Potato Nose
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Wild Card 26
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 23:20:07 +0000 UTCI've been planning this design for more than a month now, revising it on the plain stone slate I've mounted in my Hideaway to make it as straightforward as possible. The shower that resulted is a relatively simple looking thing, but simple is good - the fewer moving parts a machine has, the less tends to go wrong with it. Two wooden water tanks, one atop and one under a drain on the bottom, conjoined by a wooden chamber between them with a plain waxed cloth curtain serving as its door in and out. Water flow is gravity driven with a simple knob valve that, despite my best efforts, leaks a little bit given I don't have access to any rubber to make a valve seal. The piping and heating element are iron, both of which I've infused with Alter Object to repair any rusting or scaling. I've spent the last day and a half using repeated castings of Upgrade to smooth over rough spots and prevent the wooden parts of the shower from acquiring mildew, mold, or warping. The repeated Upgrades have left he wood looking less like oak and more like a really dark bamboo.
Knowing what I do about botany, I find myself wondering if I can eventually use Druidism and Upgrade to convert common grasses into something similar to bamboo - being one of the fastest growing and most useful grasses on the planet, bamboo is a material adaptable to a host of purposes that would save me a lot of hassle for items in the future.
Calibrating the hot water was somewhat tedious, and I waffled between several layouts. I settled eventually on a touch activated plate on the shower wall to heat the rod in preparation for the shower. The only moving part is the knob that turns the valve to control water flow. The shower head is centered in the ceiling of the shower cubicle itself, so it's not adjustable, but I just want a basic, working shower right now. The common lye soap they use here smells and is abusive to the skin but I can alter the fat balance in it through Alter Object well enough that I'm not dissolving my skin if I use it daily.
And it works. The pressure is weak, the valve leaks, and the cubicle creaks while I'm in it, but the damn thing works. Ha! I'm a poet.
The weak flow, slightly not hot enough, and definitely too-short shower is the best I've ever had. Thank Loki for the blessings of civilization. After working the bugs out of this thing, my next personal project will be some better soap.
The shower is damp and dripping after my ablutions, and the bottom tank is sloshing with the grey water. Note to self: larger top and bottom tank when I get to adding in water seals. I'll need more oak, too. Yet despite its shortcomings, it's worlds apart from making do with buckets, barrels, and cold water. I feel clean in a way I haven't felt in... how long has it been since I came here?
I take a few moments to think. Two? No, two and a half months. Two and a half months since I was pulled out of my living room and dropped in a ball of flame into an inky black night in the middle of Cimmura. Two and a half months of magic and servitude. Two and a half months where my movements, my occupation, my life is not my own.
Two and a half months since I've seen my wife.
Almost half the duration has passed until I no longer have to worry about a thoughtless white lie tearing away weeks of progress in my magic. It wasn't really until I couldn't tell even harmless or socially lubricating untruths that I realized how many social interactions depend on socially accepted, socially EXPECTED, little lies.
And here I am, wallowing in self-pity and woolgathering while I stand wet and naked, staring at a wooden shower wall. I tap the trigger plate tied to Shape Water and the remaining water on me and the shower cubicle flow into the drain. The contents of the grey water tank begin purifying, before clean water starts flowing up the feed line to the top tank. I find myself wishing I'd put in a window on the piping to watch its progress, but that would just be another potential leak, and I'm not THAT bored waiting for it to do its work. I wait until the cycle is finished, then run the shower again. The water comes down warm-hot, clear as crystal, clean as a mountain spring. I let it run until the top tank empties, then cycle it again.
And again.
It takes four cycles to deplete the daily reserve on the enchantment; touching the Shape Water plate does nothing, leaving the drain reservoir still sloshing about. I cast Shape Water to bring it back up to the top tank and run it again, but the water is cold. Seems the enchantment's power reserves are comprehensive across the whole, not individual for singular aspects of the magical framework's function. Even as it stands, the shower constitutes a massive improvement to my quality of life. I can tune the enchantment further later on, improve the heating element, maybe autocycle the water so that instead of four showers of four minutes, it can be run up to fifteen minutes a day. Eventually, as I improve my skills in both Shape Water and Firebolt, I can make it more or less run at will, the water filtration cycling automatically while the water runs.
But that is a long way in the future, I think.
Three knocks against my Hideaway door pulls my attention from my introspection. I step out of the shower and grab for my clothes. "One second, just got out of the-" The door opens before I finish my sentence. "- shower."
I scramble to get dressed, giving Vanion an annoyed and resentful glare. My irritation fades, however, as the expression on his face sinks in. "Anthon, we must be ready for trouble," Vanion announces.
"Trouble?" I parrot back, staring lamely at him with my pants barely pulled up. Absently, I notice that the waistband of my jeans is too loose, again, and I use Alter Object to fix this inconvenience before my jeans can slide down on me. "What kind of trouble?"
