Septus Black: Found

The Beetle's Bounty Tavern, The Fetters

Taran nods. "But I want to have an answer for her too...what's been going on, what's been done."

Muri nods. "She'll aks, aye," she replies. "Ah 'spects she's sore wishin' she were 'ere 'elpin'. An a'venture 'appenin' wid out 'er's gotta be sad." She takes a sip from her wine sack and offers that to Taran.

Taran shakes his head. "I will not deprive you...and I have no head for wine."

Muri nods and stoppers the winesack. "Dere's more den enough fer bofth o'us," she says. "If'n yer thirsty. Tis watered muchly so's not to be too strong." She sighs and looks around. "Ah dunno'd wot t'do now, Messer. Dey haint back...D'ye wanna see if'n dere's anyone a' seein' Messer Black downstairs?"

Taran smiles slightly. "I am not at all against it. Did we not get directions to his lands? Shall we see if he is home, or if there is evidence there to use?"

Muri stands and nods. "Aye," she says. "'is place is cross de ways. Twas quiet t'day. Ah dinnae seen no one 'bout. Could be 'e's got more den de one plot." She sighs. "Ah'm afear'd 'e got anovfer place an' we don' know'd it." She heads down the steps once more.

Taran grins, and pulls up the cloth around his face. "He may. But the first issue isn't catching him - it's finding out what he's done, and stopping the sickness. Then we can make him sorry we were ever born. Priorities."

Muri gallumphs down the steps and enters the hall. "Aye," she says. "Dat's why Ah were 'opin' t'find de mixin' bins fer de mender. Ah fidger'd dats w'ere we'd find wot all goed int' de stuffs." She weaves around the tables towards the door.

"Count your blessings as they come," grumbles a moderately disheveled Rowena. The royal healer and one of the guards have just entered in from the bleak outdoors. She carries her satchel just as always like an added appendage. It smells more like the wrong end of a horse than an herbal oasis. Stomping and scraping her boots at the door, she casts a somewhat annoyed look up to the guard who is on the contrary looking rosy-cheeked and full of vigor. Nothin' like a good, stinking romp to break the daily routine.

Taran follows Muri down the stairs, nodding. "Such a massive operation cannot vanish overnight. We should see what can be found."

Muri is a few feet from the door when she realizes who has entered. She halts abruptly, dropping into a rough curtsey. "G'eve Yer Grace," she says. "Oh, Ah seen ye gots some samples too...Ah've got a wagon outside if'n ye wants t'put dem in dere...an' away from yer sleepin' place. We was goin' t'see if'n Messer Black's com' 'ome fer de night." She manages to avoid the royal's gaze while speaking.

Blowing a rough burst of smell (in vain) from her nose, Rowena narrows her eyes seethingly over her shoulder to the door. "Aye, I've taken /many/ samples, from the field." The guard smiles. "Mister Black did not make an appearance, but before we had opportunity to pay his residence visit..." She trails off and belatedly gives each healer a hasty bow of her head. "We managed to run off the property before the stinking beasts sunk their teeth into our heels. One did succeed in tasting the finest of steel and I think the other was run well down by horse hooves. That'll make two more diseased dog carcasses to filthy the streets. I've ordere them burned. So. A brief interruption. But now that /that/ inconvenience has passed...let us find better success in this next attempt!"

Taran returns the brief bowing of the head. "Then let us go. Sooner begun, sooner finished."

Fetters 4 - 

A single moon, bone white and lit with a glow that seems more dead than alive arcs through a cloudless sky. A spattering of solitary stars surrounds it. The street outside the Beetle's Bounty tavern is about as lifeless as the sky, though the sounds of cats and rats and coughing, moaning, ill people can be heard. The pathetic excuse for a starving horse still stands, chained uncomfortably to its post across the street. Behind it stretches the fields. The bodies of the dogs have been removed, though bloodspots can be seen there. A dwelling place of some kind stands out on the perimeter of one of those fields, perhaps the Black residence, or perhaps the residence of some other 'farmer'. Doubtless even these fields, small as they are, are bitterly vied for and divided with guarded precision amongst many.

