Midwife of BloodMidwife of Blood DM Note: The last session was Pete and Steve; this time we had Pete, Ben and Chris, so by the Magic of Cheesy Fudge, their characters have suddenly always been there with Steve's and nobody noticed!. |
If anything was going to help in this situation, it would be a load of paladins coming down the road from Lorindol. It was a bit early for their trade delegation to be arriving, but just in case, Lothalla sent Finton the owl off along the west road to intercept them and hurry them up.
Descending, Galaecien the bard began to sing a comforting song in an attempt to revive the spirits of the newly-widowed farmwife, Fennell, but the presence of her husband's cooling corpse with its' horrendous rictus of deathly terror was too immediate for her to cope with. Lotheemas gently asked her if she had family or friends nearby, and they took her to Marla's farm nearby. Marla turned out to be the farmwife, and once Fennell was bestowed the three adventurers explained things to her husband Daeric, suggesting that the townspeople might want to gather in the village overnight. "Where do vampires go in the day?" he asked nervously. "If we knew that, we'd tell you," answered Lotheemas grimly.
 |
They stayed with him overnight, and the next morning set off in the bright, pale winter sun to hunt for the culprit. As they left, Fennell and Marla were smiling tearfully; the new widow had apparently discovered she was pregnant the previous morning. A new life begins as one ends, thought Lotheemas, Pelor smiles on us.
 |
In preparation for this, Twenty Ocloth had spent the night summoning a familiar, and a small, slender barn owl now rode his shoulder. He'd named the bird Gothmog Pandemic III but it didn't seem any the worse for that. It preened as they left instructions with Marnor Andalorson the mayor to arrange the gathering-in of the villagers, and to tell the hoped-for paladins where they had gone if they didn't come back. Then they picked up the trail of blood droplets from Fennell's windowsill and started to follow them south. While in most places, the trail - red blood on white snow - was easy to follow, in some places it faded, and there the elegant ratman's keen nose took over.
Tracking the killer over the snowy fields, they followed the trail to a copse a mile or so outside the village. Once into the trees, the blood-trail was lost in the leaf-litter and they became totally dependent on Twenty Ocloth's sense of smell. As time progressed, he bcame aware of another smell mingled in with the blood; after a while he identified it as that of vinegar. Slowly they moved through the woodland, until a shadowy structure loomed up from the trees. The three came to a halt and looked at it carefully.
A woodman's hut or hunter's refuge it looked to be, four plain walls of rough, gappy boards, with an ill-fitting door and a hole for a window covered with a piece of sacking. Now seemed a time to be prepared, and Twenty Ocloth cast Greater Mage Armour and Invisibility while Lotheemas brought up Detect Undead and began scanning the cabin. Gothmog flew forwards and peeked under the sack windowshade, reporting no occupants, and the three advanced.
 |
The smell of vinegar increased as they approached, until even the humans could smell it, and once they opened the door they saw why. A barrel stood against one wall, clean and fairly new, with a flat board laid across the top as a lid. Most of the other contents were dusty, webby and abandoned, but the pallet looked as if it might have been used recently. All three regarded the barrel nervously, considering what might lurk within, until Galaecien cast an Unseen Servant and bade it overturn the barrel. The sudden wash of dark fluid had all three adventurers dancing backwards to keep ahead of it, and the smell of vinegar became overpowering. As the liquid spread across the beaten-earth floor and began to transform it to mud, Twenty Ocloth noticed flecks of some substance drifting in it. Fishing one out with his dagger, he eyed it closely, starting slightly when he realized it was a shred of bloodied flesh.
 |
Casting around outside, they discovered more tracks on the other side of the hut - footprints both coming and going, multiple times, all the same size and shape, a woman's of average size and weight. They led away into the trees, and the three grinned at each other - the chase was on once more! Before leaving, they fired the hut. The dry boards caught easily, and a plume of smoke soon decorated the sky behind them as they took the trail again.
