Chapter 28: Mysterious Casket and Man

“What was that about?” Priscilla wondered.

She thought it was strange how their supposed celebration resulted into the way it did. Morr’s expression advised her to heed his words, but another side suggested an unnerving feeling. She recalled this feeling was very similar to the time Morr left for Mileth Crypt’s 5th floor.

Pontiff reached into the drawer of the desk and pulled out the dagger Morr gave him. The jarring change in the atmosphere led him to believe that something was wrong, especially with their topic about the Scar of Sgrios. Pontiff recalled that this dagger wasn’t on Morr when they hunted, nor was it dropped at any time during their hunt. Perhaps this dagger is some clue to understanding his situation.

Priscilla noticed the dagger, but something of more concerned had taken hold of her attention. The mood had soured and the thought of a celebration was no longer a want. The lingering bags of potatoes and drinks remained unattended and waiting to be consumed.

“I’m not exactly sure.” Pontiff answered. “But he acted weird when we talked about Sgrios.”

Priscilla pondered for a bit longer, focusing her attention on their quest and the eventual topic of Sgrios. She thought back to their times in Mileth Crypt and the highlights of their party. Despite the dangers lurking within the crypt, the three of them continued until their bags were full. However, the attitude now reeked of worry and cautiousness. Something strange must’ve happened between the moments they split to cause him to be on edge.

All the thoughts culminated into a sudden eureka.

“Wait…” Priscilla looked at Pontiff with eyes wide opened. Another thought emerged into her mind, but this time it oozed of something she never would have expected. Her clenched fist had nails that dug deeper and deeper to restrain her rush of emotions.

As Pontiff was processing to a conclusion, he caught eyes of a troubled girl. Just the size of her increasing presence had him to be ever so concern. A courageous ‘Something wrong?’ from Pontiff was met by an overwhelming murderous intent in her eyes. The air in the room became saturated with her excessive presence and made it hard to breathe.

Priscilla took a step towards Pontiff. He gulped and took a step back. The sudden tension had him nervous. With his back flat against the wall the situation became uncomfortable and unpredictable, prompting him to reach into his pocket. After a few steps, her attention took a change of direction toward the dagger and she held it naturally as if she was its owner.

“He knows the location of our target.” Priscilla grit her teeth. “And he’s going to claim all 100,000 gold coins for himself!”

The situation became clearer, and only then did Pontiff relaxed his grip with a heavy sigh of relief.

***

Morr wandered the streets with the dark sky above him, aimlessly. The Scar of Sgrios, according to Pontiff, is a curse that will ultimately reduce the unfortunate one into a pile of bones. The claim didn’t sound credible, but the backing of his recent experience was enough to warrant vigilance. The description of the target that Priscilla and Pontiff were looking for matched the mysterious figure at the depths of Mileth Crypt. The symbol of Sgrios… The bones that pinned him down… the Scar of Sgrios… they all reminded him of that overwhelming person. Connecting one dot to another concluded that person to be the Priestess of Sgrios his friends were searching for.

On the recollection of that person, he remembered a graving issue: the healing of his arm. The sudden thought spurred his eyes away from the road and onto his grasped arm. He flipped his arm front and back, trying all angles to see if there was any noticeable, telling mark. There was none.

There may not be a physical mark from the Priestess of Sgrios, but he was certain that there had to be one in some shape or form. Because after the healing of his arm, the very last thing his consciousness held was the demand by the Priestess of Sgrios.

“Complete this request.” Morr muttered the words he last remembered. “If not, you will serve us one way or another.”

The issue of time became apparent. Not knowing how long he has to complete her demand, or how long until his body turns to bones became a troublesome factor. The idea of a cure sparked for a tiny second before running out of fuel. Finding whether the cure exist, the process of the cure, and the implementation of the cure sounded too time consuming. Dr. Mav, the various adventurers, or the city guards may have more information that could help him to a better decision, but they all require time as well.