Muri moves quickly from the tavern to across the road, then starts to follow the fence, searching for an opening. She holds a lantern aloft that swings as she moves. After a few steps she halts, looking to see if the others are following.

Rowena's path veers gradually away, making a steady approach for the residence instead. Some ways down the road, a line of horses waits, carrying their shiny, human cargo. Her gloves have been removed for the event, allowing the Ring of the Stars to glow in full glory and illuminate her steps.

Taran follows Muri, an oversized shadow of a bodyguard. "There will be a gate...or a low spot to climb over."

The fence is just about as tall as Taran--if he hops, he can probably see over it--and not terribly sturdy. It's been constructed of wood that could have been there for a decade or more, and sways whenever something touches it. There does not appear to be much in the way of a gate... but Muri, in the front of the group, eventually comes to a spot where it looks like it has a particular weak point. The boards near the bottom are warped, split, bent aside, and if you really wanted to, you could probably crawl under it. Unfortunately, there's little chance for a horse that way. No sign of a gate, yet, but there's still more fence to be explored if one is determined.

Muri nods as Taran approaches, then resumes her search. Finding a likely opening, Muri lifts her lantern for Rowena to see, then bends to test the weak spot in the fence. "Ah 'opes 'e don' got more 'ounds," she murmurs. "Ah dinnae seen dem earlier. Lahk as not dey were after 'er Grace an' all." She chagrins at her luck and pushes against the wood.

"Careful..." Rowena calls lowly, pausing in her step to watch Muri and Taran test the fence. Gnawing on her lower lip, she gestures to her guard and slinks closer to the residence, satchel held tightly close.

Taran nods. "Let me go first," he says to Muri. "I am narrow, and armored. And very very quick when I need to be. If there is trouble I will survive it better."

The wood gives beneath Muri's shove with a soft, rotten crumble and a splintery crunch. The hole it leaves is at least a little wider, even if it still qualifies as a crawlspace. Through it, too, one can catch a glimpse of the space beyond. Assuming, at least, that the moon provides enough light to see by.

Muri bends to look through the opening. "Ah'm smaller den ye, Messer," she says. "An' Ah'm armored, but Ah' 'spects yer wise fer goin' fu'st." She raises her lantern higher to throw a bit more light on the other side. "Goed easy, aye? Den mayhaps wid ye pullin' an us pushin' we c'n git a bigger 'ole made."

Rowena and her companion have advanced on the little home to the point of reaching the wall. Beneath their feet, brittle pieces of what Rowena prays is coal crunch into the dirt. Halting as they are, she twists around again to watch the lantern toting Muri and protective scarecrow make short work of the fence. Surely if there were more hounds, they'd have emerged by now. Right?

Whooshing a breath high into the air, the Duchess bows her head forward and paces once, twice, in the shadow of her guard to search for a door.

Taran hands Muri his staff, and bends down to try and get through the hole in the fence. Good thing the man doesn't eat much. There is no sign of hounds. No sign of much of anything, really. The field on the other side of the fence is almost eerily quiet, and the hole is large enough for Taran to squirm through easily enough. And once on the other side, that silence continues. The coast seems clear.

Muri takes up the proffered staff and watches Taran disappear to the other side. No snarling or other violence is heard, so she bends over and looks through the hole. "Tis everythin' alrights?" she asks, pushing first the staff, then the lantern through the hole. "Ah'm comin' through." She scuttles along the ground after the bard. "Ah thin' 'er Grace took a dif'rent route."

Door? Door. Wasting no time, she thumps her fist against the wood and follows it up with a melodic calling of "Master Black? Pardon th'late intrusion, but might I find Mister Septus as home here?" Hand on the pommel of his weapon, the guard clanks softly forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Rowena. Sending the man a mildly annoyed glance, Rowena pushes back with her elbow and acquires more breathing room. Hoo. What she wouldn't give for a bath.

Taran gets his staff back from Muri, nodding. "Let's see if there are any signs this is the property we need, or if we have been misled."

