Meanwhile, in Ustalav...

... Ned sat in the captain chair at the head of the manor's large dinning table, an empty goblet forgotten in his hand.  The bones of the manor's previous owner littered the table, the larger ones cracked opened.

Ned stared blankly at his feast while thinking of his mistress.  He could still feel the lingering connection to her, though it had weakened greatly in the months since her departure from Ustalav he could still sense her off to the east.  Strange, he thought, didn't she say she was from the south?


The child's cry brought him out of his reverie.  The young girl was curled in a tiny ball in the corner, her eyes closed tight. He sensed something through his link, an incessant tug.  The ghoul rose from the chair.  Yes, mistress, he thought, Ned comes.

As he passed the young girl, the hunger came over him.  A snack for the road.  Another tug came through the link. No, Ned decided, mistress would not approve eating children.

Geralt Doru Character Sheet

Geralt Neculai Doru

Male Human Inquisitor 1

Lawful Neutral Medium Humanoid (Human)

Init +2; Senses Perception +7

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DEFENSE

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AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex)

hp 12 (1d8+3); Judgement of Sacred Healing 1

Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5

Defensive Abilities Judgement of Sacred Protection +1; DR Judgement of Sacred Resiliency 1: Magic; Resist Judgement of Sacred Purity +1, Judgement of Sacred Resistance 2 (Cold)

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OFFENSE

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Spd 30 ft.

Special Attacks Judgement of Sacred Destruction +1, Judgement of Sacred Justice +1, Judgement of Sacred Piercing +1, Judgement of Sacred Smiting (Magic)

Spell-Like Abilities Inspiring Word (6/day)

Inquisitor Spells Known (CL 1, +2 melee touch, +2 ranged touch):

1 (2/day) Protection from Evil, Inflict Light Wounds (DC 14)

0 (at will) Disrupt Undead, Stabilize, Brand (DC 13), Sift

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STATISTICS

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Str 14, Dex 14, Con 11, Int 14, Wis 16, Cha 13

Base Atk +0

CMB +2

CMD 14

Feats:

Point Blank Shot

Toughness +3

Traits:

Sword Scion

Teacher's Pet: Knowledge: History

Skills:

Bluff +8

Disguise +5

Intimidate +6

Knowledge: Dungeoneering +6

Knowledge: History +8

Knowledge: Religion +6

Perception +7

Sense Motive +8

Stealth +5

Languages: Aklo, Common, Necril

SQ Hide Tracks (Ex), Inquisitor Domain: Martyr, Judgement (1/day) (Su), Judgement of Sacred Escape (Su)

Other Gear Blanket, Flint and steel, Rations, trail (per day) (2), Sack (4 @ 3 lbs)

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TRACKED RESOURCES

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Inspiring Word (6/day) (Sp) - 0/6

Judgement (1/day) (Su) - 0/1

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SPECIAL ABILITIES

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Hide Tracks (Ex) Creatures attempting to track you take a -5 penalty.

Inquisitor Domain: Martyr Associated Domain: Nobility

Inspiring Word (6/day) (Sp) Target receives +2 on attack, skill checks, ability checks and saving throws for 1r.

Judgement (1/day) (Su) Variable bonuses increase as the combat continues.

Judgement of Sacred Destruction +1 (Su) Weapon Damage bonus.

Judgement of Sacred Escape (Su) When hit foe with melee/ranged attack, can create diversion to hide.

Judgement of Sacred Healing 1 (Su) Fast Healing

Judgement of Sacred Justice +1 (Su) Attack bonus

Judgement of Sacred Piercing +1 (Su) Concentration and vs. SR bonus

Judgement of Sacred Protection +1 (Su) AC bonus

Judgement of Sacred Purity +1 (Su) Save bonus

Judgement of Sacred Resiliency 1: Magic (Su) DR/magic

Judgement of Sacred Resistance 2: Cold (Su) Energy Resistances

Judgement of Sacred Smiting (Magic) (Su) DR bypass

Point Blank Shot +1 to attack and damage rolls with ranged weapons at up to 30 feet.

Sword Scion +1 to hit and CMB with longswords and Aldori Dueling Swords.

Teacher's Pet: Knowledge: History Professor Lorrimor traveled the Inner Sea region lecturing and teaching at universities in locations as far-flung as Manaket and Magnimar, and as different in scope as the bardic colleges of Taldor and the battle colleges of the River Kingdoms.

Coming Down the Mountain

** These events take place 3 years before the start of the Carrion Crown AP **

The road had been empty for miles. Not a single passerby or farmland homestead broke the monotonous journey down from the mountains into Ustalav. Winter was approaching and most merchant travel along these parts had slowed as the snow began to advance down from the peaks of the mountains into the countryside. The ground here had yet to be covered by the advancing snows, but the autumn wind was beginning to blow cold.

Keron had grown tired of sitting in the wagon and had gotten down and walked alongside the horses for the last few miles. Sitting in a wagon felt unnatural. It felt good to walk and stretch his legs. He ran a hand through his long brown hair, as the autumn wind began to pick up. Unlike most Shoanti, he had never shaven his head, as is common practice for men and women in the tribal lands. It was at the direction of his mother, Fereal. She was a shaman and the Mai-Coh (1) were rarely held to expected standards within the village. In exchange for the power granted them by the spirit world, the villagers allowed and even expected eccentricities from the spirit guides. When Keron had approached her many years ago on the matter she had told him that he was not a common man and should not follow common practice. She explained that the great Ma’iitsoh (2) spirit took pride in his pelt and so should Keron. Fereal had the same long, thick brown hair as Keron and held it aloft in braids woven with eagle feathers. The striking features of the mother had been passed to her son. His facial features were sharp and handsome. His eyes were a bright green, like his fallen father. Keron had the dark, tanned complexion of his people. His arms were decorated in bright red tribal tattoos venerating the beast spirits that watched over the Tamiir Quah. Above all, the Tamiir venerated the Eagle and Wolf spirits, and his tattoos reflected those beliefs. On his shoulder was the tattoo given to him as his coming of age reward, handed to young warriors in the tribe upon confirmation of the first kill of an A-Nah-Ne-Dzin (3). The mark was created in bright red ink and depicted the great eagle and wolf spirits chasing one another in endless pursuit.

