Swiftly a cool breeze came in from the river, washing over the quaint fishing village, sending a gentle sway to the lanterns hanging from their posts along the pathways. Curious those lanterns meant to instill a sense of safety from the ever intruding darkness of the night, the darkness that could hold horrors from the pits of hell itself, horrors that no mortal could imagine. Yet they would do little against the other worldly beings that so often found the earth a natural place to hunt, and humans a natural prey.

A queer song filled the ears of those that were just arriving to the village, soft and slow it sang of a man dressed in yellow meeting with a shepard and giving him a gift that would allow him to keep his flock safe. As the breeze from the river subsided a gust would find its way from the woods behind the village, carrying with it the fleeting scent of death, of soil, like flesh long buried beneath the damp earth. Few townsfolk moved about the village, only one or two that were checking bait lines in hopes that they might take home a finer dinner than simple stew, or broth, though this hope was lost as was revealed the lines bare of any sustenance aside from bait still impaled upon hook.

Each of you had come to Ipfer for a different reason, the order members hunting down the good Doctor that had gone missing, others for different trades or hunting down historic leads, or even for a sense of adventure.

Suffice to say the village was quite the spot for the unknown, the only way to get to it was by ferry, and quite often people were stuck there for days. Four men sat around a table in the tavern talking lowly and sipping from mugs, all the while the man in the corner continue to sing, he was dressed in yellow from head to toe, and strummed an instrument soft and slow as he sang. ’And so! The yellow sign was seen! It was known to all those that were in need!’ To anyone who might have been going through the village that smell of death and damp dirt would float upon the air once more.

A man with a lantern stepped out of the house closest to the dock, and began to look out over the river, holding his lantern high as he seemed to be looking for something, a flintlock pistol in his hand, the man obviously not being able to afford anything more advanced than that. He began to mutter and curse to him as he walked towards the water, and put the pistol in his belt and began throwing rocks into the river.”GO AWAY!” He screamed in anger, saliva dribbling down his chin as he screamed at the top of his lungs.

A cold dread hung over the docile fishing village, infecting everything it touched, right down to the stray hounds and cats that crept past, their mangy tails tucked beneath their legs in perpetual fear. Perhaps only a cold battlefield, littered with the dead and wreathed in the stench of powder and blood could compare to the general despair that infested this place. Whether it was the poor mood, grim weather, or something far more sinister or even a combination of all three Edward B. O’Daily could not quite say. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it one bit and would prefer to find the answers he sought and leave post haste back to England. Edward wasn’t his usual self, in so far as his appearance that is. Dressed in a pair of matching black trousers and coat, with a white undershirt and an ebony cane and top hat, Edward looked for all the world a mere English gentleman. Only his saber, its red tassel and gilded sheath belted to his waist betrayed his masquerade, marking clearly him as a military man.

Releasing a waft of cigar smoke, thumping his cane, and grumbling Edward looked towards his two companions who leaned up against the porch railing alongside him, puffing on cigars and contemplating the quiet village they’d arrived in only hours before. The first was a wizened man, five or six years Edward’s senior. He was less fashionably dressed than his counterpart, his brown trousers and cream colored shirt being slightly threadbare and worn. Nevertheless he appeared capable, and Edward looked to him with great respect. He was Sergeant Thomas McKnowles, a clever and tough individual and one of the few men who believed Edward’s tales of monsters and magic, seeing as he’d lived through them as well. The second man was far younger, barely seventeen summers old, with slick black hair and dark eyes. He was a local, and one of the few that could speak some English. Edward and McKnowles had discovered him by chance several hours before on the docks, and had been quick to hire his services as a guide and interpreter. The lad, having to choose between doing backbreaking dock work, or accompany two strange and interesting foreigners for excellent pay had been quick to abandon his former employer. Edward wasn’t sure what to make of him, so far they’d discovered only his name, ‘Romblan’ and knowledge that he’d had a Scottish mother, which explained his knowledge of the English tongue, and that he’d been living here for most of his life. Whatever his story or circumstance Edward was glad they’d found him as it made life so much easier, especially when Edward was bartering the price of their little house they’d rented.

