The Black Ship- April 11th

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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude’s feelings were mixed at Crow’s news on not being able to see her doppelganger outside. She was upset that it was outside the reach of revenge and in possession of her belongings. But an irrational part of her was also relieved at the possibility that it might have left off wearing her face

Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe it’s heading back to the Maison right now…

Panic flashed through her mind and flickered over her face as logic reared its head. It’ll be dark by the time it reaches it; the protections around the Maison will keep it out.

Or kill it.
That possibility brought a grim sense of satisfaction that roused her briefly out of her state of worry and fear. She sank once more at the news of its appearance at the house. Blessed sun, what if it approached the Shadowcloak?! The news of provoking dissent did not ease her mood or the fact that it had fooled her colleagues so well.

How do I prove it wasn't me this morning?

Does it matter?
A traitorous, calm voice asked. Do you really care anymore about what they think about you? Look where it’s brought you.

Look where it’s brought them…
She suddenly saw vividly in her mind the Umbra’s shifting patterns of darkness across his skin. They’ve already got you carving up your flesh. How much of you will be left if you continue like this?

The image of a cup crushed in a pale white hand – the Comtessa’s warning- soon followed. What have I done indeed? She was almost glad to be distracted by the bard’s request about her fate after their separation earlier that morning.

She inclined her head at Chicken Bone’s reminder about prices. If she had truly been brought back from the dead – it was still hard to accept the possibility that she had died – she now had two debts to settle with the voodan. She smiled at the idea that she’d found herself. That’s part of it, isn’t it? For some reason, it gave her an odd sense of freedom and relief. “I am Gertrude Kingsley, m’sieur. One problem however is how he will know to open the door to this woman,” she touched her heart, “And not the one who looks exactly like her.”

She lay the topic of price be for the moment; she had already said that she would be willing to address it after Crow left. She turned back to the bard, leaving him the choice of identifying himself by whatever name he chose. “When we parted at Marais d’Tarascon, I came back here – or rather, to my room.” She shrugged her shoulders, smiling helplessly. “I drank a glass of water from the urn in my room.” She shivered, still smiling. “I assume it was poisoned. Not particularly glamorous or dramatic, I’m afraid.”
Last edited by Pamela on Thu Sep 18, 2008 1:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Chicken Bone nods, more to himself than to Gertrude, and mutters, "P'raps it is still dere, de cup. For de opening de door, I take care of dis, yes?" Rising and stepping outside, he calls the maitre d' up.

***

Solomon Cazier (said maitre d') is having a bad day; the bizarre scene in the lobby was nothing compared to finding Patte de Poulette himself in the building. Quite apart from the man's totally out-of-place dress and speech (how will he explain being ordered around by a man who appears to be a rather elderly field worker?)--his mere presence here in the finest hotel in Souragne is embarassing--it means that Patte de Poulette has business here. Right now. And that means...but he doesn't even dare to think of that name, or what the owner of it might want here and now.

So, when the old voodan calls him back and asks him (rather brusquely) to open the door to Madame Kingsley's room, he offers only token resistance. If the other Madame Kingsley complains...well, the worst she can do is get him fired. Patte de Poulette, on the other hand, might do anything. Better not to offend the devil you know, after all.

Having opened the door, Solomon retires below the stairs and indulges himself in a stiff belt of rum. It's against his usual policy, but it hasn't been an ordinary day.
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

The room, when Crow and Gertrude gain entrance, is slightly disappointing. Very little has been disturbed; the bed has not been slept in, there is no sign of rummaging or hasty packing or unpacking of clothing, and the guilty pewter ewer and cup have been replaced on their stand. There is, of course, a dress missing, and the all-important bag and notebooks are gone. The window is very slightly ajar, but all else is as it should be.
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Eek! Slacked off again! :oops:

[Folks, I'm really thinking that we should agree on a specific day of each week when we all post. It's just too easy to say "I'll do it tomorrow" this way, at least for me. (Bad Sharon! Bad, Bad!)]