Keron looked up into the wagon and saw the Professor nodding off. The elderly scholar had ridden without complaint, but the barbarian could tell that the travel was wearing on the old man. Fereal trusted Lorimorr to take her son on his first trip out of Shoanti lands. She respected the man, his knowledge and his honor. She has instructed Keron to watch over him closely. She explained that the ‘civilized’ world of the lowlanders held far more dangers than his mountain homeland. Still, Keron was excited. He longed to see the cities he had heard about only in tales of traveling merchants. He wanted to sample the potent drink and exotic women of the lowlanders. Keron was not as reclusive as most of the Shoanti, who fiercely guarded their tribal lands and rarely ventured out into the world. Having been raised by a single mother and having that mother be a powerful Mai-Coh was enough to make him significantly different than most Shoanti. Keron had inherited his mother’s strong spirit and her willingness to break from tradition.

Suddenly the silence of the road was broken. A call came from the trees a short distance ahead. The sound was meant to mimic that of a Raven’s caw, but a son of the Tamiir would never be fooled by such a pathetic facsimile. That was the sound of a man. Keron reached up into the wagon and gently placed his hand on Lorimorr to wake him. Sleep left the old scholar’s eyes and he awoke.

Keron whispered softly to Lorimorr, “Men in the trees ahead. This is an ambush. Climb into the back of the wagon and stay down.”

Lorimorr looked to Keron and was about to argue against hiding, but saw the look on the young warrior’s face and knew it best to not argue. Though Keron was only seventeen, he was over 6’7” tall and weighted close to 250 lbs. His body had the muscled frame of an imposing Shoanti warrior. Strapped to his back was a massive greataxe, which he now pulled free.

“We will stop here. To venture into those woods would allow them their cover.” Keron said softly as he watched the professor scramble back into the wagon. Having been on many hunts, Keron knew it was the role of the hunter to make sure that the battle was fought on his terms, in the environment of his choosing.

Sure enough he saw rustling in the trees ahead when the road bandits realized that the wagon had stopped before entering the forest. Keron’s sharp Shoanti ears could pick up traces of them whispering to each other. He could make out at least five men, through motion or sound. Then at last, realizing that the wagon would not advance, they came pouring out of the trees towards him.

Keron’s sword was now held tightly in his hands. He whispered a call to the Tamiir Kith to initiate the Urok-Tor (4). His sacred tattoos began to glow faintly red and his pupils turned a dark crimson. Keron vowed to show these lowlander cowards the might of the Shoanti.

One of the bandits fired an arrow that Keron sidestepped. The arrow hit the side of the wagon and lodged into the front wagon wheel. Another arrow whizzed past his arm.

“Come fight me cowards!” Keron screamed as he now was in control of the full power of the Urok-Tor. Keron raced forward to cut the men off before they could unleash a full volley of arrows upon him. The bandits were not prepared for the speed and ferocity of the young Shoanti. He fell upon the first man as he was raising his bow to fire again. Keron swung his axe down and cut through bow and bandit alike. Blood sprayed from the deep gash that nearly cut the man in two and covered the face of the barbarian. He tasted the coppery warmth of the blood and spat it upon the ground.

“Lowlander blood tastes like pig” he shouted as he rushed forward to the next man. Again he dropped the bandit as he was attempting to let loose an arrow. The bandit fell dead. Seeing the folly of trying to fire before Keron closed the distance, the remaining three bandits dropped their bows and drew blades. Though cautious after seeing two of the men dropped so quickly, the lack of travel on the road had left them desperate. They had eyed the wagon hoping that it was filled with money and goods. They would not let a single young savage keep them from their prize.

The three Ustalavian bandits fell on Keron simultaneously. It was then they noticed his tattoos softly glowing red in the moonlight and his blood red pupils. The sight gave them pause, but there was no time for escape. They still had the advantage of numbers. They attempted to surround Keron and eliminate the advantage of his size and power in one on one combat. Keron did not let their tactics distract him. He focused on the bandit in front of him and said through clenched teeth “you are the cowardly pig who will know death first.”

Keron deflected a blow from the bandit and brought his giant axe down through the defenses of the thief. Keron’s weapon shattered the cheap blade of the bandit and cleaved through the top of his skull. It was at that moment that Keron felt a sharp pain in his side. He felt warm blood pour down his leg.

He swung around to face the remaining men. He did not take a second to look down at his wound, instead he swung his axe in a wide arc. It caught the leg of the man on the right and severed it completely. The coward fell in a heap, screaming in pain and begging for his life. The final man tried to run. Keron pulled a blade from his boot and let it fly. The dagger sunk deep into the back of the bandit’s neck. He dropped dead.

Keron looked down and saw the bandit dagger buried in his side. He pulled it loose and more blood spilled to the ground.

The bandit with the severed leg was still screaming. He walked over to the legless man, grabbed him by the hair and slit his throat with the knife he had just pulled from his own body.

As blood drained from the wound on his side, Keron grew weak. He could not maintain the focus necessary to bind the spirits and sustain the Urok-Tor. The road began to spin. He stumbled forward and could barely make out the professor leaping from the wagon through blurred vision. Keron fell to his knees and then forward onto the road.

The world went to black.

*****************************

Shoanti (Navajo) Translations

(1) Witches

(2) Wolf

(3) Orc

(4) Battle Frenzy powered by the Spirit Guardians of the Tamiir

Keron of the Tamiir - Foreground

High overhead the eagle circled. Catching updrafts of warm air off of the sun drenched rock face, it circled and watched.

“Atsah(1) is disturbed” Keron thought as he worked his way down the steep mountain path.

The eagle spirit stood vigilant watch over the Tamiir. It offered him bihl-he-neh(2). Keron raised his hand to the eagle feather talisman around his neck and tapped it in reverence.

“Something is amiss” he whispered.

Keron dropped low behind a rock outcropping and held silent and still. He scanned the walls of the ravine. He noticed a patch of color that was not native to this ravine. There was movement. It was subtle and he may have missed it if not for Atsah. This was to be a khack-da(3).

Keron silently backed out around the outcropping and circled back. He worked his way up the side of the ravine to gain elevation. He remained silent, summoning the light footfalls of the Ma-e(4) spirit. He had worked his way above the position he had spotted. He was able to see them clearly now. They were sitting motionless in a crack in the rock face. Three of the A-Nah-Ne-Dzin(5) sat huddled like cowardly pigs. They were waiting to ambush solitary travelers on this mountain path.

Keron silently drew his axe and tensed his body, ready to pounce. He called upon all of the Tamiir Kith(6) to initiate the Urok-Tor(7). His sacred tattoos began to glow softly red, his pupils narrowed and his irises turned bright red. In one sudden motion he threw himself down upon the orcs like an avalanche coming down the mountainside.

