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The pitch-blaze crackled on with constant intensity, sizzles and pops forming an irregular cadence in the otherwise stillness of the chilly, flickering night. Even the once heavy roar of the tree which burst into flames quieted somewhat as the majority of easily consumed leaves were exhausted, leaving a giant, spindly-armed torch in its wake. With luck and the damp conditions of the evening it had not spread to the other trees, and the sticky blaze upon the cobblestones had not moved appreciably enough to give additional worry than was already present. Call it a stroke of luck in an otherwise down situation.
The prisoners, all of them freed from their hastily constructed wooden cages, had already made their way out of sight by this time, all headed along the western road away from the town center. Though a Halfling was among their number, the "guests" of the right hand cage were making excellent time escaping as a group nonetheless. Horror makes for a powerful motivator, and some carrying might have been involved. If the nerve-wracked survivors heard the call to come back, they weren't responding.
This was not to say that
someone hadn't heeded the call to assist. A cry of FIRE can get people running, even in horrible situations, it was a primal beckon. Though it did not seem that anyone was going to show at first, but as the party discussed options as to how they might handle the continuing conflagration, the first of tentative steps made their way nearer to the Township Square. A muttering of cautious voices could be heard from the far side of the eastmost spilled flame; casual inspection showed wavy orange illumination on a few of the locals' faces, and hands carrying tools repurposed as weapons. And some kid who picked up a dropped Guardsman's spear earlier that day (great parenting, there). Scattered questions split through the air, each having something to do with the level of safety present for them:
"...they're gone? Are they dead? Did you kill the ratmen? Where's the Constable..?" Others wept, for their fear, losses this night, and sheer stresses of living through terrors that an agrarian society was simply unprepared to face.
All could tell that an otherwise intangible weight had lifted from the area, like a great emotional breath could be taken in relief from a trauma they were uncertain was torturing them - until it finally let up. Many let tears of relief fall. but that jackass kid with the appropriated spear caught sight of the flaming Wererat Abomination who had fallen back onto the barrel and gasped,
"Eewww! What is that? It looks like someone shaved a bear and left it in the oven!" This got a couple of nervous chuckles from the townsfolk, right up until they caught sight of what he was talking about. One of them vomited into his hat. Another vomited into the first man's hat, too. Others started in alarm, but one corralled them into some sort of applicable action.
"Pine tar fire. Come now, let us get sand first, water after it's down," he suggested abruptly. The others, given something to do that did not involve shaking in their boots, fell in line. Throughout the chaos of the last few hours, having a task that they could handle readily gave a sense of control they were lacking, even if the task was relatively simple. The first man gave a wave in Kosara's direction before heading back off to locate buckets and fill them with the appropriate materials. In retreat, one could clearly hear the query of,
"...and where in any Hells is the fire brigade?" Mysteries abound this night, apparently.
The search of Cavendish's dusty remains does in fact net a set of keys, which Kathryn was able to find in a rather conspicuous spot (for keys), but the search did net other things. In and around the body lay a nicely crafted dagger with matching sheath, 50 gold coins of the realm (a rarity in a place like this as the common coin is a silver Argent), the sheath for his shortsword, a belt with covered holster for (what used to be) his hammer, and a whip with curious metal slivers braided into the fall and popper of said weapon. The powdery former Constable wore a set of leather armor standard to the Guards of this area, though this one was now scarred by necrotic energy, and a brass insignia suitable to be worn as either a badge or cloak pin bearing (among other things) the title
CONSTABLE.
The keys present numbered six, each of which were similar in construction and heft. All blackened metal on a ring of the same material, and as it turned out, all completely pointless as the party approached and entered the Municipal Building. To start, the gates on the main wall were open. Not thrown wide open so that one may guide a laden wagon inside, but just enough so a Human-sized person might step through. Maybe even a plump one. Entering is an easy enough affair.
This far away from the fires outside and behind the walls, lighting is almost nonexistent. The full moon provided just enough light not to stumble over what is directly in front of one's feet. Those with a viable light source or active darkvision are greeted by something less expected - Neglect. The courtyard between the walls and the front of the building proper bore the appearance of a once decent spot, now turned shabby from a lack of upkeep. Bits of trash and scraps of wood lay scattered among the unmown grass and ill-tended bushes. To the right side of the courtyard is an open-front stable with eight stalls, two of which contain horses in dire need of care. And a good shoveling. They look miserable. There stood a spot nearby which may have had carts, wagons, or the like, but now stood empty, save for some wheel tracks, bereft even of grass.
