The cold ocean wave recedes; back to the green murky depths from which it
was spawned among horrible beasts of the blackened deep. The water, ever
moving, rolls along the beach and across the sand with a gentle sound. The
wave continues and the sound doesn’t end.

At midnight, the lone tailor struggles to finish his work. Flashing sharp
in the lamp-oil light, shears rip cheap cloth, tearing along its bright and
gaudy length. The threads part with a soft and gentle sound that never
ceases into the night.

The farmer, weak and old, pours his last basket of grain upon the threshing
floor. The grain falls forever. The sound an endless rush. Heron in the
reeds, wind in autumn stalks, old maid’s broom on the cobbles and a starved
wolf hunts through the dry grass.

The sound of the rain that day became steady and oppressive as Rubix sat
down upon the slick stairs to wait. It wasn’t anything near a roar, nor was
it so soft as to be easily ignored. To Rubix, the rain was an annoyance and
the sound of it forever “shushing”on the cobbles was pure aggravation.
Bitter cold and tapping at his very nerves, the rain beat upon his blonde
head like rude little bugs that he would just as soon squash under his boot
— if he could. But he could no better squash a raindrop as he could fly up
to the clouds to close a spigot in order to stop the rain. To make matters
worse he had appearances to keep up.

Three men dressed in the drab livery of the Governor’s militia crossed the
open plaza, swaggering and chortling like drunken demons. The joke they
shared between them must have been delicious. Knowing a soldier’s sense of
humor, Rubix felt mild relief at not being close enough to hear. His hands
deep in the warm pockets of his woolen overcoat, Rubix’s fingers discovered
the smooth and polished surface that belonged to his alabaster penny flute.
Raising the instrument to his lips, Rubix began to play.

Although he was sure the men were heading to the city park and would very
soon pass by the spot he occupied at the top of the stairs, Rubix was not at
all that certain that the men wouldn’t pay him any trouble. Years of city
life both “on the edge” as well as “on the level” had bred a certain
mistrust into his soul, and the city guard manifested those feelings within
him like no other could.

“What was there to fear?” he chided himself, “No one has done anything
wrong, here.” Neither Rubix nor his companions were doing anything that the
peace-enforcing militia would be concerned with. If anything, Rubix and his
newly hired party were doing the Governor a big favor. Vandalism was a
thoroughly punishable crime in Port-a-Lucine, but vandalizing a city park,
paid for and maintained by the Governor’s gold, was quite another matter
altogether. If his little company could identify the perpetrator, the city
would certainly be in their debt. Perhaps the person responsible for the
desecrated shrine had some sort of link with the recent park murders.
Solving that crime rampage would be an immeasurable service! Try as he
might, however, Rubix could not quell the frothy waves of trepidation
surging within his being as the militia men approached.
Rubix quickly searched his elven repertoire for a soft and peaceful tune.
Perhaps the eldritch sounds would ease the irritation he felt toward the
cacophony of raindrops pelting him. The guards would see him as just
another street musician; too poor to play at an ale house and too dumb to
get out of the rain. Yes. That would be the perfect cover.

The tune was wrong, though. “Soft” he managed; “peaceful” was elusive. The
tune was low and mournful and he could not remember how he had ever come to
know such a dreadful little ditty. The notes formed without thought, a
dirge to accompany the pall-bearer as he lays the soulless corpse to the
earth.

Just as the guards reached the top of the stairs, regarding him dismissively
as they passed, a fleeting thought crossed Rubix’s mind. Had he only
moments ago heard that tune — carried on the whisperings of the wind?

*****

Celestia was lost in thought again. To the outside observer, the young
woman appeared merely aloof. With a second look, that observer might have
cause to wonder about her sanity. Every Port-a-Luciner had looked into the
eyes of madness at least once in their lifetime. The city was known for its
crazies, after all. The Governor and his taxes, levied willingly from his
town’s citizenry, went to support the sanatorium housed within the quaint
chateaux many miles to the south. The people of Port-a-Lucine strongly
supported the humane efforts the sanatorium’s staff expended to ease the
suffering of those poor souls wracked by madness. Many of those same
Port-a-Luciners had to wonder, however, just what went on behind those thick
timbered walls. The looks of those successfully “cured” were often said to
be more haunted than their looks before admittance.

Celestia stood upon the pine lashed raft and simply stared. Her head was
oddly cocked to one side as if she were trying assess the relative angle of
the invisible object before her. Her eyes were wide and unseeing. Her lips
moved, but barely, silently intoning her own mad ramblings. Yes, to the
observer Celestia might not seem long before a visit to the county chateaux
was due. However, inside her head, the woman was thinking, and if that
observer could hear her thoughts he would realize just how sane she actually
was.

