Private Tales From Rot, The Cursed Beast Trots

[Lazarus of Minaris]

A man that smokes a pipe knows that when he endeavors for the most refined consumption, he must have within his possession at least three ensembles. One for the chair, one for the hare, and one for the mare. That is, a pipe for luxury, a pipe for utility, and a pipe for travel. To deviate from this delineation can only create turmoil in the man’s soul which, as we must know, is tantamount to the failed refinement of the gentleman’s pursuit.​

-Maester Fidestro Campeelo, Treatise: Compendium for Mysticism and Genteelism​

​

Somewhere in the Allirian Reach...​

The day was early and in most respects, had not even begun. Dawn, following the utter darkness of the preceding night, had broken its fast eerily across the Allirian foothills. With the sun not yet lifting above the shallow rolling hills, long shadows were still cast across the compressed layer of mist and fog that filled hollows with mystery and uncertainty.​

Lazarus had taken to his bottom lip with a bit of zeal. He imagined that as the day progressed, he would be dealing with a bit of chap and given his need for pipe, he was certainly destined for some circadian desiccation. His need for a pipe was naturally utilitarian. The smell of burning vegetation, whether cultivated or otherwise, would assist with deterring the lingering stench of death.​

“Late risers?” He tapped the stirrups of his mount. The horse trotted in a circle before coming to rest along the road.​

“No sir. Up before dawn most times.”​

The hillside, guarded by a long row of wooden slat fencing, was peppered with cattle. All of different colors: Basics of black or red or white, brindles with strips of black and red, dilution crosses of white and grey, and brocklings with white spots. Variety was the spice of life but in this very instance, it was also the spice of death. Not a standing beast among them.​

“Plenty of flowers in this pasture...?” He puffed on the pipe as he felt the wind change. It was a MacArthur pipe by design with a majority of construction based on maize. The stem and bit, flared to a fishtail tip, was composed of stained ivory. All in all, it was assuredly a pipe for the mare.​

“Ah yes, sir. Yes. We rotate.” The farmer was hunched and windswept, pointing crooked fingers over the fence towards various areas. “We move 'em sir, move 'em all over.”​

“Hmm. And when were they last keen for prancing?”​

“Yesterday. Had them on the back pasture for a fortnight.”​

“Right.”​

A long pause passed between the two as Lazarus puffed on his pipe. Gaze moving from one side of the field to the other, the farmer was the first to break the silence.​

“You think it could be the waters? Or perhaps dissenters? I had a good crop, best in the foothills some say.”​

“Some say?”​

“Mhm. Some.”​

Lazarus smiled and kicked his heels. “I suspect not.” With that, he moved past the farmer with the intent on trudging towards one of the small villages within the area. He needed to sort out where this had gone, where it was heading, and hopefully sort out how to predict where it would end.​

“What about my cattle? Lost a lot of money out in the weeds.”​

“Make off towards the keep, eh? Correspond with your clerk, see about insurance and your remuneration. Tell them to send the bill to the Erca’Ryt Trading Company.”​

With that, he picked up his pace and took off down a marching trail.​

Míriel Fëanorna ​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

I am running out of hope.

Last night another of my mares died and now your beloved Marcey is showing symptoms of The Plight. It doesn't seem to be contained to just horses either, but cattle too. I can find nothing in the fields that would have caused this and the water has been sent for testing but I fear it will be to late before an answer reaches us. In all your years upon the earth have you heard of anything like this? I cannot lose another horse, Miriel. Every one that dies is like a lance to my heart. Please...

Help us.​

The horse mistress would never consider herself a vet per see but her years of working with horses had seen her pick up a great many things, far more than many humans would pick up in their scant years upon Arethil. It was not unusual therefore that she found herself being called upon for aid. It was quite rare that she couldn't find a cure; the Wilds were an untapped source for most of the West who dared not enter her homelands. Yet... This. This she had never seen the likes of before.

"Hush sweet thing," Miriel ran a hand down Marcey's fevered neck and brushed her mane back off her face. There was a pail of water beside her and she wet another rag and ran it over the burning skin to cool her. The young mare rolled her eye and snorted but she put up no fight even though the whites of her eyes showed starkly against her lovely bay coat. She trusted the elf who had raised her since a foal and sent her to this place for a new life. The fact Miri didn't believe she could save her pained her even more because of that knowledge.