The green, pig-like faces of the orcs looked up in horror as the large Shoanti warrior fell upon them. His great battleaxe found the belly of the center orc and skewered him. Intestines spilled from the wound. The orc tried to pull his innards back into his body to no avail. He fell. Keron removed the axe and in a single motion and pulled it around to behead the orc on the left. His head fell in a thud at his feet before the body realized it was dead. The remaining orc attempted to flee. Keron pounced on him. The barbarian grabbed the orc’s sweaty head and bashed it into the rockface until it was a bloody green stump. The body fell lifeless to the ground.

Keron fell out of the Urok-Tor. The glowing of his tattoos subsided. He fell to a knee in fatigue. Keron lifted his eyes to Atsah and thanked the eagle spirit. He thanked all of the Tamiir Kith. He offered thanks to Gorum.

He looked up at the sun. He must make haste in getting down the mountain. The funeral for his friend the Professor was in a few days. Keron wanted to arrive in Ravengro with enough time to quench his thirst with some dwarven ale and sample the city wenches. Keron wiped the orc blood from his axe and continued down the rocky mountain path with greater speed.

Atsah circled overhead.

*********************************************************

Tamiir (Mostly Navajo) Translations

(1) Eagle

(2) Warning

(3) Ambush

(4) Fox

(5) Enemy / Orc

(6) Tribal Spirit Guardians

(7) Tamiir Battle Frenzy granted by Tribal Spirit Guardians

Keron of the Tamiir - Backstory Summary

Keron was born in a small village belonging to the Tamiir-Quah (Wind Tribe) of the Shoanti people. His father, Khan, was a great warrior who died in battle protecting the village against a massive force of orc marauders. His mother, Fereal, is a powerful village shaman and commands great respect amongst the Tamiir Quah for her connection to the spirit world.

Professor Lorrimor sought out Fereal during his studies of the supernatural and stayed with the village for a period of time. Keron became close with the Professor and once saved his life when he was attacked by Orc bandits during an exploration of nearby ruins. The professor was very grateful to the young barbarian and took him under his tutelage for the remainder of his stay with the tribe.

Keron is able to enter a battle rage known amongst his people as the 'Urok-Tor'. His strength and will is infused with power from the beast spirits venerated by his tribe. During the Urok-Tor his eyes glow red and he is capable of amazing feats of strength and endurance. As a young warrior he is only able to contain the power of the spirits for a brief period of time before he loses his hold on them and falls into exhaustion.

Keron of the Tamiir - Character Sheet

Keron Of The Tamiir

Male Human (Shoanti)

Barbarian (Invulnerable Rager) 1

Medium Humanoid (Human)

Height: 6'7" Weight: 246 lbs

Init +2; Senses Perception +4

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DEFENSE

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AC 16, touch 12, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +2 Dex)

hp 19 (1d12+6)

Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +1

Chain Shirt (+4 AC, Light, Max Dex +4, Armor Check -2)

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OFFENSE

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Spd 40 ft.

Melee Greataxe +5 (1d12+6/20/x3)

Dagger +5 (1d4+4/19-20/x2)

Unarmed Strike +5 (1d3+4/20/x2)

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STATISTICS

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Str 18, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 10

Base Atk +1

CMB +5

CMD 17

Feats:

Power Attack -1/+2

Toughness +3

Traits:

Highlander (hills or mountains)

Indomitable Faith

Skills:

Acrobatics +4

Climb +2

Intimidate +4

Perception +4

Stealth +5

Survival +4,

Swim +2

Languages: Common, Shoanti

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SPECIAL ABILITIES

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Fast Movement +10 (Ex) +10 feet to speed, unless heavily loaded.

Highlander (hills or mountains) +1 to Stealth checks, Stealth is always a class skill for you. Double this in hilly or rocky areas.

Power Attack -1/+2 You can subtract from your attack roll to add to your damage.

Rage: (7 rounds/day) (Ex) +4 Str, +4 Con, +2 to Will saves, -2 to AC when enraged.

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ALLEGIANCES

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Tamiir Quah Tribe

Shoanti People

Companions

You Shall Suffice

The shadowy forms of Mirela’s memories appeared as hazy apparitions lurking just off of the path to either side. He held the young woman’s hand and walked briskly down the narrow pathway towards the shimmering light in the distance. He only needed to make it a few more paces and then they would be safely returned to the mortal realm.

She walked at his side, whispering incoherently. Her soul was in shock. The strain of having it ripped from her body and then led back against the will of the netherworld....it must have been overwhelming. One particularly dark and insidious memory kept reaching for them, but the dark female spirit was unable to penetrate the edge of path. Grimm remained focused. He must keep moving. This was not natural. His own guilt over the death of the brave young woman had led him here. He knew this was not his place to interfere. Pharasma had deemed it the time for Mirela’s death and he had crossed her. It was foolish to cross a Goddess.

As they neared the portal to the mortal realm, Grimm breathed a deep sigh of relief. He gently urged Mirella by the hand through the portal. The shimmering light washed over her. In a moment she was gone.

Grimm gathered himself and prepared to step through the portal, himself. The swirling and dancing lights mesmerized him. It was hypnotic. Then he heard her voice. It echoed within his helm.

“One soul today is mine. You shall suffice….”

Grim turned his gaze from side to side, determined to find the origin of the voice. He could see nothing but the path growing narrower and narrower. He must exit now….and yet the voice. It haunted him. He wanted to look upon the woman. He must know her face. The Goddess had spoken.

The path narrowed enough that the armored boot on his left heel was now plunged into the blackness. The tangible lament and sorrow of the netherworld curled up around him like tendrils. They enveloped his body. In a rush of adrenaline he snapped from the hypnotic trance. The black smoky tendrils were ice cold. He dropped his shield and reached for the portal. It was so small now. It was further from him than before. He was being pulled backwards into the blackness. He managed one last short prayer before he was pulled into the dark, empty expanse of the netherworld.

“You shall suffice.”

*********************************************

As Mirela screamed upon the stone slab, Grimm’s body crumpled forward. Geralt rushed forward to grab him. Green, thin smoke streamed from the openings in the Paladin’s armor. The suit was empty.

Grimm was gone.

What Child Is This?

