Ive been looking foward to this!
To Whom it May Concern,
It falls upon me to inform you that my father, your friend in life, Professor Petros Lorrimor of Lepidstadt University, has died. By the time this letter reaches you he will have been dead for two days. The funeral is set to take place in two weeks and I would like to extend an invitation to you.
I say invitation, but in reality it is more that I implore you attend. My father's will was left with explicit instructions that it was not to be read unless several select people were present. Your name was among them.
Also enclosed in this envelope is a small pin, as you have no doubt noticed. Keep it on hand and it will prove your identity at the reading of his will.
I pray that I shall see you soon and that you are safe until that time comes.
Sincerely,
Kendra Lorrimor
Two weeks ago, each of you received a letter from one Kendra Lorrimor. It arrived by way of a raven colored inky black with white eyes, that dissipates into white mist shortly after delivery. Enclosed with each letter was a small pin in the shape of a golden scarab.
You now each stand at the front entrance to what appears to be a graveyard. A mahogany coffin lies on the ground nearby. A handful of other people stand around the coffin in various stages of grief: an old man with aquiline features and graying hair, a somewhat rotund middle-aged man accompanied by a young boy that shared his look, a balding middle aged man, and middle aged woman with curly blonde hair. The last one, a young woman in a maroon dress with brown hair pulled back in a bun, has a small smile on what would otherwise be considered a somber face.
She speaks in a voice that is tinged with sadness, but her voice does not tremble. "I'm glad to see that you all made it safely. Welcome to Ravengro. While I know each of your names I'm afraid I can't put those names to the faces. Might I ask you to introduce yourselves?"
"You might as well ask, I am Radag Irefist. My condolences at this difficult time." Radag looks to the others that have joined here today.
A bearded man with a shock of messy black hair that is slowly turning grey, and bright blue eyes is next to introduce himself. "Name's Dmitri, love. Dmitri Zorya. The Professor was a good man, I'm sorry he had t' go," he states, his voice soft and respectful. "If theres anythin' I can do, just say so."
I saw my home with new eyes, and I marveled at how far it had fallen. It was not simply that the eyes with which I now viewed it performed perfectly, whereas my old eyes had over the years dimmed until it seemed everything faded into a fog save in bright light.
I think it was that I saw it unencumbered by the weight of two lives of memories. Oh, as I saw things the memories surfaced, but I was exhausted from my days of hard travelling and I would look at something for moments before those memories finally surfaced.
I saw the ruin it had become. My servants had all been pensioned off as my last day had come; what point in retraining new ones when soon I would be gone? Even my faithful manservant Jorumel had been given a handsome cottage... somewhere. I wasn't sure if the memory refused to surface or if I had deliberately avoided knowing.
There was nothing for me here. Nothing but the hope that with me gone no-one had come in to find my final post. That that damnable story was still sitting in the scroll case addressed to Professor Lorrimor. That I had not made an enemy of the man I most respected because of my weakness.
I crept into that house, past the empty bookshelves. Past the paraphernalia of a life deliberately wasted. Into the study that was the true heart of the home. There, square on my desk was a simple letter. A few words. A few words that, together, spelled my doom.
Sir,
I took the liberty of returning for one last farewell, and to ensure all was clean. I found you departed, so have arranged for a fresh block of ice and the cleaning lady to come next week.
Also, I saw that your mailbox was full, so have dropped them off with your courier.
I do hope you know that I am ever,
your faithful servant
Jorumel
My heart dropped into my stomach. I sat down, staring out at the window. I do not know how long I sat there when I saw the raven at the window.
Little caring for my wards I opened it and received a letter that proves Fate - or Fortune, for Fate cannot love me - had not finished with me.
Petros Lorrimor was dead. I felt guilt at how this terrible news restored my hope as I worked out the timing. For if Petros Lorrimor had been dead for two days there was a very good chance he had never received my parcel.
Still; two weeks? From my country estate, here, to Ravengro? With all my resources spent? And two weeks was ignoring however long the spell had left the bird trapped at my windowsill.
