You should know what to do here by now.
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It's been over two centuries since the fall of the Hordeline and the start of Trunau's time as an isolated independent settlement in the lands claimed by the orcs of Belkzen. In that time, the townsfolk have tried to make themselves as difficult a target as possible. All who live there know that were the orcs to unite against them they couldn't hope to stand against the numberless hosts of the Hold. Still, they've pledged the Standing Vow, and will hold the town or die trying. The tangible symbol of that vow is the hopeknife, and each Trunauan adult carries one--to kill themselves or other wounded rather than be taken alive by orcs. Receipt of the hopeknife, typically at age 12, is the rite of passage into adulthood, and as a result a great deal of ceremony has grown up around it.
It is the night of a very special hopeknife ceremony: Ruby, the youngest child of Halgra of the Blackened Blades, Trunau's Chief Defender, is to receive hers. As a result, most of the townsfolk (as well as most visitors) are present in the Commons amphitheater for the ceremony. The only townsfolk not there are on watch--even in a time of celebration, the town never lowers its guard.
Svarog was a frequent visitor to the town, and he looked on the hopeknife ceremony with approval. With long, dark hair and icy eyes, he appeared much as one might expect a Kellid - tall, lean and dangerous, clad in furs and chain, with his weapons close at hand despite being in town. The only thing that differentiated him from any number of other savage Kellids was the short beard he sported, greying early and giving him a look of years he had not yet earned. In well-worn, practical gear, he wore no other adornment than a silver ring with a red stone, glinting as he raised his fist in acknowledgement and encouragement for the child who was to become a woman this night.
At barely four feet tall, Haftor Ygrendir is about average height for a dwarf, though his broad shoulders suggest that he works at some kind of physical labor. His hair and beard are light brown, with just the hint of a reddish tinge, and he wears a ceremonial ring to keep his longish beard tidy. Tonight, Haftor wears the ceremonial long apron of a priest of Torag, and his hammer is ready at hand to bestow blessings, though his serious face looks uncomfortable around so many people.
One of the current councilors, Agrit Staginsdar, is a dwarf, although Haftor has heard some odd things about her--she's apparently a wizard. She gives Haftor a respectful nod before the ceremony and asks for his blessing.
Jarrek of Everstand had come to Trunau a few months ago as a caravan guard and apparently adopted the dangerous town as his new home. The half-orc liked to say he was half-Kellid, and from the stories he told about his mother and ancestors it was probably true. He was extremely tall, if still not as tall as Svarog Sky-Tamer, and was a mountain of muscle under the odd stitched-plate leather armor he habitually wore.
He was a garrulous man, popular with the ladies and menfolk alike, with ready tales of faraway lands. According to him, he had been over the Crown of the World, traveled throughout exotic Tian Xia, and spent months in Goka, the Greatest City in the World. Why he would have settled in tiny Trunau was anyone's guess; his answer varied but seemed to be that he wanted the opportunity to to fight against an endless stream of enemies and didn't want to go to the Worldwound and be under the thumb of Iomedae's priests.
As he took a seat, the half-Kellid nodded at Svarog, Haftor, and a few of the other notables he knew better than most.
Haftor nods solemnly, laying his holy symbol on Agrit's shoulder. He intones, "The Hand with the Hammer Shapes the Future."
Easily and commonly mistaken for a small child, Lidda does her best to avoid notice as she makes her way through the crowd looking for a vantage point to watch the ceremony. She wears a plain and worn common dress and simple blouse. A pair of tiny eyes peers out from under her slightly unkempt hair, and she has an odd look about her as she settles in, obviously uncomfortable with anyone looking at her and avoiding eye contact with anyone who does.
The town residents subtly start to move away from her chosen spot, giving her more than ample room, but whether by respect or avoidance is hard to tell.
Svarog nodded back to Jarrek. The dwarves' slow-burning rage against orcs was something he had let teach him, without letting it blind him. Who was to say that a child of a Kellid could not be more than his father's blood would allow? Kellids were a tough people. That was a pride he knew well.