"The troublesome kind," he replies tersely. It's only now that I belatedly realize he's not only eschewing his preferred Styric smock in favor of formal Pandion tunic and trousers, but he's holding in one hand a loosely rolled up parchment. Said rolled up parchment is briefly brandished first in my direction, then out towards his office. "There's a rider in my study right now. He needs healing; I can only assume it's God's will that he made it here alive in the first place. He's in a bad way. I would have you tend to him, if you're willing. I need to get ready for travel - and you might wish to prepare yourself for the same." He doesn't linger for a reply, instead turning on his heel and departing immediately.
The fact that he's asked for me to just heal someone directly is concerning. Given the effort he's made over the last month to ensure that I remain hidden, I can only assume that operational secrecy has been blown wide open.
I hop on one foot and then the other as I put on my socks and shoes, then hastily drag my shirt over my head and torso. Since our conversation where we kind of cleared the air between us, Vanion has taken to asking me to do things rather than ordering. I recognize it for the peace offering it is, a consideration for my feelings about my compulsory servitude. And the funny thing is, if I were to refuse any of the things he asks, I think he'd even let it slide without turning it into an order. For all his insistence on the rightness and naturality of the Elene system of royalty, nobility, and peasantry, he's been almost cosmopolitan in his consideration of my home and ways.
I do my best to reciprocate by not commenting on feudalism except in response to a direct topic of conversation. I know it's not particularly equitable of me, but morally it's the best I can do - especially because I can't safely lie and say I'm okay with it.
But now I'm dressed and it's time to get to work. I rush from my Hideaway and into Vanion's office; a man in a cloak is slumped sideways in one of the guest chairs past Vanion's desk. The man's hair is clumped and streaked with dried blood, and his skin is pallid and shiny with sweat. At a guess, he looks like he's suffered a considerable amount of blood loss. "Ease up, soldier," I comment, as I retrieve one of my bottles of Brew from my Pocket spell. "Gonna need you to take a drink of this. Come on, buddy."
He's responsive, if somewhat woozy. He looks up at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes that struggle to focus on the small glass vial I'm offering him. I pull the stopper for him, having to hold it to his lips before it finally registers for him, and he lets me pour the contents into his mouth. He finishes the Brew in a couple of swallows, and his pallor immediately improves as a healthy flush returns to his face. His strained expression relaxes a bit, but it still takes another ten or so seconds for him to recover enough to sit up more or less straight in the chair. "Uh... chirurgeon?" he asks hesitantly.
I shake my head in denial. "How do you feel?" I ask, checking his scalp; I easily find the rapidly healing remnants of a scalp wound at least three inches long and, judging from the weal of slowly fading scar tissue, probably almost to the bone.
"Uh... better. Much better," he says shakily. His voice seems younger than his features; I can only assume Pandion training is pretty hard on a man.
I hold his head in my hands and check his pupil dilation - slightly uneven, but leveling out. Probably concussion, but the Brew is still doing its work. "Follow my finger with your eyes, please," I instruct as I stand back a pace and hold up my index finger, moving it slowly to the side, then up. He turns his head a little, and I tut at him. "Don't move your head, just hold it straight forward and follow my finger with your eyes only. Any pain? Blurriness?"
He clears his throat, obediently following my instructions and my finger. "No, pain's gone." He looks past my finger as I lower my hand. "Am I going to be alright, Father?"
'Father'? "You will be fine, I think, with a little rest and food."
"Thank you, Father... ahh," the young man begins, but I hold up a forestalling hand.
"Is that a Styric 'father' or a clerical 'Father'?" I ask rhetorically, then shake my head. "Don't suppose it matters, because I'm neither. Just call me Anthon, as the Preceptor does. I'm not supposed to be here as far as the world knows, but since Vanion sent me out here to heal you directly, either time is of the essence and we're under attack, or else my cover here or elsewhere is revealed."
"The, ah, the latter... Anthon?" He says my name in an almost questioning tone, like he desperately wants to attach some kind of title to it. "The Priory of St. Proclus was attacked. Only four Knights were there to defend the monks from an attacking party of at least fifty. Sir Mertyn sent me with a missive from the Head Friar to tell of the attack; he said that the old man sent to be hidden there was slain by an arrow from ambush. It was how the attack began."
I'm hit with a body wide chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. An arrow from ambush? There's a word for that: an assassination. They assassinated me, or rather, the man they thought was me. A man who, if the plan went through as originally described to Dolmant, I personally taught magic. Moreover, by now they almost certainly know that the decoy wasn't me; even casual examination of the body will likely reveal the deception. And since the chapterhouse has been under surveillance by Church Soldiers literally since I arrived here, they can't possibly have missed the messenger's arrival. Which in turn means...
