"Brown haired, Grok... the man we are looking for had brown hair." Maurie corrects the half orc kindly, but firmly.
"I would not jump to conclusions about your former assistant. Circumstantial evidence may point to one thing, but let me speak from cases past to assure you that it can be, on occasion, misleading."
The monk smiles grimly, then addresses the half-orc mystic herself.
"As my friend here generally correctly stated, Rodrik was slain last night on account of his poking his nose into things an outside force seemed to take offense at. His partner seemed to think it might have to do with what he was seeking your council about. The fact that you have fled your previously known location for here upon learning of his death inclines me to believe the two are linked, and that you know it. Please, cooperate. We are not trying to form the basis of a lynch mob. We just want answers. For his family and lover's sake."
“If you are thinking I know who was responsible for Rodrik's death, well, I am afraid I don’t, and worse, I didn’t predict the ill fate that befell him. But even if I had, I’ve learned there is little one can do to combat fate. Rodrik had plans to go back to the Plague House, but because of the unease I felt from my visions, I suggested he leave his journal with me, which he did. The night of his death, my visions were even more terrible, though still indecipherable. When news of Rodrik’s death reached me in the morning, I knew it must have been foul play, so I fled the Sanctuary, fearful that whoever targeted Rodrik would come after me as well. His death grieves me to no end, but at least my efforts bought me enough time to share this information with you.”
Reaching beneath the seat with what appears to be painful effort he holds out a leather bound journal.
to my beloved Brinya. The risk is too great, of course—I would hate to implicateher in the dire scheme I’ve only just started to unravel. Not to mention how much I fear her ire over my loss of the hopeknife she gifted me. What a fool I have been these past few weeks.
I still haven’t found the hopeknife, and whoever’s making the replacement at Clamor is certainly taking her time. Katrezra was oddly quiet when I met with him today. When I asked for his thoughts, he told me to leave him be, and to give up my foolish investigation altogether. He was so supportive of my mission until now—what could have changed his heart so?
Katrezra’s visions of the Plague House have been getting more frequent as the days go on. He claims “something wicked lurks beneath the ashes of the past.” I’m fearful of what his strange dreams portend, but I must investigate the Plague House ruins once again. Tonight is Ruby’s hopeknife ceremony; tomorrow I will search the ashes once more. Katrezra has recommended he hold onto my journal for safekeeping, and while I am hesitant to part with my writings for even a moment, I know his logic is sound.
Cromwin pages through the journal, reading the passage, sighing with a grim look on his face. "Well, this is what we were looking for. It stretches coincidence beyond imagining that this wouldn't be what the letter we found was discussing." Cromwin takes out the letter found to Melira and shows it to Katrezra. "Have you ever heard, or seen, anything of someone named Melira?"
Right, brown hair, sorry... Grok looks wistful for a moment, and his eyes unfocus then squint; he's trying to remember something. Then he glances at Cromwin. Indeed, maybe we'll find some answers.
Grok turns to the half orc, looking at him squarely. Thank you very much, Katrezra, this is the most we've learned so far. Grok smiles at the man, maybe now we can find who did this before they want to do it again. No one here needs to get hurt. He turns to the others. Well, I suppose the Plague House is where we should go, but we may as well find Urnsul before we head out.
Grok looks around at the other four of them, scowling slightly. Any idea how we fight a flood troll?
"Graffiti from what I gather having talked with Omast. Not sure the significance, but he seemed under the impression that it doesn't go away when cleaned," Maurie responds to Zove, absently. "Not sure on the house of plagues though." "I would think she would know, given she lives here. Perhaps she stays indoors more than is healthy."
The half orc shrugs looking pained, as the blisters covering his skin shift, "I could not tell you. The symbol of Iomedae is a white sword, but it does not quite fit..."
"Burned churches and trolls. It's like Rodrick was unearthing an old storybook tale."
Why would anyone write down stories? Grok asks, looking at Brin.
"We write down the stories, Grok, so that generations after the original doers and singers of those stories can still read them. Depending on how much embellishment is within the written story, we refer to this as either 'history' or 'fictional literature', and both have their places."
Maurie turns the mystic. "Have your visions shown you anything regarding our investigating this burned out graffiti-covered building?"