“Pieces,” she thought. “Pieces that just might fit, but none adjoined just
yet. A shrine, blood and letters, symbols maybe, Ezra, bodies and a bog,
thirteen. Thirteen. The butcher’s boy, a mournful dirge. Soliel? Wasn’t
that kobold for ‘the sun’? Blood. Buckets of blood, THIRTEEN? What was
that tune? Roses, huh? Roses and their thorns. Do they really bake loaves
of bread in Lamordia? Surely the price in Mordentshire would be much more
to the liking. I really hate funerals. I hate funeral songs even more.”

Had she been paying more attention to the outside world, Celestia would have
seen the beggars leave the forest edge on the west side of the park, slowly
shuffling down the hard packed gravel path. Perhaps she would have seen the
look of sorrow in Saladrin’s eyes as he viewed the sight of the poor fellows
poking through the underbrush at the water’s edge, looking for something -
anything - to eat. Perhaps she could have warned the priest away.

She would have instantly understood, as well, for Saladrin was from
Mordentshire. Not many miles, but a world away from here. Her visits to
the domain of Mordent told her that the people there truly took care of
their own. The sight of the plentiful poor of Dimentlieu would be a
terrible sight to the young acolyte. This, however, was all lost to
Celestia for her mind could not spare the time. The pieces beckoned.

******

“May Ezra shine upon you with the blessed radiance of the sun, my brothers,”
Saladrin offered up the Prayer of Greeting to the two filthy humans poking
crude walking sticks among the watery reeds.

The two men were somewhere between twenty and sixty years of age. Saladrin
found that the effects of time were masterfully hidden upon them by the many
layers of dirt and filth coating their exposed skin. The whites of their
eyes provided the only contrast from the endless brown and black that
covered them. Perhaps it was once a collection of burlap sacks that covered
their bodies. Saladrin assumed the vestment was more so for warmth rather
than to hide the shame of nakedness. Furthermore, the stench of unwashing,
of rotting teeth and of defecation emanating from them was so strong that
the young priest nearly choked on the last words of his prayer.

“How are you two gentlemen this afternoon?” Saladrin asked, trying not to
wrinkle his nose. For a moment, he wondered if the pair actually spoke his
language.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh, we’s awlright.” One of the men finally said. “What’s you
want wit us? We’s not done not’ting. We’s just mindin our own bus’ness.”

“This isn’t the kind of day to be out. You should be by a warm fire, eating
a nice meal. Take this and get a warm meal and a good night’s sleep,”
Saladrin said, offering up a shiny, golden Mordent crown. The men eyed the
coin warily, one of the pair finally reaching out a grubby hand that shook
from either fright or disease. Snatching the coin from Saladrin’s hand, the
men’s faces split with a green-toothed grin and turned as if to run.

“Gents! Before you go, could I ask you a few question?” Saladrin asked.
The men stopped dead in their tracks and slowly turned back to face the
young priest. Just then, a gust of wind sent a particularly cold sheet of
rain past the trio, the sound of the rain’s passing on the water was that of
a giant flat-razor upon a whetstone.

“By chance, my good men, have you seen anything strange in the park here in
the last couple of weeks?” The two men looked at each other and shrugged.
Their thick and matted brown beards quivering just slightly in the cold
breeze.

“Naw,” one of them replied. “Nuttin’ more dan da usual.”

Saladrin stepped a bit closer to the men, daring the cloud of stench to
attack his nostrils. “Anyone going to the island that seemed odd?” he said,
pointing out toward the swirling mass of fog at the center of the bog.

The men looked where Saladrin indicated, then one stuttered an answer,
“N-n-not any m-m-more dan da usual.”

Saladrin had just heard that very same answer a moment ago, so he probed a
bit deeper. “What is the usual, my good sirs,”

“Well,” one of the men began, “der’s always dees rich peoples goin out der.
An old man and dis big lady.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the other one said. “And den der’s da kids dat go over der
sometimes at night. Yeah, dat’s da usual.”

“By chance have you seen anything that might have had to do with the murders
that have occurred here?” Saladrin pressed.

“Wha? Oh no, Master!!” one of the grubby creatures wailed, “we’s not seen
nuttin! We’s told you dat already! We don’t know nuttin’ about dat!” The
wailing one looked like he was either going to break down and cry or get
suddenly violent, Saladrin couldn’t quite tell. The other man looked so
spooked that the priest thought he might turn tail and run at any moment.