Which means he definitely let any observers know exactly where I actually am. "Oh," I say in a small voice.
I am suddenly keenly aware of the fact that behind me, next to the doorway to my Hideaway, is Vanion's window, and I feel an uncomfortable itch in the center of my back. I half turn to see the window, and just for my own peace of mind, I cast Force Disk to cover it. Just in case.
I turn back to the messenger. "So, wh-" my voice rasps lightly, and I swallow hard. When did my throat get so dry? "Sorry. What's your name?"
He doesn't seem to want to make eye contact. In fact, he looks like he'd rather be any place but here right now. "Gerhardt, Milord Anthon."
Dammit all. "No. No, no, no. I'm not a lord. I'm just 'Anthon'."
He winces, chastened by my unintentionally sharp rebuke. "S-sorry, Anthon." He stares at his hands in his lap, which are trembling. Quite suddenly, it becomes clear to me that even though he's sitting here, healed of his wounds, it's not really over for him yet. He catches me watching and tries vainly to still their shaking.
And now I feel like a jerk. I sigh. "No harm, no foul. Are you a knight, then?"
Gerhardt looks startled. "A knight? No, mi- ah, Anthon," he corrects himself. "I'm one of the initiate monks from the Priory. Knighthood is reserved for nobility; even if I took up arms for the Church, I would only be a Church Soldier. But I never wanted such a thing. I simply wish to serve God in peace."
Poor bastard. He's in over his head worse than I am. "Never be ashamed of wanting a peaceful life," I tell him in the gentlest tone I can manage. "It's a good goal to have, and a good life to live. And while I know it's not worth much right now, I'm genuinely sorry your peaceful life was..." Was what? How do I find words for this poor man, barely an adult and caught up in this madness? After a moment, I try, "I'm sorry that you and your fellow monks were caught up in all this. It's not fair to you or to them."
Gerhardt tries to puzzle his way through this briefly, but then his stomach growls, interrupting whatever he was getting ready to say in reply. It's a little cowardly of me, but I'm relieved by this disruption. I can't bring back the dead, or change the past, but hunger? This, at least, is something I CAN fix. "I have no authority here," I say, leaning back into Vanion's desk, "so I can't just grant you permission to go to the refectory, even if I'm fairly certain Vanion would agree. What I can do, is feed you myself - if you'd like."
Gerhardt looks up, meeting my eyes with a sheepish expression. "That would be welcome, A-Anthon. I have been riding for more than a week, and I ran out of food several days ago." He briefly glances past me, and frowns. "Your, ah... your spell. The window one."
I turn my head to look, already knowing what I'll see - that I let the spell lapse without refreshing it. Stupid. It only lasts about thirty seconds and it's easily been a couple minutes since I cast it, and the shimmer of its presence is long gone. What kind of precaution is it if I'm not vigilant in its use? I have to start paying more attention. I refresh the spell, the shimmering plane of force covering the aperture to the exterior of the keep, then give Gerhardt an embarrassed shrug of my own. "I'm not used to this sort of thing," I admit.
Gerhardt gives a half-hearted chuckle. "Nor I, Anthon." He pauses briefly. "Ah, about that... food?"
I nod, and cast Goodberry. Three large mangoes appear on Vanion's desk, perfectly ripe - and when I say perfectly, I mean that the vivid red of the tastiest part of the fruit is covering the entire thing. I put one of them into my Pocket spell, hand the second to Gerhardt and then, in anticipation of his likely question on how to eat it, I take a bite of the last one, straight through the skin. Two months ago, the explosive sweetness of the fruit coupled with the remarkably complex flavor of its skin brought a smile to my face, along with a memory of being an eight year old tasting a mango for the very first time. Now, though, it's commonplace and even a bit boring, and only serves to remind me that I still haven't had my longed for steak dinner. Juice runs down my white beard and dots my shirt despite my best efforts to catch the dribbles with my free hand.
Apparently set at ease by this, Gerhardt takes a small bite of his own - and his eyes widen in shock, as he stares down at the fruit. He chews slowly, his expression awestruck. "It's... marvelous," he breathes after he swallows. Several trails of juice stretch from his mouth to his stubbled chin, and he wipes at them deliberately, each time licking his fingers clean until he's gotten them all.
"A fruit from my world, although you probably have them somewhere here too," I comment, taking a second bite. The Force Disk wavers a little, a sign that it's approaching the end of its duration, and I refresh it. "It's called a 'mango', and grows in warm, wet climates. Doesn't do well anywhere it snows."
"You are... certain that it exists here, too?" Gerhardt asks, then pauses, as he realizes something. "Wait... what do you mean 'your world'?"
