RP:Old-School Villainy

In the City of War, Mathollak is hawking his imported Ghroundium goods with aggressive salesmanship. He’s approached by Ernest, who has recently settled on Mathollak to be his mark. They negotiate a trade, which ends with Mathollak willingly and unknowingly accepting a curse that saps the life out of him. He goes about his day oblivious to what’s making him so darn tired, until eventually he succumbs and passes out in the snow. He wakes up later tied to some railroad tracks, where Ernest informs him that he’s to be executed under the heavy wheels of his own Organ of Love!

The Market

Mathollak is in the process of some kind of intense negotiation with one of the giant shopkeepers, here in this center of commerce. This one is selling weapons. Big ones! for giants. “No, no look,” says Mathollak, sampling a weapon. “This blue-iron? Its junk. Junk! Watch, I’m gonna throw this axe right into that sign. See where I’m aiming? That sign.” Mathollak lifts the giant’s axe over his head, then throws it. As he predicted, it doesn’t go where he aimed, and sticks heavily into the side of another building. “See? Now if this was Ghroundium…! Tell your smiths,” Mathollak says, wagging a finger at not just Bobson the giant axe maker, but at -all- the vendors. “Tell your vendors, you want ghroundium.” To make his case further, Mathollak throws another axe, this one made of ghroundium. Let’s just say...the poor sign. These aggressive tactics don’t go over well, however, these giants know the quality of their gear. So Mathollak wanders to retrieve his own axe and the giants, in a journey seen by many as a walk of shame.

Ernest had, over the past couple of days, grown more enamored with the idea of owning a massively complicated musical instrument of his own. And while some people might have said "Oh, he should build one then" or "How about you get one commissioned for yourself", the man had "Professional Villainous Consulting" on his business card, and one day while looking in the mirror in his room at the inn, he'd said to himself, "Ernest, just steal the goldurn thing fer yerself." And here he was, in the same town as its owner. He'd done a bit of research--the man was a champion fighter with the title Hero Of Freedom, so a direct confrontation--as gloriously theatrical as it would be--wasn't likely to turn out in his favor. He'd had to come up with a sneakier plan, which in retrospect -also- gave him a perfect marketing opportunity. So here he was in the market, passing by as if coincidentally. A vulture circled overhead, also coincidentally. Pausing by the axes as Mathollak picked them up, he said, "I 'spect it comes down ta th' way yer used ta handlin' things," he said, tipping his hat in greeting. "Ghroundium's real heavy, this blue-iron ain't so much. So y'cain't rely so much on inertia fer throwin'. Gotta take th' wind into account more."

Mathollak was, for the sake of comfort, dressed for the season. The one season, that it ever was. He had thick soled boots and a heavy trench coat. All insulated with animal fur. He nods along with Ernest while he hands the giant his axe back, then slides the handle of his into a loop, where it swings by the head. Mathollak looks Ernest over once or twice, attempting to size up his throwing arm, and maybe the depth of his wallet. For some reason, he doubts he’s a customer of axes. “That’s part of it, but mainly blue iron is just junk.” This was probably not true, but he had cargo to unload, deals to broker. “You in the market, bub? I got a whole warehouse full of ghroundium products. Dirt cheap!” After a moment it sinks in. “Wait! I remember you, don’t I?” He pondered on where it might be from for several quietish seconds. “You played with my organ! What’s up man you wanna get another session in or what?”

Ernest grinned and extended his hand to shake. "That I did! Sometime soon, yes, I'd very much like that. Fer now, though," here he let a note of skepticism slip deliberately into his voice as he lapsed back into business talk, "it ain't that I don't believe you about the blue iron, but... I been usin' runes ta make my own weapons -behave- like ghroundium ones without even needin' ta be anythin' special." In a movement so fast one could blink and they'd miss the part where he actually drew, he pulled his crossbow into his hand and set it spinning on one finger, reversing its spin a couple times before grabbing hold of the pommel and letting him examine the runes on the metal arms. "See? Ordinary spring steel. Makes it easier ta reload. But if I charge th' runes," the weapon lit up with a faint bluish-purple glow as the runes illuminated, and Ernest turned and fired the bolt into and -through- the wood of the fallen sign. When someone took issue with this, he called back, "You were gonna need ta fix it anyhow!" To Mathollak, he said, "You got anythin' in that warehouse that'll beat that performance?"

