conversations: human
conversations:  Roland's journal, 2nd day of Spring.
  
  Wolf carcass in dry riverbed this morning. Morningstar wound on burst stomach. Left me feeling bad, infected.
  
  I came out here two days ago on an extended scouting mission. There'd been some problem with the foraging parties that the peasants send out, teams had been disappearing, no noise, no bodies. Whatever it was had got the villagers spooked. The whole of Gant was up in arms, calling on the local Watch to do something about it. They didn't. They just sent me.
  
  It didn't take long before I found something. A day into the forest that borders the town I found the first signs of a struggle. Blood on the rocks, scraps of clothes. Even found a shuriken. Where in Novis a peasant got a shuriken I don't know, but there it was, bent, half buried in the mud. I followed an easy trail to a cave, and that's where I found them..
   
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  Survival:  10+2 = 12
  
     The trail ends here, at this cave.
  
  It smells in there. Like swamp slime, and death. It reminds me of an exhibition a few years back, some rich merchant had a glass tank big enough to walk in, full of hothouse plants. He kept his pets in there. Lizards. I didn't hate those animals back then, but the stench was overwhelming. It's like that now.
  
  I can't find anything out from here. I have to go in.   
   Move Silently:   (1d20+7)[ 27 ] 
   Hide:   (1d20+7)[ 14 ] 
    Listen:   (1d20+3)[ 18 ]  
    Listen:   (1d20+3)[ 7 ]  
     It gets dark after the second twist in the passage. Too dark to see. It feels like the walls fall away up ahead, but I need light to be sure.
  This place feels like a lair and smells like a tomb. I listen, hard.
      Listen:   (1d20-1)[ 14 ] 
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  I hear shuffling feet on stone in the cavern ahead. Sounds like two of them, whatever they are.
  Lighting my torch will let them know I'm here, but in these tight quarters I can deal with two of almost anything.
  I light my torch, and let the burning stick fall to the ground.   
   Initiative:   (1d20+6)[ 10 ] 
   Tsssss 
    Initiative:   (1d20-1)[ 3 ]  
   Seltur molik, svent coi! 
    Initiative:  (1d20-1)[ 17 ] 
     Well, so that's what they are. Some kind of lizard people. Primitive. Clubs, skins. Their physiology looks like a cross between humans and lizards, almost like kobolds. I guess the standard anthro weaknesses apply. Nothing to worry about.   
   Knowledge (local/humanoid):  (1d20+22)[ 27 ] (5/6)
  
     Is that a human? Yeah, filth covered and bloodied, but it's a man alright.
  It looks like I interrupted their meal...   
    oh thank gods  
    Initiative:   (1d20)[ 7 ]  
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  The big one runs straight at me. He's a little quicker on the uptake than his friend, or me, truth be told. Still, he doesn't seem to see the guisarme in my hand. Guisarme. Fancy name for a bladed hook on a stick. I swing low, trying to trip him.    
   Attack (trip):   (1d20+7)[ 24 ] 
   Strength:   (1d20+6)[ 13 ]  vs   Strength:   (1d20)[ 1 ]  
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  I drop him. Heh. I have time to get a swing in against the prone creature.   
   Attack:   (1d20+11)[ 14 ]  for  (2d4+10)[ 18 ]  +  (1d6)[ 2 ]  (2/6)
  