“I say, I say.” Edward gruffed, pounding his cane onto the wooden floor boards to create a hollow beat. “This place is drearier then the foggy high moors on hallows eve night. Let us abandon this hovel and locate ourselves somewhere we can find cheerful company and good drink to spend the evening. Lest I, and in turn we, perish from sheer boredom and misery.”

“I concur sir.” The good sergeant said, straightening up and adjusting his bowlers’ hat on his head. “Romblan sonny, where’s th’ nearest pub?”

“Nein. We don’ got one here.” The boy claimed, his accent an odd mix of Scottish and harsh German. “Not unless ye want pisswater an’ grog. Inn’t worth th’ walk, not fer yew gentlemanly folk; no siree.”

“We’ve faced worse, let me assure you lad.” Edward scoffed patting Romblan upon the shoulder. “Waste not the disbanded time as they say, and better to drink a horse’s piss then eat the dust of the road and all that lark.”

The boy’s face screwed up and he appeared very confused. “No disrespect meant sir, but I would much rather ‘ave dust in me mouth then a horse’s piss. That sounds nasty, an’ makes no rightful sense.”

The sergeant laughed and Edward chuckled and they moved off, following Romblan’s lead towards this supposed, seedy tavern he knew of. Along their journey as they drew close to the docks Edward raised a hand, halting the other two and bidding them remain still. Narrowing his eyes and strode purposely forward, staring down the street with rapt curiosity. Gesturing for the sergeant and interpreter to join him Edward pointed towards the Warf, where a single man seemed to have gone mad. Poking at the water and muttering something unintelligible.

“What does he say Romblan?” Edward asked, resting a steady hand upon his saber. “Should we be concerned for his health, or ours?”

“He’s drunk milords.” Romblan explained, to the best of his ability. “He’s demanding the water to leave him be.”

"He does not sound it.” Edward mused, stroking his chin. “The fool’s words are loud but not slurred, and his movements are precise. I daresay he is terrified of something, which is why I stand ready. A mad man with terror at his heels can inflict damage to opposition or themselves like no other.”

“Aye, seen it a few times after a battle.” McKnowles agreed, his brow furrowing. “Men break mentally, and they cannot be stopped by conventional means.” He patted the stowed dueling pistol at his hip and Romblan shivered at this notion, turning his gaze away from the raving man.

“Hopefully he won’t be no problem sirs, shall we move on?”

“Nay, he is in distress. Should he inflict harm upon someone less capable or injure himself due to his state the blood might very well be on our hands for doing naught. Come Romblan, you shall translate and we will find this man his home and bed. Romblan did not seem pleased with this plan but he followed Edward’s assured steps nonetheless.

Edward approached the man with confidence, one hand resting upon his saber hilt the other raised in greeting. When the man made no move to recognize their approach and he enlisted another tactic, bidding the man a pleasant evening. “Hello there mister, a dreary but satisfactory evening is it not? Stand easy we wish only to talk.”

Romblan stammered out the translation, to the best of his ability, mumbling a quick explanation to this odd formality all of which he feared flew clear over the man’s head. In the end he spoke nearly thirty words to Edward’s original seventeen.

“Are you certain that is what I said?” Edward inquired looking fairly flabbergasted. “I say, I didn’t realize this language was so complex. I suppose I should simplify my sentences for convenience sake, lest we remain in conversation for many hours.”

Romblan winced. “Eh, I suppose, just about accurate as could be sir.”

"We are going to have to return in the morning," the ferryman said as they docked in the small fishing village, "Fog's making it impossible to see where we are going. in the dark it would be a disaster. Sorry sir, we will have to get your companions when this mist burns off." he shrugged an apology.

Keshiashian didn't bother looking over at the ferryman as he spoke. He scanned the misty night before them and inhaled the feitted stink of the place. He could see how somewhere like this could pull the eyes of things inhuman to it. It reminded him of home, home so far away. The rotting smell of fish here was the perfect mirror to the unending miasma of compost and grain that permiated every memory he had of his lost home. "It can not be helped." he said just loud enough to be heard in his automaton's cadence. He withdrew the cost for the ride from his purse and dropped it into the man's hand. The Order had been kind enough to provide them with funds to cover their expenses, and, given that there were a good few of them here, it would not go to waste. "Tell my companions that my party will be waiting for them and acquiring lodging." his Czech was not well practiced, but, passable. He knew many people here spoke both Czech and German, but, he didn't know any German aside from a few curses. Czech had been more important. He had known a few Czech mercenaries in his time and found their language somewhat easier to learn than some others. Of course, he still wasn't close to fluent. As long as people weren't trying to explain something complicated or started using local terms he supposed he would do fine.