Mathollak caught Ernest’s hand emphatically and gave it a good jiggling, before putting both hands on his hips while he watches the demonstration. “Yeah, well I’m trying to corner a market here, pal, and not many of us can afford such a fancy little contraption like that one.” Upon seeing the bolt penetrate clean through the thick sturdy wood of the Frostmawian sign, Mathollak can no longer hide that he’s impressed. He tries though, and crosses his arms in front of him and forces himself to scoff. “That thing’s pretty good, I’ll give ya that.” He grumbles and kicks some snow around while he argues internally with himself. “Alright, man, alright! I’ll give you...what, I’ll give you 200 gold pieces for it.” What do undeads need with money anyways.

Ernest spun the weapon again with a flourish and holstered it, shaking his head with a grin. "Oh no. This one's mine. But I'll tell ya what I -can- sell." He looked both ways, conspiratorially, then grinned. "Th' rune formula itself. You wanna make ghroundium behave like -super- ghroundium? Yer tryin' ta corner th' market, ain'tcha? What better way ta do that than with metal that goes -even further beyond-? How much d'you suppose -that's- worth?" He paused briefly, but added as an afterthought, "An' I wasn't born yesterday, friend. 200 gold wouldn't have bought you one piece of my special enchanted ammunition at th' rates I sell for, let -alone- my favorite crossbow itself."

Mathollak couldn’t help but chortle after his aggressive boondoggle was found out. “HAHAha alright man you got me, I was just, I was testin’ ya! I wouldn’t ask you to part with your ‘favorite’ crossbow.” Now the duel of hagglers could truly commence. “Well maybe a little more than 200 gold, but that’s my walkin’ around money! If you want more than that we’ll have to go to my spot.” If Ernest was agreeable, Mathollak would take him South, to the Merchants Guild satellite. He had a storage unit there. Past a heavy deadbolt, behind a hefty door, was his junk. That is to say, the Organ of Love was in there, along with some other stuff. But he doesn’t open it yet, that’d be foolish. “Alright pal here we are. But you know, I wasn’t born yesterday either!” He pops his grhoundium hand axe out of its loop, and flips the handle to Ernest. “Make it into super ghroundium. Show me how it works.”

Ernest was in fact agreeable! Ordinarily, it's not Best Practices to head to a second location but in this particular instance a less visible spot actually worked out perfectly for the mummy's purposes. One super ghroundium axe coming right up. Ernest braced himself for the weight as the axe was offered--he knew he wasn't used to ghroundium items--and one could see the fog that drifted from his longcoat concentrate itself around his arms as he gave himself a brief magical boost to be able to wield the thing properly. "Sure thing, friend." He slowly sat on the ground, crosslegged, and placed the axe onto the ground before him, clearing aside any snow with a pair of Helpin' Hands. Now free to use his magic on things other than his musculature, he snapped his fingers and a pair of ethereal hands emerged from the fog of his hat. Ernest grabbed them and crushed them dramatically between his own hands, then opened them to reveal he'd shrunk the hands down into itty bitty shadow hands. "I'd go ahead and use th' regular-size runes," he explained, "except I'd hate ta vandalize such fine craftsmanship any more'n I have to." As he spoke, the tiny hands set to work, their fingers etching tiny, precise runes along the edges of the material. "This'll make th' axe behave as though it were several times bigger'n it agually is," he explained. "I'm gonna add a command word inta th' recipe so you can turn it on or off, fer when you need ta pick it back up again." What he -didn't- say was that those tiny hands were also adding very cursed runes into the recipe. That trigger word would activate the curse as well as the enchantment--draining the man's strength and energy in order to fuel the magic of the runes. And while speaking the trigger word again would turn off the enchantment, it would -not- shut off the curse. With any luck, the runes would be too small to read, and Mathollak would be none the wiser until it was too late. "Here y'go," he said, when he was finished, once more wreathing his arms in darkness to lift the weapon up to him. "Th' command word is what two people fall into before they get married."