Though the half-orc did chatter on abominably at times.
Svarog remained respectfully quiet as the dwarves spoke, and nodded to himself as the priest blessed Agrit. Though she did not follow the tradition of her people, this was a dangerous time, and it called for new thinking. Svarog approved of new thinking. He was glad that Haftor did, as well. The more new ideas that were accepted, the greater the town's chance of survival, Svarog thought.
When the child approached, Svarog did not move away. Moving away was for weaker people, in his opinion.
Kira adjusts the bodice wrapped tightly around her torso before smoothing her dress out. Her hands moving up to her head and adjusting the headband she uses to keep her dark brown hair back and out of her eyes. Fiddling with the hopeknife she keeps tucked and sheathed under the sleeve on her left arm, Kira nods before yelling loud enough to be heard throughout her home. "Come on Jeska! We're going to be late." Taking a breath before she moves out of her room to collect her little sister and head for the ceremony.
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Letting Jeska move off to be with her friends, Kira saddles up next to the large buffet table, taking one of the wooden plates and beginning to fill it. Pulling samples of several of her favorites before turning to watch the crowd, Kira frowns slightly as she sees little Lidda being avoided as usual. Nodding to herself, Kira starts to move over to Lidda, winding her way through the crowd.
The normally staid town is actually something approaching jubilant this evening. A throng of spectators has amassed at the town Commons; the buzz of the crowd fades as Chief Defender Halgra takes the stage, accompanied by Kurst and Rodrik Grath, prominent members of the town militia and the two eldest sons of Patrol Leader Jagrin Grath. Halgra holds up her hands and begins to speak.
"Thank you all for joining us this night. I take immense pride in my responsibility as Chief Defender, especially when it comes to the honor of the hopeknife ceremony. It is always a great privilege to bequeath Trunauan youths their hopeknives as they come of age." The weathered fighter stops speaking long enough to open an ornamental case and retrieve a slender, ornately decorated dagger hanging from a silver chain. "But tonight is a special occasion, for this hopeknife is for none other than my youngest daughter."
In the pause, a few of the younger townsfolk cheer, and two of them shout in unison, "WE LOVE YOU, RUBY!" The girl standing beside Halgra smiles shyly and waves back in the direction of the shout, then turns more serious as her mother continues.
"Ruby, by the traditions of our town, you have come of age. This hopeknife represents your responsibilities as an adult and defender of Trunau. You must be willing to use it on yourself, your fellow Trunauans, and your family—even me, should it come to that. It will be a far quicker death than that which the orcs will offer, and providing it is your duty. Do you swear to guard Trunau from all comers, and to use your hopeknife only for its intended purpose?" Ruby--dusky-skinned, black-haired, and focused on her mother in a way that makes it clear that she's thought about this already--nods in response to her mother's question.
"If the orcs come, and there is no other option, this is where you cut--here, here, and here." Halgra demonstrates which arteries to sever while Ruby watches intently. When the Chief Defender is finished, she hands Ruby the knife. "Now you do it." Ruby demonstrates the cuts herself. Halgra nods and takes back the knife, sheathes it, then places the chain around Ruby's neck before turning back to address the crowd.
"Tonight, Ruby has become a full member of our community! Let us welcome her, and celebrate her passage into adulthood! TRUNAU FOREVER!" The crowd shouts back Halgra's last words in unison, signaling the end of the ceremony.
With that, the townsfolk waste no time transitioning to the ceremony's more light-hearted festivities, including a number of games in which Ruby is the key player. Those of you who've been in the town for these know that the first game is traditionally a tug-of-war, pitting the hopeknife receiver against Trunau's best defenders. For the past several years, the Grath brothers have served as defenders, along with a few other members of the militia.
When Kurst and Rodrik announce the tug-of-war, Ruby is allowed to choose a number of spectators from the crowd to participate in the game on her side. The young woman looks around, spots Svarog, Haftor, and Jarrek, and points at them. As it happens, Kira and Lidda are standing close to the trio and are caught up in the press as the crowd pushes the three muscular folks forward.