Ah, dammit. "Yeah, I'm not exactly from around here. Still, the fact that there's humans, and cows, and horses, and most other common European animals and foodstuffs here, I'm working on the theory that there was probably other cross-world travel between my world and this one, enough of it that the plant and animal species are more or less indistinguishable on sight."
"I... didn't catch one of those words," he says, looking a bit lost.
Probably 'European' if I had to guess; the Tongues spell still doesn't translate words which have no equivalents. His perplexed expression is somewhat endearing. I wave my free hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Not that important. Just idle thoughts." I refresh the Force Disk again just as it fades completely.
As I do so, I frown - my distance vision is absolute crap, and healing magic hasn't done a damn thing to fix it, as it's not from injury, just age. I'd swear I saw motion out there, but I have no idea what kind. I wish I had my glasses, but I've been forced to do without them for two and a half months now, so I'll just have to continue dealing with it. "Gerhardt, may I borrow your eyes?"
"Borrow... my eyes?!" he asks, clearly alarmed and possibly taking things a little more literally than intended.
"I don't see well at distances," I clarify. "Can you tell me what you see? I thought I saw some kind of movement through the window down there."
He stands up from his chair, and walks around the desk, partially eaten mango clutched almost possessively. As he approaches the window, I refresh the Force Disk a little early. Just in case. And it's a good thing I do, because as he peers through the Force Disk, there's a solid 'THWACK' sound accompanying the sudden appearance of what looks like a stout and short arrow, stopped dead by the Force Disk. A distant part of my scholar's mind corrects the appellation 'arrow' as it's quite obviously a crossbow bolt. Gerhardt recoils, taking a half a step back, and then as the last of its momentum is dissipated, it falls, clattering down the stones of the window sill. The Force Disk is intact and seemingly pristine. "G-god Almighty! That-"
"It's alright," I say, pulling him to the side, away from the window and keeping the both of us crouched low despite the protests of my knees. "We're leaving the office, now, and getting Vanion."
"Y-yes," Gerhardt raggedly agrees, his mango fallen and near forgotten on the carpet. His eyes are locked on the gently shimmering Force Disk.
I pick the mango up, use Prestidigitation to clear off the carpet fuzzies and any potential contaminants, and then hand it to him. "Hey, now. Don't waste food," I joke weakly with him. He simply stares at me for a few seconds, before grasping the fruit slowly and taking another bite, albeit with a lot more shakiness and a lot less visible enjoyment.
The two of us duck walk out of Vanion's office and into the hall.
"Vanion!" I call out as we enter the hallway. "People launching arrows at us! Crossbow bolts!" The hallway runs perpendicular to the office, so line of sight to the window is broken; I stand up, knees protesting further along with my lower back, and grunt discontentedly. Gerhardt follows suit as I stand up, and sticks a little closer to me than I'm particularly comfortable with.
Several knights are rushing about, and I can hear a pained groan from further down the hall to our left. I turn my attention back to my companion. "Gerhardt, this is important - how many were there?"
"I only saw the one," he replies, looking a little pale, "but he was hidden. Branches and leaves all over him. I only saw when he lifted his weapon."
Branches and leaves as disguise? Ghillie suits. Lovely. "Listen, Gerhardt. I'm going to see to it that you get out of here alive. Alright?"
He eyes me uncertainly. "I will have to trust you, despite your mysteries." He pauses, then adds, "Are you... like a, an elder of your people? The way the Styric elders are trained in their secrets?"
"The full answer to that is a bit complicated, and we're a little pressed for time." I look down the hallway. "Look, if they get inside the building, I want you to go back into Vanion's office. Next to that window, you saw the door I came through? If they force their way into the building, go into that room and close the door behind you. The Hideaway is still good for at least another twelve hours. You'll be safe in there. Just stay low as you go so they don't see you through the window."
He nods vigorously, and I'm not sure how much of its jerkiness is assent or adrenaline. "Understood, Anthon."
I clap him on the shoulder once, then make my way down the hallway to the sound of the pained groaning. A quick check over my shoulder tells me that Gerhardt isn't waiting for enemy entry to retreat back into Vanion's office, presumably to my Hideaway, and he has the presence of mind to crouch walk as he does so. If I had more time I'd go back and reinforce the Force Disk, but from the sounds of things, there's a wounded, possibly dying Pandion here, and every second counts.
I find the source of the pained moans two rooms down from Vanion's office, where a robed knight is attempting to crawl to the hallway. His legs drag limply behind him, and no wonder, given the protruding fletching of another crossbow bolt square in the middle of his back. He looks up at me, teeth gritted. "Are... wait, Anthon? I th-" his words cut off as he tries to shift, and the bolt shifts with him. I'm guessing that more than just his spine is damaged; that bolt looks deep. "Nnng... thought you... were away from here," he finishes.