There is no reply to Rowena's knock on the door.


 * MOO!!!!*

You're on my turf. I want you off it. Now. Learn to speak cow, folks.

Is there any doubt what *that* means? A cow charges around the edge of the field, hooves thundering against the ground, eyes alive with rabid, man-eating fury. Hell, the thing's *salivating*. Long strings of drool hang down from the bovine mouth, and surely this animal has about as close to fangs as any cow ever gets. That look speaks pure murder as it charges across the field towards those hellborn intruders.

Muri picks up the lantern and stands. "Aye," she murmurs, looking around. At the sound of the charging cow, she freezes. "Light! Taran! Cow!" Eyes wide she tries to gauge the quickness of the cow, trajectory, and best escape route. She's a farmgirl after all, and dodging cows comes with the territory. She tries to run perpendicular to the approaching cow.

...Cow? Gulp. To define Rowena's stare as 'perplexed' would be an understatement, but not that it should be. Cows are no strangers to fields. Still, this is perhaps the closest she's ever personally been to said stinking, angry creature, and she's not looking to make its acquaintance. The line of horses down the street stir, a couple of the riders trotting forward curiously to better see what they /think/ is happening...
 * BANG*BANG*BANG* Goes Rowena's fist a bit more urgently and her other hand lifts to press against the door, testing its hinges. "Sir! Sir, your COW!" She breathlessly shouts. Her guard unsheaths his blade and twirls it 'round to bring the hilt to bear. Wood, meet steel.

Taran spins his staff in his hand, letting the moonlight catch the bright metal. "Come here," he says to the cow, moving with long strides to *intercept* it. "I have not run from acarits, spiders, or undead bears and I shall not run from you."

Each crack of the pummel on the door brings a sharp *CRACK!*, a shudder of wood and a splintering sound that yet seems to do *nothing*. The door holds fast, but there is the sound of footsteps from inside.

As Muri dodges to the side, the cow's head turns, though its legs keep running straight forward. The result? It kinda spins out of control, front half going one way, back half going another way. Which means the beast, still bellowing and cow-swearing nasty things about how it will eviscerate the lot of them with its horrible crud-stained molars, is wheeling towards Taran... sideways.

"Dratted milkers," she curses. "'ounds 'r bad 'nuffs." The thundering hooves change their pitch and Muri looks over her shoulder, just in time to see Taran and the cow begin their dance. Bow to the bard, bow to your partner. "No no no! TARAN!" she starts back toward him, fumbling for her knife.

Rowena keeps her gaze focused squarely on the door, despite the drama that her ears inform her is taking place. Her hand maintains its thumping, albeit a bit more gently once footsteps are heard. One of the mounted guards comes forward at a swifter pace now, gesturing madly for the trespassing pair of would-be cow fodder. "Ho!" He shouts. "Come on! This side o the fence!"

Taran sighs, and moves quite quickly - to get Muri out of the way. "Silly little one," he chides. "It could not have done *me* much damage. *You* on the other hand do not share certain of my skills. To the Duchess you go, and we will dodge the cow until it stops spinning or the door opens."

The cow twists again, towards Taran this time, and its already out-of-control veering gets worse. Feet tangle, hooves colliding with hooves, and just that quickly the cow topples over onto the spot where Taran stood seconds before. The bard clears the falling bovine, but just barely. Hooves flailing in the air, rocking wildly as it tries to regain its footing, it lows angrily at them and glares at Muri and Taran from its upside-down position.

The door finally opens. With a vengeance. In fact, it flies so wide it smacks into the doorframe and makes the whole rickety structure shudder. Standing in the doorway is a pinched, aged man. "Wot th' Shades are yeh doin' t' mah cow!"

Muri shudders to a stop, a fair distance from cow and bard. "Ah'll not leave ye 'lones if'n Ah c'n 'elps it, ye biggin' fool," she huffs. Hearing the door open, though, she turns and looks, listening. "We brung 'im out leastwise." She sheathes her knife and starts back toward the house, a glance now and again toward the cow to be sure it keeps put.