     It looks like 'dinner's coming to his senses. He charges at the other one, who's ready for him, with a club.
  The prisoner's a human. He doesn't stand much of a chance. Naked, unarmed, trying to wrestle an overgrown lizard.   
    Attack (grapple):   (1d20+1)[ 20 ]  
    AoO: Club   (1d20+1)[ 20 ]  for  (1d6)[ 4 ]  
    Grapple:   (1d20+2)[ 9 ]  for  (1d3+1)[ 4 ]   vs   (1d20+1)[ 14 ]  
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  The fool's already dead, he just doesn't know it. He stood up better than I expected to that club, but the smaller one's about to go to town on him, and I'm too slow to do anything about it...   
    Full Attack: Club   (1d20+1)[ 21 ]  for  (1d6)[ 2 ] ,  Claw   (1d20-1)[ 14 ]  for  (1d4)[ 2 ] ,  Bite   (1d20-1)[ 10 ]  for  (1d4)[ 3 ]  
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  And the man goes down. Maybe I can still save him, if I get to him in time. Maybe.   
     That's right scales. Your friend's dead. It's just you and me, and I'm giving it everything I've got.
  I twirl my guisarme and charge.   
   Attack:   (1d20+9)[ 24 ]  for  (2d4+10)[ 16 ]  +  (1d6)[ 6 ]  (0/6)
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  The head goes flying. It's graceful, in a brutal kind of way.
  Brutality is the only kind of beauty I still expect to find in this place.
  
  There's still time to save the man.   
   Heal:   (1d20+2)[ 3 ] 
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  I can see his life slipping away. I put everything I had into the fight, now I've got nothing left when I really need it.
  I place my right hand on the clasp of my belt. My other hand goes on the man's forehead.
  
  I don't know exactly what I'm doing. I know the belt can close wounds, though I've never used it on someone else before.
  It's time for it to earn what I paid for it.   
   Healing Belt:   (4d8)[ 23 ] HP
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  The man was grateful. Of course he was. Told me his name was Jason, told me his whole damn life story. I met his wife even. She didn't like me. There was some gold from the Watch like always, and everything went back to normal. I tried to sketch the lizards for the local scout master, found out they were called troglodytes. You learn something new every day. At least, you learn something a hundred people already knew. Nothing is new anymore. 
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  Roland's Journal, 35th day of Spring
  
  Far-Gant. Dismal little town. They set it up a few years ago to supply Gant with timber, just a few leaky log cabins. Later on they built an inn and guardhouse, once the masters in Gant realised they were making money out there. It was raining when I arrived, and I didn't care for it, not one bit. I was only there in the first place because some of the loggers had been going missing. Strange case. They sleep in a communal longhouse, stay together when they walk out into the woods, and barely go a mile into the forest in the first place. Not many places for them to be spirited away without anyone seeing.
  
  They had me set up to stay with the governor. I'd never heard of a governor before, guess they only put them in charge of tiny little hamlets. Just enough of a title to keep whatever uppity commoner they made into their tool happy. I know what you're thinking. Remote logging camp, casual desecration of an ancient forest, it's got to be dryads right? Well... maybe. That first night, when I met the governor, that's when I started to think the problem might lie a lot closer to home. 
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  Hello Governor. Nice house you've got here. 
   Bluff:   (1d20+5)[ 20 ]  (5/6)
  
     It's a hole. A wood cabin with aspirations. It's styled like one of the big merchant houses in the city, but with none of the quality or class.   
   They said that you offered to take me in while I look for your missing lumberjacks. Kind of you, don't like the look of those longhouses. 
   Speak nothing of it! Speaking of our distant masters, they informed me of your mission, but neglected to mention your name.. 
   Roland Ness. 
     I hold out my hand for him to shake. He turns away. He's acting like he didn't notice the gesture, but I think I catch a flash of something across his face. Fear? Disgust? Maybe I'm just imagining things again. That happens sometimes, late at night.    
  Sense Motive (hunch):   (1d20+4)[ 15 ]  (4/6)
  