"What everyone was supposed to believe," I answer him, leaning down to inspect his injury. It doesn't look good; dark blood wells up from the wound around the wooden bolt. "Hold still. I'm going to see if I can get the bolt out."
"A... a chirurgeon, are you?" he huffs, letting himself slump forward. "Always knew I l-liked you for a reason."
"May not last much longer, that," I reply grimly. "This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch, but if I'm going to heal you it has to come out. I'll try to make it quick."
What follows is a demonstration that I do not have the grip strength to remove a well seated crossbow bolt from a human body, especially not when the protruding grip site is covered in blood. "Fucking hell," I curse, looking around. My eyes land on the room's fireplace, and next to it, an iron poker. Mage Hand retrieves it for me and Alter Object converts it from a standard fireplace poker into a two-handed set of iron pliers. Hopefully, this gives me enough grip and leverage. "Bite down on something," I instruct, carefully clamping the jaws of the oversized pliers around the end of the crossbow bolt. Then, with one foot planted on the knight's upper back to hold him in place, I yank upward. For an agonizing moment the bolt resists, and then with a scrape of wood and metal on bone, it wrenches free.
With it, comes a lot of blood. Through clenched teeth, the knight screams, and I practically hurl the pliers and the bloody projectile aside as I pull out another of my Brews from my Pocket spell. "Drink this!" I yell out, prying his jaw open a little as I recklessly pour it into his mouth. The splash of healing liquid catches him mid inhale, and he briefly splutters, coughing. I persist, pouring the rest of it into his mouth as he swallows it down. "Don't move!" I urge him. "Let it do its work, just stay still." His hands briefly claw at the floor before he tightens them into fists that shake white knuckled. Quickly, though, his breathing evens out, a little raspy from the bit of Brew he got down the wrong tube, but steady. As I watch, the flow of blood cuts off, and I carefully swipe away the lingering blood through the tear in his robe to see the reddened weal of flesh is already sealed up. I don't know if he had a punctured intestine, but just in case, I use Fearie Fire to burn away any trace of infection.
I wrack my brains trying to remember which of Vanion's knights this is. "Can you move a foot for me?" I ask. "Your left foot. Wiggle it slowly without moving your leg." I look back to his feet. The foot, as instructed, wiggles. "Now your right foot," I add.
Cooperatively, that too moves. Alright, he's getting at least some spinal messages through. "Speak to me. Are you still in pain?"
He grunts, "Barely any pain at all, it-" He shakes his head, starting to rise, but I plant my hand on his back between his shoulder blades, well away from the still-healing injury.
"Not yet. Don't try to get up until the pain is completely gone. Not even an ache. Spinal injuries are tricky, and I assume you want to still be able to walk and ride horses and do all other manner of things-" I almost say 'below the waist' but finish with, "-involving your legs and feet."
The knight groans, letting himself stay still for a few seconds. "The pain is gone," he says finally. "May I get up now?"
"Yes, but slowly. Let's not strain anything too quickly. Let the body adjust enough for the healing to set in fully." I carefully roll him over onto his side, watching his reactions closely. Not a flinch or wince. Good. Onto his back, then I do my old man best to sit him up, and help him to his feet. In all honesty, though, he's as much helping me stand up as I am helping him. Dear Loki, getting old sucks. My eyes lock on the window through which he must have been shot - from where we are near the doorway, there's no vision of the ground. He must have been very close to the window when it happened. I throw a Force Disk over this window too; I should have done that the moment I entered the room. But better now than never, in case somebody decides to take a second, random potshot for shits and giggles. "We need to get out of line of sight of the windows," I say.
"YOU need to do so; I need to get to the armory!" the knight disagrees, already moving faster than I'm comfortable with. I know that the Brews I made work fast. Per Sparhawk's orders to heal his Pandion brothers when needed, I made more than half of my stockpile specifically for the purposes of healing injuries with every advantage and component Vanion could lay hands. If the victim has a heartbeat, these will probably heal the man before he can die of blood loss. Even so, my AED and CPR certification training hates the notion of a man who had a spinal injury thirty seconds ago being up and running around, regardless of the healing, at least until he can be cleared by a real medical professional. But I'm no knight, and I have no authority over him, so I'm stuck standing by and watching him run out the door and down the hallway to the stairs.
He doesn't fall over or lose the use of his legs in the process, though, so I guess he'll be fine for now.
I follow him out into the hallway before the Force Disk can expire, but not particularly fast, because after my overweight ass chose to spend so much time duck walking, my knees are really starting to protest. I pause at the doorway, looking back into the room. Aside from the desk and several shelves containing ledgers of some kind, it's fairly sparse. It makes the gory crossbow bolt, the fireplace poker turned pliers, and the copious amounts of blood from my impromptu surgery all the more prominent. What a damn mess.
No time to clean it up now. There might be more injured men, on this floor or up on the battlements, and seconds could make all the difference.
