IC - Village of Limm

Quintus knows little about fashioning litters, but supposes from Ognimir's statement and example that branches will be required. He checks the dagger at his belt, then moves cautiously into the treeline and begins his own search for likely boughs. In a moment of inspiration, Quintus fetches out his dagger and carves fresh strips of bark from a pliable young sapling. Should they lack twine, perhaps the bark can be twisted into makeshift bindings for their litter: a fragile solution, but serviceable for the journey to Limm. Or so he hopes.

Unless his companions give him reason to pause....
Ognimir puts his fingers to his mouth, gives a sharp, bright, alerting whistle, and waves the workers over. Hopefully, they have a barrow or wagon or something.

Quintus reins up beside Ognimir. He is well content to let the laborers of Limm take charge of the corpse he and his fellows have brought them. Indeed, the makeshift litter they've fashioned probably won't last much longer.

"Now, sirs, we shall see if any of the locals recognize our victim. Or his accoutrements."

Should any of the farmhands approach, Quail observes their reactions to the body. Might there be any obvious sparks of recognition or familiarity?

The closer they get to the edge of the woods, the stronger the feeling Damir has come to associate with being so close to the Veil. He feels its pull, cold and dark, like a blade deep within himself. Not so much a sharp pain, but a dull unease at the edge of his awareness, the energy has become a constant in his life. It draws him and repels him in equal parts. The closer he gets, the more urgent the cold in his guts, the more palpable the pressure behind his eyes.

Seeing it now intensifies all the little discomforts it causes, the worries and dark premonitions - so Damir consciously pushes the energy back to a hazy place inside as far as possible. He needs to focus on the tasks at hand. Damir puts a hand on the muscular neck of his bay stallion, calming the animal much like himself. Then he silently continues with the group. Whatever fate has befallen the unlucky fellow behind Ognimir's steed, it might well become their job to deal with it. Gathering whatever information they can is the priority right now. The ... rest comes later.

Damir is prepared to show the unfortunate's flute to help uncover his identity if need be. For now, he is curious of the peasant's reaction. Might what's left of body and garment be enough to name the man? Have there been other incidents around these parts?

Ognimir gives a solemn frown, slowly bows his head, and turns his eyes to Quintus -- a subtle gesture to indicate this is where everyone should look.

He would like to go to them, tell them he's sorry, and explain the situation.
But when he considers his hideous arms with the unnatural Guardian tattoos that weave in and out of the disfigured skin, he knows he's the last person to share the news with these hard-working folk.

Instead, he dismounts and retreats to the side to give them privacy.

Quintus Quail raises and spreads his hands, palms upturned, as if beseeching the humble folk of Limm to approach him for comfort. It's a gesture of condolence, if a mildly theatrical one. Tattoos of tiny serpents slither across his palms and twine up his fingers; there are snake-heads on his fingertips, marking him as a Guardian as well as a weaver of unpredictable magics.

"You have our sympathies, sir," Quintus says, addressing himself to the heavy-set fellow who has identified the body. "Such a loss as this, your Tiyem..."

The bearded man trails off. A thought tickles the back of his mind. They recovered two musical instruments at the scene, in two different places, but have brought back just one body. Was the man alone there?

"We found him as you see him, good people. By the side of a forest pool with a low waterfall, not far from here. May I ask, who was he? Does anyone here know when or why he departed from Limm, or in what company?"

Ognimir, unconsciously, shuffles just a few inches away from the corpse when he learns the dead return around these parts.

Damir puts his hand on Ognimir's shoulder for a moment, lending encouragement to his companion and showing their common bond to the people around them. He is well aware of the effect his friend's appearance can have on outsiders. Sometimes a little friendliness can be disarming, though. And friendliness is easy compared to other things.

Then the man steps up to Quintus, who seems to have a knack for parley, and adds in a severe tone:
"A beast that also deals in arrows then. Make haste and build your fire." Damir crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks in the direction of the village. To whom, meanwhile, do we speak about affairs this grim?" He takes his horse's reins, indicating that it is time for them to leave the men to deal with the swift funeral and proceed to the buildings ahead. "Who is in charge here, in the village of Limm?"

For Rabban's tearful farewell, Quintus heaves a sympathetic sigh that ruffles his magnificent mustache. He dismounts, approaches the local, and places a hand upon his large and dirty shoulder.

"Rabban..." There would be more to say if Quintus knew anything about this man, or his departed nephew, or any of their relations. Still, the urge to comfort is there, and that's worth something, isn't it? Quintus certainly feels so. His serpent fingers press the man's shoulder. "Courage, sir. Your kin will need your strength in this dark time."

Quail returns to his horse, takes hold of the reins, and begins to lead the beast in the direction of the village. Then he pauses, as the skinnier fellow's question at last filters through Quintus' funereal and somewhat maudlin brood. He half-turns back.

"Examine the victim's neck, sir. At the base of the skull. The arrow's shaft..."

Ognimir moves next to the heavy-set man. While the others go on about arrows, leaning close, as he knows his hoarse voice can often get lost in the winds and the noises of conversations, he says, "You’re Rabban, then? I’m Ognimir" He puts out a hand to shake. "You mentioned beasts--when was the last time a Beast tormented Limm?

"Nor was there when we came upon him, sir," Quintus replies to the red-bearded villager, just a little tartly, for he imagines that his honor has been tacitly impugned. "Your neighbor's--" he breaks off; he would say murderer, but a glance at Rabban confirms for him that the word would be harsh just now in that poor man's ears. "Whoever did this deed, must have broken his shaft to hide it. As you seem concerned with arrows and fletching, sir, might you know... ?"

The question, Quintus Quail feels, is obvious.

Damir nods and leads his animal in the direction the man has pointed out. Here, they cannot do much more. Maybe the Padwols have more information to share. The man thinks about beasts that feast on internal organs and arrows from the other side..