  
   Ah yes, Mr. Ness. Well, it's good to have you here. If I lose any more workers the officials back in Gant will have my neck! Ha-ha. 
     Not your neck, just your title, land and money. For a man like you, might as well be the same thing.   
   Well, I'm here to save your neck, but I'm not starting until morning. You got somewhere I can get dry and sleep? Maybe a pallet by a fire? 
   Heavens, no. You'll have the guest bedroom. Victor will show you up. Victor! 
     The butler appears at the door like a ghost. He doesn't look much healthier than one either. Face drawn, mouth just slightly hanging open, just enough to taint the picture.   
   Sirrr? 
   Show Mr. Ness here up to the guest bedroom will you, fetch him some towels and see he's fed. 
   Yes sirr. Show Mr. Ness the guest bedroom, bring him towels, food and wine. 
   That's right. Well Mr. Ness, I expect to be awake for some time with this paperwork, but I shall see you tomorrow evening. Victor here can help you with anything you need. 
     He leads me up the stairs to a small bedroom. It's not bad. Better than I expect. I send the butler away, looking into his eyes gives me a bad feeling. I don't hold it against him, people have said the same thing about me. I do a quick search of the room, but there's nothing out of place. No eye-holes in the painting, no secret door in the closet. I guess I'll find out more about this mess tomorrow. Just hope the rain will stop.   
   Search:   (1d20+11)[ 16 ]  (3/6)
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  When I wake up, I find a plate of bread and cold meat next to the bed, and a wooden bowl of hot water. Good hospitality from the governor. The governor, kind of rude of me not to ask for his name, but I was wet, tired. It makes me wonder why he didn't offer it though. Maybe he's just socially backward. That's fine. I'm missing a few graces myself.
  
  I don't spend much time in the manor. I wash, eat, muddle through enough of a ritual to let me cast Mage Hand and Protection From Evil later on. I don't know what's going on here, but some kind of 'evil' is a safe bet. Evil. I've almost forgotten what it is. Is the Church Evil or Good? What about those troglodytes I fought last month? Were they Evil? Or just hungry?
  
  When I open the door to the room, the butler, Victor, he's just standing outside.   
   Morning sirrr. I'm to provide food and drink, and to help you with anything you need. 
   I know, thanks Vic, appreciate it. I'm headed out now though, catch you later. 
     Where did the governor even find a butler out here anyway. Maybe he promoted a lumberjack, the guy has the build of one.
  
  It isn't raining. That's a blessing. My first stop is the guard house, to speak to the commander of the local Guard. I may not have heard of the governor before, but I knew this commander's name. Erika Childs. She was a famous soldier back in her day, bringing our own brand of 'civilization' to the natives. Her pattern was always the same. Arrive, slaughter, then try and build while the ground was still muddy with blood. And back home they always cheered, always applauded whatever temporary, isolated watch tower, or wooden-stake fort, or mission temple she'd managed to throw up.
  
  She was the golden daughter of Gant, until Bridden Fields. I guess guarding this muddy ruin of a village is the reward for mercy. As far as I'm concerned, sparing those orc kids is the only thing she has going for her.
  
  
  The barracks doesn't smell bad at all. I was expecting sweat, sword oil, old food. It's clean in here, and I can see why. Of twelve beds, only two look like they're being slept in. Two guards to look after an entire town, out here in the wilds. Hilarious. I make my way to the back where I know I'll find the commander's private rooms. I knock.
  
  Long seconds pass...   
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  Come in. 
  ...
  
