IC - Village of Yoblora

The most aggressive wolf bites savagely at Danill ...

One of the wolves nips and snarls at Ognimir, another worries away at Damir; the two Guardians cover up, roll away, and avoid serious harm.... then Danill's blade and Quintus' bolt deal destruction to the gleaming beast that has crouched to spring at Danill's throat. With a sharp shrill noise, it puffs into a drifting cloud of tiny glittering shards that settle onto the dry leaves.

Ognimir, noticing this phenomenon, recalls that the mirror wolves he fought before died differently.

Five wolves remain.

The wolves yip at each other and leap back from the group of you. Their body languages show signs that they are about to flee.

Unexpectedly stronger even than usual, Ognimir seizes a big rock with both hands and twists at the hips, sending the weighty missile like a discus straight against one of the mirror wolves - which explodes into glittering motes that drift away on the autumn breeze.

Damir's sword strikes another wolf with a ringing sound, and a visible crack appears in the wolf's head.

Then all the four remaining wolves are sprinting away, tails down, toward the Veil.

The surviving swordsman heaves a deep sob. "Lorric," he gasps. He drops his sword and covers his face with his hands, falling to his knees. "Lorric!"

The vague rainbow ripple of the Veil is barely visible through the naked trees, more like a hint of vision rather than an actual glimpse. Ognimir knows where it is, of course; every Guardian can feel the nearest direction of the thing.

The wolves have left small drifts and sheens of glitter where they ... detonated? Their demise so emphatic that it left not even shards.

The grieving warrior looks to Damir. "My name is Morrin," he answers. "Lorric and I are servants of Old Belle. She runs the village. Yoblora that is." He turns his attention to the tattoos on Damir's hands and face. A look almost like pity crosses his tear-stained face. "You lot are Guardians, eh? There's a bit around here could use your attention. You've seen some of it." He gestures jerkily toward the direction where the mirror wolves ran - toward the Veil. He stands up awkwardly. "Come. We need to bring Lorric to a pyre. Or build one here?"

There are drifts of dry leaves all over the ground. It would be an arduous effort to clear down to dry soil, enough space to safely build a pyre.

It's mid afternoon when you reach the village, Yoblora, which is tidy but clearly impoverished. Something about it feels lonely. A cottager waves to you as you approach their modest home, the outermost of the village. Then they see the bloody mess that is lashed to Quintus' very unhappy but obedient horse. They shield their eyes and duck back into their cottage.

Morrin has said very little during your grim march. Now he says, "That's Indelwat, Lorric's brother-in-law." He sighs. "Reckon he don't reckon yet it's Lorric here. I'll have to tell him. Go on to the middle of the village, where the paving is. Ring the firebell, that'll gather folks to build a pyre."

Every village of Khelia has a firebell, which is rung to assemble folk when aid is needed to put down a conflagration, to rescue folk from a windfelled cottage, or in other dire situations. It makes natural sense to ring Yoblora's firebell when a pyre needs building to forestave undeath.

Ognimir notes that many of the cottage roofs are ragged-looking, the thatch has been disturbed by some strong wind and not re-done. The surrounding fields are not bare turned-over soil, as would be expected after a harvest, but instead they have an appearance of neglect with sprouting weeds. The absence of people from the outskirts of town almost makes sense, after all the autumn labor is over and there's not much to be done outdoors in this chill wind. Yet something feels off about the place. Maybe it's the scraggly weeds growing in the trail that leads into town? As if so little traffic has passed this way in months.

Regardless, the firebell summons a gradually growing assembly of villagers who react to Lorric's bloody corpse with something less than shock. More like resignation. Not needing explanation, they move back to their cottages and begin to assemble a pyre from their individual woodpiles.

Damir notices that the communal woodpile, reserved for the aged and infirm, is noticeably smaller than might be expected before the solstice, and this reinforces the impression of poverty.

"You'd best talk to Old Belle," answers the rough-clad and rough-featured young man whom Damir interrogates. He jerks his thumb sideways. "There she be."

Indeed, a tall woman with long white hair stands watching the work. Her posture is erect, her body is wiry. A dress of faded green can be seen beneath the thickly cable knit, pale yellow blanket that covers most of her form against the autumn chill. As the young man speaks she turns her attention from the pyre-building to you Guardians. A frown creases her face.