion. Dirt was piled atop the body in a poor attempt to conceal what was there, with the ground being too hard at the foot of a mountain to properly dig down into without tools. Their face was covered, but the shape was distinctly human.

Meanwhile, beneath the Fey glamor of Pyotr, Fen felt a quiver about her neck. The compass she had stumbled across so long ago, when she had first stepped foot in the material plane, shook, if only slightly, the twinned dragon needle spinning about it's axis not long after Sana's arrival. It began to focus on a direction, momentarily pointing towards Dzwonyr, before falling back into its standard orientation, pointing north.​
 
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Fen continued smiling, even as Dzwonyr leveled the crossbow at her head. If he happened to fire, it'd go whizzing over her actual head, but it might hurt her hat, and she really didn't want that. It was a nice hat! Soft and snug-fitting, and comfy on her ears, the first she found that didn't just slip down past them over her face.

"I think we're being hasty, friends," she murmured, backing up towards the door. At least she had a way out, if things got messy. It -

The door opened, and another person stepped in, blocking her escape. Oh dear oh dear oh no. This was a lot of people, and they were all looking at her in a way she really wasn't liking. She could try the lights. She should try the lights. But the more people there were, the more of a chance there was of someone not caring, and when people didn't care about her lights, they got quite upset.

The compass at her neck shook. She glanced down at it in time to see if point towards Dzwonyr. Now, that was odd - she hadn't asked it anything, so why had it done that?

Oh - maybe it was saying to use the lights on him. Yes, that was cleverly clever. He was the one making a mess of things, so if she could make him say it was all okay, then everyone else would be okay with things too!

Yes, yes yes, smart little needle.

"Dzwonyr?" she said, if only to get his attention - before whistling a sharp note and stretching out her ears, her tail flaring above her in a flash of colors.

[Charm Person, DC 14, WIS]
 
“I would much rather not get soaked further.” Aibek shuffled away from the door, dragging his equipment behind him, settling on the opposite side of the room from the cleric.

The looks, it's always the looks. A fey and a giant, those things become character inside the arena, a story. Out here, that made him untrustworthy, it made people look at him like that.

I am no weirder than anyone else here, they simply do not know me.

He tried his best to convince himself it was simply that, unfamiliarity, just this once.

One second, he was lost in thought, focused on the throbbing pain that's been poking at the back of his mind for the past few minutes, letting this group he has somehow snuck his way into sort themselves out. The next, Pyotr had cast something on the guy he's been arguing with for the past few minutes.

[Detect Magic, at will]

The room lit up in Aibek’s eyes, his mind filled with whispers, barely able to keep focus on the people surrounding him.

A Charm spell, an Illusion, A Fey, Necrotic magic.

His head pounded with pain one last time before finally quieting down.

“So…” he began, as his arm reached forwards, through the false captain’s head, then up, attempting to dispel the illusion. “Has this Pyotr always been fey?”
 
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✦
"The months have treated me well, thank you." She responded warmly, "Though I worry 'tis not long before their goodwill runs out..."

Her eyes drifted lazily across the room as tensions continued to rise, settling briefly on each companion, as if trying to pick apart the situation before it could unfold. Sana, the scholar, arrived just as the crossbow was raised- an awful sight to behold, that was certain. Though far from her usual scope, this was still a tragedy befitting of the Witness. To see one's lifelong companions at each other's throats, during what was supposed to be a pleasant reunion...

Then, the spell was cast. The stranger did not need to give his explanation; the fact that something was amiss was plain to see. Fey magic. Glamour. All of which the thing wearing Pyotr's face was trying to hide. She did not yet know its intentions- though, judging by the corpse in the backyard, she could certainly guess. Should Dzwonyr be charmed by this creature, the rest of them might be joining their leader.

Felys turned towards the fey, her smile unbroken. Then, her voice laced with magic, she addressed it.

"That's quite enough, thank you."

✦
39
[7d8]
SLEEP [Lv2]

✦
 
Dzwonyr's finger tensed to fire-- only for his shot to go wide, the dancing light in the air behind Pyotr sending a numbing shock through the mind. Sound faded out; at once, he felt lightweight, euphoric, the rush of blood through his head leaving him to stagger backwards and slump against the countertop.

"Ghh-hh-- hnnhh..."

A low moaning grunt fell from his lips. The world swam about him; his mind felt odd. Conflicting emotions clashed and melded together, evening out into complicit apathy, though the most damning sensation was the weightlessness-- like he was floating within the air, unable to move. Unable to think.