There was no time to lose: to Caliphas, to arrange for clothing sufficient to allow my new body to don the Bookman Guise, and then on to Ravengro with all haste.
"I am Aduard Bookman, my dear." this last from a dour, aristocratic looking man with a face that suggests mid thirties and eyes that suggest a hundred.
"I had hoped to be here early enough to assist you with the arrangements, but I am afraid my carriage came off the mountains on the way and I have only just now arrived."
He gestures dismissively at four disheveled and uniformed people standing haphazardly in the background
"These are my staff. Please consider them - and me - at your disposal in this dark time."
Daylight wreaths the blue tresses of the woman's hair; shivering in the morning chill, she draws her cloak tighter around herself. Originally a bright colour, the cloak has faded with the years and is now a nondescript shade of grey; only when the sun's light catches it at the right angle, can the tattered few gold threads remaining just be seen - the insignia of the Dawnflower. The sun's light doesn't catch her much, these days.
Ustalav. She swore never to return here, but she couldn't ignore the letter. A shrug; what's another oath here or there? Too many broken promises, too many hasty retreats, too many funerals... Too many goodbyes. She walked out on her latest bedmate when the letter arrived, ignoring the pleas for an explanation, embarrassed that the sender had known where she was staying. She can't even remember the red-head's name, now.
She takes a slug of whisky from the flask at her belt, against the cold, and against her own thoughts. One hand toys absently with the scarab brooch as she listens to Kendra's introduction. "I'm Dashil. Dashil Masozi. I have to ask - did he really never describe me?" It was the first thing on her mind, but she suddenly remembers that it isn't about her. "Sorry. About your loss, I mean. Keep finding it hard to believe he's really gone. Same thing for you, I'd imagine. Really sorry."
"Can you blame her, Dashil? How was she to know 'cold skinned floozy' was more than just a figurative." Radag's red eye twitches as he cracks a crude smirk.
Dashil carefully conceals her smile behind another sip of whisky: jousting with Radag is one of her favourite pastimes, but pretending to take offence is half the fun: "And you, Radag would be 'the only half elf in existence, ever, who smells worse than an orc.' Remember the time we ran from that gelatinous cube? You thought it was soap..."
Aware that this isn't the best behaviour for a funeral, she nods to Kendra. "It's OK; we know each other, unfortunately... "
Brogol shifts uncomfortably at Lady Lorrimor's request to introduce himself. A large green hand, one much bigger than the slight frame under his worn purple cloak would suggest, makes its way up to his cowl and pulls the cloak's hood tight over his face, trying to hide the red eyes that peer out with intense observation.
Some of the people gathered at Lorrimor's casket are unimpressive, Brogol observes - wealthy for sure, but the type that would have been an easy mark in Brogol's life p.d. - pre-doctor. The Lady Lorrimor has a fine bearing, rigid and proper, much like Brogol's doctor, but she exudes a kindness that the doctor certainly lacks, and that her father had in spades. Others are impressive, in their distinct ways - a hard and loud man, one obviously not to anger. A young man with the tired eyes of the old. A striking woman, as strange-looking as Brogol perhaps, in her own manner, and one obviously haunted. And a man respectful to the lady, who has a fist that belies his kind demeanor, if the glint of chain links under his jacket is any indication.
Brogol finds himself surprised to realize that he had moved while the others talked, unconsciously, and now stands by the bedraggled servants of the one called Bookman. Nervously, he pulls his hood tighter as the Lady Lorrimor's gaze falls upon him. The young half-human opens his mouth to speak, and thinks about what he should say. Thank you, Lady Lorrimor, for your letter, and I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I haven't seen much kindness in my life, but your father was one I was proud to call a friend - a true friend. He spent many hours at my master's manse, happily schooling me in the ways of world - its geography, places, people, flora and fauna, great and small. The imagination he sparked in me kept me warm on bitter winter nights, and provided more hope than the first spring flower. I am truly better for knowing the Professor, as I am sure is everyone here.