Jarrek claps and laughs at all the appropriate places, but deep down he doesn't agree with this hopeknife nonsense. If there was one thing his mother had drilled into him it was this- never give up, even when you're down and things look bleak. Torture was one thing, but dead was dead. And as long as he was alive, there was always a chance to turn the tables.
He bounces to his feet with a grin on his face when he's picked for the tug-of-war. "Good picks, Ruby! We'll do you proud!"
Ruby and the five of you take one end of a heavy rope, facing the Graths and a quartet of militia members.
Round 2:
Round 3:
Round 4:
Round 5:
Round 6:
Ruby's team gets off to a quick start, pulling the rope before the Graths can get their team set up. The next round, the two teams are more evenly matched, and neither budges. On the next, the militia starts pulling more quickly, but the PCs are able to hold on and even move the rope a bit more their way. The Graths take back the territory on the next round, though. After that it's all Team Ruby; with two hard pulls, the militia is forced to cross the line. The cheering crowd mobs your team. Ruby gives hugs all around--even to Lidda, though there's a bit of hesitancy there--before she's hoisted on the shoulders of a couple of the militia members and paraded around the field. Various other townsfolk offer their congratulations, and at one point all of you notice Halgra giving you a nod.
For once, Svarog smiled briefly in amusement as he was among those picked for the tug-of-war. Though not so hulking a figure as Jarrek, nor so sturdy of foot as Haftor, he had trained long with the dwarves, and knew how best to leverage his strength and plant his feet.
His smile fell away as he took up the rope, nodding seriously to Ruby. As they began to pull, he yelled, "For Ruby's honor! PULL!" A little encouragement never hurt.
Once they had won, Svarog clapped Ruby on the shoulder, giving her a grave nod. "May you win all your battles thus." Then the crowd was on them, and he let them carry Ruby away, while making sure that no one light-fingered was trying to lift anything from him. Well, you could never be sure.
Svarog glanced at Haftor. "You are a priest, I see. What clan do you hail from?"
Jarrek had spent the tug-of-war yelling joking, funny imprecations and curses at the militia while exhorting his teammates to victory and making wildly exaggerated claims about his own prowess. All in fun, and he gladly took as good as he got. When they won, he joined the militiamen in hoisting Ruby up into the air and parading her around the field.
Once that is done, he throws himself into the festivities whole heartedly, doing his best to make friends and influence people.
got better things to do than clean up youngsters’ messes, but even stranger is how long it lasts. Try as one might, soap and water don’t do a thing to those marks! Strange, huh?"
leader, but from what I hear, he’s more concerned with his poems and plays than with militia matters. He’s diligent, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not quite sure either of the Grath boys is ready to lead the town’s defense."
Haftor had been to more Hopeknife festivals than he could remember, and they never failed to put him in an introspective mood. He had served on tug-of-war teams as well, one of the few games he considered worthy of participation. He was bloody difficult to move, and a natural anchor for the team.
When the sport was finished, the barest hint of a smile could be observed peeking out from behind his whiskers. "Well done, all. You should be proud of your efforts this day." He then congratulates the members of the losing team for giving it their best.
In response to Svarog, Haftor replies, pedantically, "I am Haftor Ygrendir, warpriest of Torag, The Father of Creation. My father is Tars Ygrendir, of the Janderhoff Stonefist Clan. I have seen you about town, but you are not a native of Trunau."
You can't be sure if this is an invitation to introduce yourself, or some kind of accusation.
Kn local
"I would see Janderhoff, ere I die," the towering Kellid grunted. Used to the ways of dwarves, he took no offense at Haftor's statement. "But no, I am not from Trunau. I hail from a tribe that wanders the Mindspin, not far from Belkzen. The dwarves of the Hammerclaw Clan taught me some of your ways, and of Torag." He raised his hand to his chest, incidentally showing the ring he wore, marked by the runes that read Dwarf-Friend.