"... t-told you. Told you I don't know. Just kill me." Dzwonyr whispered under his breath-- gritting his teeth and clutching his head in his hand.
 
The lights took - but it made things a lot a lot worse.

Fen could only stare proudly around at the other guests with a satisfied grin before the fluffy one stepped forward and jammed his hand into her head. Or, well, at least, where her head was supposed to be. Instead, his hand found the tippy-top of her hat. Fen reached up to grab it, pulling it tight onto her head, but already Pyotr was shimmering and warping.

"Stop-stop-stop!" she shouted, taking a step back towards the corner and glancing around the room frantically. "Get out of my house! Don't want you here anymore!"

She considered making a dart for the door, even with the newest one in front of it. Maybe not the door. The window. The back door. She could even hide where she was, maybe maybe, and stay there until they all decided to leave. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, for a moment, Pyotr began to vanish from sight -

Until the calm, quiet words of the sleepy one broke through.

Pyotr was gone, now, but in his place, a smaller figure collapsed in a pile on the floor, form partially obscured by a mix of oversized clothes and a mop of wild hair around her.
 
When the chaos finally resolved into something Smoke could track, a few things had changed about the situation.

1: Sana was here. Wonderful. They could all stand as witnesses to this catastrophe together.

2: Dzwonyr was now slumped against the counters, moaning like a drunkard. He was saying something about wanting to die, too. Which didn't seem entirely like him.

3: The crossbow bolt was no longer where it should have been. Instead, it was sticking out of the wall. It was still quivering.

4: Pyotr was gone. Some sort of humanoid rodent creature had taken his place. A fey humanoid rodent creature. A creature who had just attacked Dzwonyr.

5: Except Pyotr wasn't gone, because now that she followed where the others had been looking, there was a poorly-hidden corpse in the garden.

"Back to traipsing, I guess," Smoke said, matter-of-factly. The last dregs of her good mood had finally leaked out of her. She went over to Dzwonyr, trying to help him up and lead him over to an intact chair. The man might not accept her aid, but if there was one thing that wouldn't make this reunion any less of a disaster, it was him falling over and busting his head open.
 
“Oh, this is quite the mess.” Sana said, her attention to the view of the corpse out the window. There didn’t seem to be much of a chance for further violence, with Dzwonyr and the fae who had been wearing Pyotr now dozing off. “Well, we best see to the little one so they can’t go scampering off once they wake.” Sana said, starting to sort through Pyotr’s things, looking for some rope. Pyotr had always been a well prepared man, so she hadn’t any doubt he would have rope on hand if he was hoping for one last adventure.

“My good fellow, might I ask a pair of favors from you?” Sana asked the giant. “If you could place that little one on the chair so we can tie her up, that would be lovely. Hopefully we can get this all sorted out without any more needless violence.” She knelt down and opened a chest. Smoke with helping Dzwonyr to a chair, a shame this is how they had to meet once again.

“After that I would like to make a proper grave for Pyotr, he deserved better than to have that for his final rest.”
 
Deep in the recesses of his mind, Dzwonyr was being faced with a memory, a nightmare. Events still fresh on his mind, redisturbed by the fey charming magic, interferred with by the second presence sharing his form. The skin around the socket of his covered eye would burn with an icy cold, as slivers of ice pierced into his mind. No words were spoken, or thought, in this case, but all the same, he would be left with a deathly chill and the foreboding sense of dread as the charm fell away, leaving him seated in an armchair, thanks to Ashen Smoke.​

Meanwhile, for everyone else gathered, as the lights faded away and the fey creature collapsed in a heap, they would be left with several questions. It was evident that the fey had assumed Pyotr's identity, just as it was obvious that she had never actually met the man in question. Much of their former companion's recent quirks could be explained by the fact that not much time had been invested in truly mimicking the man, and was clearly instead relying on magic and the lack of visitors.

The body outside was likely his. The inside of the house, while certainly messy, didn't seem to show the telltale signs of conflict, not as one would expect to see them. Laid out on a nearby table would be several books, papers, and notes. Most of the furniture and shelves around the room they found themselves in had a thin layer of dust, save for the table, the armchair Dzwonyr found himself in, and a frankly worryingly distinct path leading towards the stairs, likely from where Pyotr had frequented before his untimely demise.​
 
Dzwonyr seemed receptive to the aid, though not entirely cognizant of it; wherever he was, it certainly wasn't here, not in the conventional sense of the word. His body was chilled; his breath came out in a soft, whispered fog of condensation, body giving a brief shiver until he seemed to regain his lucidity, slowly but surely. His hand shot instinctually to his dagger, fingertips pausing upon the hilt as his lone eye shot open to gaze upon Smoke-- confusion evident alongside recognition, as he remembered where he was and what had just happened.