******

Offering his arm to Kingsley, the bard assists her in sitting up, then rising to her feet. He looks away politely as she finds her balance, not wishing to cause her embarassment for any unsteadiness, after so grueling and profound an ordeal. To die and return: how might her theological studies and cynicism spur her to interpret such a marvel...?

As she draws the bedspread around herself, Zherisian primness restored with her memories, the bard's own ankle twinges a bit. More than thirty hours, he's been up and about, barring the nap in the swamp-boat; even if his thoughts remain clear much longer, there's no way his weak leg will tolerate yet another night's sleepless exertion. Any reckoning with her replica must come very soon, or else wait until morning ... never mind, any resolution of his little chat with Roeccha.

Roeccha... yes, he does have that recourse at hand, doesn't he? Also Dirac, downstairs, if the popinjay's impatience hasn't yet gotten the better of him. And Chicken Bone seems amenable to resolving this, for all that the voodan carries his own agenda and price.

Escorting Kingsley to her rightful room, the bard notes the maitre d'hotel virtually taking to his heels for dread of the old swamp-sorcerer. Not the best time to question him, for certain ... and perhaps not in the morning either, if the hangover lingers. Better to enquire if the staff had noticed anything odd -- say, an overfull laundry-bin being dragged out the back way -- if we can't find the wretched thing quickly. It must've taken her ... body ... out somehow, after all.

Arriving at the professor's chamber, and sensing that the brief walk has roused her somewhat, Crow guides Kingsley to the lone chair. He brushes the seat briskly with his handkerchief -- you never know, with poisoners -- then gestures graciously for her to be seated. Wincing a bit inwardly, as he recalls what similar courtesies he'd been extending to her duplicate an hour ago, he retrieves her suitcase and sets it near for her to inspect, then checks around the room, taking note of the wardrobe and its undisturbed contents, the untouched bed, the window.

Nothing. No clues. The creature -- The doppelganger, let's come out and say it, shall we? -- had been eminently proficient. Grudgingly, the VRS spy acknowledges its skilled hand at "the trade".

Looking out the window, he tries to determine if it could have gotten her out that way instead. If it hadn't, and the staff had nothing to report, that would beg an even uglier question: would Van Rijn have sent just any shapeshifter to the gathering? Or would he send one with talents that could ensure its masquerade encompassed spellcasting, as well as playacting? Illusionists -- even academics -- weren't entirely gullible, more's the pity!

Dash it all, where's a dark-spelled boot and a bedstead to drop it behind, when I need one? Buchvold was so much easier to second-guess! How can I counter this creature's next move, if I don't know what it's capable of?

Well now, Crow-my-lad, you could always
ask....

"This... other, Madam. It was -- it must have been -- one of those beings from your homeland, yes? To have stolen your notes... you write in your own language, I'm assuming... it must read Zherisian, also.

"You called it it, earlier, not her. I've heard that, about them. Does that mean you suspect it was one of those creatures -- a doppelganger, they call them in Lekar -- as well? Just what manner of menace are we dealing with, if so?"

He blinks, looks questioningly to Kingsley. The bard's familiarity with such pseudo-men is sparse, his curiosity genuine.

If not the window, or the hallway, then how? Her body couldn't walk out of here!

Unless...


He clamps down on the thought, keeps his face ingenuously-inquisitive.

******



[OOC: This conversation, of course, is taking place six months before Crow sends the doppelganger-text to the Twins. But, of course, we all know what he'll really be investigating, when he meets with Larner in Paridon. :wink: ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude was not optimistic about the cup still being in the room; evening was now approaching and the staff had surely fixed up her room during her supposed absence at the Maison. She kept her doubts to herself however, focusing on the effort of getting to her room. “Thank you,” she said to the bard’s courtesy, slightly embarrassed but grateful for not having to ask for the necessary aid. She grimaced good-humouredly at her uncharacteristic attire; caught between looking slightly immodest or ridiculous, she went for the latter, wrapping the blanket about herself and clasping it at her throat by her free hand.