She stayed with her for a few more moments before standing and leaving the stables, peeling her long gloves off and tucking then into her back pocket as she shut the door behind her. The woman she had sold her horse too, a fellow breeder, wrung her hands with worry at the troubled look upon the elf's face. Her breath left her in a sobbed rush.

"I knew it was bad."

"I have never seen its like before, and the speed at which is spreads..." Miriel shook her head. She had seen plagues before that had decimated the human population but never one quite so bad in animals. There was only one real explanation that came to her mind and that was that magic lay behind it. But what purpose was there to such a curse? "Amaeli I will find the root of this," Miri gently laid a hand on the woman's shoulder and squeezed. They shared a look of understanding and then the elf was moving past her and back out of the stables to where Thorlion stood impatiently. The smell of death hung in the air and he disliked it. The black winged horse pranced away from her as she approached and stopped to wash herself in the small stream nearby; she wouldn't risk passing the disease onto him. Once she was done she vaulted onto his back and pressed her heels to his flank. He didn't need much encouragement to put distance between themselves and the farm as they headed towards the town proper. Perhaps they would find answers there.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

It wasn't long before the flatlands of the Allir Reach took a gradual upswing towards rolling foothills, covered in a wide expanse of harlequin, jade, and shamrock green. As the mist and fog was burned off by the rising sun, a gentle breeze took its place and made itself known through the swaying movement of millet, bluegrass, switchgrass, and the occasional volunteer patch of wheat. The trails that passed for merchant trading routes were guarded by dilapidated fencing but even at that, the lack of maintenance left the features encumbered and, sometimes, entirely overcome by a pertinent need for pasture and cattle. ​

​

As this particular foothill crested the horizon, a shallow descent led the path down into a small fishing village that ensnared an ombrotrophic lake. There were no clear cuts of tributaries and no distant waterways to feed the location, which left rain or geomorphology as the cause for such lasting up-welling. And given to the nature of the lake existing in a largely flat terrain, the water bled out into cattail and spatterdock infested marshes that were occasionally ornamented by moss pocked docks.​

​

The lake itself was rather picturesque, taken to the imagery of a blue swath littered by thousands of reflective iridescent gems. The general tranquility was occasionally interrupted by splash of an overzealous crappie attempting flight, the toss of a stone by a couple children playing across a steeper embankment, or the plop of a fish line embellished with a wine stained cork bobber. In general, Lazarus was given the impression that whatever plague was passing through the land, it had not yet afflicted this location. A location, based on the wooden sign along the crossroads, went by the name of Ryndal.​

​

"New 'round here, traveler?"​

"Mmm." He nodded to an old man, pushing a small cart led by a mule, up from the small town. "Has this land...Ryndal, been affected by a midnight affliction?"​

"Hmm." The man stopped and sighed, leaning against his cart, and proceeded to furiously scratch a hairy mole on his chin. "Not 'at I know, Sir. But I's just passin' through, ya see. On my way to Alliria proper. Got's some tradings for baubles and broaches in the Shallows, I do. You wouldn't care ta linger on my wares, would ya?"​

​

Lazarus wasn't accustomed to mercantile processes being worded in such ways. If he hadn't known better, he'd imagined he was being tantalized by a lifted skirt on the banisters of a bawdy house.​

​

"No, thank you. A bit of knicks and knacks doesn't impair my purposes, 'less it comes with a side of frill and chance of delicate unraveling."​

​

The man laughed and revealed a nearly toothless mouth. "Ya won't find much in the way of that down here, lad. Sun's too low and the waters too high, I'm afeared. Nothing but some fish houses, a tavern with hooch and swill, a church, and an apothecary. And the hedges left wild, me thinks."​

"That right?" Lazarus laughed, surprised the man understood enough to continue the banter. He took old codger for the shadow of a pirate, once adept at walking on water but now shaky even on land.​

"As right as the rain is wet, I say. Anyway, off I go. On my way, yes sir."​

"Avoid this path." Lazarus pointed with the crop. "A sickness has claimed some cattle and I'm not inclined to put weight in miasma. Best to take the southern route, avoid trouble for your mule."​

"Mmm, might do 'at. Thank you for the wise words, traveler. Eh..." He stammered. "Tavern is down 'at way. If it's answers you want, I wouldn't toss dice on it. But 'at's the best place to start."​

​

Lazarus nodded, gratefully, and made his way into town.​

​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

"A'int been any o' that round 'ere Missy," the barkeep barely gave the elf more than a cursory glance. Her kind were rare in his little town but he was never one to turn away a customer with gold, especially if she had a pretty face. Were a shame about 'em tattoos though, he thought to himself as he raked his eyes down her form not at all subtly before returning to his current task of cleaning down the bar behind which he stood. It had been a busy night the one previous and he was making the most of the quiet morning before the lunch rush when folk came back off the lake.