**~122 years ago on the western edge of Taldor’s border with the lands of Andoran, which were at the time occupied by Cheliax**

Teros Fordham shifted uncomfortably on the wooden wagon seat. These long rides out to the rural reaches of Taldor did not sit upon his aging bones and joints as easily as they had in his youth. Trips to the far reaches of the empire to administer rural adjudication were considered a burden fit for the youth of the clergy, but Teros took great pride in this work. It was an escape from the politics and claustrophobia of the city. Out here he could sit in silence and enjoy the countryside. No lobbyists trying to ply their agendas with silvered tongue, no unrepentant and hardened criminals to sentence to death. These trips usually involved minor property rights judgments….was a fence line too far to the right…dealing with the ramifications of a farm hound getting into a neighbor’s chicken coop. It was justice that offered people comfort in knowing that they were protected by a greater power, that there was right, that there was order. Even after all of these years in Abadar’s service that idea made Teros feel satisfaction.

He was nearing the eastern border of Taldor, close to the Chelaxian occupied lands. This trip was to bring him to the village of Newsted, a small farming community on the Sellen River. He hadn’t been this far west in many years. The sun was just beginning to set and would bring a much needed reprieve from the dry summer heat. He urged the horses onward, hoping to make the village by nightfall. Chelaxian patrols were known to make covert border crossings far into these lands and he did not want to be caught alone at night.

Suddenly a piercing scream shot out from the roadside. It sounded like a female voice in great pain. Teros pulled back on the reins and brought the creaking wagon to an abrupt stop. He held still waiting to know if the long hours alone on the road had been plying tricks on his old ears. Again he heard the scream. It sounded as if a woman was in terrible agony.

He was able to roughly pinpoint the location of the sound. It was emanating from a small grove of trees about 25 yards from the side of the road. He grabbed his staff and climbed down from the wagon and approached the roadside with trepidation. There was a small, but steep roadside ditch with a short clearing separating him from the trees. What, he wondered, could cause such a scream? His gold robes snagged on the brambles and dry brush as he descended into the ditch. Once through the gully he began to climb a short incline to approach the clearing before the trees.

“I am getting too old for this. I should have brought another. I am getting too stubborn for my own good” he thought too himself as he disentangled his robes from yet another short, thorny bush at the apex of the ditch.

Finally he was in the clearing in between the roadside ditch and the woods. Another high pitched wail erupted from the small grove. Its proximity startled him. The voice was not screaming in any language, just an eruption of pure agony.

“Who is there? I am Teros of Abadar. I may help you if you show yourself. I mean you no harm” he called out into the grove.

Another scream was returned in response. Although the wail once again did not contain any discernable words, it did have the tone of a plaintive call for help.

Teros pulled up his robes and ran to the grove as fast as his aging legs could carry him. The thick canopy of the dense cluster of trees blotted out much of what was left of the day’s sun. It was cooler here. The air held moisture. The trees were covered in dark green moss. He pushed through the outer layer of trees to the center of the grove.

“Where are you?” he called out.

This time the scream was not much more than a weak, sobbing whimper.

Teros looked down to a small clearing of tall grass in the center of the grove and saw her.

She was an elf maiden. She had dark black hair, brilliant green eyes with a lithe beauty in her face that the creator saved only for the elves. She was in agony. Her belly was swollen with child. Teros knew in a moment that she would not live through this birth.

He rushed to her side and dropped to his knees. He cradled her head in one hand and reached down to her belly with the other. He raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed to Abadar. He prayed for Abadar’s divine grace to comfort the woman and save the child. Abadar answered his prayer. In a moment the strain on the elf woman’s face eased a bit. Her eyes closed.

“Stay with me darling, we need to deliver your child. Stay with me” Teros implored.

He checked the baby to see if it was a breech birth or if the cord was wrapped around the child’s neck. He could not find anything out of the ordinary…yet he knew this was not a normal birth. There was too much pain. This just did not feel right. He had administered over a few elven births in his long career of travel, which was very rare for any human, but he had never seen anything like this. He could not discern what was causing such strain on the mother. He again prayed for Abadar’s healing hand to embrace the mother and child. Again Abadar answered.

Teros moved quickly to deliver the child, he was not sure how much longer the mother would live. He could see by her garments that she was Chelaxian. Chelaxian elves were very rare, often captured as children and sold into slavery among the unscrupulous nobility. The simple and rugged look to her clothes led him to believe his suspicions were true. These were not the delicate and beautiful garments of the elven cultures, these were the rough garments of a slave.

The baby was ready. He held the mothers hand tight to keep her concentration, squeezing it sharply each time she began to falter. Again he prayed for Abadar’s strength for the child, this time calling upon his most powerful restorative blessing, one he had not been called to use in many years. Again Abadar answered. The blessing flowed through his hands and into the child who was fighting to make it into this world.

The mother screamed again as she pushed with what little strength she had left. The baby emerged.

Teros, in his rural travels, had delivered many children. Often his simple calls for Abadar’s blessing meant the difference between life and death for mother and child on the frontier. Many newborn children had passed into his hands…hundreds, if not a thousand.

Teros, if not for the divinity of Abadar, would have dropped this child in shock.

As he held the child aloft he felt the mother relax her grip upon this life and pass on.

The child was elven, but large for an elf newborn. It had skin of stark alabaster white, dark black hair. When it looked up at him it had the same emerald green eyes as the mother, yet they glowed green light into Teros’s face. He had seen that hue of green before. It was the light of the Outer Planes. It was the light of the Abyss.

Teros called upon Abadar’s blessing of wisdom. Abadar answered.

With Abadar’s blessing he could discern many things. This child was not evil. The child did have a partial planar aura, but also a strong elven aura. How could this be? How could he be seeing the light of the cursed Abyss in this innocent child’s eyes? How had the mother found this lonely grove? Who or what was the father of this child? Teros could find no clues upon the body of the mother. He wrapped the baby and carried it in a makeshift sling as he prepared her for last rites. As he worked, he began to piece together what he may have stumbled upon in this roadside grove....

His trip to Newsted would need to be postponed. The High Council would need to see this child. Never in his life had Teros heard of such a birth. This might be the first Tiefling elf child to live through childbirth in centuries. The soul of the child was unspoiled.

Teros Fordham carried the newborn in his arms and climbed into his wagon. He circled it around sharply and made for Oppara at great speed. The child fell asleep in his arms as the last remnants of the sun sank below the horizon.

The Place Between Worlds

Time had no meaning in memory. Years passed in moments, yet some moments felt like they took years. Mirela knew she had lived this life before, yet she could not remember what came next. An eternal fog blanketed her existence, only revealing what lay directly in front of her.

Pharasma avilan chi, it is Pharasma who brought you daughter. Your journey is soon finished.