His voice comes out low, almost a growl, cracking with nervous energy at the end of what he speaks; two short, guttural words: "Brogol Stockl."
The timbre of Brogol's voice conveys a great deal to Dashil's experienced ear; cutting short her bickering with Radag, she looks intently at the youth. She sees his uneasy posture; she sees the way his cloak and hood are used as a shield against prying eyes; she sees his discomfort at being in public. She knows what it feels like, to be out of place, to be different...
Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop. Dashil looks up at where the sun would be, if this weren't Ustalav with its thrice-damned weather. Could you be any LESS subtle? she asks her goddess accusingly. It's so obvious what she's supposed to do, she's minded to refuse out of sheer indignation.
The b+#!& of it is though that she's been there. She remembers what it's like. She sighs. Being good has a nasty way of creeping up on you.
Wandering over to the young half-orc, she introduces herself: "Hey, kid - Brogol, is it? I'm Dashil. That's Radag; don't worry, his bark's worse than his bite - and his stench is worse than either. Stay upwind of him and you'll be fine. Don't know any of the others."
Taking a lock of her blue hair between her fingers, she examines it thoughtfully. "Annoying, isn't it? My experience, if you thump people for staring, they tend not to do it again - but everyone else does it more. So, you either pick a fight with the whole world, or you just get on with life. Your call, kid."
As Dashil makes the joke about Radag, she hears a deep snicker emanate from the cowl, and she can see Brogol's eyebrows pulled up in look of amusement and surprise. His hand extends from the cloak and two fingers gingerly grab hold of Dashil's blue lock, twisting it ever so lightly. It feels like anyone's hair, but- "Yer hair, its striking - like the sky on the rarest, cloudless day!" The words come out quick, and Brogol is immediately ashamed - ashamed of his forward manner, of his awkward compliment.
Brogol's hand retreats into the young man's cloak as if slapped, and then emerges again and hesitantly, is held to shake, trembling a little. "I'm sorry. Ms. Masozi. I wish ta' fight no one. I want to get on wit' me life. Yer wise..."
Stupid, silly boy! Just tie your tongue in knots and be done with it!
You two are quite the couple. Brogol, watch out for her death wish, it might just save your arse one day, and don't make the mistake of saving her's. She'll never let you live it down.
Radag turns to the mahogany coffin, You've made quite the unusual group of friends, Petros.
Dmitri watches the others interact out of the corner of his eye, while he finishes saying a short prayer for the Professor. A small frown forms on his face as he sees them joking and introducing themselves to one another. 'This is a funeral for Cayden's sake...' he thinks to himself, but he remains quiet.
a very unusual group Aduard's thoughts echo Radag's words with a cynical slant as the others banter and bicker.
Boldly he steps forward a little and tries to present a dignified front.
"I think that's all of us. Might I ask you to introduce the people with you? I take it you are Kendra?"
The young woman's face quirks into something like a half-smile. "Yes, I am Kendra Lorrimor. My father certainly had a way with finding personalities. I am so glad you all could make it on such short notice. He would be pleased that you were here to see him off to Pharasma's Boneyard."
She gestures to the mahogany casket. "Please, Father Grimburrow is waiting for us at the burial site. Would any of you be willing to serve as a pallbearer? The walk is not far."
Radag gives a hefty pat squarely on Dmitri's back before readying to lift the casket, Come on, give me a hand with this, Silver Fox.
"I would be honoured"
The aristocratic man takes up a position by the casket, though his frail appearance makes it doubtful how much concrete assistance he will provide.
Dashil blinks in surprise at the half-orc. "Not bad, ki- Brogol. Poetic, even. Wasted on me, I'm afraid, but you'll do fine." Dashil hasn't had much poetry, lately, beyond the eloquence of her whisky flask. She stares at Brogol thoughtfully, making a mental note to find out more about him. "And it's Dashil. My last name is... not used much." Is dishonoured; is stricken from the rolls; is expunged from the archives; is blotted from the escutcheon. Take your pick.
Strolling over to the coffin, she nods. "I'd be honoured to do this." Her usual slightly mocking bitterness has gone completely; she actually sounds.... sincere. For the moment.