A small line marred her brow as she pulled the tankard to her and took a sip of the cool cider. It was a little too sweet for her tastes but she had been able to smell the ale from down the road and it hadn't been a pleasant one. It seemed as though even news of disease which was only a little way up the road had yet to even reach the small fishing village. If they were unprepared then it could very well fall as quickly as the outlying farms had been. She slid a gold piece over to the bar and requested a plate of food to be brought over before taking her tankard and moving to occupy one of the booths.

It wasn't a particularly impressive tavern but it was the only one in the town so it drew enough of a crowd to warrant its size. Its furniture had seen better days and there were still several obvious markers of a brawl from the night before: a smashed stool swept into the corner here, glass glistening still on a seat there. Miriel set the tankard down before unclipping the harness to her dual blades that sat snugly across her back. She lent them against the wall within easy reach before sitting down and mulling over what she knew. Perhaps it would be best to wait until the rush later on and see if there were anymore helpful folk in the town who might have travelled beyond its borders and seen something. Not that she truly knew what that something even was; a man dressed in an ominous black robe with balls of glowing green flame lacing his fingers? She almost snorted at her own thoughts.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

Lazarus, after pinning the mare to the hitching post, took more than a casual moment to sort out the name of the tavern. The signage at some point in the recent past would have been two wooden planks, clung together with fish eye hooks and left to clatter and clank in the heavy winds. But it seemed care hadn't been of any particular concern for the tavern owner. The top sign had the word "Blue" written across it in delicate script. The bottom sign, hanging by one hook and covered largely in moss, was a mystery.​

​

Blue herring...perhaps.​

​

As he opened the door, a brass bell thudded against a wrought iron bracket but was muted and hard to make out. He assumed it had long ago been deconstructed for the annoyance it would produce. Reaching up to remove his top hat, he slid the door shut against a hardy gust of wind and patted down his lapel.​

​

"Clappers gone awry..." He stated pointedly towards the barkeep, working meticulously on a stain. By his initial impression and the vigor of the keep, Lazarus assumed it was a stain to stay. "Hums when it should clink."​

"Huh?" The barkeep looked up. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Been kicked one too many times."​

"Haven't we all. Abeyance is for the best, I wager."​

"Oh, she's gone for good I imagine."​

​

Lazarus place his hat down on the bar-top, glancing casually towards an oddly garbed Elf sitting in one of the booths. Content to think on that a bit later, he placed his attention back on the barkeep.​

​

"Neck stamper make for proper circuit in these parts."​

"Been a day or two, truthfully. Not quite at the dregs but it makes for more than a pittance."​

"Hmm. Flip then?"​

"Aye could do that. Brandy a bit sour."​

"That suits me...not keen on powdering hair. I'll take the snifter with a few words."​

"Those be sour, too, I'm afraid." The barkeep moved as he began the concoction of beer, sugar, and brandy.​

"I'm looking for word on a sickness...tracked it from the strait to just west of here."​

​

The barkeep paused in preparation of the drink, lifting his eyes towards the elf in the booth. It wasn't a gesture that Lazarus missed. Turning, the boatswain looked towards the woman and narrowed his gaze.​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Movement through the smeared and dirty window caught her eye and she leaned back in the ratty sparse cushions of the booth to garner a better look. It was hard to see much of the figure through such dirty glass but she could make out the mare being tied not too far from her own horse. She didn't need to see her black stallion to know his ears were probably pricked right now and the thought made her smirk a little into her mug. It was definitely going to be a spirited ride wherever they went next. Her amusing line of thoughts were interrupted as the dark figure she had made out belonging to the mare walked in. There was a touch of other about him - not quite human - but it was like a light seasoning of exotic ancestry not a main ingredient. Still it added something to his whole being and his looks and drew her eye for longer than a cursory glance. He didn't look like he belonged here, which was the main thing standing out to her. Seemed to be a place not used to strangers so it was rather a coincidence two would walk into the same bar...