The main doors to the front of the building were also open, this time battered open. The red-painted wooden doors splintered around where a door lock might have been. They open without a struggle, but with a startling, tinny squeal of hinges that begged to be oiled. What they reveal within is an awful continuation of what lay outside.
This was far worse than neglect. It was a willful and long-term vandalism of a place which was once the seat of civil authority for the region. There were no internal doors visible. None standing, anyway. Ripped from frames which stood as regular apertures in walls which had long been defiled with copper-brown stains and gruesome handprints. Trash littered the floor in places, kicked into piles in larger rooms or shuffled into corners. There were the usual features which one may expect to find within a Municipal Building; a small courtroom, a town hall style meeting place, a couple of studies for persons of official occupation, all of which were ransacked and destroyed. There was even a decently sized room containing records, either pressed into books or tucked away in scroll cases - or what was left of them. Pieces of things ripped or used as impromptu personal cleaning devices, treated in the same manner as the rest of the building.
Sounds of tiny feet and shuffling garbage could be readily detected off and on as one progressed through this place. It was unnerving, given the evening everyone had just experienced, but nothing could be detected except for the occasional rat. Normal looking ones, perfectly comfortable in these environs. Otherwise, there were no signs of life.
But what was worse in this place was the smell. It was urine and rot, mixed liberally with the oppressive reek of mold. It seemed to get stronger the farther one went back in the building. As near as one could tell, far behind the courtroom in this building stood a mostly intact armory. It was still a hotbed of neglect, but less rubbish littered the room here and it was not entirely cleared out of useful things. Two sets of leather armor remained, as well as several truncheons, a couple of spears, and a decent enough light crossbow. Three shortbows remained as well, and a fair amount of ammunition for the ranged weapons. The place could use a good dusting, overall. But that smell got so much worse here. It was like a butcher's shop left to fester.
The highest concentration of this came from a single, closed door (possibly the only one left in the building), toward the back of the armory.
The aroma shifted into something resembling embalmed death as the door opened, revealing a set of stone stairs descending into a pitch dark basement. With light applied or with darkvision, it revealed much the same sight, this being dark splotches and streaks of something once liquid, dried to flaky stain upon the walls and steps. The descent of these fetid stairs brought with it another sense of quiet, if not calm. Not even the rats wanted to be down here, it seemed. The scent of rot and wrongness persisted, reaching a crescendo as the steps opened into a wider area, still just as devoid of a light source of its own. Maybe it would have been for the best if sight was left unused. Sadly, between the party's ability to see in near total darkness and the magical, light bearing hammer, this could not go unseen.
A grievous outpost of the Abyss, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, met the eyes of the party. Regular prison cells lined the walls of this circular room, some with guests inside and some without. None of the bodies were moving. Some were in advanced states of decay. Some were only partial corpses. One was split cleanly in half, lengthwise, from crown to crotch, hollowed out otherwise. Another was merely a torso. In one corner, a bucket of eyeballs of various different sources floated in dark liquid. Hands occupied another one. Scents of preserving fluids mingled with the rot here. In the center back of the room, away from the staircase, sat a series of three raised tables. Each were soaked and stained in corpsefluids of various kinds, but one,
only one, still held an occupant, of sorts. There were assembled but not attached, many select portions of reclaimed body parts, all thick of muscle and all bearing the same myanthropic features of the Abominations from the fight in the Town Square, above. It was incomplete. Still, even in death the bodies had not reverted back to (Demi)Human form.
Symbols and ritual circles were painted all over the floor here, and there remained a few trappings of lengthy ritual work. There were tools here, created no doubt for legitimate medical purposes but obviously not wielded by the hands of a healer.
There was no resistance to the party's entrance, nor egress. No traps to be sprung. Nothing that impeded any of their movements whatsoever. This building was, like the many dead in that basement, simply discarded after it failed to be useful anymore.