As I stood by the coffin, the final resting place of a man I had honestly called 'friend', I found myself reflecting on the strangeness of my situation.
Once I would have raised Petros myself if I could find no other to do so. But if had he not died I would have had to kill him. He was too good a man to ever let a thing like me live if he knew.
I wonder, if I had had to fight Petros, would I have been able to bring myself to actually kill him? But that is a fantasy. Would I kill him? I've killed friends before when my life was on the line.
Hey, Noodles! You take a place in the middle here. Your honored scrawny arms are liable to snap in the wind, so... Radag points at Aduard to clearly state who Noodles is, and then points to Aduard's place at the coffin to finish the sentence.
There are many rules with orcs, but most of them boil down to this: "Do not look weak".
I knew the physical strength of this new body was inferior; honestly this had never been a consideration. I had people and magic for transporting things. I decided to establish my sovereignty through the use of my intellect and experience. I thought on Pallbearing and waited for the memories to come.
Nothing.
Oh, memories flooded me. Burning bodies, raising them, animating them, disecting them. I worked as an embalmer for a while. I'd stolen more than I can count. But never pallbearer.
In all my time. Even in the books from the lost memories. No-one had ever asked me to be a pallbearer. This, this was new. I had no idea of how to be a pallbearer.
A pallbearer is a friend you want to involve in your final farewell to the world. Not a servant. Not a master. Not even a peer. But a friend.
I claimed to have had friends. I had acquaintances, certainly. I had been asked to participate in ceremonies before. - but always with a hint of reciprocity. A way to get me to do something for them. By the time they needed a pallbearer, they didn't need me anymore (though I had officiated at more than a few rebirth ceremonies). Asking someone to be a pallbearer had no hint of reciprocity. There was nothing I could do for Petros Lorrimor. He was dead. He was going to stay dead. And he had asked me to carry him into Pharasma's care solely because he liked me.
I realised then that if I had simply turned up on his doorstep, confessed everything and trusted him, he would have been there for me on that final day. And, just perhaps, he would not be dead.
"Noodles" blinks in surprise at Radag's rough words. Then he freezes for a few seconds, then blinks again.
Then he collapses.
He falls to his knees on the ground, one arm pressed into the ground and another resting gently on the coffin. All trace of his straitlaced demeanour have fled. His face looks older, and his eyes younger as he speaks slowly and softly in Hallit.
"Ó Petros . Ó vina mín . Ég ætti að hafa komið . Ég ætti að hafa komið ."
Oh Petros. Oh my friend. I should have come. I should have come.
As Dashil opens her mouth, Brogol flinches, expecting to be mocked. When the mocking doesn't come, when Dashil actually seems to appreciate Brogol's clumsy attempt at flattery, the young man is rendered speechless. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, before nodding his head in appreciation.
When Kendra requests pallbearers, Brogol freezes in place, an internal battle raging. No. no. nononono. I will not walk in front of all these people, to be stared at! But, the Professor wished it, for some gods damned reason. It would be a dishonor to his memory to refuse.
Sighing, the half-human gathers his cloak around himself, ducks his head, and stooped over starts moving towards the coffin, hoping to grab a spot in the middle where he will be mostly hidden from curious eyes. Skirting around Auard as the man collapses and starts babbling in some language, Brogol thinks, Good. Everyone's eyes will be on the Bookman.
Dashil glares at Radag as Bookman collapses. "What did you do to him?" she demands, gesturing at Aduard.
Crouching down beside him, she tries to think of something to say - something helpful to say, rather. "You don't have to do this; if it's too much, I'm sure Miss Kendra would appreciate an escort."
Dmitri steps up to the casket, at one of the handles. "I'm glad to be here when you lay to rest, Professor," he says to the box, his eyes misting a little.
As Bookman collapses next to the casket, he gasps as he is pulled from his thoughts. "You alright, mate?" he asks, concern clear on his face.
"Oh no. I am going to do this." Bookman swears, takes a deep breath and obviously pulls himelf together by force of will. His mein returns to its former straitlaced state as he starts apologising
"Miss Lorrimor, I am very sorry for my behaviour. I have had a very stressful time recently, what with the accident and everything. I am afraid the depths of my emotions rather caught me by surprise."
"Thank you for your concern Mr Zorya, Ms Dashil. I can assure you Mr Irefist simply brought home that the Professor is, in fact, gone."
He pauses for a second
"I do appreciate your concern. If you could help me up I will alleviate mr Irefist's concern and stand opposite Mr Stockl"
Radag reaches across and offers one of his large callused hands for Aduard to pull himself up, while responding to Dashil, "Noodles is alright, he's just shaken up.
Looking back to Audard, Come on you straw man, it doesn't get easier, things just change with time. Radag's crude smile has gone, and his tone carries with it the wisdom of experience.
Here is the music for the scene. Cliché, I know, but appropriate.
Once the gathered mourners were organized, they entered through the wrought iron-gates to bury Professor Petros Lorrimor, careful to make the traditional spiral motion over their heart as they passed through.
Thanks to the influence of the Pharasman church in Ravengro, the cemetery, known colloquially as the Restlands, were large and well-tended. Dominated by a central hill crested with the quaint crypts of Ravengro's elite, the procession headed along a path known as the Dreamwake. A cold autumn wind blew, carrying the scent of rain.
Ladylove, who is that behind there? Radag asks Kendra trying to keep his discovery a secret from the filthy ragged man.
In spite of Radag's efforts, let's face it, there is nothing subtle about Radag's query.
Not all things change with time Aduard thinks, but accepts the proferred hand and takes his place.
Aduard makes a half-hearted attempt at the spiral mark as he walks through the doors, half-stumbling under the coffin's weight.
I've no desire to attract Pharasma's attention
He turns his head sharply at Radag's words, but sees no-one.
Kendra glances towards where Radag was looking and frowns. "I'm sorry?" she asks.
Dashil follows the same custom of the others, making a spiral motion over her heart, her thoughts elsewhere. One day, she too will face Pharasma's reckoning; how will she account for herself? She shivers. Her life, when examined, doesn't stand up to much scrutiny.
Even as her mind wanders, her senses stay sharp, alert; she's brought back by the sight of a strange man in rags, obviously trying to stay out of sight. Her eyes narrow, but there's nothing she can do right now.
She whispers to Radag "We can track him later - his footprints should be easy to read in this wet ground."
In the meantime she does her best to discern what she can from the man's body language; is he hostile? Frightened? She's become good at reading people; too often her life has depended on it.
Should I ever again have need to work as a servant or laborer, I know now what agent I will engage: "Hasp's Recruitment", may Hasp himself be captured by Kytons.
I arrived in Caliphas with very little but the coin in my new pocket. I needed new servants, quickly, who were prepared to accompany me on a long visit. I had no letters of recommendation, no title, no existing servants and (I see now) an air of desperation.
The first two agencies I visited informed me they could have one or maybe two staff immediately, but I would need to wait a week for a full staff. Obviously I couldn't turn up as Bookman without a retinue, so I pressed on.
Hasp's Recruitment seemed like a godssend. Hasp didn't mind it had just passed sunset and was happy to deal with me, despite how suspicious I looked. I see now that it was the combination of the scent of my desperation and the jingle of the coins in my pocket that made him so happy.
I have paid a truly outlandish sum for five servants. Who pays a years wages in advance? Still, I was comforted that I would now look my part. A Valet, a Cook, a Maid, a Secretary and a Driver. Everything a man of means would possess. I left the Secretary to handle letters in my absence and departed for Ravengro the next evening.
The depths to which I had been swindled were not made apparent to me until the borders of Virlych.
I had charted a route designed to save time while only incurring a fractional risk. I had told my Driver to make best time, and if I wondered at the speed with which he took the narrow mountain road, I assumed he was simply trying to impress his new master. I see now that it was inexperience or incompetence leading to an inability to judge a safe speed.
One of the horses fell off, and there was a sickening moment as the other horse pawed desperately at the crumbling road; but the momentum of the carriage dragged all of us off the road.
It is not the first time I have been in a plummeting carriage, and we were fortunate enough that the fall was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. I managed to remember enough to cast a spell that saved myself and my servants. I very nearly left Drey to die, but I saw at the last minute that Mister Boots had attached himself firmly to Drey's back.
While we landed safely, the carriage was a wreck. We salvaged what we could and set off by foot. Needless to say my servants were difficult to manage; Ms Corrinson the maid in particular had a tendency to burst into tears for no good reason, and the helpful Drey mentioned he thought we were going to have to spend the night in the Virlych borders. It was during this that I discovered that dour Mr Corrinson was, perhaps, the only good luck I had had. Solid and stolid he carried more than any two of the others uncomplainingly.
Thus, after days of walking along roads we should have been travelling in style we finally came to Ravengro.
Brogol ducks pulls his hood well over his head and watches the man's actions, not totally convinced the man is not just crazed and homeless.
Dmitri mirrors the Pharasman rite as he enters the graveyard with the Professor's coffin. As he notices the man out of the corner of his eye, he grits his teeth. The priest of the Lucky Drunk does not take action, however, because his current task was both sacred and one of honor.
I forget my elven senses sometimes. Are there an excessive number of dirty old men in rags in Ravengro? By excessive I mean any amount at all. Specifically ones that may be interested in you or your father?
Kendra thinks for a moment as the procession begins to turn onto the Eversleep, the path where Professor Lorrimor's gravesite lies. "A dirty old man in rags? It could be crazy old Antrellus. He's mostly harmless, just rambles on about things and places that don't exist. I don't kno-"
Her voice trails off as you turn onto the Eversleep. A group of surly-looking locals armed with a mix of hammers, hoes, sickles, and other farming implements block the path. One man steps out in front, a wirey old man that carries himself like an ex-soldier. He doesn't appear to be armed. He calls out to the funeral procession.
Here's the music for the scene.
"That’s far enough. We been talking, and we don’t want Lorrimor buried in the Restlands. You can take him upriver and bury him there if you want, but he ain’t goin’ in the ground here!”
Kendra is swift to respond, her sadness swiftly transforming into anger. “What are you talking about, Gibs?” she cries out. “I've arranged it with Father Grimburrow. He’s waiting for us! The grave’s already been...”
“You don’t get it, woman." Gibs responds, crudely. "We won’t have a necromancer buried in the same place as our kin. I suggest you move out while you still can. Folks are pretty upset about this right now.”
“Necromancy!? Are you really that ignorant?”
At that, a few of the thugs begin to advance menacingly towards the procession.
"You stupid PEASANTS! " Dashil is. Her hair and cloak take on a life of their own, crackling with energy; suddenly she is no longer simply a hard-drinking, hard-bitten 'floozy' but a being with an otherworldly nature; and that nature is pure, intolerant. Bad enough that such cretins thought badly of HER when she served; but to abuse the Professor like this? Unforgivable.
Without breaking step or letting go of the coffin, she draws out her holy symbol of Sarenrae. "Do you really think that a servant of the Dawnflower would consort with necromancers? Get out of my way or I'll execute every last one of you mother-loving horse-sons for obstructing me!" She's not kidding. She despises stupidity and ignorance.
Dmitri flinches at Dashil's vehemence. He's no less displeased than she is, however, and stands to his full height, eyes trained on the gathered crowd. "We've permission t' bury the Professor here. He was a good man, an' not a one of you folk could possibly believe that necromancy business." There is a glint in his blue eyes, something cold and unforgiving.
Brogol scowls as the villagers announce their intentions, not aware that he's speaking his thoughts aloud, low and growling. "Stupid, intolerant rubes... if I knew the professor, he was no necromancer."
Staying in the middle of the pallbearers, the half-human's hand strays to the falchion strapped to his side, hidden under Brogol's voluminous purple cloak...
Radag's red eye twitches as he adjusts his grip on the mahogany casket.
Obviously they want trouble, if Dashil doesn't scare them away, I'll show them I bury whom I like wherever I like, starting with them.
Radag readies to yank a damn weapon away (disarm) from the first local yocal that comes at him.
You sure you know how to use those? Careful not to hurt yourself with them.
The advancing men stop in their tracks from Dashil's fury. Some of them flinch as if they've been struck.
"We-we-we we're sorry, miss! Of course the professor can be buried here!" The crowd of angry men begins to disperse, except for their leader, Gibs. He stands aside and lets the procession pass, glaring at all involved. "This'll be the death of this town. You just wait an'see."
Ravengro’s overall trust in the PCs is expressed by a numerical value—a Trust score. This score is shared by the entire party — acts of individual members can affect this total just as surely as acts the entire group takes part in. When the adventure begins, the PCs have a Trust score of 20. They can raise their Trust score by doing good deeds, respecting the townsfolk, or completing quests.
There are three obvious ways you can lose trust:
1. Horrific Influence: The longer malefic presences eat away at the order of Ravengro, its citizens become more and more suspicious of outsiders. Every day spent in Ravengro until the end of the adventure erodes a point of trust.
2. Obvious Crime: While rumors and whispers of PCs committing crimes are not enough to lower their Trust score (their delight at the opportunity to spread such rumors somewhat offsets this for the locals), every time a PC openly commits a crime in town, the group loses 3 points of Trust. If the crime is particularly violent, the point loss is doubled.
3. Townsfolk Deaths: Each time a Ravengro citizen dies, the PCs lose 1 Trust point. If the PCs are obviously and directly responsible for the death, they lose 6 Trust points.
If there are any other questions on the Trust score, please ask in the Discussion Thread! I'll be keeping track of the Trust score under the Campaign Info tab.
Once past the angry crowd, it takes only a few short minutes before you arrive at the plot Kendra purchased for her father. Father Grimburrow, black robes flapping in the wind, and a pair of gravediggers stand waiting. "What was all that commotion about, child?" the priest asked.
"Gibs Hephenus and some other farmhands of low character accused my father of necromancy and tried to take his body." Kendra explains, exhaustedly. "Thankfully they were put in their place by my fine friends."
"Necromancy! Pah! What in the devil has gotten into people these days? I'll be having a word with Sheriff Caeller. We can't have the people acting like a group of mad Kells at a funeral."
Luckily, there are no more complications with the funeral and as gravediggers begin to lower Professor Lorrimor's coffin into the earth, Father Grimburrow recites a sermon:
"Here and now, dear friends, we are Pharasma’s children.
What we shall be has not been revealed,
But we know when she appears we shall be judged by her, for she shall see us as we are.
Those who are not pure, know that all whom live and have lived must face her judgment.
Pharasma said, "I am the Resurrection and I am the Life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. I am death, and behold I am alive forever more, and I hold the keys of birth and death. Because I live, you shall also live."
Let us pray.
O' Pharasma, who gave us birth, you are ever more ready to hear than we are to pray.
You know our needs before we ask, and our ignorance in asking. Give to us now your grace, that as we shrink before the mystery of death, we may see the light of eternity.
Speak to us once more your solemn message of life and death.
Help us to live as those who are prepared to die.
And when our days are accomplished, enable us to die as those who go forth to live, so that living or dying, our life may be in you, and that nothing in life or in death be able to separate us from the destiny we all must face. Amen."
When he is finished, Kendra steps forward to say a few words about her father. Fighting back tears, she recounts a few of his more courageous and selfless moments. When she is finished, she addresses the gathered mourners: "I want to thank you all for coming again. My father truly would have appreciated it. Would any of you like to share some stories or remembrances?
...so I was getting frustrated, and asked, "Ok, so what's in grizzly bear scat that isn't in black bear scat?"
Petros hands me my pack and replies, "Bear bells." Radag surrenders a small. But appropiate laugh at the conclusion of his story. Petros, you'll be missed. Thank you.