I end up needing to heal three more men - two more crossbow wounds on the battlements, and a broken leg on a novitiate who panicked one of the horses in the stables. I didn't get to see Vanion sally forth on horseback out after the attackers, but I am there when he and twelve of his knights return. One prisoner has been tied up and is being dragged by one of the knights; Vanion's naked and bloodied sword tells the probable fate of the rest. "Raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis!" he calls out, before focusing on me. "Anthon, are you hale?" His eyes follow my gaze to his sword, and he frowns, taking a rag and cleaning the blade before returning it to its scabbard.
I shrug and nod. "My only pains are age induced, not by any attackers. I'll live."
"Lord Vanion!" calls out one of the knights from the battlements - I recognize him. His name is on the tip of my tongue... Bannon! That's his name. He was one of the knights I was teaching Alter Object. And that means that the decoy that was at the monastery, and killed in my place, was either Atris or Typhus. Yet I still can't remember the name of the first knight I tended to today. Sir Bannon continues, "No sign of any other attackers."
"And the Church Soldiers?" Vanion asks.
"Still camped out and pretending to be road builders," Bannon replied with a roll of his eyes. "I don't think they even noticed the skirmish."
"Unprofessional," Vanion comments under his breath in disgust, shaking his head.
Next to me, a knight I hadn't heard come up asks, "What kind of mad fools attack a Pandion Chapterhouse with a half dozen men?"
"I'd like to know that myself," Vanion comments, tossing a look behind himself at the bound and squirming man. "Which is where you come in, Anthon. Not a one of them made a sound as they were struck down, nor did any attempt to flee, only acting to reload their crossbows as we ut steel through them. Something is wrong with them, and I kept this one alive because I hope you can tell me what." He glances about the courtyard. "Have we a tally of the wounded?"
"I counted four wounded," I volunteer. "Three by crossbow bolts and one broken leg, but all have been tended to."
"Any slain?"
"I haven't found any," I reply, "But I was mostly following my ears to the sounds of pain, so you'd be better advised to make a head count. I didn't quite have enough time to check every room in the chapterhouse."
"Alright. Casper, Rennor! " Rennor! That was his name. "Make a sweep of the lower level for anyone who caught a bolt. Bring them to Anthon here," Vanion gestures in my direction, "if they yet live." He turns his head back to me. "There's our captive. If you can tell what's wrong with him, it would relieve me greatly."
Despite his bonds and the minor, ugly scrapes and cuts he accumulated from being dragged ungently across dirt, cobble, and wooden drawbridge, the captive shows no signs of discomfort. As I approach, he stops trying to wriggle towards the knight that dragged him in, and starts trying for me instead. I don't know what he thinks he's going to accomplish if he gets to me, as my boots are local and probably not possible for him to bite through. Although since he's not making any progress on getting within biting range, I don't suppose it matters. "Can someone wearing gauntlets please hold his head still so I can get a good look at him? And try not to damage him further," I add.
Restrained as closely as possible, the man looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties. There's no emotion or awareness in his gaze; it's like looking at a mannequin, albeit one that tries to bite you if you get close enough.
As he's grabbed by two of the knights, the prisoner's teeth make a hideous screeching against one's gauntlets, a screeching accompanied by a cracking noise that heralds the breakage of at least one of his teeth. With his head secure, blank eyes fixed on me as I draw close, I can smell the blood on his breath as well as the ketone smell of someone who hasn't eaten in longer than is precisely healthy. No sign of pain from his contusions or his broken... teeth, two incisors and one canine on his lower jaw. As far as his emotive display, the only goal he has is to bite me. There's no emotion in his eyes, nor any of the darting about that human eyes almost invariably do just as a matter of course, fixed unwaveringly on his current goal: me.
Something about this reminds me of old Haitian Vodou stories, men whose minds and wills were subverted entirely by a mixture of poisons that turned them into compliant husks, which would obey the commands given to them without question or self care until completed or falling dead. I cast Glow, bringing the light close and drawing it away from him to gauge his pupilary reaction, which is next to none. Brain damage? Severe drugging? "How strong is he?" I ask. "Hysterical strength?"
"As strong as his build would suggest," comments one of the knights holding him. "No stronger. Weakening, a little, I think."
I grunt to myself. This would be much easier if I had better means of diagnosing him but my Detection spell is nowhere near developed and practiced enough to do the job. As it stands, I'm more or less stuck with my judgment. My two major guesses are either brain damage or some kind of drug, and without a pain response, I'm leaning towards something like a cross between PCP and GHB. If it IS a toxin, venom, or poison, burning it away might bring him to his senses. Alternatively, I could attempt to heal brain damage if it's his prefrontal lobe or something similar- but if it's not brain damage, then healing him will make him harder to contain. No, let's attempt the detox first. "I suspect he may be somehow poisoned," I say. "I'm going to attempt to burn it away. Hold him still." So saying, I cast Faerie Fire, focusing on the need to burn away poisons.