She murmured ‘merci’ to the maitre d’ as he opened her door, unsure if he even heard her in his understandable desire to get away from them. She guided her escort towards the window, seeing for herself that it was not waiting outside, wearing her face. She breathed a deep sigh, suddenly recalling with an odd pang her last view from this window. She looked towards the spot on the western horizon where she had seen the moon; it had of course not even risen yet. The memory of her last minutes sent a shudder through her and she blurted, “I will move my belongings to the other room.”

She gladly took the seat, murmuring her thanks to Crow. The tidiness of the room did not offer her much consolation. Why would it bother ransacking when everything it would want or need is now in its hands?She looked listlessly through the proffered suitcase; she had unpacked her most necessary items and the few that were still packed were unsuitable for the climate and did not seem to have been disturbed.

The professor looked up at the questions and paused to gather her thoughts and sift through the information she knew about it, right or wrong. “I think it is a doppelganger; as such, as you remark, it would know Zherisian. The traitor has already shown his willingness to work with lycanthropes; I cannot imagine why he would hesitate over other shapechangers.”

She clenched her hands as she continued. “They’re said to read minds as well as take on the shapes of humans, male or female. It makes their work that much easier; it also might explain the prominence of the mind-shield among the Celebrants in the Divinity of Mankind. They're said to return to their original form when they die; to be honest, I'm not sure if that is true, since there certainly seem to be a dearth of such sightings.

“As for their gender – I don’t know whether or not they have any. We call them ‘it’ because we don’t know what they are in themselves, if anything. And because they aren’t human.” She shrugged, adding bleakly. “Why dignify it with personification when it stoops to stealing not only of my life, but my identity?”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Chicken Bone has been examining the room in his own way; he gives a moment's attention to the window but concentrates on the cup and ewer. After a moment's visual examination he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. Shrugging, he turns away. "I t'ink de cup and ewer, they be changed," he says. "No help to us dere. But wit' de help of de loa perhaps we are not needing it. You say dis t'ing, it come from your country, madame?"
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude turned to the voodan, inclining her head respectfully. “I believe so. They seem to be unique to my country for I've not heard of them anywhere else.”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

"Perhaps it follow you here?" Chicken Bone says, more to himself than to Kingsley. "Or perhaps it prefer a woman of its own country--more easy to imitate, yes?"

Shaking himself slightly, he says. "So. Yes. Dis t'ing, it could have any face. De loa are not so easily fooled as we, but we must be careful, ver' careful...it has killed once, it can kill again. You will wish to tell your friends of what has happened, I s'pose? But then I would wish to speak to you four who came to visit me yesterday. It will do not much good to follow now, I think, now that it is gone, unless we prepare to catch as well as find. We meet here dis evening to discuss, yes? Two hours after moonrise?"

OOC: About 8 o'clock, two hours after the sun sets.
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The bard listens solemnly to Kingsley's description of their adversary's likely capabilities. What she offers is not very encouraging -- from the sound of things, their quarry's abilities are sufficient to make it a natural at tradecraft -- but at least, if her countrymen have found mind-shielding to be an effective defense, his own thoughts ought to be equally secure.

(Without his conscious awareness, the bard's right hand twitches, as his musically-callused thumb presses against the adjacent -- and seemingly bare -- finger. Yes, the curved ridge that encircles the bone is still there, subtle and reassuring, beneath the unmarred skin. Whatever his pre-amnesiac self's name had really been, he'd not settled for half measures, where secrecy was concerned; nothing short of amputation would deny Crow this facet of his disguise.)

The Zherisian's thoughts, alas, and those of others they may opt to work with, are not so protected. A problem, that, if they're to have allies in the hunt for the scalpel-lady's temporary killer.