As the door leaps open, Rowena flinches back, that safety net of argentite loyally intercepting the would-be fall. Nerves calming at the sight of the old man, Rowena musters a smile and steps forward again. "They are trying to prevent it from escaping your aged fence, sir. I'd rather not see my friends gored, even if at the horns of such an...impressive specimen." Glancing aside, she worries her brows in the pair's direction. The guard atop the horse has ceased his flailing and shouting, at least. "I beg your pardon for the hour, but may you be Septus Black?" She inquires, returning her attention to the man. "There's a rather urgent matter that needs discussing. For all our sakes."

Taran chuckles. "You did not know I was a fool *before* now? I have royal writ to be a fool for five minutes a day. The cow could hardly have been more than two." He nudges Muri forward. "We have people to talk to."

The man starts forward, taking a coil of rope from a peg inside the door and moving to loop it about the cow's neck. "Damn beast. Larn yer manners." Instead of hauling it off, he goes on to... well, tie it up so that it resembles a failed rubber-band ball. The lowing now more mournful than murderous, it lies helplessly on the ground while the man straightens to regard his visitors with a masked, unreadable gaze. "D'pends," he decides. "'oo's askin'?"

"If'n yer de fool, den Ah'm de fool dat'll foll'r ye," she mutters. She sighs and sets her sights on the old man, watching him hog tie his cow. Odd. She shakes her head, but stands aside, to let Rowena do the talking.

"Those who wish to see the realm free of the sickness that spreads," Rowena replies cooly, wiping a bit of dirt(she hoped) from her brow, "Amongst them being the one some say is the single most powerful woman in all Fastheld. I'm told that you've the finest soil-mender in the kingdom, Master Black. Such success must have been achieved through relentless work, I'm certain. It's your 'recipe' that concerns me. May we come in?" Extending her palms harmlessly outwards at her side, she glances to Muri and Taran with a little nod and jerk of "Come on"

Taran nods to Muri, coming inside...eyeing Septus curiously as he does so.

"Fines' soil-mender in th' kingdom, huh?" Septus repeats, a gleam coming to his eye. "Ayuh, that'd be meh." He hesitates a brief moment, looking to the bound cow (all it needs is a gag to be complete) one last time before nodding to the door. "Quiet. Mah wife's a-sleepin'." He covers his mouth with his hand and coughs into his palm with a courtesy that's quite obviously foreign to him.

Muri follows the Duchess and Black silently into the house, her lips pursing into a worried frown.

Muscles relax almost audibly. Exchanging a satisfied glance with her company, Rowena puts some more genuine warmth into that smile of hers and moves to follow Septus inside. She clears her throat softly. "I'll do my best not to cause a racket, Master Black. Maintaining land such as this requires heavy physical - and emotional - demands. It'd be horrid of us to steal away the precious little sleep you and your wife can find for yourselves," She whispers, voice hoarse as it strains between levels so that all may hear. "We hope not to keep you long either. Just a few questions and mayhap a brief demonstration - with your permission."

Taran nods agreement, watching the man.

"Ayuh... ayuh... questions. Yeh can't 'ave mah cow." This is stated firmly as Septus leads the way into his hovel of a home. He pauses a moment to cough violently into his elbow, before straightening once more and taking the time to light a candle, which he sets on an overturned crate of a table in the center of a room which is probably supposed to be a kitchen. In an adjoining room, more coughing--deep, painful chest coughs--can be heard through the thin walls.

Septus just blinks at Rowena as she gets to the latter part of her question. "A dem'stration?" he echoes. "Th' cow takes a shit an' yeh put it in th' sack. An' yeh want a *dem'stration*?"

Muri looks from Royal to farmer, then steps forward. "Ye folks been sick a'long times, aye?" she says gently. "We gots some stuff t'elps wid dat coughin', de rashin' ye gots. Only we thin's mayhaps de troubles ye gots comes from wot all yer makin' diff'rent in de soil mender, Messer Black." She sets her pack on the floor and starts rummaging around for medicines. "Dat cow de only ones ye use t'makes it?"