The reaction is... not what I expected. The Faerie Fire flares wildly, encompassing him entirely. It seems to focus on his nervous system, if my eyesight is any guess, and within a few seconds his blank, dull expression shifts, first to pain, then to horror. He lets out a scream, and his struggles change from attempting to move toward me to curling in on himself, accompanied by sobs and whimpers. "Let him down, let him down!" I say, as the Faerie Fire continues to burn, flaring, fading, and flaring again, like it's fighting something. The whole while the man shudders and cries like a man inconsolable. The knights comply, though remaining alert to react if he should suddenly lunge for me.
But he doesn't. The Faerie Fire continues its work, each flare a little less than the one before, successively briefer, until finally it gutters into its lowest, most inert state and remains so. I let it burn another minute longer, just to be certain, but whatever it purged seems to be gone. "Get him a bed," I instruct, "and for safety, secure him to the frame, but not harshly. I'm going to be busy, I think, for the rest of the day."
Within five minutes, one of the penitent cells has been prepared for the prisoner, and two knights, including Rennor, are posted there for my safety at Vanion's orders. Rennor especially seems focused on my protection, and any glance in his direction is returned with a firm nod and smile. Well, I'm glad he's favorably disposed towards me at least.
What follows is an extended period of spellcasting, with me casting Blessing about his convalescence bed along with Healing Hands to treat his scrapes and cuts. I debate the merits of spending a Brew to regenerate his teeth, but they're a limited resource and a few broken teeth are hardly a life threatening injury. More concerning is the clear signs of dehydration and malnutrition, but it takes a few hours of treatment before he's calmed.
He looks physically and emotionally exhausted. Or perhaps more accurately, he looks haunted. I can't really blame him. "How are you feeling?" I ask.
He starts to speak, then stops, frowning, as his tongue explores his newly broken teeth. Then, he says, "Why... am I alive?" His words are slightly slurred from the teeth, but he's trying to compensate.
"Among other things, we need answers," I reply. "Such as why six men would start shooting crossbows into a keep full of Church Knights. Seems somewhat suicidal."
He shifts in the bed, but doesn't test his restraints. "I- I didn't want to. But... but IT made me."
"'It'?" I ask. "What do you mean by 'it'?"
"The... the thing. The creature. It... the glowing face. Mouth like stabbing things." He shudders, and his eyes get a distant sort of look to them until I snap my fingers in front of him.
"Hey, now. Focus on me. Don't think too hard about it. What happened?"
"It... there were dozens. Shambling, numb faced men, following it emptily. Like... like walking corpses." He shivers. "They grabbed us from our patrol. Dragged us from our horses. The... they took us one by one to it. I was one of the last, I saw it... over and over, it would bite them, and they would go slack, like... like dolls, made of rags, until it told them what it wanted them to do. And then it bit me, and I was a prisoner in my own flesh. Every night, it would take one of the shamblers, and bite him, and drink, and the body would shrivel and dry like a long dead corpse as it did it..."
His eyes are getting that distant look again, and I snap my fingers again. "Hey, hey. Stay with me. What's your name, son?"
He blinks at me, then replies, "Anders. Son of Gellon. I'm a private in the Lenda cadre of the Church Soldiers."
I hum to myself. "Alright, Anders Gellonson," I respond, gauging his reaction to my adaptation of his name. He doesn't seem bothered by it. "The creature. Can you describe it more fully?"
"A hunched, deformed man-like figure, covered in a robe. Spindly arms with too few fingers on its hands, and needle fangs on its face. A face that glowed green. Had a hunch back."
Sounds like the thing Sparhawk and I saw lurking outside Cimmura the night I arrived. "I'm only guessing, but I think that its bite was something like a Tarantula Hawk Wasp, paralyzing its prey. Making it pliable to do what it wants." I give Anders a smile. "I think you'll be alright. I've purged the venom from you."
"Can... can you kill it?" he asks, almost pleadingly. "Can you do that? It, it's an abomination. A monster. It must be destroyed."
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm perfectly willing to give it a try. I'm very much in favor of eliminating anything that thinks humans aren't the top of the food chain."
"The... what?" he asks, perplexed.
"Never mind," I reply with a half-hearted chuckle. "Are you hungry?"
He blinks, then nods. "I - yes. Very much so," he admits. "And thirsty as well."