"What brings you to Trunau, Haftor, son of Tars?"
"Hrmm." Haftor grunts noncommittally. "I was born here in Trunau. It is my home, though I also long to visit the homeland of my ancestors. My duties here have not yet allowed such a trip."
Lidda is as surprised as anyone to be caught up in the tug of war team. She certainly hasn't participated in one since her own hopeknife ceremony some 12 years ago - which of course she lost miserably. Her tiny frame looks ridiculous next to the hulking men as she more hangs off the rope than anything. She stands there, stunned in the midst of her jubilant team as they cheer and celebrate their victory.
I...won? I haven't EVER won anything! She's still staring blankly in shock as Ruby hugs her awkwardly, not registering completely what's happening until after she's moved on down the line. "Uh...thank you," she mutters far too late to be heard.
Lidda is aware that in almost all cases where it looks like the hopeknife recipient is about to lose the tug-of-war, the townsfolk come in and help so that the new adult doesn't lose their first contest. The exception, of course, was hers--somehow the signals were crossed, and although the militia team was getting ready to let her team win a couple of her team members tripped *forward* and pulled the rest of the team across the line the wrong way. No one likes to talk about it.
"A warpriest must have many duties in a town like Trunau, Haftor, but if we can kill enough orcs maybe they'll give you a respite that lets you travel. I love traveling, myself. Did I ever tell you about the time snow orcs besieged our caravan as we were crossing the Crown of the World?" Anyone who had spent time in the tavern over the past few months had more than likely heard Jarrek talking about his time as a caravan guard before. Given the number of adventures he'd apparently had, either the man had accompanied the unluckiest caravan ever or he made up stories to fit the circumstances.
Haftor seems a bit uncomfortable talking to a half-orc who is happily anticipating killing orcs. He certainly would not kill another dwarf unless there were very extreme circumstances. Although perhaps he would feel differently if his people were known for brutishness and depravity. In any case, he was relieved when the subject was almost immediately changed.
"I have not heard this tale. Did you protect your charge and acquit yourself honorably?"
Kira returns Ruby's hug with a tight embrace of her own, giving Ruby a smile before she is carried off to the remainder of the nights festivities. Turning to see Lidda standing listlessly, Kira moves closer to the Halfling and reaches down to touch her shoulder, "Hey little one, a bit better than last time eh? My sisters already off with her friends and my brothers on guard duty tonight, so... wanna see what kind of mischief we can get up to?" Her words probably easily heard by those close by, though in the general din of celebration, just as easily lost.
Before you have a chance to go looking for trouble, the Grath brothers materialize out of the crowd. Rodrik gives Lidda a warm smile and offers his hand. "Good job! I hope this helps some of our fellow Trunauans treat you better."
Rodrik looks around at the others, particularly at Kira. "Don't worry--we won't take up much of your time. Haftor, I know you, and I'll admit that as soon as Ruby picked you I knew we'd have our hands full." Kurst interjects, "You, ah, should really think about joining the militia. If your duties allow it, of course."
Rodrik then looks to Jarrek. "Now, I stay at the Ramblehouse myself, and I've heard some of your tales. If you're considering staying--and if a tenth of what you say is true--" He chuckles, the teasing tone of his voice robbing the accusation of any sting. "--we could use someone like you in the militia as well. And Svarog, the amount of time you spend around here I'd happily sign you up as well." Kurst gives Kira a half-smile. "We know better than to ask you. But you, you know, maybe you could train with us a little bit? Just so we're used to working with an alchemist?" Rodrik clears his throat and nudges his brother, who looks a bit abashed and addresses Lidda. "We, we've got plenty of strong men and women, but you're small, smart, and hard to hit--sounds like you could be a good scout. If you want to, of course?"