The footprints led through the trees, curving back towards the village. Startled looks passed between the hunters; it had not occurred to them that the vampire might be living among the villagers. Gathering them all at night began to look less of a good idea. Their feet quickened as they headed back towards Redcliff. The trail cut the Raden road, leading towards the town, and Twenty Ocloth straightened in chagrin. "What do you mean, lost it?" cried Lotheemas, "I thought you had a really good sense of smell?" The ratman gritted his teeth, but he knew why the priest was upset. "The road is all tracks," he explained patiently. "Her prints are lost among the traffic." And you all smell the same to me, he thought, but didn't say anything. His acceptance by the townspeople as one of their heroic patrons was one of the best things to happen to him for a long time.
Despite their fears, the village was much as they'd left it, a-bustle with the day's business and Marnor's preparations; no sudden deaths had occurred. The very reverse, in fact; as they walked through the square, surreptitiously glancing to the sides to try and spot blood drops or familiar footprints in the mud, they came on a stir. A small crowd had formed outside the Venrya the potter's house-cum-shop, talking quietly with an air of anticipation. The three's path veered that way, but as they reached the crowd a strange thing happened; Galaecien the bard seemed to pass through as if there were no-one there, but the other two somehow couldn't quite make any headway. As they realized that the whole crowd outside the house were female, the penny dropped.
Inside, close friends and family were gathered around the bed, on which Venrya herself was well into labour, attended by Dolores the midwife. A pleasant hum of low chat blended with the sensation of a happy occasion filled the room, and several women Galaecien had spoken with during her stay here greeted her as she leaned her spear in a corner. Someone passed her a cup of tea. Humming gently, trying to catch the rhythm, she murmured an encouraging snatch of song. The gathered women - and Venrya - seemed pleased by this, but Dolores the midwife flashed the bard a glare from where she knelt. A thought struck Galaecien and she glanced at Dolores' feet. They were around the right size, shod in plain sensible leather and muddied from the streets like everyone else's. The midwife looked up again, clearly angry. "How can I work with all this chit-chat and foolishness going on?" she snapped. "Out, the lot of you!" The women looked put out, but Dolores was the expert and they were used to following her instructions. Galaecien stubbornly stood her ground.
Outside, Lotheemas and Twenty Ocloth glanced at each other as the group of women spilled out of the house, muttering discontentedly to each other; "... so high handed ..." "... ordered us out like girls ... " "... who does she think she is anyway... " One noticed the priest and brightened. "Oh, sir," she said, bobbing a curtsy, "we feel bad leaving her on her own, please grant her Pelor's blessing?" "Of course," said Lotheemas reassuringly, and headed into the house. The women headed off to the nearest of their homes, leaving Twenty Ocloth outside, leaning on his spear and wondering.
The door to the bedroom banged open, and Lotheemas stepped in, holding aloft the golden sun face symbol of Pelor. "Blessings on this home and happy event," he boomed in his best sermonizing voice, matching word to deed with a Bless spell. The effect was beyond anything he expected. The midwife scooted backwards away from him on her knees, cowering away from the symbol of the Sunlord and covering her face, shrieking for him to go away. "Surely we should deliver this child together?" asked Lotheemas, and waved his holy symbol encouragingly closer. Dolores lurched backwards to her feet, reaching down to her bundle of possessions on the floor to grasp a short, heavy staff and strike savagely at the priest.
Quick as she was, Galaecien the bard was faster. Seizing her spear, she drove it full-armed at the midwife with a power and accuracy that should have split a common woman in half. The weapon bit, but the woman seemed almost oblivious to the wound, her rage focused on the priest. Both ends of the staff flashed out one after the other to strike at Lotheemas, who just managed to get his mace in the way in time, blocking her strikes but losing the chance to attack in return.
Outside, Twenty Ocloth heard the heavy blows, grunts and shouts from inside, and nodded grimly, dark suspicions confirmed. Pausing only to cast a True Strike, he spun and pelted towards the door.