It takes all the courtly manners in the world to prevent the pinched twitch in Rowena's lips from errupting into an inappropriate peal of laughter. If only he knew...

Sniffing once deeply to clear her nose and then instantly regretting it, Rowena finds it best to simply avert her eyes completely for a moment and let the man answer Muri's question. The guard, thankfully, is the image of stoic silence and keeps to the door. Unamused. Well aware.

Taran mmms. "The cow is...certainly rather less docile than most. There are wild bovidae with...slightly better dispositions."

Septus coughs again, but this time it's more an 'ahem' than an actual sign of sickness. "That cow be th' fines' spec'men yeh're likeleh t' fin' anehwhere in Fas'eld," he tells Taran, a bit pointedly. "'e's got spunk, 'e do." He turns to Muri then, and shakes his head. "That cow, th' 'orse, dead plants fro' th' garden, stuff fro' th' street..." He shakes his head. "Good stuff, it is. Yeh want some fer yer fields?" It may occur that he does not seem surprised to have people from beyond the Shadow Wall turn up in his sorry excuse for a living room.

Muri brings out her winesack and sets the medicines on the crate near the candle. "If'n ye gots a cup, Messer," she says. "We c'n starts dere. Plants ye say? An' stuffs fr'm de streets." She shakes her head. "Dats much t'goed on. Ah don' got t'need fer me fields, but more Ah'd lahk t'see where we makes it. Wen dat cow git so onry, Messer?"

"What kind of plants do you grow in your garden, Master Black?" Rowena interjects quietly, one brow steeped in interest.

Taran stays silent, just watching the proceedings now, his attention mostly on Septus.

Outside, the spunky cow takes the opportunity to express his sentiments on the subject of his bindings.

Septus kneels by the crate - kitchen cabinet and dining table covered in one fell swoop, what a deal - and removes a chinked clay cup, which he offers absently to Muri. "That cow no orn'ry," he insists. "'e jus' got spirit, 's all. 'e been that way fer 's long 's I've 'ad 'im." He looks to Rowena, and shrugs mildly. "I jus' tends t' th' an'mals. Mah wife plants in th' garden. I dunnoed wot she got in there." His sentiment is punctuated by another harsh cough from the other room, followed by the sound of someone retching and a low, painful moan.

Muri takes the cup, pours some watered wine into it and sprinkles the medicine over the top. Taking the knife from her belt, she stirs the concoction and stands. "Ah'll tend t'er," she murmurs, then glancing to Rowena, she says, "Could be nightshade or a 'sroom, ye Grace, somefin' dat keep it's pot'ency even w'en mixed." She nods and heads to the coughing farmwife.

Rowena idly touches the mask that covers her mouth and nose. "That's no trouble then, Septus," She murmurs, nodding at Muri. "If you don't mind showing me to the garden, I will kindly examine them myself. Also...would it be too much trouble to show us where it is you mix your prized ingredients together? Don't you fret about us stealing your secrets in hopes of competing with your trade. Our only wish tonight is to ensure that no one has perhaps slipped some things that shouldn't be there into the mix. Things blown by the wind from your fields may be causing these people - your wife - to be ill. We just want to help." Crouching down alongside the crate, she folds her hands neatly atop one corner of it and looks up at him.

"I'm very grateful you've allowed us in, Master Black. Time is the most potent ally we have to fight this unseen enemy. Your cooperation will be well noted."

Septus' already pale face pales a shade more at that, and he swallows, nods. "Ayuh, a'right, then. Foller me - 's right out back, 'ere. Lookout fer th' cat."

Muri discovers a somewhat different view in the bedroom of the farmwife. Oh, yes, dingy--hardly well lit, save for a single candle stub left burning on an upturned crate. But there's also an interesting collection of bottles, you see. Most of them seem filled with dried herbs. On the bed lies a very sick woman, her eyes half closed, staring at the ceiling. There's a vacant 'nobody's home' look to her, and she coughs occasionally. The coughs shake her entire body, and a light sheen of sweat shines on a forehead pale with fever. There's a pool of fresh vomit beside the bed, though not much. Food is scarce.