Everything consumed on time, and naturally her demand came to mind once again. It was an exceeding demand that would make anyone flinch, but it was also the option that he thought would consume the least amount of time. Without an unknown timeframe, he progressively leaned towards that option.

Morr stared at his hand. It was the fastest option available and it could be done before the break of dawn, if successful.

The road he wandered on led to the tavern he once visited. It was night, and there were bound to be loose-headed Aislings with a slip of tongue. Gathering information may not seem reliable here, but it was one of many places he wanted to visit. The many adventurers drinking here are bound to have some relevant information in his task, he thought.

Drunkards, awake and asleep, formed a squiggly, disconjuncted path to the tavern’s door. The harsh yelling, cheering, and snoring was an attractive sight for patrons who wanted to let loose. Nearing the door drew sounds of glass clanging, tables slamming, and violent instigations. And sure enough, the sounds led to an impressionable view once the doors have opened.

A party of light-armored men, scantily-clad women barely covered in fashionable armor, and broken tables and chairs energetically clashed on the left side of the tavern. With how high their lungs were working, one didn’t need to intentionally eavesdrop on their conversation; their loud voices dominated the room.

Morr occupied a vacant seat by the bar counter, next to a middle-sized person with an enormous casket strapped to his back.

A completely red-face drunkard pumped his muscles before striking a valiant pose. “General Taki was so cool at the battle of Shinewood Forest. Striking this pose as he claimed the last head of the enemy’s army -- TOO COOL!”

“That was nutin’!” An unsteady, pink-face woman slammed the table. “The way General Badol gracefully strategized around linchpin points was what really attracted everyone’s attention!”

The ongoing praises and one-ups turned into a heated discussion of who stood out more in recent battles. The discussion of the ongoing war was completely oblivious to Morr. With his mind set on completing the task, he had no time to entertain other people’s opinions. The waitress approached Morr and asked him for any drinks. Not receiving an ounce of acknowledgement begged her to cracking a smile and asking once more, forcefully.

Finally turning to the waitress, Morr shook his head.

“I’m not here for drinks,” he said, “but I need information about Mileth. Do you have time?”

The waitress examined the room for guests that needs attending to and denied him. She walked off with her notebook in hand and greeted the next customer.

“Are you a tourist?” The man next to Morr spoke. “I don’t hear many Aislings asking about Mileth; all these people care about is hunting monsters, the ongoing war, and that criminal runnin’ around. I grew up here, and I still haven’t had enough to drink. Ask away.”

The rowdy background noise made it hard to hear the man’s calm and sober voice. Morr looked at an azure alcoholic drink in the man’s hand that lead up to his mouth. There were odd cracks in his facial skin that made Morr stared longer than he felt comfortable. The man wore standard silver armor found at any armory store and had a natural brown hair, but one look at his skin instilled a feeling that he was anything but natural.

The once rowdy crowd settled down upon catching a glimpse of the man’s voice. They diverted their eyes elsewhere, but the increasing silence had their ears on the man’s words. Morr looked around at the sudden change of atmosphere before being cut off by the man’s question.

“So, what do you want to know?” The casket-man asked, swirling the alcoholic drink with his fingertip.

“…Right.” The sudden feeling of everyone in the room eavesdropping had him in hesitation. “Mileth Crypt… what is it?”

“New to adventuring?” The casket-man rhetorically asked. “Mileth was called the Town of Beginning at one point, and the dangerous crypt became a major tourist attraction. Many renowned Aislings had their start here, especially in Mileth Crypt. So word passed around and all adventure-seeking enthusiasts moved here in the hopes of following their paths.”

Before the man goes on a spiel about Mileth’s entire history, Morr thanked him for the answer and quickly brought up another question.

“Is Mileth Crypt owned by anyone?” Morr inquired. “Does anyone… like… control it?”