Kingsley wrote:“I believe so. They seem to be unique to my country for I've not heard of them anywhere else.”
"I have," Crow adds, to show willing. "At least ... that is to say ... I know there are tales of creatures like you describe, back in the Core. In Lekar, they've infamy enough to warrant a name. And there's a very old story about a 'Face Stealer', from ... er ... someplace in the southern uplands, I forget where." He blinks, a moment's chagrin passing over his features; it's embarassing for any bard, spies included, to misremember a story's provenance.

Not to mention that wretched business at that old windmill, he muses in private, but doesn't say. While he's had no time to ponder Kingsley's pledge of confidentiality, vis-a-vis "Brother Crow's" status, he's not ready -- perhaps not able -- to trust her with more clues re. his true affiliation. His VRS colleagues' war-stories are not to be shared with just anyone, and would add little to their collective understanding.

Chicken Bone wrote:"You will wish to tell your friends of what has happened, I s'pose? But then I would wish to speak to you four who came to visit me yesterday. It will do not much good to follow now, I think, now that it is gone, unless we prepare to catch as well as find. We meet here dis evening to discuss, yes? Two hours after moonrise?"
At the voodan's invitation to meet, Crow raises an eyebrow. Though uneasy with the swamp-sorcerer's involvement, he'd rather gamble on the old man's assistance than that of Roeccha and the others. At least, he's fairly sure that Chicken Bone lacks any vested interest in Van Rijn's feud with the Fraternity, save a desire that it not spill over into Souragne. And working with an outside party, for the nonce, will avert the Fraternity officers' premature discovery of the bard's own secrets.

If and when they do learn more, he'd prefer that discovery to be on his terms, not the shalach-ti's.

"The others, yes," the VRS spy muses aloud. "They could help us, I'm sure, and perhaps their hirelings too. Except ... if this creature can read thoughts, as the professor says ... would it be safe, to tell them the whole truth? If this ... imposter ... behaves-"

-like me-

"-like a cunning scout or assassin, it may well try to learn our plans, that way. Perhaps, before we tell anyone else of this incident, it would be prudent to consider what we should say. It could be counterproductive -- even dangerous -- to reveal too much of the truth."

Crow blinks, draws a deeper breath, quashes his training's protest against his next words.

"I have... a means of shielding my own thoughts. At least, it should serve to conceal them, for the next 24 hours." And the 24 after that, and the 24 after that... but you don't need to know that part. "But the other men who came to see you, sir ... I've no idea if they possess any such defense. Nor yourself, for that matter, M'sieur.

"And if you'll forgive me the presumption, Madam," he adds, bestowing a rueful grin of apology upon the professor, "I'll hazard a guess that you have no such ward, either. At least, I doubt if it would have chosen you to... replicate... were it unable to discern your thoughts, beforehand. It would've needed to learn more information than your notes afforded, to execute such a ruse."

He pauses, brushes his curls back from his brow, then speaks slowly, with tones of thoughtful precision.

"I ... think I know a way to shield you, also, Madam. Or rather, to ensure our quarry will summarily discount any thoughts it might glean from your mind: dismiss them out-of-hand as trickery. Reading minds ... it's a technique some of my bardic colleagues practice, and I've heard of cases in which the subject's very nature...

"Well, let's just say that their real thoughts were not what the reader discerned. If said reader were lucky, that is."

His features become solemn -- deeply respectful -- and he turns to Chicken Bone, bows his head slightly.

"I don't know, sir, if my idea will meet with your approval, or if you would consider it presumptuous ... sacreligious, even ... to contemplate any such stratagem. But then, as you say sir, the loa are not easily fooled, and they could have surmised these events would come to pass, long before we did. They may well have anticipated my reasoning, in this matter.

"And your own ... patron ... did permit Madam to rise in life, to seek, and avenge herself upon, her attacker.

"The creature ... it saw Professor Kingsley for itself, downstairs. It knows that which it had abandoned in the swamps did not remain there, but came here to seek it out. To seek it, in your company, M'sieur.

