An Icy Fog, Undead in Sarshel

[Poisonous]

The quiet Ilmateri priestess takes some time from her busy clinic work to set out a few candles, pray with a few shaken commoners, and add to her husband Jerek's flowers, before returning to help tend to a few wounded Warswords.

In the coming days, she redoubles her rounds consecrating the lands around Sarshel.

[Highlander]

Shivering slightly at the memory of being struck by the necromancer's spell, Maera spends the rest of the night following the attack around the surrounding farms, in case of any remaining walking dead. The night seemed mercifully quiet, and once she has slept, heads for Kelda's clinic in the docks to assist with any injured commoners or Warswords.

[Poisonous]

Maera is able to find and dispatch one or two undead who have gotten caught in farmside fences, and as a result of her action, several farmers spare an extra prayer or donation to Selune.

--

Kelda, for her part, gladly accepts Maera's aid and invites her to spend some time when she is finished playing with the kittens upstairs.

[Danuvis]

A hooded woodsman traverses deftly across glades and roads, his attire's earthly colours in stark contrast to the falling snow. He follows the direction from which the undead emerged, tense eyes squinting in a glare. He moves with great haste, leathery greaves barely marking the snow underfoot, casting countless glances to his surroundings. A breath arises, quickly joined by another and another, and Garvin loses a prayer to the wind as he pushes himself to the limit.

He ventures as far as his feet take him, studying the foliage and cobblestones alike for anything of note along with potential signs of passing undead - hoping the roaming cadavers left behind entrails and the like in their wake to try and determine the mist's origins, or at the very least a general direction beyond the north.

[blatob]

Out of the sight, Uneing follows the trail of a lone man, back to the place where they first encountered the undead, her bandaged feet finding the way through the bush.

[Copper Dragon]

There are many skilled healers in the city, and no doubt many more wounded than could be handled at the clinic at once; and so the Lathanderite Artemis D'Assanthe lends her assistance to the injured, maimed and rot-infected at the Crowning Glory inn instead. She has nothing but kind reassuring words to the victims and to the children at the nearby orphanage which she visits. Whatever this gruesome onslaught was, who or what had caused it, it is over for now, and if any attempt would besiege Sarshel's gates again, there was proof that a score of men and women would step forward to assist.

[Ataraxia]

After the initial battle at the gates of the city, Anton promptly visited the Temple to see his wounds tended to, mainly a hand he fractured when killing the crazed cultist and tendons he had torn when scaling up and down the battlements. He was patient, letting others with more pressing wounds pass before him.

In the following days, he was seen lurking around the Crowning Glory, looking severely sick and exhausted from some obscure condition as he nursed glasses of whiskey and passed around a handful of Ilmateri worry stones to troubled civilians who silently suffered while waiting for Artemis' care.

[Poisonous]

A hooded woodsman traverses deftly across glades and roads, his attire's earthly colours in stark contrast to the falling snow. He follows the direction from which the undead emerged, tense eyes squinting in a glare. He moves with great haste, leathery greaves barely marking the snow underfoot, casting countless glances to his surroundings. A breath arises, quickly joined by another and another, and Garvin loses a prayer to the wind as he pushes himself to the limit.

He ventures as far as his feet take him, studying the foliage and cobblestones alike for anything of note along with potential signs of passing undead - hoping the roaming cadavers left behind entrails and the like in their wake to try and determine the mist's origins, or at the very least a general direction beyond the north.

The undead have left behind signs of their march, increasingly revealed by the ice's melt. Garvin is able to track their march to a well-hidden cave a little north of the city, an abandoned and silent place filled with now rotted body parts. Whatever necromancer used this crude workshop--no doubt the one who showed his face in the city and threw himself recklessly into the crowd--never appears. A few corpses of kittens are piled up in one corner of the cave.

There are, however, a few drawings recognizeable as the face of sweet Faile, and a crumpled up page from a journal. It's unclear whether it's a poem or a love letter. Either way, it's poorly written and not very creative...

Faile, they call you
I have heard your name whispered in the taverns, and stories of your gift of death.
Your locks like Lady Firehair's own, tumbling and catching the light
Your clomping so much like that of my zombified friends
I watch you from afar, through the eyes of my familiar
Will you love me as I love you, when we finally meet in person?
Is your skin as youthful as it seems from afar?
I will have you, my love, and together our hearts will skip as fervently as your feet

Faile Firehair,
Accept these tokens of my love.

[Danuvis]

Garvin grimaces and wrinkles his nose as he enters the concealed cave, searching it thoroughly. Taking along the drawings and the crumpled up page, the woodsman deposits them safely among his own belongings - turning thereafter to set alight any and all corpses along with the workshop itself using the torch he carries. Garvin then leaves with haste and watches the cave from afar, ensuring the fire doesn't somehow spread outside before he sets off.