This is, again, something I can deal with. I cast Goodberry, creating a trio of Persimmons, soft and the deep red of a good tomato. I use Alter Object to transform a bit of my leftover oak into a sippy cup and a spoon, and use Shape Water to fill the sippy cup with water from the air. Between sips of the water, I give him spoons of the custard soft Persimmon, noting his shock at the flavor of the fruit with my usual tolerant smile. My knightly escorts are watching the proceedings with interest; I hand them the other two persimmons and two more spoons, using the last of my oak bits to do so. I note with approval that they exchange a glance, before Rennor gives the other knight a nod, and maintains vigil while the man eats.
Only after he's finished with evident relish and a little disappointment, does he return to watching Anders and I, while Rennor takes his turn to eat.
"Precentor Vanion will want to ask you some questions," I say to Anders. "I hope you'll be forthcoming and fully honest with him."
"I'll answer anything he wishes," Anders says fervently.
I give him a nod. "That's all we require." And I want another shower; all the stress of the day, even only half over, has left me smelling unpleasant.
Minutes later, I stare disconsolately at the shower, which won't be finished recharging until tomorrow. But I'm nothing if not resourceful. I borrow a cauldron from the kitchens, dragging it behind me on a Force Disk that I anchor to a loaned broom. Once in my Hideaway, I use Fire Bolt to heat the cauldron til the air around it shimmers, fill it with the water from the Shower, and heat it to the actual temperature I want, then get in the shower, letting the heat unbind my tense shoulders until the reservoir empties.
There's an entirely too strong possibility that I'm going to have to leave my shower behind when Vanion decides where and when we're leaving, because he's not the sort to just sit back and wait for the next blow to land. Which means I'm going to have to figure out a way to make this thing collapsible.
I'm not going without showers again if I can possibly help it.
I still have another twenty-one healing focused Brews in my Pocket spell, but for all intents and purposes this barely qualified as a skirmish and I went through almost a fifth of my stock. I may have vastly underestimated the amount of Brews I need to have stockpiled. That, and I need to start practicing my non-Brew healing spells to take the burden off because if my Healing Hands and Blessing spells had been more developed today, I could have healed that novitiate's leg with those instead. But a broken femur is a life threatening injury in a world that has no advanced medicine or antibiotics, and if it had proven fatal, his death would have been lingering and cruel.
And then, there's the issue me being exposed and vulnerable. I'll need to start making use of Mage Armor, Toughness, and Warding Gesture as constantly as possible. Layered defenses. And practicing like my life depends on it, because it probably does. I have an enormous amount of work ahead of me.
This time, Vanion doesn't bother to knock, just opens the door to my Hideaway and walks in. "Alright, Anthon, we're going to-" He cuts himself off and stops short as he sees me rapidly wrapping the shower curtain around my waist. "... Are you in that contraption again? Did it not clean you well enough the first time?"
"When I'm under stress, I sweat, okay?" I snap irritably. "What did you need?"
"I'm locking down the chapterhouse; I've sent a messenger to the Motherhouse in Chyrellos for reinforcements, along with a description of the Seeker according to what the captive had to say. Instructions for any of its enslaved humans are to capture them alive and as uninjured as possible. You have the ability to free them relatively quickly, if today is any evidence, so I want you prepared. If you can construct a device to do so -" I shake my head and he stops, sighing. "- I was afraid that might be the answer, but I had to check. Alright, what CAN you do?"
"I need to practice a lot of things, really." I contribute a sigh of my own. "Mage Armor, Toughness, Warding Gesture. Healing Hands, Blessing."
"Let me rephrase. What can you manage in a week?"
I think for a moment. "I... can tangibly improve Mage Armor and Toughness inside a week," I say finally. "And if I can wrangle a second week, I can get solid improvement out of Healing Hands and Blessing as well. But beyond that, I'll need... months."
"Then I recommend you begin with Mage Armor and Toughness," Vanion replies. "Once our reinforcements arrive, we'll be leaving for Chyrellos. The Mother Church MUST be informed of the Seeker's presence so deep in the heart of Elene lands."
"Won't that be leaving Cimmura undefended?" I ask. "We know the Seeker is HERE."
"The Motherhouse is better defended," Vanion answers. "The Church Soldiers and the Elene guard will have to suffice, but to draw the Seeker to follow us, we'll simply offer it bait to follow."
I don't need a moment to guess. "Me."
Vanion nods. "You. I regret having to do this, but you will be well protected and as you said, this creature can't be allowed to wander here doing untold damage."
And I do understand, and even approve, but still... "We don't have to be passive or on the defensive. We COULD just hunt the damn thing ourselves once those reinforcements get here," I point out. "I may dislike the idea of killing people needlessly, but I have absolutely no reservations about killing a man eating bug."
Vanion raises an eyebrow at me, and a faint smile touches his lips. "I have heard that insects do not much care for fire," he notes. "I grant you permission to use Fire Bolt on it until all that remains is charcoal."
I grin at him. "I look forward to barbecuing the thing for you, then."
