Empirical Gnollage: Installment 63 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment063.png]

The ghostly elven soldiers were gone as well as they ran back up the hallway to the entrance. Wikwocket and Gruntle were convinced to don their own packs, and the whole group went quickly back to the temple library to stuff their packs with scrolls. There were a few sounds of stone cracking from somewhere as they worked, but there were thankfully no collapses. Haunch the donkey brayed nervously at them as they piled their packs on the cart and began working to move the rubble out of the way of the doors so they could get them pulled open. A few more sounds of breaking stone were heard coming from somewhere further into the tomb, but they safely got the doors pulled open and led Haunch back outside with the cart after a brief look to make sure there were no lurking goblins visible. There were not, though there were small shoe-prints leading to and then away from the door. The midday sun had somewhat diminished the fog, and much of the crumbling tomb building was visible now.

"How about we take a break to watch it collapse. I don't know about you but I could use some time to try to relax and meditate on some things. That'll give me a chance to check this sword for magical influences, and then we should also figure out who's going to carry it."

"Why don't you carry it? Swords are very heroic! Especially when they already have a name! What does Purgatio mean, anyway?" Wikwocket suggested.

"No idea. I really don't have any experience with swords. That's not something they teach wizards, and the army just gave me a mace."

"Well, I already have BiteySue, so I don't need a gigantic sword like that one."

"How about you, Bote? I'm sure you're strong enough to make use of it."

"I also have no experience with the sword. I am content with the traditional arms of my culture."

Al gave Gruntle a look. He was certainly strong enough, and the sword should be large enough to be useful for him.

"Gruntle, did Grakthor teach you how to use a sword?"

"Grunt."

"Well, then, how about you give it a try?"

Al held the sheathe of the sword and lifted the hilt up for Gruntle, who reached to draw it. The sword was only out an inch or so when the gnoll let go of it quickly and rubbed his hand on the fur of his chest as if to wipe away something unpleasant.

"Don't want it," Gruntle announced. "Feels bad."

"Guess it's time for you to learn to be a sword hero, Al!" Wikwocket insisted.

Al had to admit to himself that the idea had some appeal. Wizards don't normally invest the time to learn the subtle arts of proper swordplay. But, then again, being such a popular form of weaponry, it did seem like a skill that would be practical to develop. He drew Purgatio from its sheathe and looked it over.

Purgatio was as long as Al's legs were. Its blade narrowed slightly to about half its length, then widened slightly again, the whole thing was smooth aside, naturally, from the edges and tip of the sword. The hilt had a gently-curving crossguard and the pommel smoothly blended into the handgrip, which was wrapped in a silvery wire to make it easier to hold onto. There was no embellishment, no embedded jewels, no sigils or imagery engraved, just a long, dangerous piece of sharp, smooth, mirror-bright metal. Al remembered hearing of folklore that said elves didn't sharpen their swords, they just polished them with silk for a few years until they got it down to an edge. Al assumed this was probably a joke, or at least an exaggeration, but it described Purgatio's appearance perfectly.

It wasn't that Al had never held a sword before, but he certainly had no real practice fighting with one. He'd seen people training with them before, though, so he tried a few swings. Although he didn't feel like he knew what he was doing, it didn't feel like it would be all that difficult to learn. Maybe he had a natural talent for swordplay that he'd never been aware of before. He spent a few minutes slashing and thrusting, and tested the difference between swinging it one-handed or two-handed. Then, he sat down on the cart and took his wizardry notes back out again, and once more went through the meditative ritual of sensitizing himself to magical influences.

He could no longer see the faint hint of divine influence around the tomb, though he wasn't sure if this had anything to do with the souls of Aemilia and Darius leaving the mortal world, or just because the adventurers had moved further away from it to avoid being hit by any falling stones as it imminently collapsed. Purgatio seemed to stand out in Al's vision more than anything else, in that unnaturally real way that Wikwocket's new dagger did, perhaps even more so. It also glowed with a bright silvery-white radiance of divine influence. Well, that might explain why Gruntle didn't like touching it, Al considered. Should be handy for keeping demons away, if I can learn to use it properly.