Lidda's look of bewilderment has been gradually transforming into a smile that she wears awkwardly on her face, not out of any lack of genuineness, but by simple inexperience. "You want me? Are you sure? I mean, yes, I know how to stay hidden well enough, but...really? Me?" For as long as I can remember, the only thing anyone in town has wanted from me was to be somewhere else. And even if this is just another way to get rid of me, at least I might find a way to be useful to someone. She nods gravely. "Very well, I accept. There's not much work to be done on the farm until harvest anyways."
Of course there's always work to be done on the farm, but work to be done and work that they'll let Lidda help with are two entirely different things.
Jarrek had been about to launch into his story when the militia brothers walked up. He just grinned at Rodrik's comment about his stories possibly being made up, hinting that maybe there was some truth there.
The big half-Kellid shrugged in answer to the request to join the militia. "Sure, I'd be happy to help out."
Svarog grunted. "The militia? Are you expecting trouble, to ask for more hands now?"
The two of them laugh, and speak as one. "When don't we expect trouble?" Rodrik glances at his brother, his cry of "Jinx!" coming half a breath ahead of Kurst's*, then punches the (barely) younger man in the shoulder. "No need to make a decision now--it's not as though the orcs are massing at the gates right this minute." Kurst raps the nearby wooden bench with a knuckle, and the pair pause to listen before turning back to the group. Rodrik once again offers handclasps around. "Well, we've kept you long enough. Let's talk again tomorrow, if you're still interested. Not too early, though--I know how these things can go!" With that, the brothers leave you to your own amusements.
An invitation to join the militia. An honor, one supposes, but also a responsibility not to be taken lightly. His basic training was complete, so apart from his daily duties of prayer and building maintenance, he supposed he might have time for militia training. Hrm. Why not? Why not indeed. Of course, no hurry for an answer. Best to sleep on it.
Haftor looks up from his lengthy musing. "Well I..." He looks around for the two brothers. "Hammer and tongs! Where did they scamper off to?" He runs his stubby fingers through his beard and grumbles under his breath. "Bloody humans - no sense of propriety."
Feeling a strange sense of lightness altogether unfamiliar to her, Lidda nods at the much taller dwarf, trying her best to reflect the stoic and serious face he's making. "I know, right?" she manages to say before erupting in giggles and skipping off into the crowd.
Jarrek grinned down at Haftor. "Let's go complain about flighty humans over a tankard!" He nodded at Svarog. "And we can see whether Too-Tall over here can hold his liquor, too!"
The festivities go until quite late, and a fine time is had by all.
The next morning, though, Jarrek and Svarog are wakened from a sound sleep at the Ramblehouse by a halfling's scream. By the time they've roused themselves and stormed out from their rooms, weapons in hand, there are already a couple of militia members talking with the proprietress, Cham Larringfass. Cham is a halfling woman, and she's currently looking extremely distraught. A third militia member has just left the scene at a dead run. The more senior of the remaining pair addresses the crowd that's started to gather. "No immediate danger here. Let us do our job, and you'll find out what happened in due time." It doesn't take a good Sense Motive check to tell that she's just taken a heavy emotional blow.
Regardless of how secretive the militia might have wanted to be, though, word soon gets out: Patrol Captain Rodrik Grath was found dead in his room. Cham discovered his body, his wrists cut and his bloody hopeknife in his limp hand. Even though it seems incredible, the death is being treated as a suicide.
Later that day, the five of you are summoned to meet with Kurst Grath at the Longhouse. The man seems to have aged twenty years since the previous night. He simply looks overwhelmed. "I’m sure you’ve heard by now that my brother was found dead this morning. Right now, the official cause of death is suicide, but I just can’t believe that. There's something wrong about this that I can't quite put my finger on, but it feels like it should be obvious. Something else has to be happening. Unfortunately, Rodrik was the best investigator in Trunau; if he were on the case, solving the mystery of his death wouldn’t take long, but with just me left, we might never know what really happened." He sighs, then looks down at the halfling. "Lidda, this is important. I know what people say about you, but if there's bad luck following you it's the sort that makes people trip, or break things. It doesn't make people kill themselves. This is not your fault.