Without another word he plucked his tricorne from the small ledge of the ferry's rail and placed it on his head to ward against the damp night air. He hefted his cane and began to walk down the ramp, beckoning for Vivian and Katya to follow. His hard boots sloshed in the muddied and rain softened ground as he stepped from ramp to terra firma. He could see the lamps of the roads shining their welcoming lights ringed by halos of mist, will-o'-the-wisps promising safe passage through the moors. As so many travelers had done in the past, Keshishian followed the ghost lights deep into the bowels of the town. He was searching. He scanned the world around him, shrouded in darkened fog, for signs of anything that might spark greater memory in his dulled heart. It was as if glimpsing a family etching through the stained glass of a cathedral. Everything was familiar and alien all the same. Each street was just as he remembered it, only, he remembered nothing from this land he had never trod upon until tonight. Nevertheless, his way was guided and soon the pair of them stood before the door of an in and tavern, a strange song of yellow and signs drifting out from the cracks in the building. Mortal structures were not made to contain the essence of the beyond after all. You could make no wall or pot that could contain truth without truth. The former cultist pushed the door open with his mind floating in suspended in the shell of his skull, his old scars and brands itching like fresh wounds just beginning to knit.

The gloom of the outside world had been temporarily banished as the trio passed through the threshold and into the room filled with merriment. The whole situation seemed hollow though, as if the spirits of the dreary air outside were able to infect even those unwilling to give in to their possessions. Keshishian ignored the song that rang far too familiar to his ears and stepped up to the innkeeper. He sat heavily on a stool at the bar and removed his hat, dusting it and setting it on the bar.

"What will you have, sir?" the innkeeper asked casually. He did not bother with small talk either due to his own lack of desire for meaningless words or due to the distant and yet focused look that exuded from the thickly clothed man who now sat at his bar.

"I need room enough for seven and something to eat and drink," he said simply, barely looking at the man who had asked him. Instead he looked over at the young women who accompanied him. He gave them a silent questioning glance, wondering if they had anything to add or ask for. He knew others often liked to talk with people of all kinds, though, did not know if his comrades spoke the language. He would translate as best he could. He seriously hoped they didn't need him to though. He disliked talking with strangers as it was and being the mouthpiece for their mission here would be irritating.

"Dit mon la verite!" howled out a very perturbed frontiersman as he placed his hand against his right temple. He stared incredulously at the foggy atmosphere which draped itself all over these woods. As Jack adjusted the straps to his various backpacks, containing the tools of his trade -well apart from the musket which was secured next to the backpacks just over the coat, he began to speak in a slower drawl. "What I reckon yer sayin' is day late, greenback short?"

At the tributary, well more appropriately at a dock located at the tributary, a scrawnier looking man in a black frock coat just stared and blinked at Jack. This assistant of the ferrying service could not wrap his head around this mountainman's recent statements. Although judging by the frightened gaze, emphasized by shifting pupils there was some common ground between them. Taking a moment to breathe in, the assistant looked up at Jack who had seemed to have instantly calmed down from that earlier outburst and began to speak.

"Je ne comprends pas ce que tu veux dire.", did the attendant enunciate slowly making sure that each word could be given a bit of time to be recognized by the mountain-man. To help illustrate this point the man began exaggeratedly shaking his head from side to side; these motions were followed by an intense pantomiming of scratching his head with one ear while holding his other hand next to his ear. This was then signed off with a large shrug, a typical body language response for uncertainty.

Fortunately for the two, Breaux understood the body-language being displayed alongside the slowly delivered words. Of course knowing this, Jack slumped a bit with a distinctive frown curling into shape. As he lowered his brow he removed his right hand from the temple as he began snapping his fingers together.

Jack racked his brain for the necessary words to further continue this dialogue and establish information necessary to him. Each quick pop produced by the fingers led him closer to remembering the needed words and of course pronunciation. After three snapping motions, Jack N. Breaux began to speak. "Je dois attendre?"