Mathollak took the axe from him and instantly activated the command word. “Love!” Instantly the axe seemed to be much heavier than it was a second ago. “Wow, man, you’re the real deal huh. It really is acting like a bigger axe. I can barely pick it up!” But his word is his bond, at least in some things, so he pops the lock and opens the doors. Inside, the Organ of Love stands pristine among various crates and barrels of foreign commodities. “Hey you play that thing if you want while I give this thing a few throws.” After a few minutes of rummaging, he finds a hefty stump and hangs it on a massive bolt in the wall. It’s already splintered in the middle from past axe tests. “They don’t tell ya this, bub, but it’s much harder moving stuff around the second time.” He throws the axe one time. It barely hangs in the very bottom of the hanging stump. Just the walk over to it seems to take the breath out of him, and he has to pause before wiggling and jiggling, and cranking and finally yanking the axe out. He’s never one to admit defeat though. “Yeah it’s good, it’ll take some getting used to but it's good.” Finally he holsters it, and plops his bottom down onto a crate. “Alright…” he says nearly breathless. “...Wha...what price did we agree?”

Ernest sat down at the organ to watch his handiwork in action, dispelling the hands and letting the axe work its magic. He played a little bit--mostly with a couple of Helpin' Hands instead of his own, preferring to sit in such a way that he could observe the mayhem while the Hands played expectantly, the sort of fanfare one expects during a drumroll. When the axe is thrown, a "ta-da!" cadence comes out, and Ernest stood up and applauded. Grinning brightly, he shrugged. "We hadn't actually gotten that far, friend. But somethin' as reusable as this, ta make -any- weapon you sell as heavy as that organ? It ain't gonna come cheap. How much're you willin' ta offer?" For the moment, he pretended not to notice how winded Mathollak had become, as though the weapon was just so heavy that it had taken that much out of him.

Mathollak sluggishly slides the magic blade of his newish axe under one of the nails keeping his chair-crate closed. The nail budges. He does it again, and this time the nail pops out and it happens like that for a few more nails until he can get his fingers underneath. After a brief rummage, he pulls out a pristine looking bottle of brownish liquid. “This. Is the Summer Duchess. Brewed with…” he yawns warily as he squints his eyes at the foreign calligraphy. “...garlic I think it was? Anyway. Brewed by the best of the Delisha’s clerics. Don’t take less than 3000 gold for it.” He rummages some more, and pulls out a similarly exotic looking brew. “And this! Well this one here is what you get when the kuronii tribespeople collaborated with the dreaming pixies of...some place. Called Fainting Freedom! I understand the Kuronii’s then proceeded to kill the pixies in their sleep so there’s not much of this! It’ll grab ya about 5000. And this one…!” And it went like that until the yield was supposed to garner Ernest around 12,000 gold. “At least! But you’re a haggler you might be able to get more!”

Ernest made a show of considering the offer. Twelve grand in expensive liquor for a rune recipe he'd gotten in trade for one of his curses? What a bargain! But of course he had to appear to be weighing his options. Finally, after a few moments more, he held out his hand to shake. "You know what, for a friend, it's a deal." Another hand snapped its fingers, and one of those shadow hands materialized out of his hat-fog and flew over to where one of the skeletal hands was sitting on the organ. The shadowy one enveloped the skeletal one, and the two acted as one entity from there, floating back over to Ernest's pocket and retrieving a sheet of paper. Then, the hand very carefully wrote out the rune recipe--not the cursed version, Ernest may be a villain, but he was also a Professional--before floating over to Mathollak and, if permitted, tucking the paper into one of his pockets while Ernest collected the haul of expensive drinks. "I'm glad we ran into each other today! Your weapons'll be better'n anyone's, I got paid an' another chance ta play yer organ. We'll have ta do this again soon."

Mathollak spits in his hand and then catches Ernest’s with it. No emphatic jiggling here, its just 5 limp noodles. “Hey, friend, I didn’t catch your name this whole time? Lemme guess, lemme guess. Bruce.” Corrected or not, Mathollak was happy. Of course he lets the recipe slide into his pocket, he could hardly have resisted. “Alright, time to lock up!” Once they’ve both left the storage room, Mathollak snaps the deadbolt closed and drops the key in a pocket. “I’d take those things to Chartsend if I were you, lotta rich folk over there. Collectors. Which unfortunately means they won’t even drink it.” With that, Mathollak clumsily bows, “Arright! I’m off! It was good meeting you, have a nice night.” Lazily, he drags himself to the nearest bar, where he slides into a comfy booth, and imbibes. He tries to schmooze a few giants, chat up a giantess, but it doesn’t go over well, and the booze hits him way harder than he thought. A bell chimes. “...How- how many bongs wassat? How many clangs? Oh that’s too many...I...I gotta get goin’!” He stumbles out of the bar, after nursing one giant-sized pint forever. Then his footsteps return to the merchants’ area, where he finds a few giants selling enormous portions. He aims bits of mammoth cheese and blubber nuggets for his mouth and sometimes succeeds, but there’s a trail of crumbs leading West into the hunting grounds. Ultimately, whoever he was supposed to meet out here will feel stood up, as he lies down, and sleeps, overcome by the curse that he didn’t even know was afflicting him.