"Our father is a wreck, and he needs me. So does the patrol. Right now I feel my responsibilities as a brother outweigh my other duties. Still, I can't just let this lie. I'm afraid I've exhausted all my other options--the militia is competent and more at town defense, but we're not that good at detective work. I need your help. Will you investigate my brother's death?"
Lidda's first instinct was to run. The lightness and gaiety of the previous evening suddenly transformed into reflections of her worst and darkest memories. An image of the lifeless body of her brother flashed before her eyes all morning long. The lump that had been steadily growing in her throat threatened to overwhelm her and she was about to break down in sobs when Kurst addressed her. Somehow the words helped. She believed him, at least on some level, and managed to compose herself a bit. Tears still welled in the corner of her eyes and she still didn't trust her voice, so she simply nodded a response.
Haftor frowns and crosses his arms. "If the Patrol Captain took his own life, he will never join Torag in heaven. This is the word of the Father of Creation. I have no skill in investigations; I would better serve as a builder of his tomb, but if you suspect that an injustice was done, I will do what I can to root it out."
The dwarf ruminates for a long moment, then comes up with a burst of inspiration. "Does anyone hate your brother enough to kill him?"
Kira gives Kurst a brief but tight hug, her dress from last night replaced with leather pants and a cotton shirt under a leather vest (her usual attire for doing alchemical work), before moving back to Lidda and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure we should do this Kurst? I will of course help but... Why don't you think Rodrik ki... killed himself?"
Though she tries to hide it, Kira's face is flushed as she works to hold her breathing together.
Haftor frowns and crosses his arms. "If the Patrol Captain took his own life, he will never join Torag in heaven. This is the word of the Father of Creation. I have no skill in investigations; I would better serve as a builder of his tomb, but if you suspect that an injustice was done, I will do what I can to root it out."
Jarrek cleared his throat, giving Kurst a glance. "Maybe we could save the theology for another time, Haftor."
Kira gives Kurst a brief but tight hug, her dress from last night replaced with leather pants and a cotton shirt under a leather vest (her usual attire for doing alchemical work), before moving back to Lidda and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure we should do this Kurst? I will of course help but... Why don't you think Rodrik ki... killed himself?"
Jarrek glanced over at Kira. "I didn't know him, but from what people say about him, this isn't like Rodrik." He looked back at Kurst. "I'll do what I can to help. I can talk to some people. Maybe somebody saw something; maybe they'll be more willing to talk to somebody who isn't a long-time militia member."
Kurst pauses at Haftor's question, considering, before replying. "No one I know of. Our father wasn't happy with him--that's why he was staying at the Ramblehouse--but I couldn't see Father doing that. He found out that Rodrik was engaged to Brinya Kelver, and he couldn't accept that. She's a half-orc, and after Mother was killed by orcs Father couldn't find it in himself to treat anyone with a trace of orc blood well--apologies, Jarrek. Rodrik was so much in love with her he defied Father. They were planning on marrying soon--that's really why I can't see him killing himself when he had so much to live for. You should talk to Brinya, though--she might have a clue."
Jarrek nods. "No offense taken. It won't be the first time I've heard of someone not liking half-orcs. Nor the last, I reckon. In any case, I think we can start with talking to Brinya. And looking at where it happened, I think." He looks around at the others to see if they have any other suggestions. "To see if we can find any clues?" The big half-orc clearly doesn't have any more idea of how to conduct an investigation than Haftor.
"There are a couple of other people you should talk to. Cham Larringfass found him, and his usual patrol partner is Omast Frum. He's an old friend of ours." Kurst half-smiles, remembering. "Sometimes Roddie would call him 'Uncle Oma.' Used to drive him up the wall."
Jarrek is easily able to find out where Omast Frum is, if/when you want to talk to him.
Lidda thinks for a moment, forehead furrowed tightly, in a bit of a frown. "Where is Rodrick's...is he still in the room where it happened? I'd like to see for myself."