Katrezra slumps back into his chair, "Flood trolls are runts cast aside by their Scrag kin, I know it is supposedly better to face them out of water, but I could not tell you why exactly. As for the Plague House and yourselves, I am afraid I have seen nothing, my visions are not so useful as that sadly. Forgive me my condition makes me weary is there anything more you would ask? If not I ask that you do not reveal my location, love Rodrik as I do I would not share his fate."
Cromwin bows his head to the crippled orc. "We won't tell anyone you're here, Katrezra. Thank you very much for your aid. We might not know what is going on yet, but we have a lot more to go on than we did before." Cromwin turns to the rest of the group. "The question then, it seems, is if we investigate the Plague House immediately, or if we return to the Ramblehouse and try to find and question Urnsul. Urnsul could leave Trunau at any time, while we don't know what we might find in the Plague House. I think we should go try to find her first; what do the rest of you think?"
Why not just keep repeating it so that generations after it's still a story and not just writing? Then everyone can enjoy them. Grok's words are clearly noncombative, and he seems just a bit confused.
I agree, stop by to try to find Ursul, then to the plague house.
Brin adjusts the shield on his back and the sword on his hip. He nods t to both Cromwin and Katrezra"That sound reasoning Cromwin. Thank you for the information Katrezra."
Maurie bows to the half-orc. "I will keep your location safe as long as is lawful. Thank you for the assistance, we will attempt to put your friend's spirit to rest by solving both his death and his final mystery." The halfling woman nods assent to Cromwin, exiting the building.
As they walk back to the Ramblehouse yet again, she takes a moment to answer Grok's question.
"Well, there are two reasons really. The first is that oral traditions passed down solely by word of mouth are subject to errors ranging from details being forgotten to embellishments being added. While this is true for written texts as well, in oral tradition this risk occurs each time a new generation is learning the tales, as opposed to only the time that the author is committing them to paper."
"The second is that, as new heroes and histories arise, they gradually eclipse the tales of old. People tend to want to hear more the tales of people closer to their times for whatever reason. So some stories gradually fade from consciousness simply because people have new stories to tell. Which is a shame for the old heroes, would you not agree?"
Katrezra nods, "And oral records are more easily altered, their meaning shifted diluted, or altered. A written document can be altered, but it can also be hidden, or forgotten, to be rediscovered at a later date. Oral histories are like a game of Vudrani whispers, each teller alters the tale to suit their own tastes, or those of their audience, or worst those of a leader. I have see such things amongst the orcs, each new despot diminishes or aggrandizes the heroes before them to suit their lineage, or their fighting style, and what is left after a century is almost worthless - save in the case of the larger myths known across many tribes which enjoy a protection."
He pauses and chuckles, "Forgive me, my ramblings are taking up your time when you have far more important things to be concerned with. I wish you luck."
I don't know, Grok says, looking at Maurie, but if the old heroes are dead, what do they care about the words of the living?
He looks at the half orc before they go, that's odd...why does it matter how real the stories are? We need to go. Thank you again, we may speak with you again, if we have success.
Well, let us head to the Ramblehouse then, look for Urnsul and see if she can tell us anything about the knife.
Grok walks slightly faster than might be a comfortable pace, though if he is forcing himself to go quickly it does not show.
It is fairly difficult to find the sword/cross on Sanctuary, white on white being hard to see, but knowing what to look for Zove manages to find it. Her spell detects no magic from the mark. The only one of the marks that particularly draws the eye was the one on the South Tower, which you can safely assume was put up after Ruby's hopeknife ceremony, all the others could have been around for several days without drawning your attention.
Moving over to The Ramblehouse two young, but adult, male halfling are smoking strange pipes with small spiney fish held in a tiny mess grid suspended over the smoking barrel. Both of them have huge pupils and they seem to be laughing an awful lot.
"Trolls, ruins, and giggling halflings. This is the stuff of stories! And...Maurie, there's nothing wrong with a little embellishment when you're passing on the stories of old. You need to help people relate to those too ancient to relate to. Saving your town from bandits back then probably felt like beating back giants!"
Brins smile grows wide and he casually spins around looking at his surroundings with his arms out wide.
"This, this place. What is has endured! What it will endure! We will never know everything that happened here, but a little embellishment will make sure it's never forgotten."
Brin looks to Grok, standing a bit straighter as he thinks about the fortitude that was need to build such a place. "Oh, and the dead heroes do care Grok, otherwise they wouldn't have died heroes. Keeping their stories around the fire isn't just for us to hear, but those who would do us harm. They need to know heroes have triumphed in the past and the risk meeting new ones if their maliciousness grows strong."