Miriel glanced away when the serving girl, a scrawny thing with red hair and a smattering of freckles on pasty skin, appeared at her elbow with her plate of food. She set it down with a clatter and then waited expectantly. A soft sigh escaped her lips and after a moment she flicked a copper coin to the youngster who snatched it out of the air with a feral quickness then made it disappear amongst the folds of her skirt. The gold had meant to cover tips but she didn't doubt for a moment that the man would keep any extra change for himself.

The food was surprisingly good. The fish was slow smoked and served with fresh vegetables smothered in butter. Despite her thoughts being on that of plague and pestilence she found herself famished and quickly tucked in to the meal. It gave her the ability to focus on something whilst listening to the conversation between the two men. She was beginning to believe it was only his initial appearance that was interesting as the conversation droned on about this beverage or that - what was the human obsession with alcohol anyway - until he mentioned the sickness.

Her ears twitched. It was hard to mistake the feel of the barkeep and then the newcomer upon her. She finished off her mouthful then took a sip of the cider before raising her eyes innocently to the pair.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"Gentlemen...?" The barkeep responded, incredulous.​

"Half-Hour Gentlemen...at best." Lazarus responded holding out his hand for the barkeep to fill with the recently finished drink. "Dig me out once I finish, not looking to leave you stranded."​

"Yes, sir." He rejoined, handing over the drink and getting back to that particularly stubborn stain.​

​

Lazarus swirled the drink and pulled the hat from the counter, slowly moving towards the seated elf.​

"I suspect you could help. Though to speak truthfully, cross-road signage left my expectations a bit meager upon my peregrination. 'Lot of pallid praters, bored fish-wives, and half-rats seamen meandering about an otherwise tranquil village."​

​

He pointed towards the seat across from her. "Mind if I join you? They say messengers need a mind of gold and an ass of steel and unfortunately, I seem to be absent both." He had spent too much time at sea and too little upon horse. He could still feel the cramped muscles chasing him through the tavern.​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel had spent over 150 years in the company of humans and their strange sense of humour would never cease to amuse her. She watched the pair banter back and forth with a bemused look, eyebrows slightly drown and her lips painting a crooked picture. As the stranger began to make his way over to her she leaned back into her seat and went back to her drink though her eyes never left him. There was a slight wariness to her gaze; she was not so foolish as to expect friendliness wherever she went especially from humans. They could be particularly hateful towards those of her kind and suspicious also. If he was tracking the plague his natural thought might in fact be she was to blame considering the mysticism that surrounded elves.

"Of course not," she stretched her leg across and gently pushed it out from under the table for him. "You are a long way from any major city to be travelling without those assets," Miri set her mug down and picked up her knife and fork again as if she had been waiting for him all this time to finish her meal. "So what can I help you with?"

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"A bit far from the prawns, unfortunately." He admitted as he sat down, setting his hat off to the end of the booth. He was fine when taking to the saddle, but he hadn't been long for trading his sea legs for riding gloves.​

​

"Truthfully, my belief in your assistance comes entirely from the can's granny." Lazarus tipped his chin towards the barkeep who was doing his best to feign ignorance regarding the conversation. Lazarus was now confident that the stain was either gone forever or eternally tabbed at the bar. "Seems you conversed with him over the matter of ailments. A bit more than just a case of trots."​

​

He hadn't overheard the conversation but he had poked around a bit. The barkeep was a man for banter but not for forethought. Given the distance from Elbion College or any other mystical place of tutelage, it didn't surprise the boatswain that the keep didn't have any particular defense against mental prodding. "And as it so happens, I am tracking a smidge of cut finger from the strait. Just a few miles..." He pointed towards the wall. "That-a-way. Dead cows as far as the eye. And not the sort that speaks to epithet and poor ensembles."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

A sailor? Miriel put a piece of fish in her mouth and chewed quietly as he spoke, taking the moment to study his face. His skin was definitely darkened by the sun in the way of sailors or farmers. But it begged the question as to why he was this far inland and why the topic of pestilence was particularly interesting to him. Of course she had heard the conversation between the two gentlemen and she hadn't missed the slightly accusatuonary look the bar keep had given her. She doubted this man had either. This was in fact one of the polietest and subtle interrogations she had ever had in a bar.