“All right, all right,” Saladrin said smoothly. He might be able to pop off
another calming spell if he had to, but there didn’t seem to be any reason
to waste it if he could use his own voice to set the men at ease. “That’s
okay. Can either of you two think of anything at all that just seemed odd
to you?”

“Hmmmmm,” one of the men looked suddenly ponderous. “What about dat
snuffling, Fritz?” he said more to the other man than to Saladrin.

“Yeah,” the other began slowly. “Dat snuffling de ot’er night was pretty
weird.”

“What about the ‘snuffling’?” Saladrin asked.

“Well, de o’ter night it was very dark since der wasn’t any moon at all.
All of us dat live down here try to hole up pretty good during da dark
nights. It aint too safe to be walkin’ around da park in da dark. Hector,
well.....Hector he just .. . . .”

“No! No wait, Saul. I wanna tell it. Let me tell it!” the other man
suddenly yelled. “Yeah, Hector was a real good guy, but he wasn’t too
smart, ya see. He kept walkin’ around at night and we’s kept tellin’ him he
should hole up like da rest of us. Well, one night he just took off walkin’
again. He said he was lookin’ for some more food. He headed off down da
willow path but instead of taking a turn at da big root, he just kept on
goin’. He musta got lost or confused in da dark. Next ting’ ya know,
kersplash! Hector walked right into da bog!” at this point in the oratory
the dirty beggar became visibly excited. Saladrin could tell this man was
positively brimming with excitement at being able to tell the story.

“Well da next day,” the man continued, “we’s would have never known what
happened to Hector cause he never came back. Then Josie came runnin’ up to
us screamin’ dat she had found Hector’s hat. We’s all ran after her and she
took us down past da root to da edge of da bog, and you know what we’s all
saw?” the man got suddenly quiet and looked up at Saladrin with excitement
in his eyes. “Der was his hat floatin’ out in da water just past da reeds!
The bog had swallered up poor Hector! Yep, it ate him. And den for da next
tree days, all deese bubbles kept commin’ up where Hector’s hat was
floatin’. Ha! Ol’ Hector gave da bog a big ol’ case o’ gas! Dat bog just
kept on fartin’ for days. And did it ever stink! Let me tell you!”
Saladrin felt that he certainly did not want to be anywhere near a place
that these men thought smelled bad.

“I am sorry to hear of your friend’s passing,” Saladrin said. “May Ezra
deliver peace to his soul. But you were going to tell me about the
‘snuffling’.

“Yeah, Fritz,” the other man said. “Now I’m gonna tell ‘im about da
snufflin’, okay?” The other man, Fritz, nodded, still excited about his
story telling debut.

“Well, da ot’er night, me and Fritz was holed up in da dark, like we’s
said. It was so dark dat night dat we couldn’t see our own feet! Well,
we’s were sleepin’ an Fritz was snorin’ like a fox hound in heat, when all
of a sudden I hears dis rustlin’ around our little camp. At first I thought
it was just some poor fool who didn’t get holed up before da sun went down.
I was just about to call out to dem, when da ting just started snufflin. It
wasn’t no human, let me tell ya dat. Dis ting was snufflin about not ten
feet from where’s we’s were sleepin’. Den I thought it must be some
farmer’s pig who got away and was rootin around da park, lookin’ for some
food. I woke up Fritz cause it had been a long time since we’d had any ham
around dees parts. But when I woke Fritz it musta spooked da ting, but it
didn’t act like no pig I ever knew. Dat’s when it started hissin’ at us.
Yep just like some big ol’ snake - but I never knew no snake to snuffle. It
hissed at us fer awhile and den it just kinda backed away into da trees and
went away. Yep, dat was odd.”

“Yes, that would be odd, my friends. If I have any more questions for you
I’ll try to find you somewhere in the park. Otherwise, thank you and have a
fine evening,” Saladrin says nodding toward the coin in Fritz’s hand.
Then, as the two men turn to leave, Saladrin intoned the Prayer of
Departure, “Today I care for you as tomorrow you will care for me.” A final
quizzical glance back is all that the two beggars gave to Saladrin as he
headed back to confer with the others at the raft.

*****

“What is that fool doing now?” Pablo thought as he watched the young priest
hurry to intercept the two grimy beggars who just appeared at the edge of
the trees. “Doesn’t he know how desperate some of these people can be?
Some of these poor bastards would just as soon slit your throat for a
handful of coppers than earn an honest living.”
Pablo was still deep in thought watching Saladrin across the park talking to
the beggars when the three militia men crested the top of the stairs. That
half-breed that had hired them, what was his name? Rubix? was just sitting
there in the pouring rain, playing some blasted flute of all things! The
three soldiers took one quick look at the crazy half-elf then headed down
the stairs and into the park.