Maurie shrugs at Brin as she looks at the bizarre halflings. "I somehow don't think that is tobacco they are smoking." "I guess it depends on why you are recording the history, or reciting it for that matter. Around a fireside, inspiring locals to defend their walls or donate extra coins, perhaps a bit of embellishment is warranted. For trying to preserve the past so that its mistakes are not repeated, or its triumphs not forgotten, well in that case being as factual as possible is a more noble goal." She tilts her head slightly and smiles. "So it really depends on context and intent, much like the determination of many trials. But I will not bore you with that topic, not when we have a suspect to find."
"A monk not wanting to bore someone with a speech about how to do something properly?"
Brin smirks.
"Do you break all your vows so easily?"
Maurie's face drains of all humor, becoming serene, yet firm.
"You meant no offense, so I will take none. This once. The vows of my order are simply to enact the will of Abadar in whatever land I roam, and to never marry or possess my own lands. That last one can be temporarily exempted on the occasion of inheritance so long as the land is either given to the Order for its use, or disposed of in a timely manner, usually through selling it. While these vows are few on the surface, I take them very seriously and would not break any one of them lightly."
After giving him a moment to absorb this information, and her attitude toward it, she smiles a little bit again. "That being said, if I wanted to really bore you on proper following of the laws I would go into the proper grooming and dressing standards for Taldorian nobility."
Brin looks towards some imaginary point, his eyes glazed over.
"Yes, seems you only needed a reminder..."
He looks down at the halfling woman and gives another big smile.
"A vow well done."
Cromwin rides alongside his companions, patting Anvil on the side of the neck as the friendly banter washes around him. We're going to do this. I'm going to be a guard! And we're going to figure out who did this to poor Rodrick The halflings smoke breaks him out of his thoughts, and Cromwin stiffens as he recognizes the scent. Stickling? My parents always warned me against the stuff. I admit, I kind of wonder...but no. Now is a terrible time for intoxication anyway. At Zove's words, Cromwin focuses, brow furrowing in thought before he speaks. "Actually, I'm kind of actually curious about that Zove. I've never really worshiped the gods much before. Oh, I've given thanks to Erastil for a successful hunt or a fine meal with my family, but I've never really been serious about it. What is so great about Abadar, Maurie? I don't know much about him at all, really, except I think he might have something to do with the bank?"
Grok nods at Brin, biting his lip gently. He glances at the ground, at the others, and then back at Brin. Seems to me a person would die a hero because they have something good to die in front of, not so they can be in a song they never hear. An old tale about a hero being dead ought to make someone more likely to attack, since they know the hero's dead. Though I suppose that's not the point, suppose it's more about...new heroes, in place of the old ones. Grok seems lost in thought for a moment, then looks at Brin intently.
A little later, having been following the conversation, he once again steels himself to speak. How do you know what Abadar's will is?
Maurie smiles at all the questions about her lord from Zove, Cromwin and Grok.
"Abadar, or the Judge of the Gods, Master of the First Vault, or the Gold-Fisted one, is the source of all just laws. He is the greatest proponent of proper civilization among the deities, and is often their arbitrator when two of them are seeking a peaceful resolution to one of their conflicts. Many of the ordained clergy do, indeed, operate their temples as banks in order to better serve the communities they reside in, and as such he has become associated with bankers by many of the common folk. There are other aspects to him, however, that are not so commonly known. He is often revered by the watchmen at the gates and walls of cities, and patrolmen within them, who ask for his aid in enforcing the just laws of their society. Also he has a sizable following among barristers, judges, and legislators who are are interested in seeing that justice be done in their societies. Thus, his will could easily be surmised as threefold: enforce the just, enforceable laws of the society you are within; promote the peaceful relations between societies; and ensure that laws which are frivolous, unenforceable, outdated, or unjust are removed from societies as they reach that point."
Maurie pauses, and thinks for a moment. "That should be a good synopsis of who Abadar is and what it means to follow his will. I would be happy to go into further discussion later on the topic if you are truly interested. As to why I follow him, Zove, that is a long story best saved for another day, but the one sentence synopsis is that I follow because I truly believe that it is by his will that societies as a whole become better for their members. While following one's heart can be good, if everyone did it there would be a lot more murders, thefts, and atrocities, as not everyone has pure intentions within their heart. I believe you do, as evidenced by the fact that you are here with us trying to solve Rodrik's death, despite seeming to hate his family and the guard, but keep in mind that the man who killed him likely was also following his heart's impulses in some way or another. We need the laws of Abadar, in my opinion, to help guide hearts and minds of growing citizens to love and seek the good of society and community."