Ernest did in fact correct him. "Ernest, actually. Ernest Crane." Once they were outside, he tipped his hat in response to the good trading tip. "Chartsend. Much obliged fer the recommendation. It's been a pleasure, until next time!" With that, he turned and headed in the opposite direction--but not for too long. A bit of aeromancy to wrap himself in still air to hush his footsteps, a bit of cryomancy to prevent the snow from forming footprints, and keeping to the dark sides of buildings so as to use his naturally dark outfit as camouflage, he was able to significantly reduce his presence as he stalked after Mathollak, watching and waiting as the curse took more and more... and then, eventually, it happened. His mark keeled over and slept. Which meant that it was time to get to work…

The Mine

Ernest leaned against the wall in the darkness and waited. In either direction, a pair of long metal rails stretched out along the floor, anchored to the ground with steel spikes and inclined downward towards the south. The air was cold and smelled of damp. And tied tightly to the rails, wrists bound behind his back, ankles together, was the Hero of Freedom. Just for the sake of creating a small amount of light at a spooky angle, Ernest flicked his thumb against the inside of his fingers and conjured a tiny flame. Just for the sake of creating a stronger smell to wake up his kidnapping victim, he lit a cigar, inhaled, and then blew hot smoke over Mathollak's face. There were no Helpin' Hands anywhere to be seen, and the only lighting was the faint orange glow from the embers of the cigar. "Rise an' shine, friend," he said, with a grin. "I ain't got much time left, an' that means neither do you."

Mathollak is snoring soundly, breathing easy, until Ernest changes it. The smoke tickles something in his dry throat and causes him to hack violently. Slowly, slowly, slowly comes to consciousness. His eyelids are heavy, his head feels like a cannonball, and his limbs...they’re completely immobile. What happened last night? Must’ve been wild but he can’t remember it. “Oh not again,” he mumbles. Then he sees the smoldering tip of the cigar. “Asparagus,” he mutters. “Time left-!? Fine, good untie me and I’ll get going. Asparagus!” But the safe word doesn’t work, does it?

Ernest smirked and shook his head, chuckling. "I'm afraid that ain't happenin'. See," he squatted above Mathollak's head and looked down at him, "you have somethin' I want. An' it'd only be a matter of time before y'put th' pieces together'n peg me fer havin' done it. So I'm savin' us both some time here by lettin' you know exactly what's gonna happen here in a minute or so." He gestured up the slope with his cigar hand. "I'm gonna come ridin' down this here rail line on yer Organ of Love. It's a downward slope, so I reckon it'll have picked up considerable speed by th' time it gets here. I 'spect I won't feel much more'n a bump on my end when it rolls right over you like a herd o' mammoths and leaves ya flatter'n a sat-on flapjack." He took another drag from his cigar, for effect. "Ahhh. Brings back memories, this does. I ever tell you what I do fer a livin'?"

Mathollak struggled a bit, but tired out quickly. When he rested his head back down on the hard stone floor of the rail, there were stars in his eyes. But he settled his gaze on Ernest, and with the help of the cigar’s ember, caught a glimpse of the visage. The same from yesterday. “Oh you? Ugh I knew I recognized that ridiculous accent from somewhere…” That’s when Ernest fills him in on exactly what sets the timer, his own magnificent organ. He cranes his neck and looks up the slope toward where Ernest gestures. Was that tiny pinprick of light the entrance into this tunnel? Or just another dizzy-star? “Alright man, look, I told you what you -could- get for those bottles of booze. It’s hardly my fault if you couldn’t wheel and deal you seemed like a haggler to me! But that’s okay! We can renegotiate, no hard feelings. I got you. You got me.” Then he scoffed at Ernest’s question cause of course he knew, “Yeah, man, you magicalize the metal I was right there. What’s that got to do with this?”