"But... it did not touch her. It did not examine her. Swamp-soiled, rough-clad as she was, disoriented as she had been ... can it truly be certain what manner of resurrection had come upon its victim?

"And it has been reading Madam's notes -- notes, on the beliefs and customs of your people, sir -- which likely form the basis of its own beliefs about what is possible in this country, so different from its home."

The bard straightens, sets his jaw, nods with profound dignity to Chicken Bone, then turns to meet Kingsley's gaze.

"Tales of fallen unfortunates who rise from the grave to avenge their own deaths, Madam, are told in every corner of our Lands. Yet seldom does one hear of such a victim doing so, in a living, breathing form! If our quarry can be led to think your case more typical of the pattern ... if it suspects your every thought can be feigned, as those undead with conscious minds seem capable of doing..."

Sorry, old sage. In this case, we need a fake "monster", to hunt a monstrous fake!

"...then there'll be no need to mask your thoughts, after all. Madam, if we're to trap this creature, I think it best if you become a zombi!"




[OOC: Okay, Nathan, now you know the other reason (besides work and shameless procrastination) why it's been taking me so %$#&* long to post! Getting the discussion around to this point was difficult, considering all the other conversational twists that had to take place, first. :D

[Pam and I discussed this possible strategy for fooling the bad guy a while ago, and we both thought it'd be fun to let Kingsley do some play-acting for a change. If the doppelganger believes that she's some kind of sentient Walking Dead, raised up by the Lord of the Dead like so many Souragnien corpses before her, then it won't believe anything it reads from her thoughts. Nor will it try to poison her, a second time; indeed, it may not dare to kill anybody else, if it suspects the loa will continue to raise its murdered victims and send them after it! :wink:

[On top of that, it'll give Draxton Serd something to do (finally!), if he's let in on the trick. His necromantic interests are out of the closet now, which frees him to assist in the deception. Who better to help Kingsley pretend she's undead, than a guy who's been raising zombies of his own on the sly? :lol: And if anyone in the game other than Crow has got anti-ESP protections in place, I figured it'd be alhoon's PC, so letting him in on the trick should be workable.

[So unless you've got plans that'd make such a ruse counterproductive, Nathan, I hope you'll let us try it. If we play it right, it might even restore Kingsley's reputation: outfoxing a doppelganger at its own game is bound to earn her some kudos, at least from her own cell's members. 8) ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Pamela »

As Gertrude considered the possibility of a doppelganger having followed her to Souragne, her eyebrows raised at the idea that it would be ‘easier’ to imitate a woman. She contained her urge to bridle at that particular suggestion and therefore ignored it, merely shaking her head and remarking, “I don’t know about it following me. It is possible, but it would seem to have gone out of its way to do so as I was on the Core for months beforehand. I would guess it more likely that it arrived around the same time as my other colleagues from Zherisia. Its appearance then would have been less noticeable due to the sudden, large influx of foreign visitors.” She looked over at Crow’s reference to doppelgangers in Lekar. “In which case, it may have followed me – or any of our Core brethren,” she amended as she considered how varied their company was.

She caught the emphasis on the word “friends”, wondering what had accounted for it, but completely agreeing with his skepticism about her closeness with the other associates who had accompanied them to the voodan’s hut. She was still hesitant about telling the others the truth due to her personal pride but was content for the moment to agree to the plan to meet later that evening.

As Crow spoke, several ideas began to gather in her mind which she lay aside till he finished speaking. She did however interject a “Please!” at the news that the bard had a means to help shield her mind. One item I will certainly investigate in future, she promised herself.

She shivered anew at the reference to her death and considered herself before the awful revelation. The idea of posing as a zombie did not thrill her despite the cleverness of the idea. For the moment she focused on earlier points that the bard had brought up.