She chased her mouthful of food down with her cider then daintly began cutting up one of the rosemary roasted potatoes that had been served with it.

"Horses too," a small line formed betwixt her brows as she thought about the state of Marcey. "I'm a horse breeder from Alliria, a fellow breeder asked me to come out and take a look at her horses. She's lost six in the space of a few days," she popped the forkful of food in her mouth and chewed. "I haven't seen anything like it before, I suspect magic but I have no evidence. But I'm more curious to know... Why does a sailor care about a bunch of dead cows?"

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"Intuition has a way of festering in the guts, hmm? No need for evidence when one is set upon all-overish." It was the way the sickness was operating that gave away its character, he thought. And more so, he had a bit of inside information regarding the origins of the pestilence. But even so, it was easy to tell rain was on its way amidst the throws of a storm cloud. Or in this case, an uneasiness that clung to the shimmering water and swaying field of poppies.​

​

"Though..." He took a bit of the flip and ruminated on what her comment meant for the diseases movement. "If you're here and I was there, it means that it might be jumping. Silver lining in its transmission singularly in ungulates, for now... a serving of morbs is a bit easier to swallow from a bit o raspberry, innit?"​

​

There were advantages to having his own concoction of dialect. An act of complimentary soliloquy could often go unnoticed. "Not truly a sailor, by all regards. More of a trader by sea..." He wasn't sure he knew the difference there. "And this chase is personal for me. You suspect mysticism and I...am abase with envy for your uncertainty."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel stared at the man for several beats of a human heart as she tried to decipher what exactly he had just said to her. She could speak several different languages fluently and some less so but it was always the Tongue of Man that gave her the most agony because no two same people seemed to speak it the same. It was like they took their own laws and threw them in the air in wild disbandon. Or, in this case, set it on fire.

"You... know the practitioner who cast the curse?" Her brow furrowed again. That's what she thought he had said. Or that he knew for certain it was magic... she shook her head slightly and set her utensils down on the table, appetite fully gone with the talk of plague and death now.

"I have heard of cases North and South of here too, this little town seems to be in the eye of the storm which means whatever it is is operating from here or..."

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"The practitioner...no. This isn't a matter of conjuration or communion. While not miasmic, this is more akin to aldehyde frothing from an overly ripe apple." He sat back against the booth, feeling just how particularly uncomfortable the booth was. It was a matter for usage and not comfort: a prognosis that leaned towards getting the meal and getting out of the tavern as quickly as possible. No point in dawdling.​

​

He turned his azure gaze towards the barkeep who, given the temerity in the efficacy of his wood wiping, had moved further down the bar-top to likely work on another stain.​

​

Widening his eyes as he took a deep breath, Lazarus gave a moments pause to pass between him and the horse-keeper. "For the cases North and South of here, has it been afflictions of only the equine and bovine nature? I would never claim erudition regarding this specific character but, in my experience, their maliciousness is rarely so...prejudicial."​

​

Just then, a flash of lightning coursed across the open shutters and banged with a resounding thunder clap. The early morning sun had suddenly been replaced with something far more ominous and foreboding. "Mistook a mollymawk for a seagull..." He shifted to look out the window. "Shame. Apropos of you to mention a storm...Miss...?"​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Or it was making its way here... She thought quietly to herself. The sentiment was made more sinister with the sudden eruption of thunder and lightning behind her. For a moment there was silence and then the heavy fall of rain began. Miriel pressed her lips into a thin line and leaned slightly to glance out of the window; Thorlion would not be happy with being left out in this weather for long. It didn't seem she had to worry however as soon a stable boy came and swept the horses tied up outside in to the small stable attached to the side of the tavern.

"I only asked about the horses," Miriel grimaced and turned her deep hazel eyes that spoke of jungle vines and sun back towards the man opposite her. She should have asked, she thought in annoyance to herself. Of course Amelie had only ever made it sound like it was an equine based illness. It made sense it had spread to the cows too but the man was right, it was a little odd that the disease was so... targeted. Or was it merely growing? Would is spread soon to different animals - humans even?