Mirela was the little girl struggling to cook without being scalded. Struggling to care for a mother that should have been taking care of her instead. Villagers would appear from village and want to learn their fortunes in exchange for a few coppers. Mirela could not read the harrow cards. However her mother could see them even though she sat covered in layers of veils behind a curtain in the back of the wagon. She spoke, but only in Mirela’s mind. She spoke the fortunes and Mirela repeated them not always understanding what she was relaying. Mother was always there teaching, scolding, comforting, and commanding. With that voice in her head, Mirela was never alone.

We deal with the Gaje, the non-gypsy, only when we must. Only to survive. For to be with them you become marhime, defiled and unclean.

The world seemed ethereal, unreal. As if running through the mist that surrounded her would somehow puncture the illusion. She grew to womanhood in moments. Her mother spoke her name in her mind. Not “Mirela”, but her true name that which was only spoken once at birth and again when she first bled. Her true name was forever secret; less it could be wielded against her. Such was the way of the Drabarni, those who were blessed with dukkeri, the luck, the sight, or the magic.

We live apart from the kumpania, the caravan. We Drabarni may possess the sight, but we also draw mulo, spirits of the dead.

Mirela rebelled. She refused to live as an outcast despite her mother’s screeches and warnings lashing at her mind. She sought the warmth in the arms of the Gaje boy Gustan, a merchant’s son.

Gajo si dilo, The non-gypsy boy is a fool. You defile yourself precious daughter. Marhime!

The fog brought the evening when Gustan professed his love to Mirela. They spent hours together that would be forever remembered. Forever for Gustan was only until midnight. The merchant’s son was thrown from his spooked horse, his head splitting against an oak tree. As he died, Gustan cried wanting to see his own mother. Although Mirela was sure that she could save him, she wasn’t sure how. As his eyes grew dark, all he asked for was his own mother to tell him everything was going to be alright. Though shocked and saddened, Mirela thought Gustan wanting his mother and not having her in his final moments was a curious thing. The fog swirled.

Foolish girl. This was your fault. I told you to stay away from him. You didn’t think I was serious.

Gustan’s coffin fit him perfectly. He almost looked alive except that he had no color. He wore the same suit he wore the night before. It was his finest. Mirela also wore the same clothes as the night before, only hers were faded rags. She stood out terribly against all the mourners wearing black. She could feel accusing tearful eyes burning on her from every direction.

Why don’t you come home? Why didn’t you listen to me? I only think of you dear daughter.

Mirela had lingered near the coffin too long. Gustan’s father the merchant noticed her, “This was your fault whore! You lured him away with your spells and hexes. Your kind has plagued this town long enough. I swear on his grave that if I do nothing else in my life, I will burn you and your devil mother. Your flesh shall cook and your blood shall boil for all our people to see.”

He did not love you. He was just after your...

“Silence mother!” The funeral mourners turned towards her. Their features faded away until they were only gray shades. Mirela turned and ran into the fog. Crows cawed overhead. She found herself in a copse of trees.

Be watchful daughter! Someone comes for you. He comes to take you away from me. Flee now and find safety in your mother’s embrace.

Mirela hid amongst the roots of a nearby tree. The fog grew thicker and moisture dripped from the branches onto her head. A dark figure wearing black scale armor emerged from the gray cloud. Fear clinched Mirela, yet something about the figure seemed familiar. Fog swirled again.

Come home daughter. Dance around the fire as you used to. Let your scarves twirl and your bells tinkle. Bring a smile to your old mother's face.

"I cannot dance mother, for there is no one to play the fiddle." Mirela found herself in the caravan wagon. It smelled of scorched wood. The curtain was open and mother sat there covered in her layers of veils. "I remember now mother. I remember everything. You killed Gustan and I burnt you for it. All it took was a single flaming twig to end you. For all your power, you could not do as little as crawl from a burning wagon."

Kurav tu ando mul! Ungrateful wench, you did not kill me. You think yourself a gajo that you would do thier work for them? As you will find out yourself, Drabarni are not so easily ended. Let me be so kind as to share the gift you gave me.

An emaciated hand shot out from underneath the veils and latched onto Mirela's wrist. Its dry skin stretched as paper over bones yet its strength was as a steel manacle. The candles in the wagon flared and the walls erupted into flame.

I will never forgive you. My spirit shall never rest. I can smell the filth of the gaje on your soul. You were nothing to them. They let you die. Now we will cleanse you of your marhime. Burn with me now daughter. Burn through eternity!

As the heat of the burning wagon enveloped Mirela, she felt something cool attach itself to her neck. It was an antique necklace. She felt herself ascending, being lifted as a one drowning might be lifted from water. The heat subsided and her back began to feel cool stone pressed against it. Still the veiled figure gripped her wrist refusing to give up.

They will not take you from me! I will always be with you dear daughter.

******

The body on the alter lay quiet except for a whoosh of air that rushed down her mouth filling her lungs once again. A low whine began in her ruined throat. The three-eyed crow dropped from a stone perch and landed just above her head. The bird spread its wings wide and cawed triumphantly. Mirela reflexively batted away at the phantom memory of teeth in her flesh. From her mouth burst a piercing scream that sounded throughout the cemetery and traveled out across the moor.

She curled up sobbing as the servants of Abadar held scales aloft and said their prayers.

A Moment of Divine Illumination

Grimm continued his vigil over Mirela’s body in solemn silence. Her form was still not cold to the touch, though she did not stir. Her soul was strong, it did not want to let go of this world so easily. He prayed for her strength. He prayed that the agents of the divine might guide her back. He prayed that he might be able to repay her sacrifice. Through the haze of his prayers he heard Xella’s voice at what seemed like a great distance. He only made out the words “…she’ll likely rise…”

Suddenly he sat up in a flash of divine inspiration. He quickly rose and called back to the group,

“I know what to do. Stand sentry at the door. Do nothing to the body until my return.”

Grimm ran to the crypt they had just vacated. The fallen zombie corpses had entered a state of accelerated decay and the smell of rotted flesh was overwhelming. He scanned the floor of the tomb using the gift of his demon sight. The floor was littered with debris and gore…then he spied what he was looking for.

Sitting in a pile of ash was the amulet worn by the creature he had sundered with the blessing of Abadar’s strength guiding his hand. He scooped up the necklace from the pile of blackened ash and eyed it closely. Runes were meticulously carved into the back of the piece. He recognized one section of the scripting as the Abyssal tongue, it read:

“Grigore Arnel my love, you shall not depart my side

Ensnared within my web, your soul it will abide”

The rest of the markings were in a tongue he could not discern. With great haste he ran up the hill to the small wooden hovel, home to the Mortician. Grimm kicked in the door. The small living quarters contained only one room. Grimm saw the pale mortician sit up in his bed in shock and horror.