"When you have finished admiring your new gift, there is a message for you," Bote called out to Al.

"What? From who?"

"From yourself."

Al turned his gaze to the enigmatic dwarf. "Is this another weird riddle? Because I'm somewhat mentally worn down after our exciting day so far."

Bote shook their head. "No riddle. You explicitly asked me to remind you that you were concerned for the state of your soul and wished that I would examine you."

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There was a momentary sound of bubbling from somewhere along the left side of the tomb, and the sound of a few stones falling into wet mud. The party watched in anticipation, but nothing further happened. Al returned his attention to Bote.

"Well, I guess now is probably just as good as any other time. Is there anything I should do?"

"No," Bote answered, walking nearer to stand next to the cart by Al, "though it may help if you relax and allow your thoughts to wander as they will."

Bote made a short prayer to Indicina for insight, blinked, smiled knowingly, then leaned forward to look directly into Al's eyes for a long moment. When Bote didn't say anything for a while, Al began to worry. Bote finally turned to give Gruntle a long look as well, and then Wikwocket.

"I do not believe anyone here is under any sort of control or substantial influence of demons," Bote finally announced confidently, to Al's relief. Al relaxed and shooed away a fly that buzzed by his face, and turned once more to look at the tomb which still stubbornly stood. Bote walked past him to give Haunch a reassuring pat on his neck.

"Do not worry, you are safe with us," they told the donkey gently, then waved away another fly that was buzzing past.

"Why is this taking so long?" Al asked in annoyance, as he swatted at yet another fly. "This doesn't seem very imminently to me."

"And where are all these flies coming from?" Wikwocket added, shooing away a few of her own.

"How long is the life of an elf?" Bote asked.

"They can live for thousands of years sometimes, can't they? Oh... Yeah. I guess for an elf, imminent might mean sometime this year. And now I don't want to wait anymore because these flies are beginning to get really annoying. Everybody okay with just getting away from here now?"

"Yes!" Wikwocket said, heading for the cart.

"I do not believe there is any reason to delay," agreed Bote.

Gruntle grunted, momentarily startling away a small portion of the flies crawling on him. They were particularly thick around his legs and hips, still caked with fine swamp-mud, giant-bug ichor, and his own drying blood.

"Gruntle, you're filthy!" Al exclaimed.

"Hides scent. Good for hunting," Gruntle insisted.

"What are you hunting, flies?"

"Nah."

So much for sarcasm.

"Well, maybe that'll help if you scout back up the way we came and see if there are any more of those accursed goblins waiting for us to come back."

That got some enthusiasm from the gnoll, who lurched quietly forward in a cloud of agitated flies to stalk back up the overgrown trail. A smell like a slaughterhouse buried to fester in a swamp rolled over Al as Gruntle passed.

"We'll catch up to you," Al said, frantically waving away the annoying swarm of insects. A few of them lingered to bother the three human-ish members of the party, so clearly none of them were particularly clean after this experience, either.

"All right then, any ideas where to go next, and more importantly, what we should do about the...uh...uncleanliness of some of us?"

He looked over Wikwocket and Bote, then looked down at himself.

"...all of us, but some more than others," he corrected. Although he and Bote were less obviously dirty than Wikwocket, who herself was much less dirty than Gruntle, none of them were really in a state that was suitable for being around civilized people.

"We could return, temporarily, to Turnipseed and ask for some assistance in cleaning up," Bote suggested with some hesitance.

"I don't know," Al considered, "I still think there's something wrong with that place, and from what we saw I'm not sure bathing is something they even do. I can't help feeling like us returning and asking for help to get clean would end up with half the village dancing naked around us and dousing us with earthshine, and possibly lighting us on fire at the end to purify us."

"Oh, that's good! You're getting better at this, Al!" Wikwocket nodded, approving of his speculation.