"My name's Miriel and yours?" the elf's lips twitched slightly at the corner and then she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table and fix him with a serious look. "And more importantly... what do you know about this disease?"

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

He wasn't particularly keen on giving away his name. He wasn't the sort that believed a name held power and he didn't linger on any other form of onomastics. But he understood the ease of travel when one was nameless. For many, he was just a mysterious figure with a coat, a hat, and an odd sense of dialect. But with a name, suddenly he was a person with an occupation, holdings, and valuables. He was something that could be effected and harmed.​

​

A name made him tangible.​

​

"Lazarus..." He replied, despite himself, watching her intently as she leveled him with a sharp gaze. The sort of look that meant swagger and verbal sauntering were only going to get him so far. And it wasn't until now that he realized she had two blue lines crossing over her eyebrow. He, absent any humility or shame, allowed himself a moment to linger on them and attempt divination of purpose. He acquired nothing from the air but intuited that it either served some purpose or was a mark of accomplishment, worn quite proudly.​

​

"It is...not of this world. Or, not of this world as we so define it." His eyes darted towards the window as another bolt of lightning flashed. "He...it...goes by many names. None of which should be spoken. Behind him, the bespoke chains of his purpose tumbles." He lifted to drink to the keep and rattled the empty stone. "Sands hit the bottom, eh. A deuce hog should do, hmm?"​

​

The keep nodded and started prepping another drink.​

​

"I met it when I was very young. A hobbledehoy, as it were. Mother suspected it was my fathers Antikathri lineage that blessed me with such...fortune."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

"Charmed, I'm sure," Miri inclined her head once he gifted her with his name with apparently reluctance.

She got the sense she was being assessed in the same fashion she was assessing him. It made a ghost of a smile play about her lips and lean back into the booth with one arm sprawling across the back of the cushions and her foot coming up to rest on one of the other chairs. Miriel was used to it; the pointed ears were one thing but the blue tattoos that slashed across her face were what usually earned her more than just a brief glance. The horse mistress sipped at her drink as she listened to the information he had on the root of the plague, though the more he talk the less she drank until she finally put the flagon down and drummed her fingers on the table.

"Elven blood has a habit of calling to the Other," she said it in an absentminded tone as one might dispense knowledge to a young child they were used to having to explain everything too. In a way that was probably how it felt for most elves as humans grew and died in but a wink of their long lives. What was more important for her was how to either kill it or move it promptly on to to a land that wouldn't suffer for his presence. Her fingers stopped their drumming and pressed flat against the rough wood of the table top.

"There are many creatures that hold the powers to do something like this... I don't suppose you know what this 'it' is - demon, spirit, dragon?" it was not unheard of for any such beasties to be able to cause such a troublesome disease. It would also help to narrow down the ways in which it could be killed.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"Mmm..." He replied in affirmation, holding out his hand as the tumbler was taken and replaced with something full. "As much as ya might inspect a bit of glass and know the whole window."​

He had dealt with this particular being for as long as he could remember, though it was a matter of timing. His first introduction has been at a young age though throughout the years, they had been ships in the night. Whenever Lazarus thought he was free of the figure, he would once more appear in the wake of unfortunate circumstances or narcotic abuse. It seemed it could use moments of vulnerability to escape through the plane and rampage for the moments it had.​

"A demon." His voice went low as to avoid the peeping from the barkeep who was, now, taking to washing parts of the plank flooring with a dirty hemp mop. "Though not as we know 'em. A legitimate demon. A king. With a mark."​

Taking a sip from the tumbler, Lazarus set the glass down on the table. Moving fluidly, he removed his black trench coat and set it on the bench next to him. Wearing a black button up shirt beneath a coal vest, he began to roll up the sleeve on his right arm. A circular brand was present, amidst other various scars, that seemed to be burned rather than carved. Within the circle, four smaller circles that came to a peak. And on each side of the peak stood an iron cross.​

Spoiler: Image

"But what crosses these lands is not its full form. Our world couldn't take it. So it's pushed into a vessel." He leaned back and shrugged. "A snail in a bit of bone, I imagine. And until 'at ratbag is done in, 'at demon will run roughshod across the flats, mafficking about as it were. Might be that it's content to kill off our ungulates...for now. But I can't imagine 'at confinement will last."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

It would be hard to mistake the ripple of distaste as he mentioned demons. The Wilds were home to creatures most humans believed to be only myth and Miriel had had to face many of them during her time as a cavalrywoman but demons still ranked in her top three of creatures she least enjoyed dealing with. They had no rules. No law. There was no set forumla to dealing with them like there were other beasts. Her keen eyes sharpened somewhat when he began to roll up his sleeve to reveal a mark and she leaned forward on her elbows to inspect it closer. It tickled at something in her memories like a tantalising feather tip against her skin but nothing bore fruit when she pressed it.