The attendant gave a quick smile and nod, knowing more securely this backwoods man could speak properly. "Oh oui. Ce serait trop dangereux maintenant. Et bien sûr, il n'y avait qu'un ferry qui partait d'ici." He gestured wide into the fog before miming himself dying. After a small period of time with his mouth agape and making choking noises, the man snapped out of it and began laughing.

Jack meanwhile, while he was not laughing, cracked a smile at the man's impromptu performance. Breaux was certain that this was at least partially done to make himself feel better that he had missed the ferry. Tipping his tricorne hat towards the man Jack once again spoke, "Thank ya kindly; I bid you adieu."

With that Jack tromped away from the ferry post as he swung his backpack over his shoulder and dropped it into the mud below. Surely his compatriots in the order would sort a few things out; after all he was not the only one heading over to this village. As long as a few from their squadron made it to the village safe and sound, the mission could be fulfilled.

Secured in the thought that someone had the mystery of the doctor's disappearance handled, Jack opened up his backpack and grabbed his hatchet. It was time to make a bit of shelter for the night and he wasn't about to neglect using lumber when he had the chance. It was going to be better than roughing it this night. And so after returning his backpack back onto his person, Jack went to go start chopping down some trees.

"Solch ein trostloser Ort in der Tat..." The muttering of the German surgeon was oft ignored by those he traveled with, though the only souls capable of hearing him at this point was the ferryman who was unfortunate enough to have to tolerate the presence of the solemn, oft unpleasant company of the man. Such was their general disdain for each other was the fact they had not spoken a word to each other, the silence only broken up by the mutterings of the Surgeon and the odd sound of a flask being opened and its contents drained just a little bit more. His mutterings ceased however, leaving the sound of the water as the ferry carried on. Dr Gwerder had resumed reading from his journal, the notes and ideas that had led the point that he was out here in the reaches of common decent folk. The reek of dampness and even death, the latter of which a rather old odor that was familiar to the man. Autopsies were rather common place in his work, though, so the reek of death, in its varying forms and aromas, was not unknown to him.

"We have arrived, the weather this time held fair, despite the signs." Ignoring, or unconcerned with, the murderous look from the ferry man, without a word Dr Gwerder stepped away from the ferry and strode into the fishing village. The place was in the path of the disease he had been tracking, and yet there was no sign of it yet. None that he could see, and outside of a single maddened fellow shouting at the water, who was already engaged in conversation by others, so he wrote that off for now. He had no interest in dealing with either of them, and for the time being he had little recourse but to seek out someplace to stay for the evening. From there, he would look through his notes and figure how to pursue his research from there. This was the last place he had noted the disease having been spreading towards, and yet, his instinct spoke sternly that nothing was here for him in regard to such things.

Tracking down what passed for an inn in this misbegotten village, the surgeon approached the innkeep with purpose, seeing little of worth in the place. But it would suffice over the mud and filth of the woods and outdoors in general. "A room for the evening, and a bottle of your strongest spirits." The innkeep looked rather poorly upon the rude newcomer, but the sight of a surgeon's tool bag indicated that he would have the money for his demands, and the business of a innkeep would continue even with rude guests. Producing a bottle, the Doctor provided payment for both, up front, before retiring to an unused table, seating himself and opening his journal. Uncorking the bottle, he found its contents woefully weak, but considering the fact this village was unpleasant at best right now, it would have to suffice his needs for some small measure of inebriation. Wo habe ich aufgehört...?

Dr Gwerder spoke to himself in his native tongue, muttering as he thumbed through his more recent entries, those relevant to the illness that had brought him here. While he was not afflicted with the strange malady, those who had been never seemed to survive, or else wished themselves dead. The Doctor's handwriting was nigh illegible to anyone other than him, coupled with the half decipherable German, made for a strange figure indeed. He was mostly drowning out the yellow clad minstrel as he strummed away, the man's mutterings and singing reminding him far too much of those that hounded him at home. He would delight in informing his sister that her suggestion to go abroad to avoid such unpleasant fellows had been for naught, but as of now, he had little else to say or do besides go through his notes and attempt to plan out what was next to be done. He had few options as of yet, pursuing the madman, disturbing those drinking, or attempt to wrangle answers out of the minstrel being the most feasible few. The idea of this trip being a waste threatened to rile the temper of the newcomer, which it threatened to be without any significant progress within the next few nights.