Galaecien struck home again, spraying more blood from their nursely opponent onto the wall. If she was a vampire, she was an odd one; sunlight was coming in through the window, and fresh blood was running from her injuries; nothing like any vampire in the stories. Dolores' staff crashed home on Lotheemas, jolting him and spoiling his grip on his symbol as he tried to present it again. Then the ratman was among them, his short spear driving home with all the power of True Strike to slash the midwife's belly. Desperately, Dolores turned and tried to jump for the window above her, but both Galaecien and Twenty Ocloth stabbed her again and she fell back, pinned against the wall by the priest's staunch presence. He leaned forwards and shoved the sun face at her; blocking it with her arm, she hissed in pain as it branded a scorched mirror of itself into her flesh.
 |
As if this was the last straw, she dropped her staff and lowered her hands. Her head lifted - and carried on going. Her neck stretched, impossibly elongated - and then the flesh at her throat tore and her head separated, lifting of itself into the air, drawing a jumble of wet, glistening red and purple lumps and tubes after it, all her body's internal organs dangling below the floating head. Her hair rippled around her head as if floating in water, and the pendant organs pulsed and undulated, writhing into a thick tendril. The husk of her body collapsed to sprawl on the floor as the dripping monstrosity rose to confront the three adventurers. Horror thundered in their minds at the unspeakably hideous transformation; Lotheemas and Galaecien staggered backwards, faces pale, but Twenty Ocloth's mind could not deal with the abomination and he plunged into unconsciousness, dropping to the floor. A choking scream came from the bed behind them, but Lotheemas and Galaecien had no time to look; the awful thing was drifting towards them.
The bard slashed with her spear, but her shaking hands missed their grip and the point went wide. Lotheemas could think of nothing in his horror but the power of his God, and clobbered the thing full in the face with his symbol. Dolores screamed as the bright, holy gold burned her features, and lashed the tendril of viscera at the priest, wrapping it around his neck with terrible might. A nasty smile opened her mouth to reveal fangs ready to rend his throat as he began to choke. Galaecien paused, unable to strike for fear of hitting her friend, and Dolores changed tactics again. Her pale, inhuman eyes filled Lotheemas' vision as she put forth her power, and he felt his control of himself slipping away as she hypnotized him. In moments it was done and he was a mere spectator in his own body as he glanced at the symbol of Pelor, recognized it as the most dangerous threat to his new mistress, and pitched it with regrettable accuracy out of the house through the open window.
Galaecien pulled herself together with an effort, hefting her spear once more. Lotheemas had now changed his stance, despite slowly strangling to death, and was offering his groin for the airborne head to bite. Blood already ran down his legs when the bard struck, a heavy blow that slashed across Dolores' temple, adding flowing blood to the slow scorching damage the sunlight was already doing her. Her concentration must have wavered for a moment, because her control of Lotheemas failed for an instant. Squaring his shoulders, he called on the might of his deity and channeled it into a Searing Light spell.
A blaze of energy, bright as the sun, blasted out from his open hand, striking Dolores on the forehead. Her dead eyes had a moment to go wide with horror as the beam of bright fire tore through her face and out at the back of her skull, before her form was consumed and swept away into a shower of black dust.
Gasping, the pair caught their breath, and then turned to the casualties. Twenty Ocloth was deeply unconscious, but seemed stable, so they made him comfortable and turned their attention to Venrya. As they'd feared, the terror of the transformation had wrought the same damage on her, and she was in no position to participate in the birth of her child. It was down to the songstress and the sun-priest to save the child.
Four hours later, the pair sat back, drenched in sweat. The women had cautiously returned and gathered to watch, but none spoke. A silence permeated with exhaustion filled the room as Venrya's best friend cradled the newborn boy. Lotheemas looked around. Raw power still saturated the house, a blend of the holy and profane, unchanneled and uncontrolled, and the child couldn't help but be affected somehow; born on the cusp of light and dark. Whatever he turned out to be, he would be marked. He shook his head. No need to burden these people with it now. They would find out themselves one day.
Four days later, Venrya and Twenty Ocloth were recovered enough to get up and move around. They'd spent twenty-four hours comatose, after which they'd drifted in and out, fragmentary memory and grasp of what was going on gradually improving. The potter's gratitude for their rescue of her - though Lotheemas thought it unlikely Dolores could have fed during the daylight - was heartfelt.
And the baby lay on her breast, completely normal to look at, but touched inescapably by fate; destined for what?
Session Date: 20th September 2011