What was more curious was that he carried the mark. It didn't look like it was branded into his skin but rather drawn. She couldn't help but wonder if it had been by choice or if the demon had done it himself in one form or other.

"Interesting," she propped her chin up with the backs of her hands, choosing to stay in her lent forward position as she turned the information over in her mind. "Well I for one am not really content with its current strain of disease let alone any ideas it gets about mutating," she sat up and reached for her blades. "Do you have any idea where it likes to dwell?"

It was time to go hunting.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

Mutation wasn't the right word for it because that implied some sense of evolution. A sort of natural progression that as this diseases experiences more and more death, it finds new avenues and new mediums for dispersion. It would be more similar to an arbalest, once used for hunting pack dogs, suddenly being aimed at something else. It was a matter of intention.​

​

"Mhmm, I have an idea of its preference. Though for civil folk, its not a proper option." It wasn't a matter for where as much as whom. "A demon of this nature, supplanting its own domain with ours, will take refuge in a living thing. I have seen it cling to beasts but in the past, it has preferred young-lings with no preference on species."​

​

He stopped for a moment to take a sip of the drink. It was now a bit less beer and bit more sour brandy. He spoke one more, though paid special attention to the interior of his cup. "It understands extraction can be difficult for those laden with scruples when the young are involved."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel half drew her blade and turned it this way and that to inspect the edge and then did the same with its sister. She was a woman of little words and more action. There was a monster to be slain, a threat to be dealt with, and it would be with as much haste as they could afford. Then she could get back to doing her actual job. This demon king or whatever he was currently presenting himself as was merely an inconvenience; an annoying one, but one nevertheless.

"Most things are young to me," her eyes could be described as cold when she raised them from her careful inspect of her weapons to meet the mans across from her. She rolled her shoulder in an easy shrug. "Amongst my people you are not considered an adult until you are 100 and not a wise one until you've seen your first millennia," there were several of her kin who would call Miriel a youth as she approached her third century.

"I assume you are bringing this up because there is no way to remove the creature from the vessel?" that would be the only reason her blade would be stilled.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"Curse of longevity, innit? My father's tribe is encumbered with the same sort of mentality. Makes it hard ta understand and empathize with the beauty of transitory creatures." Lazarus was not old by Miriel's estimation. And by the flick of her communal abacus, he wasn't technically considered an adult. It was an odd disparity between his elven and human lineage, that his mother should die before his father would even consider her an adult.​

​

Taking another sip of the brandy, he tucked in his bottom lip and chewed on the bit of unkempt beard hard along the top of his chin.​

​

"Well...aye. If we were to extract the beasty, it would just find the next warm body ta bump about in. 'Less it's taken over an animal. In which case, slaughtering or extraction will lead to 'at result either way." Tucking the corner of his lip in, he nodded and smiled sadly. "One hopes it's claimed a human or similar and doubley-so 'at it's an adult. Preferably a mumbling cove or hornswaggler. Hell, I'd take a mutton shunter at this point. No point in butchering a shavetail if we can avoid it, hmm?"​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

His observation of elves gave her pause; it was indeed a problem for most of her kin to see the purpose and importance of humans. It made them arrogant. Yet still, he was proof that they could get along and fall in love even. She lips pursed as she thought about her own connections with humans and others who suffered a mortal life - the pain when those close to her had passed.

"Sometimes... it is not that we do not appreciate it, merely that it is painful to watch a bright light go out. Imagine you cared for a caterpillar, watched as it blossomed into a butterfly and spent one glorious day in the sun for it to die that evening," her voice held an edge of sadness. She thought of the man who had taught her so much and left her the forge she now called her own. His had been even sadder for she had met him when he had already left more than half of his best years. It felt like she had only had a chance to spent but a heartbeat with him before he passed on. Yes, it was definitely easier to not care for mortals.