“Hey, now this is my type of people,” Pablo muttered out loud. The other
occupant on the raft appeared not to hear him at all, she just seemed to
stare out into the fog.

Pablo jumped off the raft and traversed the thickly churned mud at the bog’s
shore, then he headed up to the dryer ground of the graveled path. “If your
going to get any answers about this temple, uh shrine, whatever it is, you
might as well ask the people that would know something about it,” thought
Pablo. Then another thought occurred to him that sent a mild shiver up his
spine, “Of course, if these Jack-o’s are out here checkin’ for more bodies,
some poor sods like us wouldn’t want to be caught in the wrong place at the
wrong time!” Justice can be swift in Port-a-Lucine and Pablo knew from
first hand experience that a keeper-of-the-peace was sometimes under more
pressure to find someone to blame for a crime than to actually find the ones
responsible. He’d have to use some caution with these fellows.

The soldiers descended the steps talking and laughing loudly, their voices
echoing off the steep walls of the park. When they reached the bottom,
Pablo recognized the standard fourth rank livery that marks a soldier as
being of the Governor’s lowest level militia - cannon fodder. The armor
they wore was nothing more than layers of cured and hardened leather molded
to fit an individual. The leather fully covered their chest, back and
midsections. Additional pieces covered their neck, shoulders, arms and
legs. Each of them wore black polished boots and a leather skull cap. The
livery they wore was merely a sash of bright red cloth with one gold diamond
in the middle. All three men wore sheathed steel short swords at their
hips, and two of them had long steel daggers tucked into their belt while
the other had a crossbow and a rack of steel-tipped bolts strapped to his
back.

“Bad news,” Pablo thought. The shortswords were standard issue, but the rest
of the hardware was extra. It was Pablo’s experience that only soldiers
with a knack for the rougher side of the job packed extra gear. “This might
not turn out as well as I thought. Better not get too far away from the
raft, or the others. Damn! We’re spread out all over this blasted place!”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the men followed the path to the right;
the path that Pablo stood on. When the men got within thirty feet of the
little dwarf, Pablo’s face lit up with a start.

“Pierre!” shouted Pablo, waving his short arms in the air. “Hey, you filthy
dung heap, what in the name of the lich are you doing here?”

“Pablo?” the crossbow man said squinting across the distance and through the
rain. “Is that you, you wretched runt of the liter? Well, I’ll be a . .
.” the man ran to close the gap between the stout dwarf and himself.
“Men!” he cried back to the other two. “Come over here and meet the toughest
border guard to ever look a badger in the eyes. Literally!”
The man was a medium sized human with short black hair. The sides of his
head were shaved clean as was the popular style with the bordemen of
Dimentlieu. His face was stubbly and unshaven, but the mass of unruly
whiskers was still unable to hide the man’s terribly deformed pock-marked
face, the permanent effects of a childhood disease.

“Pablo! I can’t believe it! It’s been years! I see you’ve dropped the
regular short and are carrying that blasted walrus tusk of a sword. I don’t
see how you do it, I’d fall flat on my back if had to swing that thing in a
fight.”

“Hey, what I lack in size, I make up for in reach, jack-o,” Pablo said
grinning ear to ear. “So you’ve left the border runs for good? How’s the
city treating you?”

“Just fine, just fine,” replied Pierre. “The woods were a little shy on
women folk, so I got me a damn fine harbor wench, bought a shack with only
two dozen holes in the roof and settled into a nice city job. Besides, a
man can grow weary always chasin’ goblins, kobolds and who knows what else
through the trees night after night. It was time a got me some real livin’
for a change. What are you doing here, Pablo? I thought you quit to go
take care of family business.”

“Yep, I did. Now I’m just doing a little of this and that,” said the dwarf.

“Yeah, I can certainly understand that,” said Pierre earnestly. And Pablo
knew he did understand for they had spent many nights along the Lamordian
border talking about their exploits as swords for hire. It was profitable,
at times, but it could be very dangerous, as well.

“How long until retirement, bub?” Pablo asked.

“Hah! You never lost yer biting sense of humor, have you, you little goat
bladder.” Pierre sneered. “We’ll retire on the day we ‘retire’, right
men?” The other two men, probably in their mid-teens by the look of them,
grinned unenthusiastically.

“Good to see this city life hasn’t ruined all that blubberin’ bravado,
Pierre. Say, can you tell me a little about anything unusual that’s been
happening here?” Pablo asked.