“The others will need to be brought in, particularly Buchvold, unless he’s received his gift from the loa…? I thought not,” she said after Crow’s shake of the head. “Bear in mind that if it was in my room or following me on my way home, it would be aware of our companions’ involvement in the venture to the swamp. It will know not only our purpose but also the fact that you and Buchvold are still a danger to it – since I assume that it was involved in the issue of the ring, if not its previous owner. Since you didn’t run out towards it earlier, it’s probably guessed that your debt to the loa has been settled, particularly with Monsieur’s presence to help aid in that particular service if required,” she said, inclining her head to Chicken Bone.

“Buchvold at least will certainly be a danger to it or its associate since he does possess the wild card of the remaining service to the loa. If the thing isn’t trying to find a way to follow us, it’s probably headed back to La Maison since the Borcan is staying there, waiting till dawn to enter the grounds and possibly attack him – unless again, it has an associate there that it can warn.”

She hesitated then looked at Crow. “It didn’t touch me but it doesn’t need to, to read minds if what I’ve heard is correct. My state of mind was impaired due to amnesia, which would fit in perfectly with the idea of the zombie. However, if it has been reading my notes and the survey our colleagues provided, it will also be aware that most zombies are not very bright, even when created by a powerful voodan.” Again she inclined her head to Chicken Bone.

Blushing a little but setting her jaw she said, “The idea is a good one and it would be wise to tell our friends that I was killed and re-animated for some purpose Monsieur wishes to discuss with us – perhaps to hunt the possessor of the ring? But if the plan is to work, Crow, I will either need to be drugged or ensorcelled to be rendered too stupid to reveal much which would be coherent. Otherwise, it will pick up on our colleagues’ own suspicions and see through our plans.” She smiled wryly as she commented, "I also do not trust my acting abilities if any adverse comments on my stupidity for not protecting myself better were to arise."
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

Crow can tell that the professor isn't wholly enamoured of his suggestion -- who would be? -- but is relieved that she does not reject it out-of-hand. Recalling how Kingsley, herself, had been sorely menaced by the reanimated dead in St. Ronges half a year ago, he is once again impressed by her resiliancy. The tigress, despite past and recent ordeals, is ready to fight.

At her enquiry about Buchvold, he nods in confirmation ... at least, his secret ally has yet to report any loa-borne revelations or favors received. The bard smiles inwardly at her use of the Borcan's name: with identities in doubt on all sides now, it's high time they let the voodan that far into their confidences, if no farther. Her prediction that Buchvold may be the creature's next target impresses him further; indeed, the glowering beanpole-of-a-banker's-son may now be in danger, and should be warned posthaste. A good thing, to know the professor's wits are fully restored to her.

(A good thing, too, that she should be the one to reveal the name of Buchvold. Had Crow been first to speak it would've been awkward, given the terms of his bargain with the volatile Borcan.)

The bard's hand slips into a pocket, fishes out the improvised quizzing-glass. Time to undo his handiwork; he twists the mounted ring free of its prop-handle, then pops the spyglass-lens from its loop.

"In that case, if it hopes to rejoin the others before we can spread word of its nature," he opines, "it's quite out of luck. Our ... friends ... lent me the means to contact them, in the event the Oracle's favor was revealed to me, this night. If we can agree what to tell them, I can pass word to la Maison of our suspicions, and request protection for Mr. Buchvold."

Crow shoots a sidelong glance at Chicken Bone, apologetic.

"Such a communique ... it must necessarily be private. Our friends are not ... comfortable, being too well known."

He slips the ring onto his finger once more, with a flicker of a grimace: a flash of its late owner's scathing personality, to calm the bauble's finicky preferences ... but it seems like distaste for the Fraternity seniors' florid paranoia. And, for Kingsley's benefit, a reminder that the voodan can't be told much more of the Fraternity than he already knows.