“Are they here for me, now? We had a deal…..we had a deal!!!” he shouted into the darkness.

“I am here for you” Grimm replied as he eyes began to glow green, just enough to illuminate his face within the dark steel helm.

“S…S…S…Sir Knight, you s…s…scared me, what is the m…m….m…matter?” the mortician replied through a voice drenched in fear. He moved to light a small oil lamp at his bedside.

“What do you know of this amulet?” Grimm demanded as he held out the gold necklace which swayed in front of the Mortician’s pale face.

“N..n…nothing..I have never ss…s…s…seen it before.”

“You lie. Tell me NOW!” and with that command Grimm’s eyes flashed bright green, bright enough to give off as much light as the small lamp and caused the shack to glow eerily.

“I….i….it is an a…a…a…artifact. I…I….It is used to b…b…b…bind a departing s…s…s…soul to this p…p….p…plane.”

“How do I use it?”

“Y…y…you must place a gem inside o…o…o…of the s…s…same color and the f…f…fallen’s eyes….and p…p…place it on the victim…..then…..then a ritual must be….p…p…erformed…..a d…d...dark…ritual….one of the living….p…p…pure of s….s…soul must guide the f…f…f…fallen soul back……that is all I kn…kn…know…please don’t….h…h….h…hurt me…”

Grimm ran down the hill to the small crypt containing his traveling companions. He burst through the entryway and spotted Xella.

“Xella, I know the nature of your power and Abadar does not judge those who do not deserve judgment. I would ask you to use your knowledge and power to call out to Mirela’s soul. You will need this” Grimm reached down into the small pouch pulled from the body of the fallen zombie and pulled forth a small banded amber gemstone. He handed both the amulet and the gem to Xella. I trust you know what to do… I will be the conduit to guide her soul back.”

After he spoke, Grimm reached up and slowly removed his helm. It was the first time he had done so in front of the assembled group. They could see his face, stern, elven with stark, alabaster white skin. His black hair was matted down in sweat and dirt but not enough to cover his sharp elven ears. His eyes glowed faintly green, which cast an eerie light over the determined expression on his face. He set his jaw in resolve and knelt before the altar.

The uncivilized blessed of Ustalav

Xella put her weight on Ned's arm as they moved to the back of the mausoleum. Her wound had healed but the loss of blood made her feel weak. With Ned's help she spread out a bedroll and sat down. From her backpack she pulled a small candle and two large books. She lit the candle and took a moment to clear her mind; not an easy task with the constant muttering of the old man.

One of the books was titled Enchantments for the Blessed and penned by Xella herself. The other had Book of the Grave written on the spine and the cover made from a pale leathered skin. It was her father's book, given to her after his death many years ago and she was in the process of translating his rituals and spells in order to scribe them into her own.

She opened her book and prepared a couple spells.

"Emandare," Xella intoned and waved her hand over her dress. The tear from where the zombie had attacked her stitched itself up and the dried blood liquefied and evaporated into the air. A second wave and her hair pulled back into a neat braid. Appearance was everything to the aristocrats of Geb.

Xella leaned back against the wall and thought about home. The cattle there wouldn't dare touch an aristocrat. She would have to remember that the Whispering Way was wild in this country. For the first time tonight she felt out of place among the undead.

She heard the paladin praying over the corpse of the witch woman, the Scales of Abadar in his hand. With Ned’s help Xella made her way to the holy knight. “Sir, I’ve heard that the Clerics of Pharasma give the dead in this land the rights of pacification.” She placed her hand on his steel shoulder, “If the girl does not receive these rights, she’ll likely rise as undead. Might I suggest we bury her before then? I can have my man dig the grave.”

In a Crypt, Haunted Only by Guilt

Grimm knelt in silent prayer over the body on the altar. The bites on her neck were turning a disturbing hue of light green. He prayed to Abadar for guidance. He prayed for her soul to either return to this mortal vessel or to find everlasting peace in the afterlife. She did not stir, though she was not completely cold to the touch as he had laid her upon the stone slab in the mausoleum hours ago.

She had been in his charge. If she passed on, her death would weigh upon him until the end of his days. His body tensed at the thought. She had been under his protection and had actually fallen trying to come to his aid. He did not feel worthy to bear Abadar’s key on the chain around his neck. She was no witch, merely a soul with a brave heart who fell victim to the blackness that permeated these lands.

He had been faltering under the onslaught of the three undead horrors at the door to the crypt. They had swarmed him from all sides. Gnashing blackened teeth and rotten flesh battered his shield and helm. They were attempting to pull him down so that they could continue unabated further into the main chamber. As he held up his shield to bat away a skeletal mouth seeking his neck, he lost concentration for a second. When he looked up he saw her on the ground, her fresh red blood spilling from the mouth of the corpse over her form. He would remember that moment in many nightmares over the days and months ahead.

The incessant droning of the old fool reached a crescendo in the nearby corner and Grimm flinched. Abadar must be testing his resolve to put him in the company of such a man. He was a drunk and a coward. Used to the company of his paladin battalion he never thought to look to his flanks once the order had been issued to hold the line. Within moments he was alone in the doorway and the horde was upon him. To hear this man invoke Abadar’s name made him sick. He again prayed for the guidance and wisdom to deal with this test of his faith.

Grimm longed for silence. If only the man would cease muttering incomprehensibly to himself for a moment. He sighed within his helmet….if the professor had seen something of value in this man then Grimm would try and find it within himself to do the same, if only for the sake of his fallen friend.

One thing Grimm now knew for certain; he had underestimated the evil of Ustalav. He had been unprepared for this. These were dark, lawless lands where the very soil churns out abominations which try and rend you limb from limb. He would need to be vigilant. He vowed upon his holy symbol to safeguard the friends and former companions of Professor Lorimorr. He would not fail them as he had Mirela. He vowed to safeguard them to Ravengro and beyond if necessary. He called upon the strength of Abadar to aid him in bringing swift and stunning vengeance upon those who would do them harm.

He prayed for strength. He prayed for patience. He prayed for silence.

And this be why Inns were made to sleep in...

“I said get off her ya’damned worm infested bastard”, Geralt hollered at the zombie feasting on Mirela’s bloodstained body as the hand-axe he acquired from the peasant only hours earlier sliced through the air hitting it clean in the center of it’s head.