Ernest laughed loudly at this and stood, pacing a circle around Mathollak and dousing the cigar so that his voice, echoing as it did up and down the mine, would seem to come from all directions at once. "That, my friend, is a hobby. What I do for a livin' is -scheme-. This world is so full of such grand evils. Caluss. Kahran. Xico-whatever. Th' list goes on an' on, you get th' idea. Everyone wants ta take over th' world. But I've found that it's th' little evils that really get people's attention. In a world that's in danger every other week, ta make people sit up an' take notice, you gotta get... personal." He grinned brightly in the darkness. "An' what could be better'n runnin' someone over with 'is own organ? It's simple, inexpensive, an' deadly. Does give you a bit o' hope, though, don't it? Might escape by th' time th' organ gets here. Yer pretty strong. Maybe th' curse'll wear off an' you'll snap th' ropes like string." A long organ note sounded from up the hill. "Aha, but can you make it in time?!" The rails started to vibrate slightly. Click-clack. Click-clack. "An' is the tunnel big enough ta avoid th' organ even if you do escape?" Click-clack. Click-clack. Ernest flicked his cigar back to life, beaming. "Not bad fer a small-time stiff, eh?"

Mathollak : The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in, just like the wheels of his contraption, that really was beginning reveal itself as a waste of money. “You’re not even alive! Who are you to be talking about…’livin’s’.” Mathollak struggled a bit more, rolling onto his stomach and pushing his face into the ground to attempt to get himself up, but it was no use. The curse still had him. “I don’t even know who those clowns are,” he says as he falls back on his face. “Whatever,” he says as he rolls onto his back again and heroes. “It wasn’t ‘inexpensive’ by the way, it was worth more than you’re little balloon popper there, I’m sure.” Then he laughed menacingly, “And you wanna talk evils...wait til I get out of here! I’ll do some evils, and I’ll make sure to teach that shriveled raisinet you call a body how to feel again...just so I can hurt ya! Ya hear me! You know who I am!? I’m the Axe of Love! The Hero of Freedom, babyyy! Ropes can’t stop me!” He gave one more great burst of effort to break through the ropes just like Ernest said! He twisted and jerked, wrenching his body against the cold steel of the tracks...and! They. Wouldn’t. Give. His mood slung into the pit. “Why me, man, I don’t deserve this! I don’t deserve this! How am I supposed to to get out of these ropes?” He sighs, and seeps into gloom. “Yeah good for you, man, you really, you really proved somethin’ today. Or night. Who cares. At least gimme the rest of your smoke, alright? Gimme somethin’.”

Ernest laughed and clapped when Mathollak heaved himself against the ropes. "That's the spirit! It's always so much more satisfying when they struggle. Live until th' very end, I always say, an' then some." When he collapsed and sighed and asked why, Ernest shrugged. "Y'had somethin' I wanted. It ain't nothin' against yer character, if it means anythin'. Consider this a professional courtesy." He tipped his hat and, offering that last bit of charity, flicked the cigar down--close to Math's face, but not right against him. "Here y'go. One last cigar on yer way out. Now, if you'll 'scuse me, I got an organ t'catch. If you escape, tell 'em I put'cha here. If y'don't... sorry." He cackled and snapped his fingers, summoning a gust of wind below his longcoat that blew him up the rails to the organ, where he sat at the bench and began playing suspenseful music--what better accompaniment for a death trap than suspenseful organ music?!

Mathollak rolls over, flattens his face against the floor, and stretches his lips out so he can snag the butt of the cigar. It probably wasn’t even good, but it would do. “What the piano!? Is that what you wanted?” He chuckles, a sad depressed, ironic chuckle. Of all the reasons... It was surprisingly whimsical. Mathollak, now having the cigar, rolls over. Turning his back to Ernest and curling up as best he can with his wrists behind his back. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell everyone. Even the squirrels of Vhys will be on the lookout, how’s that?” He mumbles some insults to himself about Ernest. Devastating ones, if only he had the energy to spout them. Then Ernest takes his leave with a big gust of wind, that blows Mathollaks hair and coat and tumbles him over. “Oh you f-! It went out!” He spits it out, and it rolls sideways over one of the rails in a delicate balancing act until something bumps it off.