---

Getting a ride.
Easier said than done. She did not rely on the order for her travels and they did not rely on her showing up. It was an even trade. She hated those, she never got enough. A seductive dance for the right man... or woman. Has carried her a long ways. This time she was heading somewhere secluded. The waters that carried one over to the ports beyond the mist went on like an endless canvas. Stretching into the unknown. Instinctively she held her mothers necklace against her anxious beating chest.

Her attire covered her bare skin well from head to toes. Yet she remained as festive in her adornments as ever. Proudly representing her foreign heritage. One much more worldly and free than the measured dresses of those women who walked the streets before the docks. The smell and moisture in the air filled her senses with a omen of what to expect. A note she picked up on well, having already heard rumors of the untamed dangers in the waters. Be it a giant catfish or a ghost that drowned there long ago. It was the same everywhere in that aspect. Human superstition was many times a terrible thing.

"I foresee a safe journey." She was speaking to a group of fishermen who were quite traditional to say the least. It was rare they met one such as her. A psychic fortune teller whom traveled alone without fear and who spoke mysteriously. If not for her beauty they would not have humored her and if not for their ignorance she would likely be removing an article of clothing for this ride. Though the captain still demanded some payment. A bit of what she had earned a day earlier. She was huddled in a seat with her bag of things under her and a crystal sphere in her hands. The shipmates that normally kept the sails high or low on account of the climate were asking her questions of their fortunes.

"I apologize. The waters are rough and my sight is weakened in this state." She held her forehead in a feign of lethargy. She disliked their smell, their looks and their constant questions. Given her short time with them she could only guess they would have one future, one not so bright and with lots of fish. She sighed as she attempted to rest. Her rem sleep kept at bay by the feeling of her being watched, if not for her beauty then perhaps for her vulnerability. This in mind her dagger was slipped into her left hand underneath her left thigh as she appeared asleep.

The glare of a lighthouse met her eyes. She was accustomed to the dark by now and this stirred her eyelids open. She turned to see the others preparing for anchoring to the town. A town that met her vision as a mass of shadows and the smell was worse than she had endured earlier. It was enough to make her hold her nose briefly but she knew such a method could not last. She grimaced but found pockets of fresh air running along the breeze enough to suffice a naked nostril. She grabbed her bag and hurriedly leaped off the boat. Landing and standing at full height the men who were kind enough to take her here looked in bewilderment. "Îmi plac femeile mari!" One fisherman whistled.

Aela quickly turned to meet him with a glare. "Visezi mai mult decât te poţi descurca.." Before trotting off with a smile. Her steps sank into the wooden frame as she stepped away from the waters as best she could. Her bag was noticeably engorged, filled with everything she needed. Items to perform with or to sustain herself alone out here. Her first ideal location would be somewhere cheap to rest and possibly find somewhere willing to pay for an exotic performance. Ideally the wealthiest men in this town, but a few fishermen would do. It appeared she would have to get used to dealing with those who reeked of the oceans depths.

Vivian let out a yawn as she followed Keshishan, the ride on the ferry had been a boring and slightly wet one as the fog had started to come in and at the moment she just wanted a hot bath on top of what her comrade had asked for. "All that and a Hot Bath in my room," she said, needing no translator. Thanks to her years in the order she had picked up a few languages that she felt would come in handy as she did not always travel with a group of people. When one was on a Solo mission, it was smart to know the language of the land you visited so you need not waste money on a translator that was apt to gouge you for everything you were worth.

The young woman shifted the bag she was carrying a bit so it rested more comfortably before she just leaned against Keshishan, she was tired and she had grown to like the man much like a father. "Keshi, mind if I take the room next to your's or just stay with you?" she asked the male. Out of everyone in the group he knew well her inability to sleep very well, usually suffering from repeated nightmares throughout the night. It was bad enough that she had to deal with horrors in the waking world, but thanks to the events of her childhood she faced them in the dream world as well. It was a rather interesting thing, despite the fact that Keshishan was rather cold, though not cruel, she had latched onto him and immediately seemed to start treating the man as if he was her father.

