Chapter Seven: The Stalemate At Loton's Cove

As Mordred begins his approach up the steep slope to the campsite, the canvas moves and a figure emerges from the shelter. Clad in rags and a heavy brown cloak, the figure clutches a short sword. It seems to relax its wary posture after regarding you all for a moment.

This may be Gethro Moag, but you cannot see his face from here.

The figure pulls back the hood of his cloak. A dirty, blood-caked face stares down at you.

"How many did you have to kill to get here?" he asks.

You think so.

The man smiles. He takes a few steps down, then crouches to allow himself a controlled slide down the hill a bit, stopping himself by grabbing hold of a jutting rock in what looks like a practiced move. He winces as he stands up straight again.

Now that he's closer, you can smell a foul odor coming off of him -- not just waste and grime, but flesh-rot as well.

"I was starting to wonder how I'd get my letters back to Hazard," he says. "Lord Nomo offered to deliver them bound in my own hide, but I didn't trust him to keep that promise." He looks over at Annganne and nods. "New friends. I had not expected to see any of you again, but I am glad to." He turns away to cough, spitting out a bloody gob. "What news do you bring from the city?" he asks, wiping his mouth.

He gestures southward. "I got into a dispute with the new landlords. They won't let me leave. But you're here now, and I think your chances of getting back out of this cruel place are much better than mine. You'll take the letters back. They won't do much for rumors and unease, but my master must know what's transpired up here." He's talking faster, his breath short. "I'll make a second attempt at the fortress. Press as far as I can before the blood-sickness takes me. Who knows...any man can fall victim to surprise...it's worth...it's worth trying." He drops to a shallow crouch, hands on his knees, and tries to slow his breathing.

"It's too far gone," he says, shaking his head. He sinks down on his haunches to sit on the rocky slope. "You'll have to fight your way out. I'd be a liability. I'd rather die alone, the desperate hero. Hazard is in good hands. The Hierophant is well-served. Lendras...she loves that city like it was her own mother. Tell her I never doubted her." He looks away. "Tell her I loved her. The letters are in the tent. If you have any food or water, I'd be most grateful."

Gethro drinks, then starts devouring the rations. In between bites, he answers Domarc. "All that I know is in the letters. I suppose I should say they're for the Hierophant's eyes only, but this is no time for pretense. I know you will read them."

To Zangua's eye, Gethro looks to be in the grip of a serious infection. His movements suggest an abdominal wound on his right side, under the cloak. He has various minor cuts on his face and arms as well.

This infection would be categorized as a disease and is unaffected by Cure Wounds spells. You'd need something in the Restoration category.

Felor can feel the nauseating heat radiating off of Gethro as he sits beside him, lays his hands, and prays for a while.

After a moment, Gethro lurches forward and vomits. Cold sweat drips from his face. When he no longer heaves involuntarily, he sits up, drawing long, slow breaths. He looks over at Felor, eyes wide. "I feel better," he says. "I think."

OOC:

I'm about to head out of town for a week; I'll be checking in periodically, but if I don't post for a bit, that would be why