"I doubt anything so drastic would occur, and I am certain the people of Turnipseed appreciate the work we've done for them today, but I find I feel a similar reluctance. Perhaps we are being subtly encouraged to move along and leave the village to itself."

"Didn't we see a sign for some kind of bath on the way in?" Wikwocket remembered.

"Hell's Bathtub? I heard someone say something about that place once during a dinner party. It's some sort of expensive luxury spa, way out past the southernmost cities. Now that you mention it, though, that would put it potentially somewhere around here. It sounded like the sort of place that nobles and wealthy merchants go to for their health, or just to hobnob with other wealthy people in comfort away from riffraff."

"Oh, hey, we're riffraff! We could annoy the nobility just by being there!" Wikwocket enthused. "That settles it, we'll go there and get cleaned up in luxurious comfort!"

"There are at least two problems with that. For one thing, it'll probably be expensive. For another...," Al pointed up the overgrown road. Gruntle was no longer in sight, but the intention was obvious. "It's one thing to visit somewhere that Gruntle is already known, or small isolated villages, but I'm a bit concerned about what's going to happen if we try to bring a live gnoll into a more civilized sort of place."

Wikwocket was positively giddy about this. "Yes! Uppity nobles might literally explode with outrage, splattering indignity messily all over everything! Come on, let's get going!" She leapt up onto the front of the cart. "Onward, heroic equine! To cleanliness and shenanigans!"

"There's another problem," Al added as he walked ahead to lead Haunch. "I get the impression that Gruntle likes that he stinks right now. We might be able to force him to clean up, but I don't feel like that's a good idea. Any suggestions on how we might convince him to do it willingly?"

"Luxury would include food and drink, one would presume?" Bote offered, as the group began moving up the road.

It was clear to Al that Wikwocket would not be dissuaded now. "Oh, yes! And lying around being lazy and pampered in warm water! Eating and drinking and being lazy are some of his favorite things! I'm sure spoiled nobles and rich people have exotic wine and peeled grapes and weird meat delivered to their baths all the time. Problem solved!" she explained.

"We could probably find a way around the village and make it over to the road that goes back to Henhaven without going through Turnipseed," Al tried suggesting.

"Nope! They're nice folks but there's only one noble we might meet there, and I don't want to because he's fake and smug and no fun. Forget it! We're going to soak in Hell's Bathtub!"

As they approached the intersection where they'd left the road to approach the tomb that morning, the buzzing cloud of flies gave away where Gruntle was examining the ground among the bushes on the other side.

"See anything?" Al called out.

"Small shoes, same as by the doors. Not long ago, going that way," Gruntle said, pointing further directly away from the tomb through the foliage.

"That's kind of the same direction as Henhaven and Wulfcynn Keep. If those are goblins, they might be headed to wherever the ones from yesterday were going. Maybe we should follow...," Al argued. Wikwocket huffed at him.

"Okay, okay. Let's go, Gruntle, we're heading for the baths."

"Why?"

"Wikwocket can explain," Al said, maliciously delegating.

"Gladly!"

Gruntle's ears twitched, and he looked back towards the village. Al heard a faint voice shouting from far away.

"...y'all done it!...plantin' sweet-taters!"

A figure, tiny in the distance, walked behind an ox, plowing the formerly swampy ground.

"That was fast," Al remarked.

"Long-awaited, I expect," Bote suggested.

"I'm glad we've done a good deed that we could get paid for. Now let's get going before they invite us to a dinner of lips and tails or something."

They waved to the happy farmer and turned down the road away from Turnipseed and marched off.

Wikwocket exploded with rage several minutes later with a passion that made Al wonder if Bote had missed some demonic possession.

"Curse it!!! Curse it all! Curse it and drag it all to the rankest, foulest, filthiest pit of pandaemonium and leave it there! AAAARRRRGH!"

"What? What's wrong?!"

Wikwocket drew her new dagger and waved it angrily at Al.

"I didn't get to stab even one ghost!"