Muri stalls at the door, taking in what she sees. Cup still in hand, she turns toward the front room. This is more than she can handle. "Yer Grace?" she calls. "Ah thin' ye should see t'dis farmwife." She swallows and heads to the cleaner side of the bed. "Missus?" she says to Black's wife. "Missus?"

Allmighty Light. Mad dogs. A madder cow. There was a cat to be thrown into the mix? "Count yer blessings..." Rowena mutters for the second time that night and she takes a deep breath, nodding to follow Septus. In passing by the bedroom, she pokes her head in with response to Muri's cry. A prolonged stare, then "The latter stages of what's been goin' round. Fever, ill belly, possibly brought on by the extensive coughing. The poor souls in their latter years fare worse when fevered...it can get to the..." Holding her tongue and glancing to Septus' back, she points to her head silently. "Keep talkin' to her, prepare what you can of a poultice for her brow. Keep her warm. If she comes awake, she can swallow a tea, if not, then a paste to smear inside her mouth will do. I'll tend with you as soon as I finish in the garden. It'd be a shame for anything to...escape."

Sure enough, there's a scrawny orange tomcat asleep on the step as Septus leads Rowena out through the back door. He ungraciously kicks it aside, which elicits a yowl, a flurry of claws, and a brief scuffle between feline and human. With a murderous glare at both Rowena and Septus, it waves its scraggly tale high in the air, flicks one bitten, malformed ear, and stalks off to a new place to sleep.

The garden outside is in sorry shape indeed, wishing sorely for the looking after of its ill caretaker. It seems, however, to be perfectly normal. Lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, squash. Some herbs here, few of which seem particularly extraordinary. A lonely, weedy flower with a bent head that has long since hoped for the pleasantries of the fading autumn. Near that, a large pit has been dug in the ground - apparently Septus Black's mixing bowl for this fertilizer that's been so highly prized. At the bottom lies a disgusting mix of rotting plants and dung, with what looks like a couple of dead animals thrown in for good measure.

A raven calls from a nearby tree.

The woman's eyes open at the sound of Muri's voice, focusing... sort of... before drifting out of focus once more. Her lips move, and there is some kind of sound that comes out, though it is faint and cannot be heard from Muri's distance. Yet there's an urgency in her voice, as if she's giving the effort at communication all she's possibly got.

Muri nods to the Healer of Fastheld as she passes, pursing her lips and moving closer to the farmwife. "Ah'm 'ere wid med'cines, Missus," she says. "Come 'longs now, Ah knowd ye c'n take dis, hrm?" She gently lifts the woman's head and tries to pour a bit of the liquid into her mouth. Tis yer recipe done make de 'mender, aye?" She stops to let the woman swallow if she can. "Yer a'chemist..." Her gaze roams over the bottles of herbs, then she returns her attention to the ailing woman.

As if Rowena had thought the night couldn't possibly smell any worse. The call of the raven even fails to jar her stare of disgust into the pit that she's come to stand alongside. Her left hand lifts to seal the cloth tighter still. "This'th'only'un?" She muffles at Septus, eyes watering. Smells and urges to vomit aside, the healer finds her knees gravitating to the ground - closer to the concoction. Her satchel lands heavily by her hip. The guard exits last, looming from the doorway.

Rowena's hands start to wander, brushing through the little plant matter that remains above ground. As she hunts, she slips another little jar from her satchel and starts to scoop some soil between plants and pit.

It's disgusting, there's no doubt about that, and it hardly seems to be as well-made as everybody claims. There's a dead mongoose down there, alongside a pile of rotting leaves. But the thing that may catch Rowena's attention may not be the sight, but the smell. Beyond those of rot and decay, death and dung, there is a faint, musty odor. Something unfamiliar, that cannot quite be placed, except for its very out-of-placeness. It's rather musty, like the smell of an old bookshop or dusty attic, and yet it's different, too, with a sharp, almost herbal scent to it.