"As for the issue of intellect," he continues, gray eyes returning to the professor's, "it may not pose so great an obstacle. It heard you speak, in the foyer -- mere rambling, disjointed recollections, but coherent --which would already seem to prove that, if you were a zombie, you could be no witless automaton. Such a mindless puppet of flesh would be mute.

"But accounts exist of zombies with greater intellect than is usual. Those called up by a mourner's grief, for one ... in stories, they often utter a few words or numbly act out routines from life, just as you'd spoken in response to our discourse downstairs. Sailors' tales, too, oft portray the sea's accursed Walking Dead as intelligent foes, even cunning ones. And reports of 'mindless' skeletons raised up by necromancers depict them manning siege engines, building ships, staging ambushes ... things that would be impossible to achieve, were these undead not granted at least a particle of consciousness by their morbid creators.

"And these feats are the work of mortal grief, mortal curses, mortal magic. How much more sapience must the Dead's own Lord be capable of bequeathing to their kind?"

The bard's eyes widen, perhaps alarmed by his own words' import. Forgive me, old sage! It's to keep her safe, that's the only reason. You, of all people, would understand that...

"So I don't believe that drugging or enspelling your wits into oblivion will be necessary, Madam ... not that we could find sufficient medication or magic in the world, to achieve such a task," he adds wryly, forcibly snapping himself out of his grim mood. "At most, a spot of light hypnosis -- magical or mundane -- might be of use, to assure your thoughts will not wander as you fear. Mundane might be preferable, come to think of it; our quarry may well have been equipped with some means to discern magical auras, the better to infiltrate the Maison undetected.

"As for our colleagues, I do not think that subjecting you directly to their questions -- or scorn -- will be necessary. How likely is it that a 'zombie' would be permitted anywhere near the Maison today, under these conditions? By the tenor of the seminar you missed, Madam, they'd be more likely to invite a rabid dog to the gathering, after the fierceness with which the seniors cracked down on ... pertinent avenues of research."

(Another sidelong glance to the voodan. Best not to bad-mouth necromancy out loud, and risk alienating the old man, who plainly made a practice of such.)

"Better if we spread the rumor of your 'resurrection' -- and vengeful quest for your killer -- amongst the Maison's occupants, and so lead the creature here, to us. That way, we may confront it in a place of our choosing, where it cannot hide itself in a crowd of strangers, but must risk stepping out of the shadows to balk an unliving, inexorable pursuer. For a creature that survives by camouflage, the threat your 'zombie' might pose -- relentless, implacable, and capable of tracking it down in any guise -- will surely be too frightening to ignore.

"Especially if M. Chicken Bone's... patron... is the one that rumors credit with your reanimation. For, were that so, could it even hope to leave Souragne, at all?

"Better, I think, to draw it out, where M. Chicken Bone can aid us and its accomplices (if any) are out of reach, than to face it at the Maison. That way, we can choose our ground to lay our trap for it ... and the credit for its undoing, once achieved, will incur to us alone."

And I can ensure that it dies without revealing anything it might have learned, of my own doings. It's a murderer; I can silence it with a clear conscience, on Kingsley's behalf as well as my own.

"Indeed, the others at la Maison need not even know the full story, once our quarry has been apprehended. If you prefer, Madam, we might later claim that you'd anticipated its attempt to poison you, taken an antidote in preparation, then feigned lifelessness until it left your 'corpse' for the alligators, returning to town with plans for its capture. How disparaging would our associates' remarks be, then?"

The spy grins, mischevious, and winks at the professor.


[OOC: Crow's remarks about zombies not always being stupid are taken right out of VRGttWD. :wink: ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Nathan of the FoS
Fiendish Enforcer
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Chicken Bone looks slightly amused at Crow's brief lecture on the capacities of the walking dead--whether because of Crow's ignorance or because his way of talking about it tickles the old voodan's fancy isn't clear.

"Well den," he says. "De Madame Kingsley, she stay here wit' me for de time being, while you go an' tell your frien' downstairs what you have learned? And you speak to your frien's who come to visit me last night."
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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