"... the garden." He muttered eventually, voice hoarse. He rested his head in one palm, cradling the eyepatched orbit with a hiss of pain. "His body's in the garden. Sticking out of the fucking dirt..."

Pyotr had been a good man. The best of all of them, really, and an unshakable leader to a fault. Was this how good men were to die, then? Half-buried beyond their homes, killed by wayward fey?

"The fates condemn us." He muttered, grimly. "All just a fucking joke to them. Go see for yourself. Can anyone here... can anyone here speak with dead."
 
Aibek stared down the small fey creature curled up in the middle of the room. Gently scooping her up in his arms, then sitting her down on the chair pointed out to him, he takes the chance to look at her better, attempting to recognize the kind of fey they are dealing with.
Sadly, regardless of his own lineage, he was far from an expert in the feywild. Still, he could not shake off the feeling that she was ultimately harmless.

[11+2 survival]

Now, tying people to chairs has never been something Aibek has had to practice or do for any specific reason, so... he tried his best. Wrapping the rope around the tiny unconscious body, then tying it to the back of the chair, then undoing it, trying again, after the first attempt turned out definetly too tight, eventually finding himself only mildly satisfied with the job done.

He kept one hand up against the cieling, careful to not hit his head as he stood back up. "Communing with the dead has never been my expertise, but i can dig."

This was no good, he could only pray that this would not impact whatever he needed to do to make her shut up. The thought of the fey being the sole reason he was accidentally invited at all crossed his mind, but he made sure to expel that idea before anyone else could read it on his face. He needed to be here, or he would never hear the end of it if he wasnt, so... better make himself useful, and fast.
 
"No, I can't either," Smoke confirmed. The irritation had faded from her face, leaving it blank and hollow. Which, well, summed up how she was feeling right now pretty effectively. Pyotr was dead--killed, apparently, by a little fey monster who stole skins, but couldn't be bothered to learn her victim's mannerisms. She hadn't even been able to hide his body properly.

"I could take a look at his body, though, if you like. If you're going to dig him up anyway." She glanced between the giant and the warrior. "And then, sure, yes, we can bury him properly." And that sounded dismissive, but burial was what other people did. The First Rite had a whole host of funerary rites, depending on what the dead person had wanted, but she'd always been a fan of burial at sea--or, failing that, of cremation. Land burial felt disrespectful. Like an inexpert attempt to hide from your loss.

A quick glance around the room was even more dispiriting. She could track his movements by the dust he'd disturbed.

"I'm going to go look upstairs, while you dig and interrogate. Call if anything goes wrong." And then she followed the dust path up towards the staircase.
 
“Nor I,” Sana said with a faint shake of her head. Perhaps she could find something like that hidden away in the pages of a book somewhere, but by the time she could find such a thing it would have long been past the time it would have been of any use. So, for now they’d just need to make due with getting Pyotr a more final rest, and figuring out what had happened here. “Smoke, that would be a great help.” Sana knelt down next to the now bound figure with a sigh.

“For the time being I’ll keep an eye on the little one.” Sana said. “And I’ll see what I can learn once they awaken.” How long would Felys’ spell last anyway?
 
"You shouldn't go alone," Dzwonyr muttered out to Smoke, moving up to his feet-- skin taking on a deeper bit of pallor than was present from the bite of the rain, which only seemed to make the man appear even moodier. He took after the cleric upon the stairs. "Wyrmfire scorch us if there's another Gods-damned fey in here and we walk into whatever trap they've set."

Subduing the one who'd assumed a glamour of Pyotr had hardly calmed Dzwonyr down. If anything, it seemed to set him on edge further-- knife and crossbow in either hand as he observed the gathered dust about the upstairs hallway, giving only a passing glance of suspicion to Smoke while the pair separated themselves from the main group.

"Could be that the letter wasn't real." Dzwonyr muttered. "Interrogated him, gutted him, then impersonated him. Not sure why their goal would be to invite us." It seemed, at this point, that his words were more for himself than the cleric-- brow furrowing as his mind flashed through potential avenues, his singular eye peeled for any threats. While certainly on edge, he certainly didn't seem disheveled like those who succumbed to paranoia often did; if anything, he maintained the predatory rigor that'd been assumed when he'd smelled blood in the air and discerned the ruse. It was clear, however-- if not to the cleric, then to the others that'd traveled with him before-- that the Dzwonyr of the present was a far cry from the Dzwonyr of the past, if such a comparison could have been drawn at all.