A pale, shaking hand darts out to clasp around Muri's wrist with a strength one would think impossible from someone who's obviously lost so much of hers already. "How many?" she rasps in a voice strangely devoid of the Shadow District accent. "How many dead? How many has it killed? How... how far?" Medicine is low on her list of priorities. The urgency in her voice is compelling, even commanding, though it barely gets above a whisper.

Muri recoils, her brow furrowing. "'ow many?" she replies, confused. "Ah dunno'd Missus. Many sicks in Marbles Grove, Free'aven. 'ere den, take it, take de med'cines an' we c'n talks more." She glances at the jars again, but tries to get the woman to drink. "Wot all dis 'bouts, Missus?"

...And there it is. It was as fine an omen as any, that rotting mongoose. Staring haplessly into the pit, Rowena heaves one steady breath after another. Taking it all in. This would not be the first time that curiosity had killed the mongoose. And, if she had anything to say about it, it would not be the last.

"Forgive me, Serath," She murmurs and reaches into the pit, soiling further the snaplizard hide, and scoops blindly for some of the goop. "Master Black," She instructs while sampling the gelatinous source of the musty odor, "Do the kingdom a favor and pause your production of this mender. Soon it will be too cold to plant your crop. A controlled burning will fertilize the ground enough to make it ready for spring. If you /do/ continue this lovely concoction of yours, you will find Fastheld's most irate and vicious Sovereign upon your doorstep. Perhaps you've heard stories and tales of the undead Horsemaster, the ressurrected Prince. Perhaps not. But there is only one fine thing in this /world/ that angers him more than the most cursed of shadow beasts."

She groans, pulling back with her poo-poo platter to go. "That would be me. Dead. Do pray that we find a way to mend your mender." What could've been considered fondness for the old man is now darkened into a glare. "Go to your wife, Septus. We'll see ourselves out."

Septus blinks at the Duchess, a bit startled by the sudden shift in mood. He looks down to his pit, and says in a small, confused voice, "I done nothin' but make sum fert'lizer..."

Mrs. Black's hand falls away from Muri's wrist, and she takes a long moment just to breathe. It seems even that small movement has taxed her strength. "Leave the... medicine for those who need it," she manages. "I am dying... a week, maybe." She draws a shuddering breath that ends in a cough, and the eyes close. To Taran: "It was... an accident. My husband is a fool, with the wits... of a drunken gnat and the... stubbornness of a donkey in a game of tug-of-war. Will not listen. But I know, *I* know."

Muri shakes her head and urges the woman to take a drink. "Ye don' gotta die," she says. "De Royal 'ealer 'erself's 'ere t'tend thin's. Jus' tell us wot all ye knowd so's we c'n make a cure fer it." She looks over to Taran worried.

"You did. Plants are not the only organisms in your fertile soil that enjoy your efforts. There is live poison afoot in your pit, Master Black. It grows, it feeds. Burn it." Stuffing the jar into her satchel, she hastens to her feet and clambers right past him, shooing the guard back inside.

"It has been found! Let us make haste!" She calls into the house as her own feet bear her thus.

The sense-sensitive bard is apparently having to fight hard with himself to stay stable in the noxious atmosphere. "Take her with us," he says. "As far as we can. The air here speeds her death. At least we can give her a little more time."

"No. We are not going anywhere... yet," the woman hisses, continuing to resist Muri's efforts to medicate her. The idea of leaving her husband does not seem to bother her in the slightest, though. "There is... parchment, in crate. Fetch it for me. Writing. Instructions."

Septus just blinks at Rowena as she retreats, caught between the hope of defying the Duchess of one of the great Houses and that of getting out of this alive. The mood swing? Not promising. Rather than committing one way or the other, he holds his silence and follows slowly back inside.

Muri scrunches her brow and sets the cup aside, then hurries to gather up the needed writing implements. She brings them to the woman, balancing the ink bottle where she can reach it. "We'll take ye bofth someplace safe, aye?' she says. "Dere's 'elp 'ere for ye."

Taran turns, apparently more than on edge enough to take a bout of temper out on somwhere else. "You would not even love your wife enough to set fire to a pit?" he growls. "I will see to it then." And he sets about looking for any fuel that might keep a fire going - be it oil, or wood in any form.