"I don't know how this demon works but usually it cares not what state the vessel was once. Demons can often heal and it is their mind at the end of the day you are dealing with, not the humans," though of course it did vary. She supposed they would find out more when they found it. "So, do you fancy joining me for this hunt?" Miri stood and stretched. She was keen to get moving and end this plague as soon as possible.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

He wasn't entirely bought in on her theory regarding the heartache of somethings passing. By artifact of the treatise, one would assume the passage of a long-lived elf or dwarf would be less wrenching than that of a human.​

​

"Quite the conundrum, is it? A ceramic plate may not cause quite the commotion on sunder, compared to a bit of filigree. All delicate and fragile. 'Less that plate is heirloom and antiquity, encumbered with a bit o' familial context." He shrugged, realizing he had leaned forward as he went on. "Seems sometimes a set of long teeth can be important. 'Less you're inclined to believe a robin's passing is more tragic than chiseling off the rust."​

​

He had the distinct impression that the death of a valued friend, whether long held or new, hurt all the same. But he also imagined that people could beg to differ. And more importantly, he hadn't exactly expected to have a philosophical discussion on brevity and the perception of life. He had either had too little or too much to drink to carry on the conversation in that direction.​

​

"This one...demon." He shifted with sip of his brandy. "Is no tick, luv. Can't just pick it off and hope to stave off infection with careful extraction. Burrows deep, is what it does. Pulling out the demon now...well, might as well yank the spine out of a pike and hope for the best." A pike was a notoriously difficult fish when it came to cleaning, given the presence of 'y' shaped bones that descended from spine through the muscles. For the untrained eye, a clean filet without proper preparation meant a good deal of fish meat and picking out pieces of bones like it had been peppered with roughened ship splinters. But for a proper fisherman, a delicate pull with the proper blades could easily remove all the sharp pieces of cartilage.​

​

But it was an easy matter for butchery.​

​

Shifting again, he looked out of the open window towards the slow progression of rain across the lake. "'Sides, I'm not particularly inclined towards trading sweat for rain. Recipe for chaffing is what that is. But..." He paused. "I am inclined to assist with this endeavor, given my personal...affectum. If you will. So while I'd be sated to warm this booth a bit longer, I imagine that if you..." He paused and gestured, like fanning at a spinning water wheel. "Kicked at your stirrups...I would do my very best to keep up."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel's lips lifted in the faint impression of a smile as he made his argument. It was one she had heard many a time by humans. Usually by human lovers in truth. She could see the merit to their points - to his points - and it was true that she would week for her Sisters as much as her human friends if one were to perish, but if both were to live the same life and have the same experiences, one would still die in but a blink whilst the other would stay with her into eternity.

She let it go.

His words wrung a frustrated sigh from her lips and she pressed the palms of her hands onto the wood of the table, leaning her weight on them and causing the muscles in her biceps to bunch and tighten with her growing impatience. For a person who had a limit to the amount of time he had on the earth he didn't half talk and waste it. Her hair fell around her face as she leaned forward though it did nowt to soften the growing frown.

"Do you think the demon is going to wait the rain out?" her tone was a little dryer than she intended for it to be. But she didn't feel as though she could leave - he was her best source of information on this creature and she was not entirely sure how to track it now the pestilence had spread in every direction. It could take days.

"If what you say is true and this could very soon turn into a plague that targets people we should act now."

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

"Uhh..." He stuttered. "No, I imagine not. Afeared 'at a good bit o' rain is all a pestilence needs to assail those who take up shelter amidst scuppers and the like. But...uhh..." He paused again, rattling off a rhythm by tapping his fingers against the table.​

​

He took another drink and winced. "We've got no leads, luv. And as much as I find your enthusiasm refreshing, if not a bit popsy, the truth of the matter is that the scents gone a bit awry. All waterways lead up to this spot, yeah?" He leaned forward. "Not usually one to avail the nuances of my plans but...this tavern is a bit of conveyance for the local beachcombers. I was anticipating a bit of eves dropping once the breakfast crew made their way in. See if anything is out of sorts, hmm?"​

​

He was looking for anything out of the normal. A new resident taking up shop in one of the boat houses. A child suddenly becoming delirious with visions. Or perhaps an animal that had seemingly gone feral. At the end of the day, he felt that if they left now, they might miss a vital bit of information.​