   Sorry to catch you sleeping, commander. I'm Roland Ness, they sent me about the disappearances. 
     She's wearing some kind of armoured slip. A nightshirt with leather plates sewn into the breast and stomach. Intimidating. I guess it must be comfortable enough though.   
   -yawn- Eh, no problem. I'm sick of the letters HQ keep sending about it. 
     She waves at a stack of unopened letters on her desk. She's stopped even trying to keep faith with the leadership in Gant. Can't say I blame her, banishment after a lifetime of service. I wonder, if she were back in that forest clearing again, looking down into that pit of orcish children, would she still stay her hand, even knowing the consequences? I need to believe the answers 'yes', at least until I get out of the same room with her.   
   I'll try not to take up much of your time. What do you know about it? 
     Her eyes lose focus, looking past me. I can see the face that made the leaders love her. The cold, analytical stare. I might be the only civilian who's seen her eyes like that. The true face she only shows when she's being debriefed, or when she's killing.   
   The first disappeared two weeks ago. That was a particularly bad night. Some of the horses had broken free in a storm, and I took John and Maja, they're the privates out there, out to look for them, as well as most of the labourers. When we came back we were a man down, Jonas never turned up. I sent out search parties, but you saw the barracks out there, I just don't have any resources. They found nothing. 
   Who since then? And when did they disappear? 
     I already know the answers, they were in my mission papers, but I want to hear it from her.   
   Matthias three nights later. It was a calm night, he went to bunk with the rest of the workers, and wasn't there in the morning. Eva two nights after that. And that was the pattern. Every three nights, another one goes missing from a crowded room of sleeping workers. No sign of a struggle, no tracks, even on the muddy days, though if they used the gravel paths I wouldn't expect any. 
   You ever set any watches around the longhouses? Try and catch whatever it is in the act? 
   I did... they didn't see anything.
   Bluff:   (1d20-1)[ 12 ]  
   Sense Motive:   (1d20+4)[ 18 ]  (5/6)
  
   You.. never set the damn watches, did you commander. 
   -sigh- You saw what I have to work with out there in the barracks. Those lumberjacks aren't weak men and women. Something that can take one of them without a sound could handle either of my people without any trouble at all. And then I'm a commander with one subordinate. 
   You're meant to be here to protect the village, commander! If you're not even trying to do that, what are you!?
  
  Just.. never mind. So it could be anything, anything smart enough not to leave a trace. Did you leave their things alone at least? 
   John looked at the beds of the first couple to go, just to check for a struggle. We tied red ribbons around the bedposts, and nobody's slept in them since. 
   What about Detect Evil? Detect Magic? Done any divination? 
   Look around, we don't have anyone out here who can do that. I asked for them to send out a paladin, but they just sent  you ! 
     Yeah. They just sent me.   
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  The longhouses seem grim at first. Bare wooden walls, draughty gaps around the door. But when I look closer there are real mattresses on the bunks, and little iron stoves kicking out heat every few meters along the wall. This probably isn't a bad life for the workers.
  
  They're all already out there in the forest. The masters sleep while the servants toil, it's always this way. I wander over to the closest bunk with a red ribbon. This must have been one of the first, the blankets have been thrown off, the cupboard on the ground next to it has been gone through. Probably by one of the inept guards, looking for clues. The sheet covering the mattress is pristine, but I pull it off anyway. You never know where the clue will turn up, even a stray hair can turn into a key in the right hands.
  
  There. Under the sheet. The tiniest spot of blood. It's staining the weave of the mattress, down where the man's foot would have been. It's not exactly fresh, but it hasn't turned to the brown rust that blood goes after about a week. The blood's on the mattress, but not the sheet.
  
  I check around the room, looking at the rest of the mattresses.   
   Search:   (1d20+11)[ 22 ]  (4/6)
  
     Every mattress is the same. A spot of blood down by the feet, but no blood on the sheet. None of the sheets on the red ribbon beds even smell. Whoever's doing this changes the sheets. They must do it before morning, or else someone would have noticed the blood. Creepy son of a wretch... Who could take a man in a room full of his sleeping friends without making a sound, and hang around long enough to change the sheets? What could do that?
  
  What's this feeling? Fear? Hello old friend. I thought you were gone for good. I don't have any choice. I'm going to have to wait out and try and catch this thing. Lucky for me tonight is the night. The third night since the last disappearance. I make my way over to the inn, the Lost Horse, got some time to kill. The Lost Horse. That must happen a lot around here. Badly built stables, lots of storms, lots of frightened horses bolting into the woods. It's a clean enough place. A quick look at the chalk board out front confirms my suspicious about the room prices - astronomical. The occasional administrative inspector can afford to stay here, but not me. I don't get an expense account.
  