Ernest || Click-clack. Click-clack. The organ's music grew louder, but accompanying it was the rising percussion track of the machine's wheels on the abandoned minecart rails. In the far distance of the shaft, a faint red glow could be seen--the mummy had fixed a lantern to the front of the organ, a pinpoint of light that would grow brighter and brighter as the thundering mass of steel continued to accelerate down the track. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Faster and faster, the haunting organ's echoes growing nearer and nearer, continuing to build tension, like the last few grains running out of an hourglass. What may have once been called an Organ of Love had now been decidedly repurposed for something very much not lovely at all...

Mathollak is rolling away from the noise blindly and hopelessly, with his eyes closed, while also singing along with it. “And I....” Click-clack. “Wanna dance…” Click-clack. “On a candelabra…” Click-clack. Click-clack. “On a candelabra…!” Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. Though he’s belting it with his entire soul, the dolorous baritone is no match for the echoing majesty coming down the slope. Especially when his mouth is muffled by the ground every couple seconds as he spins down the rails aimlessly. That’s when something weird happens. He rolls over something that stings him. “Oh, daddy what was that!” He opens his eyes to two smoldering eyes, glowing brightly in the blackness. “Oh. I mean Mommy?” Could it be the Dark Mother coming to rescue him in his hour of need? Delisha herself? “Haha! Oh.” No it was just the lantern from the chu-chu, and the cigar that he...thought went out. “Wait.” The glowing ember of the cigar illuminated the top of a railroad spike. One that, maybe, (Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.) wasn’t hammered in as firmly, or was perhaps being jostled loose by the heavy pipes coming down the track. “Dammit. DAMMIT.” He had just made it to the acceptance stage! Don’t you DARE tempt him into having hope after he already accepted his demise! He almost doesn’t do anything. He almost continues rolling. “Aw shucks, Babe, this better be you.” He inch-worms over to the slightly un-flush spike, and delicately, so delicately, hovers his face over it. He opens his mouth. He wedges his teeth just under the head. “C’mon babeh.” He jerks his neck and back. “C’mon!” He does it again. “Yes!” He pulls out the spike. If he can just get his hands on it, his hands that are behind his back, maybe he can get this rope undone (Click-clack.Click-clack.Click-clack.Click-clack.Click-clack). It rolls away. “No! You mother…” Where is it. Where!? He finds the cigar, terrifically still burning, brings it to his mouth, and HEAVES with his lungs. The embers light up especially bright and rolling away ever so slowly, is the spike. “haHAaaa!” He scooches his butt over to it and finds it with his stupid fingers, spinning it around and into his bindings. Strand by strand he starts pulling the ropes. Now the Organ of Love is so close he thinks he can see the outline. He takes a deep breath. He’s working. Working. Working. “AHH!” He screams, undoes his the ropes on his hands. Throws the spike. Grabs the cursed axe. SMASHES the ones on his ankles. The walls are too narrow. They’re too effing narrow! He runs across the rail, plants one foot on the wall. Another foot above that one. Brings the other foot parallel, springs his legs tightly, and explodes his thighs against the side of the tunnel, bounding up, up, up…! His back arches madly like a letter ‘c’ amid the ceiling as the pipes pass by him in a blinding speed, and he falls down. Click-clack Click-clack Click-clack Click-clack...Click-clack...Click-clack…….Click-clack.

Ernest managed to catch a glimpse of Mathollak just barely arcing overhead as the organ raced down the tracks, and all he could do was turn around in his seat and offer a proud salute--no words, but a definite "I knew you could do it!" sort of grin--and a few triumphant chords on his way down the line. Was he going to stop? Not at this rate. Maybe take a potshot or two? Nah. The Hero had earned his Freedom, he figured. The organ disappeared into the darkness of the mine, still building speed as it fled towards lower ground.

Mathollak replies to Ernest’s grin with a rapidly shrinking middle finger as he splats ungracefully back onto the rails. He exhales. A massive cloud of smoke fills the tunnel and he just...breathes. He lies on the ground while his heart bounces off the ceiling. After several moments, he rises to his feet and starts heading up, back toward Frostmaw. Then he stops. Is he tired? No. He just changes his mind, and starts walking downhill instead. Toward the music. Toward the abyss. Toward Ernest.