The zombie’s brains splattered against the inside wall of the mausoleum with the force of the blow destroying the creature instantly, “Damn, fools ain’t none of you got more sense then them villagers back there.”

The young wizardress, Xella scowled at Geralt and then looked down at Mirela’s body, “I believe she is dead.”

Geralt turned to look at her with his one good eye, “She ain’t dead yet, but it ain’t for the lack o’trying.”

Geralt then spat on the ground near the feet of the young Paladin of Abadar, “Death ain't coming for no one here tonight lest I want her to, you see me and Pharasma we got’s ourselves a deal.”

The young gunfighter looked at him quizzically, “Oh, really sir and what deal might that be?”

Geralt spat again, “well the deal is she don’t take someone I be protecting and I don’t convert to her faith.”

Dwarf covered in slime from the creature he dispatched in the tunnel chuckled at that.

Geralt wiped the spittle from his beard, “ and also I makes it a point to send her back all the undead monsters I gets the chance too.”

Grimm the Paladin slowly dropped to one knee at Mirela’s body and looking up at Geralt, “well can she be saved then?”

Geralt shoved the bloody hand-axe in his belt and held his hand over Mirela’s body muttering a divine pray, “Tell me Phrasma do you need this one in ye'Graveyard tonight?”

Xella furrowed her eyebrows thinking the old man a fool,”Do you truly believe this will work old man?”

Geralt stood fixed Xella with his one good eye for a long moment then turned his head to spit on the ground behind him. As he turned back to look at Xella, “well that be up to her and whatever God she worships now don’t it?” he said pointing at Mirela’s body.

Grimm looking almost as bad as Mirela stared up at both Geralt and Xella, “Well, I will pray to Abadar that she does make it,” as he picked up her body to carry it to the other crypt.

Geralt coughed out a laugh, “well she better still owes me some gold for saving her ass back in that cage.”

As the party settled into the other crypt, Geralt sealed the door and then then turned to look around at the motley crew he now found himself in the company of.

Geralt knew ain't none of them going to stand a chance traveling in Ustalav without his protection, “well y’all better get some rest I will keep an eye out for anymore creatures and next time whens I tell ya it ain’t safe to sleep somewhere, ye best be listening to me.”

Xella's Lovelies

Ned, "the Ghoul"

CE Medium undead

Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +7

AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12 (+2 Dex, +2 natural)

hp 6 (1d8+2)

Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5

Defensive Abilities Immune undead traits

Speed 30 ft.

Melee bite +2 (1d6+1 plus disease) and 2 claws +2 (1d6+1)

Str 13, Dex 15, Con —, Int 13, Wis 14, Cha 14

Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 13

Feats Weapon Finesse

Skills Acrobatics +4, Climb +6, Perception +7, Stealth +7, Swim +3

Languages Common

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Disease (Su)

Ghoul Fever: Bite—injury; save Fort DC 13; onset 1 day; frequency 1/day; effect 1d3 Con and 1d3 Dex damage; cure 2 consecutive saves. The save DC is Charisma-based.

*ghoul stats adjusted down 1HD:

-1d8+2 hp

-1 BAB

-SQ paralysis

-SQ channel resistance +2

Rye

RYE CR 1/6
Male Raven
NN Tiny Magical Beast
Init +2; Senses Low-Light Vision; Perception +9
--------------------
DEFENSE
--------------------
AC 15, touch 14, flat-footed 13 (+2 Dex, +2 size, +1 natural)
hp 4 (1d10-1)
Fort +1, Ref +4, Will +4
--------------------
OFFENSE
--------------------
Spd 10 ft., Flight (40 feet, Average)
Melee Bite (Raven) +5 (1d3-4/20/x2) and
Unarmed Strike +5 (1-4/20/x2)
Space 2 ft.; Reach 0 ft.
--------------------
STATISTICS
--------------------
Str 2, Dex 15, Con 8, Int 6, Wis 15, Cha 7
Base Atk +1; CMB +1; CMD 7
Feats Skill Focus: Perception, Weapon Finesse
Skills Climb +2, Fly +6, Perception +9, Sense Motive +3, Spellcraft -1, Stealth +10, Swim +2
Languages Varisian
SQ Improved Evasion (Ex)
--------------------
SPECIAL ABILITIES
--------------------
Flight (40 feet, Average) You can fly!
Improved Evasion (Ex) No damage on successful reflex save; half on failed save.
Low-Light Vision See twice as far as a human in low light, distinguishing color and detail.

Mirela

MIRELA
Female Human (Varisian) Witch 1
CG Medium Humanoid (Human)
Init +2; Senses Perception +1
--------------------
DEFENSE
--------------------
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex)
hp 9 (1d6+2)
Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +3
--------------------
OFFENSE
--------------------
Spd 30 ft.
Melee Dagger -1 (1d4-1/19-20/x2) and
Unarmed Strike -1 (1d3-1/20/x2) and
Wooden Stake -1 (1d4-1/20/x2)
Witch Spells Known (CL 1, -1 melee touch, 2 ranged touch):
1 (2/day) Cure Light Wounds (DC 15), Empty slot
0 (at will) Daze (DC 14), Light, Empty slot

Spell List:
1 Burning Hands, Charm Person, Comprehend Languages, Cure Light Wounds, Detect Secret Doors, Identify, Unseen Servant
0 arcane mark, bleed, dancing lights, daze, detect magic, detect poison, guidance, light, mending, message, putrefy food and drink, read magic, resistance, spark, stabilize, touch of fatigue.
--------------------
STATISTICS
--------------------
Str 8, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 18, Wis 12, Cha 14
Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 11
Feats Extra Hex, Harrowed
Traits Varisian Wanderer: Perform: Dance, World Traveler: Sense Motive
Skills Heal +5, Knowledge: Arcana +8, Perform: Dance +7, Profession: Fortune-Teller +5, Sense Motive +6, Spellcraft +8, Use Magic Device +6
Languages Celestial, Common, Necril, Shoanti, Thassilonian, Varisian
SQ +3 to Appraise checks, Cackle, Empathic Link with Familiar (Su), Fortune (1 round(s)) (Su), Share Spells with Familiar
Combat Gear Dagger, Wooden Stake; Other Gear Alchemist's Kindness (3), Backpack (empty), Bedroll, Blanket, Bottle, wine, glass, Candle, Chalk, 1 piece, Cheese, hunk of, Cooking kit, Entertainer's outfit, Flint and steel, Garlic (3), Harrow Deck, Musical instrument: Fiddle, Rope, silk (50 ft.), Scarf, Pocketed, Scarf, reinforced, Spell component pouch, Tea, Night (2), Tent, Medium, Wine (Common, pitcher), Wolfsbane
--------------------
TRACKED RESOURCES
--------------------
Dagger - 0/1
Wooden Stake - 0/1
--------------------
SPECIAL ABILITIES
--------------------
+3 to Appraise checks You gain the Alertness feat while your familiar is within arm's reach.
Cackle Extend the duration of other hexes.
Empathic Link with Familiar (Su) You have an empathic link with your Arcane Familiar.
Fortune (1 round(s)) (Su) Target may reroll 1d20/round.
Harrowed +1 on saves vs. enchantment; can draw Harrow cards for bonuses
Share Spells with Familiar The wizard may cast a spell with a target of "You" on his familiar (as a touch spell) instead of on himself. A wizard may cast spells on his familiar even if the spells do not normally affect creatures of the familiar's type (magical beast).
Varisian Wanderer: Perform: Dance +1 to Perform: Dance checks, Perform: Dance is always a class skill for you.