"Promise not to bother you unnecessarily," She smiled up at him, red hair sticking to her face thanks to the moisture that had been in the air outside, "Promise!" A smile broke out on her face, though it wavered for a brief moment as she glanced around to the other person with them. Not all of those in the Order were aware of the more familial relationship she and the older male had, and in this day and age it wouldn't be far fetched if someone thought them doing something a little less innocent than just talking through the night should she awaken from her nightmares.

Finally taking her eyes away from the older male she noticed the strange look she was getting from the innkeeper, which caused her to raise a brow. It wasn't completely out of the normal to see a female of the Order wearing men's clothing, but in general, women wearing men's clothing was frowned upon and it was clear this man did not seem to like it. "I think you have a staring problem," she said as her grey-blue eyes narrowed, arms crossed over her chest as she simply stared back at the man. She hated when people stared at her, her red hair made her stick out enough as it was, as did her choice of clothing, but she always felt that people could at least ignore the last part as if it was a normal thing. Skirts sucked, especially cage skirts and she had no intention of wearing anything of the sort as they just got in the way.

Katya lingered outside of the tavern for a moment as her companions went in, taking one last drag on her cigarillo. She glanced around the small village while she was there, the tavern seemed to be the only spot with life in the whole place, its light and the song from within a stark contrast to the deathly air and gloom outside. It was odd of course, but there were perhaps worse places. Once finished with her smoke she dropped the cigarillo to her feet and stamped it out before turning to head through the tavern door.

She came in just in time to hear Vivian ask to stay with Kesh for the night. As she came up to the bar net to her friends she made an exaggerated gasp “You two would share a warm bed together and leave me all alone, I’m hurt Viv” she threw a mock hurt expression in Vivian’s direction and put a hand over her heart. She dropped the facade with a chuckle not a moment later. She of course knew about the relationship between the two, how the gunsmith viewed the older man as a father figure because of her tragic past. Though even if she’s more attached to the man Katya liked to think of her as one of her best friends, even if their relationship would remain one of gunsmith and gunslinger. She liked Kesh well enough too, but if he let anything happen to her gunmaker she’d make him wish he was the one that got sacrificed.

When the innkeep was caught giving Vivian an disapproving stare she beat a fist on the bartop, only hard enough to draw the innkeep’s attention. Much like her gun-making friend Katya didn’t really wear the most ‘womanly’ of attire but her height, the rifle on her back, and the blades on her hip kept most from giving her odd look, openly at least. She wasn’t about to let someone bother her friend though, and once she had the innkeeper’s attention she fixed him with a stern glare and simply said “Make my drink something strong” of course the real message would get across even if she didn’t know the language. She kept up her little standoff with the man until he set about to get them what they asked for, casting a little smirk at Vivian as the man let them be.

Coinneach Mac Eòghainn - or Kenneth McEwan, to those who had difficulties wrapping their tongues around the Gaelic - drank, tapped his foot, and thought. He'd already finished two glasses of the scotch he'd brought with him, and he knew he'd need to pace himself if he wanted it to last however long they were going to be in this godsforsaken place, but-

Kenneth grimaced, catching his own thoughts. Godforsaken. Not godsforsaken. God. Singular.

Deep in his pickled mind, drowned under the alcohol, a memory stirred. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Kenneth muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink. At the sound of Katya's order to the bartender, he latched on. He needed something real to focus on. Something that wasn't-

wasn't as yellow as the sun at midday, carved into dark stone that wouldn't stay still-

No.

"Lass, if ye need a drink, I've got plenty. No need to waste yer coin," he offered, showing her one of the bottles he kept in the inner pockets of his heavy wool coat.

Against his will, his eyes drifted from the Russian woman next to him at the bar to that damned man in the corner. The man dressed all in yellow, singing to anybody that was listening and staring out into nothing. Mercifully, his lyrics had fallen into whispers, but his lips moved around the hushed words. Kenneth's memory stirred, threatening to break the surface, and he looked away. "Damn it all and blast it to hell," he muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink and pouring a new one before the last swallow had reached his stomach. "Something's wrong in this place. Everything's wrong in this place. What's the deal with this doctor fellow we're looking for, anyhow?"