The eavesdropper muffled their gossips, talking about how dumb that question was. Mileth Crypt -- of course Mileth owns it. However, the man turned an eye and inspected the inquisitive young man. What he was referring to wasn’t the legality of the land.

The casket man sipped his drink once more and answered, “Mileth owns it. It’s in the name.”

Having everyone with prying ears focused on their conversation was jarring, to say the least. However, the man seemed to be enjoying his drink, and he was kind enough to answer his question. Morr endured the annoyance and followed up with another question.

“And who runs Mileth?” Morr asked.

The man downed his drink and raised a finger to the bartender. The bartender nodded and brought another drink to the man. The man raised his hand to thank the bartender, and focused back onto Morr.

“That would be the Burgess.” The casket-man mouthed common knowledge.

The gossips from the spectators grew to an insulting level. They attacked his dreadfully boring questions and mocked his obliviousness. Not understanding their reasons for the insults, he became agitated. Their ears felled more onto the casket-person than him, but this was a conversation between the two of them. Their blatant eavesdrop tempted him to swat them away like pesky flies. However, bottling his emotions, Morr proceeded with another question.

“Do they have a name?” Morr asked with a hint of urgency. “Where can I find them?”

“You’re awfully attracted to the Burgess.” The casket-man commented. “The title gets passed around every now and then; I don’t know who the current one is. But all Burgesses inherit the big house in the law district. Don’t think for a second that you can meet the Burgess, though. The recent criminal has everyone on high alert, even more so for an important figure.”

“The Priestess of Sgrios?” Morr pondered. Time is of the essence, but the man had answer all of his questions so far. Sufficient information had been gathered for his task, but on the off chance that this man is a well of knowledge, Morr didn’t want to let the opportunity slip. “Um… would you happen to know anything about the Scar of Sgrios?”

The spectators felt their heart struck with a bad omen. They all looked at the young man, inquisitively and hesitantly. Some summoned their courage to continue their eavesdropping. Others began leaving the tavern with their heads down, hoping to wash away bad luck with avoidance. The workers of the tavern grew hesitant as well. Unsure of the direction of their conversation, the workers grew wary but remained still.

The casket-man ears’ twitched upon hearing the Scar of Sgrios. He studied the young man’s face, and examined the grasped arm. For the young man to ask so innocently, without a heart tainted by the fear imposed by tradition, made him believe that Morr is not aware of Mileth’s customs. For someone so ignorant of Mileth’s customs to ask about the Scar of Sgrios piqued his interest.

“I only know a few things more than your average Aisling, thanks to experience.” Aware of the spectators and workers’ feelings, the casket-man felt the sudden change of atmosphere in the tavern. “There are limits to what you should ask. And there are limits to what I should answer.”

“Ask once more and I shall answer one last time.” The casket-man downed his drink and awaited Morr’s question.

“Then…” The pressure of everyone’s ear grew stronger with the last question available. Morr gulped and opened his mouth, firm and strong. “How do you get rid of it…? Is there a cure for the Scar of Sgrios?”

To ask about general knowledge about the Scar of Sgrios was one thing. To ask, specifically, for a cure rubbed everyone’s curiosity. Even the casket-man couldn’t hide his gaze at the young man. To search for a cure entailed someone he knows is suffering from an ailment. To search for a way to rid of a curse means that this young man had encountered an unfortunate event. Morr’s attire didn’t represent that of a priest, or someone who works to aid other’s suffering… then…

“The Scar of Sgrios is a curse.” The casket-man answered. “It is a curse; a whisper from death. The Scar of Sgrios is a curse wickedly whisper by a witch, and the only known cure to it is by the respective witch. Or… I only heard about this, but another way is to… kill them.”

Morr gratefully thanked the plastic skin casket-man, and exited the tavern in a hurry. His target became firm and clear, and he knows what to do. All that’s left is to see his plan through.

“One good deed a day. One bad deed to tip it off.” The casket-man departed from the tavern shortly afterwards.