If Taran was enjoying the sensory setting inside the house, then more fuel to the flame's on its way. Red in the face, Rowena shoves past her guard and swipes the mask from her face. It's trodden underfoot as she takes light in the woman's doorway again. "I'm to keep my distance." She instructs firmly, looking through Muri to the dying woman. "Mistress Black, my heart is pained with the irony of your suffering. We have medicines here to alleviate what you feel. A promising treatment is not yet made, but you have my word that all resources of time, monies, and my caches will be put into it, beginning immediately. If you wish, you may traverse with us. I go a long way, Mistress, as deep South as the old Mikin Wood. It is best, the isolation there."

"If you would prefer to remain here, then my prayers will stay with you." Her eyes shift to follow Taran, pensive expression steady.

Taran may discover a stack of firewood by the fire... well, fire ring, really, and a precious little amount of lamp oil in the crate that has already yielded up a cup, a bit of parchment, a quill, and a meager amount of ink. Flint and steel can be found by the side of the firewood. Using what is likely every bit of her remaining strength, the woman takes the quill in a shaky hand, dips into the ink, and in writing that is barely legible for her weakness and her haste, scribbles something on the paper which she then tries to pass to Muri. "I will go with you," she says softly. "If only... to do what I can. I am beyond saving now." She looks disdainfully to her husband, who stands in the doorway looking by turns confused, idiotic, and angry. Yet she has no words for him, as at last her strength gives way and she falls into unconsciousness against the straw cot and rough-woven pillow.

Muri takes up the parchment and hearing the Duchess's call, wraps the hapless woman in whatever blankets are about, then covers those with her own cloak. She reaches down and gathers the woman up into her arms and tries to lift her. "M'lord," she calls to the guard. "C'n ye 'elps me?" She's strong enough, but it's awkward work.

Taran grabs as much of the firewood as he can, and the lamp oil and flint, wasting no time in getting that pit ready to burn. "No more to end of this."

"Will you come or shall we leave you to your cow?" Rowena directs towards Septus. Pointing her guard in Muri's direction, she clomps her way through the little space and to the front door. "Thank you, Master Black," She adds, pausing in the doorway, "For your cooperation. I am sorry for your loss." On those marked words, the Duchess disappears into the night. The beacon of seraphic light pulses its blue self along the fencing, towards the shape of awaiting horses. Her hands wave emphatically high into the air, summoning them forth.

Septus Black shakes his head, his face dark with anger and stony determination. As stubborn as a mule in a game of tug-of-war, one might say. "I stay," he says simply, and turns away from the figure of the departing Duchess, back into his house where he perches on the edge of that oh-so-important crate. Just... to sit.

Muri and the guard manage to ease the farmwife up gently, then follow the the Duchess out the door. "We'll take good care o'yer wife, Messer," she says. "Light keep ye." She wufs as the weight shifts and they carry the woman out. She looks as if she wants to say more, but remains silent. They walk out into the night, following, following.

Taran takes the time to set a blaze going - holding his breath as he gets nearer the pit - and once the fire's started, backs away quickly.

Septus continues to sit on the edge of the crate, gazing dully at the orange glow as it starts beyond the sanctuary of his back door. He does not stir even as the spunky cow forlornly lows at the passersby exiting its territory. "Burn," he whispers. And that is all.

Remedy rides, one trot nearer to declaring this mystery solved. While Muri and the guard struggle with the old woman, someone else hunts down a cart, and Taran sets the decay ablaze, Rowena lashes her satchel to Umbrus' saddlebags. "We leave immediately. I will stop once in Lightholder to speak with Maeve, then we return home." She announces to the guards. "The others are permitted to follow, should they so desire." And that's that. Far from happy but considerably less burdened by the unknown, Rowena turns to wipe her mouth and nose against her shoulder.

"Hurry now!" She calls aloud, then adds a bit more softly while struggling into the saddle, "I have an overdue affair with the bath."

Return to Season 8 (2008)