The men with Pierre looked around a bit nervously and then directly at the
rough-cut border man. “Well, yeah, you probably heard we got us some kind
of sick-o dumping perfectly good corpses in the park here. Not like we
don’t have enough murderin’ fools on our hands as it is, now we’ve got some
blood thirsty death monger going a little overboard on the body count.”
Pablo had to wonder to himself just what his old friend considered an
‘acceptable level’ of murder.

“First one showed up a few months ago. Some crazy woman who wants to give
thanks or something to that slab of rock out on the island there, yeah, she
found this poor bugger floating in the water. He had been strangled or
something like that. After that, the bodies just started racking up. Every
few days or so we send someone out to check the water for more. That’s what
me and the boys are doing now. The Governor wants this to end quickly, so
we’ve added more patrols and we nearly surround the place at night with
soldiers. Still, we never catch anyone, we don’t have any clues, and the
bodies still keep appearin’. It’s almost like this place is growing
corpses. I’m sure we’ll catch the bastard that’s doing this soon.”

“Hmmm. What can you tell me about the island in the middle of the dratted
bog and the recent rumors about it. I’ve heard some really whacked stuff,”
Pablo asked.

“Just that some kids have been getting wild down here and going out to the
island at night. But that’s pretty much stopped. Either the murders or the
increased militia has probably scared them all away. Oh yeah,” Pierre saids
as an afterthought, “one of the old rich crazies that prays to the bog-god
out their made a report this morning that someone trashed the place last
night. It was probably one of the ‘park-people’ since no one could have
snuck past our patrols last night. Just what’s your part in this Pablo?
Why you askin’ so many question? Someone hire you to look into it?”

“Yeah, but I’m not really sure who. I think it’s the same crazy old man you
mentioned.”

“Who, Havenshaw? THE Henri Havenshaw hired you?” Pierre asked with
astonishment. Even the other two soldiers looked a bit surprised.

“Yep, I think so. That’s his man up on the stairs there playin’ the damn
flute. I’m workin’ with preacher boy over there and the cracker barrel on
the raft.”

“Pablo,” Pierre said, suddenly very serious. “Please let me know if you
find anything out. You always had a nose for rootin’ out the bad guys up in
the woods. If anyone can figure this out I’d put my money on you. I know
how much you hate water, but the raft’s perfectly safe. Go on, check out
the shrine. Me and the boys are going to be hangin’ out here for the next
few hours lookin’ for anything unusual and talkin’ to the local wildlife,”
Pierre said the last part while pointing his chin at the two beggars a short
distance away. “It looks like preacher boy just finished talking to two of
the park’s finest residents. Now me and the boys are gonna go shake them up
a little. Remember, pal, let me know if you find anything, okay?”

With that, Pierre and his men left they way they came and made their way
back to where Fritz and Saul were mucking about. Pablo heard Pierre offer
Saladrin a kind greeting as they passed each other and Saladrin offered the
men a quick blessing of Ezra.

When Saladrin finally reached Pablo he said, “They didn’t have too much to
say, but I can tell you that there are some strange things happening down
here. Pablo, why are there so many people here without homes?”

“I don’t know, just be glad you got a roof to go home to, pal.” Pablo
replied. “I know one of those soldiers, the guy with the crossbow,” Pablo
said, effectively changing the subject. “Me and him go way back. We used
to patrol the Lamordian border together. He can be trusted. But, it seems
the militia don’t have a clue what’s going on either. What do you want to
do now?”

*********
Yes.. What do you want to do now?????

Hope you enjoyed it!

Appendix A
Pablo’s Chance to Know Dimentlieu Militia Personnel

The following table is the base chance for Pablo to know any given militia
person in Dimentlieu. When Pablo is in Northern Dimentlieu along the border
of Lamordia, his chances increase by 33%. Outside of the domain of
Dimentlieu, Pablo’s chances decrease to 0%.

01-08% Close companion
09-23% Known casually (name known)
24-33% Known by sight only (name not known)
34-100% Unknown

Appendix B
Pablo’s rolls for knowing three militia men in the city park

Dice rolls requested by: "Erik Bjornson">
Rolls also sent to:
Belldnd@egroups.com

# (2nd try) Does Pablo know the militia men? Less than 34 is good,

No. of sides on every die: 100
No. of dice for every roll: 1
No. of dice rolls requested: 3
No. of rolls per line: 1

2 <-- Yep, that’ll do it! One of the three is a close companion to
Pablo.
63

53

- Thom Allen