Grok nods along as Maurie speaks, listening intently. I suppose there are some good things laws do, but they're made by people, and often as not no different from what's in the heart of the maker. Out there Grok gestures up and out, off into the distant landscape of Belkzen, what few laws there are just allow for more murder and theft.
Groks hand stirs from his side for a moment as Zove speaks, the little finger on his right hand reaching at an even crazier angle than normal for his sword. It finds it, and his hand stills. Not only a weird person, he grumbles. Too many do nothing, too many are bad. Stay with friends, Zove, or learn to fight better.
As she steps into the Ramblehouse, past the odd halflings, she bows apologetically to Zove.
"I am sorry to hear that, though I would counsel you that things are often not as they appear on the surface when dealing with humans." Turning back to Brin and Cromwin she hastily adds, "No offense meant, off course. Your race just has a propensity to do things, or not do them, for reasons that are sometimes a bit hard for the other races you share this world with to fathom." Turning back to Zove, Maurie continues on. "And yes, technically you are correct. Perfection has its primary source from the realm of Axis. But it is Abadar that helps mortal societies achieve perfect laws, as are found in his realm, while withholding from them laws that are beyond their abilities to understand or follow. Thus while the laws are from his realm, the gifting of them is from Abadar. Or so our church teaches us, at any rate. That aside, you worked with this Urnsul, yes? Do you see her?"
Cromwin dismounts and tells Anvil to stay some distance from the smoking halflings before following his companions inside. He is quiet, thinking as Zove and Maurie continue to talk. Axis? Perfect laws? What...I don't think I can wrap my head around this. And Zove is from there? No wonder she has such trouble fitting in. She's got a good heart though, I think. People should give her a chance.
Once Cromwin enters the ramblehouse, he scans the room for Cham or any of the halfling staff, looking for someone who might be able to point them to Urnsul or the other half orcs's rooms.
Maurie almost laughs. "Do not worry, Abadar seems to have only graced this town with the smallest portion of his laws, so you are not alone on that score. To be fair, though, this town is effectively a frontier village. The surrounding orc tribes have seen to that." She shakes her head, the pseudo smile replaced by genuine sadness. "On that more serious note, we should find this tatooed woman and get her to provide us answers. Right now she is looking suspicious and I would give her the chance to clear her name... or condemn it."
Entering Cromwin, and any who follow him into The Ramblehouse see Cham in animated conversation with two halfling maids and a young male, the later of whom carries a bucket of soapy water in each hand,
"It won't come off at all Cham, nasty crude big folk graffiti, been scrubbing for near on an hour, its going to need paint if I'm not mistaken,"
"So help me Merryleene Toddweather if you are havin' me on I'll tan your hide... But otherwise it must be magic so I'll call Agrit to come by have a look at it, maybe she can work some charm on it," Cham says, before glancing up and freezing as she spies you advancing.
Maurie nods to Cham, "Sounds like you have troubles outside the house as well as within it, and for that you have my sympathies. Is there anything we can do?"
Maurie continues to scan the room for the tattooed half orc matching Zove's description.
Cromwin walks up the Cham and the other halflings and raises a hand in greeting. "Greetings Cham. We were hoping you could help us find someone. We're looking for a half orc by the name of Urnsul, and we've been told she is probably staying here with some other half orcs that may have arrived recently. She has short hair, and a tattoo on her forehead. Do you know if she is staying here?"
More white sword graffiti? This is so strange. What could they possibly mean?
Well Zove, I've no reason to hate you, and I've a hard time believing everyone here does. But here we are, nobody here you need defend against. Grok surveys the room, noticing the white sword and looking for Urnsul.
He walks up to the sword, peering at it closely. Did you see how it got here? He looks at Cham, and do you mind if I try to scrape it with my sword? If it's not coming off any other way and all, maybe we can try to learn some things about it. Grok looks at the halfling, then at the sword, poking it with his left hand. That Urnsul, by the way, should help us clear up a mystery about Rodrik's death.