A Dark Night

The horse struggled to maintain footing in the mud created by the pouring rain. The ruts in the road were deep here from the wagon traffic into the small hamlet ahead. The cold rain dripped inside the eye slit of the dark knight’s helmet as he urged his mount to go faster. He wished to move through this community quickly if he was to make it to Ravengro in time for the services.

The weather-worn, straw hatched hovels lining the road spoke to the poverty of this small farming community. The sun had set hours ago, but the gift of dark vision, accorded him by his cursed blood, allowed him to see the community in great detail. They were poor people, scraping by upon the meager offerings of the thin soil. He saw no constable or guards. The community looked to be bound only by a common social contract. His back tensed at the thought that such a group of men, women and children could be at the mercy of a life without the security of formal justice.

The glow of lanterns surrounding what appeared to be the inn at the center of the hamlet caused his vision to switch back to light based sight. As he approached the center of town he slowed his horse to ensure that a drunken patron of the inn did not wander into his path and get trampled. It was at that moment that he heard a piercing scream and saw the door to the inn swing open. A man with a cowl pulled low raced from the door with a small pouch in his hands. A large woman who looked to be the innkeeper’s wife stood screaming in the doorway

“Stop, murderer, thief! He robbed and killed Oren. He hit my husband and stole our coin. We have been robbed! Oren is dead. Someone please help!”

The fleeing thief paid no heed to the plaintive cries of the innkeeper’s wife.

Without a moment’s hesitation the black knight pulled back on the reins of the horse and slid to a stop in the thick mud. He leapt down from the horse only a few paces in front of the assailant.

“Stop”

The voice echoed from deep within the blackened steel helmet. The voice seemed other worldly and for a moment the robber in the cloak came to a halt. As he slid forward on his heels, the cowl of his cloak was thrown back.

On the face of the criminal, Grimm could see the same set of eyes he had looked upon so many times in the past; eyes of simple cruelty and limited cunning, eyes which held no respect for the law, eyes without remorse.

These eyes would soon know fear.

“What say you to charges of murder, assault and robbery?” echoed Grimm’s voice, amplified by the helmet and reverberating through the night.

“To hell with you. You’ll never catch me in all that steel” and the thug turned on his heels to run into a small alley.

Before he could take a step, he felt a cold, steel, gauntleted fist grab his cloak from behind. He was swung around and his face smashed into the nearby lantern post. A burst of blood and teeth shot from his mouth. He was then swung down and planted face first into a muddy pool in the road.

Rek Fen had spent the last 3 months robbing the lawless hamlets of the Ustalavian countryside. He had murdered, he had raped and he had stolen what little he could from the poor people of the region. The militia here was nonexistent. There was no sheriff, no city guard, and no constable. The people were easy prey. He would dine at the local inn, beat the innkeeper and make off with a purse filled with coin. If anyone resisted they met his blade. It had almost seemed too easy. He had become fearless.

Now he was face down in the road, and his mouth, nose and ears were filling with the grainy mud.

Right before he began to choke on the mud filling his throat, he was flipped over. Through the pouring rain and muddied eyes he looked up to see the dark steel helm looming over him. Green eyes glowed from within the eye slit…green eyes that he could not look away from.

“What say you to the charges?” the voice asked again.

Even in this perilous position, a lifetime of ruthlessness and savagery could not be so easily abandoned. Rek spit mud up into the face of the knight.

“Go to hell. You’re not the law. There is no law here” as he said this he could see the green glowing eyes flash brighter within the helm.

Rek began to feel fear.

“….let me go and I’ll split the coin with you. There’s more. I’ve been robbing and killing fools like them for months” he replied through a bloody toothless smile.

Once again the eyes flashed brighter.

“O…o…ok..ok it’s all yours. Must be 30 silvers there. Take it all just let me go!” he said, now plaintively crying like a child.

Grimm Cores’tar of Abadar looked up to see the innkeeper, appearing bruised and battered, alongside his wife a few paces ahead of them, standing in the pouring rain. They were looking on in stunned silence.

“What does the law dictate be done with murderers in this land?” Grimm asked of the innkeeper.

“N..n…n…nothing….there is no law sir. We take care of our own. H…h…h…he killed Oren with a knife when he tried to stop him. He had been my friend for years” said the innkeeper, now sobbing.

“The last killer in these parts was a long time ago…h..h…he was put to the sword” the innkeepers wife said quickly.

“So be it, this man will be judged according to your justice.” rang out the voice from within the black helm.

“For the crimes of murder and robbery you are hereby sentenced to death” and with that the black knight grabbed Rek’s head within the cowl and snapped his neck sharply. The innkeeper’s wife, upon hearing the sickening sound of snapping tendon and bone, fainted suddenly into a heap on the muddy road.

Grimm rose.

He pulled the purse of coin from the robbers cloak and tossed it to the innkeeper.

“Please, provide this man a proper burial. I trust you to take what is rightfully yours and to then do your best to return the balance of this coin to its rightful owners. I must be on the road for I am late to an important obligation. I will try and pass by these parts again on my return. Do not disappoint me.”

The innkeeper pulled back when he too saw the green flash from within the eye slit of the knight’s helm.

“Y…y..yy..yy…yes sir I will” he stammered.

The black knight stepped up into the saddle of his horse and with a tap of his spurs rode out into the night with great haste.