"... couldn't be with wyrmkin. Right-- ?..."
 
Groggy. Groggy and a bit tizzy. Stizzy? Dizzy.

She was - sitting. Sitting on a chair. Sitting on a chair, not of her own desire, but because someone placed her there, and then decided to wrap a bunch of rope helter-kelter around her like it was meant to keep her in it. Eyes closed, Fen felt out the ropes, running her fingers along them, then felt the edges of the chair.

She opened one eye.

They were still in the house. Not just her - her, the sleepy one, with the soft voice, and the newest one, with worldwise eyes. The one who'd blocked her door. Closing the first eye, she opened the second. The sleepy one had done something. Said - something. She was gonna get away, but then -

Right. Right, right right. She'd put a bit of push behind her words, and before Fen knew it, she was hitting the ground. She opened her first eye, both now open, and blinked.

"Hi."
 
He made his way back outside, this time, trough the back of the building, where the limbs of Pyotr sprouted up from the recently moved earth.
Quickly looking around, the place was a mess. An overgrown garden, clealy neglected for quite some time, with hard, rocky, frozen over terrain. No shovel in sight, hells, Aibek was doubting the man ever even owned one.

Luckily the ground around the body, being dug up recently and the "grave" being quite shallow, was loose and fairly easy to move, so, wondering how could that tiny creature manage to dig even this much on her own, he grabbed one of the man's arms. It was cold, hard and clearly deep in rigor mortis. The skin was slick with an oily sheen and it slipped slightly from the muscle as he tugged to get him out- he had been there a while.

"Eugh."

With very little effort, the corpse was free of its dirt cover and in plain sight. He was starting to blister, maggots crawling on and around him; his skin had a yellowish pallor to it except for the sides he had been laying on after death, which showed a horrid tumescent purple color. The reek of death and decay hit Aibek's nostrils all at once, making tears well up in his eyes and the last meal he consumed crawl up his throat. This was going to be rough.

[medicine 14+2]
 
✦
And so, the fae awoke.

She would be met with a smile, the same serenity Felys had been showing this entire time- half-wise or half-asleep, her hands loosely clasped together beneath her sleeves. The ropework seemed tidy, but she was wary nonetheless. Though hardly an expert in the ways of the fae, she had encountered them a few times in her travels, and new that a feeling of safety was the most dangerous thing one could possess in their presence.

There was no need to make herself frightening, though. Perhaps the ability to talk this through was not yet lost, provided the creature shared her desire to keep things smooth.

"Hello, dear." She nodded, "Are you feeling alright? It sounds like you hit the ground awfully hard- I do apologise for that."

Felys sighed, alongside a vague, open shrug.

"But you understand that you left me without a choice, don't you?"
✦
 
Fen blinked again.

It was certainly the least predictable of predicaments she could've found herself in, but judging by the two facts that the sleepy one seemed awfully sorry about it, and that she - minus the little bump from the tumble - was decidedly unharmed, the situation was veering more on the side of interesting than scary at the moment. It wasn't everyday one found themselves tied to a chair. Truth-told, it was neveryday for her, until now.

"Made a topple of me," Fen replied, staring at the sleepy one intensely. "We got lots of choices. Could've kept playing along, could've left. No fun that you stopped, but gotta say gotta say, this is a lot more fun than leaving."

She grinned.

"Found me out right-fast. Poor Fen, poor Fen. Now she's in a - a - a bind! Yes. A bind. Yes, yes."

Giggling, she plucked at the ropes.

"And not a very good one."
 
Following the path left by the late Pyotr, Dzwonyr and Ashen Smoke made their way up, to the second floor. Just as sparsely decorated as the lower, it was immediately clear that this was where he had spent the majority of his time leading up to his untimely demise. Pushed into the far corner, unmade, sat his bed, largely undisturbed, a burnt out candle sitting on the table next to it. A desk was up against a wall, a quill set out beneath the window. At the foot of the bed sat a trunk, latch undone but shut.

---

Elsewhere, in the back garden, Aibek was in the rain again. With the body pulled free, it was immediately apparent that poor Pyotr had been dead for several days. Upon examination, though, it was difficult to discern what had actually spelled his demise. Blood had obviously pooled along his back, the implication being that he had been face up, and it was rather even. As far as the firbolg could tell, there were no obvious wounds, though it was possible that he had simply missed them between the weather and the stench. ​
 
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