  When the workers trickle in at sunset I spend a few hours talking with them and playing dice. They're a decent bunch, simple, but they know why I'm here. I'm on their side. I ask around about the missing men and women. What were they like. Did you notice anything unusual. Just standard questions, but made the loggers think I was some kind of inspired investigator. They don't realise I'm just the guy they throw at the cheap problems, when the ones in charge don't really care.   
   Gather Information:   (1d20+3)[ 9 ] 
     Nothing interesting. One of them got sick a few days earlier, but that doesn't mean much either way. I pay my tab and go back to the manor. I don't mind the governor, but I'm not looking forward to seeing that gaunt as a ghost butler again. Something there is not right.   
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  Hello again Mr. Ness! Come in, sit down. There's roast beef on the table. I've already eaten I'm afraid, I wasn't sure when you would return. 
     There really is beef on the table. Weird, I haven't seen a cow since I left Gant days ago.
  
  We sit. I eat while he drinks wine. He's quite a talker, no love for the church, healthy disrespect for authority. I'm almost starting to like him. The only dark cloud on the evening is that damned butler. Every time he looks at me I feel shivers run down my spine, but I know he can't be the one I'm looking for. He's not quiet, he's not intelligent. I correct last night's mistake and get the governor's  name. Gideon.    
    Diplomacy:   10+12 
    He asks about the case of course, he's got a vested interest. I divert him, I don't want to talk about the blood I found, or any of my conclusions. Not even with the governor.   
   Will you stay up with me, Mr Ness? Perhaps a game of cards? 
   Not tonight governor. I'm going to be a little rude, and go straight up to my room. 
   Ah well, that's a shame. Shall I have Victor show you up? 
   No! Uh, that's fine governor. I know my way now. 
     I walk to the room and lock the door. I don't want that butler in here while I'm asleep, not even to leave breakfast. I stuff some pillows under the blankets to fake a sleeping body, an old trick. The room is on the second story and it's about 20 feet down to the ground. I brought a rope with me, it's in my bag, but I think I should be able to handle the fall.
  
  I go to the window, slide it open, quietly, quietly. Only 20 feet. It'll hurt, but not in any lasting way.
  
  I jump.   
   Tumble (fall):  10+11
conversations: Breton:
conversations: human
conversations:  I make my way down the gravel road to the longhouses where the loggers sleep. They'll all be in there by now, playing whatever quiet games they use to pass the time until they're bored. It's dark out, but there's a moon. I find a place where I can hide with my back to one of the log walls, a wood pile in front of me. It's a good spot, I can make out the door to the longhouse with ease.   
   Hide:  20+11
  
     I sit. I wait.
  
  A couple of hours pass before I think I see movement. I can see a figure creeping up to the longhouse, and the sight of it makes me sick to my stomach. Tall, naked, skin as white as corpse flesh, and long sharp teeth, like he'd filed them all to points. He moves without making a sound, and as he passes in front of the building his skin shifts and turns a mottled brown, changing colour like a cuttlefish to blend in. If he'd had any kind of cover, or if he were a little further back in the gloom, I wouldn't have seen him at all.
  
  Let me tell you something you might not know about me. I'm a craftsman. I know, I don't look like much of a carpenter. I don't make things of beauty, or anything useful like chairs or a baskets. I make poisons. Trekking through the wilderness makes you intimately familiar with what's bad to eat, and what stings when you touch it. When you know a few of those plants, it's pretty easy to mix something you can put on a blade that will knock somebody out.
  
  I want this thing alive, so I can make it talk, just in case it can talk. I brought a cold iron dagger with me thinking I might run into a fae. Hells, I wish it were a fae. The dagger's covered in poison now, something to drop him without doing permanent damage. I throw it before he even knows I'm here.   
   Attack (dagger, thrown):   (1d20+9)[ 15 ]  for  (1d4+2)[ 4 ]  (5/6)
   Poison:  Unconsciousness DC13  
   Fort:   (1d20)[ 11 ]  
conversations: Breton: