Sins of the Father
Game Master Witch's Knight

The cold is bad, but you've dealt with worse. The walls of your tent only offer token protection against the wind, and every blast soaks some of the warmth away.

As you pull your blankets tighter about you, you hear something. Metal on stone, followed by the sounds of men grunting, ropes creaking.

Someone is scaling the rise to your home.

You pull your winter blanket close around you as you walk, the makeshift cloak keeping your shoulders warm but leaving your legs relatively bare to the icy wind. You broke camp at dawn, making your way all the way from the Ashen Moors since then, and your body aches with cold. Lamashan was the first of the truly cold months, but you hadn't expected quite this much cold quite this early. You're grateful for the extra pelts you've managed to acquire on your last trip to the Tors, and hopefully you'll be able to trade for some new, and warmer, clothes.

As you enter Sandpoint, you can tell that something is amiss. Despite the cold, there should be children playing or doing chores, but there are none. In fact, you don't see anyone out and about. Something is definitely wrong.

The Sandpoint Garrison is less than a quarter-mile from where you entered town, and if Sheriff Hemlock is there he might be able to tell you why the town is so still. The Vinder House isn't much further, though in a different part of town. What do you do?

As soon as each man climbs to his feet, he draws a wooden cudgel from his belt and readies a wooden shield on his arm. Hemlock wears his shield, but he carries no cudgel. Instead, he wears a sword belted at his hip. A full dozen men in all climb atop your little outcropping and surround your tent, clubs and shields at the ready. Sheriff Hemlock stands in front of the main flap. He raises his hand as if to knock, hesitates, then draws his sword and raps the flat of the blade against his shield three times.

"Myth'rawn! This is Belor Hemlock, Sheriff of Sandpoint. Step out of your tent, slowly, and speak with me!"

Make a Local Lore check

"Last chance, Ser Elf. Give yourself up now, or suffer the consequences."

Roll initiative.
Hemlock initiative 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (7) + 5 = 12

When you near Main Street, you can see a large group of people milling about outside the Garrison. As you walk closer, a young girl sees you and tugs at the skirts of a nearby woman, presumably her mother. The woman looks around, sees you, and puts a hand to her mouth. More people begin to notice you, and the rumble of the crowd dulls to a murmur.

Lyssia passive Perception 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (19) + 11 = 30

Most of them are indistinct, but you can hear one old woman's voice clearly.

"Poor child. Who'll be the one to tell her?"

You approach the Garrison only to find it completely empty. No guards, no Sheriff, no weapons in the weapon racks.

Make a Local Lore check and an Intelligence check

If Myth'rawn doesn't like Belor's answer, he will throw the alchemists fire at his tent, intending to blow the whole thing down with three fire's and a smoke screen, and jump off the cliff into the sea. So he is slowly stepping backwards away from the approaching Hemlock. If he's alright with the answer, he'll come quietly.

"There a reason why you brought an army to my home, Hemlock? Need me to bury a really fat person?"

Hemlock glowers at you. "Do not mock me, Myth'rawn. There are people dead, and the town's eyes are on you. As are mine. My men followed me because they do not wish you to escape."

He studies you for a moment, taking note of your unarmed state. He glances back at his men. Then he grunts, slides his sword back into its scabbard, and draws a set of manacles from his belt instead.

"Let me put this to you plainly," he says, more quietly than before. "If you come with me now, you will be placed into custody. You will be questioned. And you will be safely behind bars, where I will personally protect you from the frightened and angry folk of Sandpoint. If you try to run . . ."

He shrugs.

"You will be hunted down, and I can do nothing to guarantee your safety. What say you?"

Currently, Hemlock is less than 30 feet away from you, and you are roughly 10 feet from the edge of the cliff. Also, you never said what you were wearing, so I'm just kind of assuming that you're standing there in your underwear.

Suit yourself." Myth'rawn lowers his arms, and strides past the sheriff. "Let me get my things."

"What's happened? Where is the Guard?"

"They . . . They've gone to catch the murderer. The mad elf what lives on Skinsaw Isle.

He gestures to the northwest, towards the outcropping of rock where Jervis Stoot's hut used to stand, then ducks his head, looking at his shoes.

"I'm sorry for your loss, miss. Nobody deserves to go like that."

Tentatively, she traced through her thoughts. My loss? Normally, she could fight down her fear and panic, but Akos could feel it this time, betraying her feeling with nervous shifts and twitches.

"Who was the victim?" She asked the man.

"It . . . It was Miss Vinder. Kat. Her and Ben. We found 'em at the sawmill this morning. I dunno what he did to Ben, but she--"

He swallows again, then leans in close and whispers,

"He did her like the Skinsaw Man."

With that, he turns and practically runs away into the crowd, calling apologies over his shoulder as he goes.

I'll allow your Local Lore check to count for this, as well. The Skinsaw Man had a very specific calling card. Firstly, he only targeted women. They were all raped and found naked. He didn't always use the same method for killing his victims, though the most common was to cut their throat. Then, he would hang them up, pounding nails through their shoulders into a wall if he could, using rope if he needed to. His final act, and the one that earned him his title, was to remove the victim's face with a razor.

"To make sure you don't try to bring anything dangerous."

He stoops, grabs the other alchemical items off his bedding, and puts them in his backpack. Standing, he speaks to the closest watchman. "Be a dear, and strike this tent. Bring it with you."

He strides to the Sherriff, and opens the backpack, showing all the alchemical tools and impliments inside. "Here." he hands Hemlock the bag. "I'm not leaving this lying about."

The guard you spoke to is a thin man, nearly as tall as you, with pale shoulder-length hair pulled into a tail. He snarls at your back,

"I'll burn your tent with you in it if I get the chance, you--"

"Avery!"

Hemlock cuts the guard off, giving him a stern look.

"You were allowed to accompany this apprehension on the condition that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting the Sandpoint watch. The suspect has turned himself into our custody, and you will hold your tongue until he is proven guilty."

Grapple check 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

As you start to walk by, Hemlock seizes you, dragging you close and whispering harshly in your ear.

"Do not ever presume to give an order to one of my men. It is my duty to conduct you safely to the Garrison, and I will do my utmost to ensure the fairness of your situation, but I will not tolerate your flippancy."

He lets you go and orders three of his men down the ladder to wait for you.

As you approach, you can see men climbing down from the outcropping, and you can just make out Sheriff Hemlock at the top, holding the shirtless elf by the arm.

"Is that him?" she called to Hemlock when he was within earshot.

You turn to see a short human woman with long, dark hair approaching. She wears traveling clothes and carries an almost comically large longbow on her back.

Hemlock hesitates, then nods cautiously.

"Lyssia. I see you've already heard the news."

He gestures to you.

"This man is currently our primary suspect, but he is innocent until proven guilty. He will be detained at the Garrison while we conduct our investigation."

"Lyssia. I see you've already heard the news."

He gestures to the elf.

"This man is currently our primary suspect, but he is innocent until proven guilty. He will be detained at the Garrison while we conduct our investigation."p