Welcome to Trunau, a town in the Hold of Belkzen, one of only a few human settlements in the otherwise orc-dominated land. It is not large, but it is well defended, and its inhabitants are made of grit and determination.
Jubilation fills the evening air in the normally staid town of Trunau, for it is the twelfth birthday of the Chief Defender’s youngest daughter, Ruby, and the townsfolk have been preparing all day for the ceremony and festivities to follow. A throng of spectators has amassed at the town Commons; the buzz of the crowd subsides as the weathered town leader, Halgra of the Blackened Blades, takes the stage 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.” Halgra 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 the recipient of this hopeknife is none other than my youngest daughter.” Once again, Halgra pauses, but this time she turns to talk to the child beside her.
“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 painfully shy—nods her head 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. When she is finished, Halgra sheathes the hopeknife and places the necklace around Ruby’s neck before turning back to address the crowd.
“Tonight, Ruby becomes a full member of our community! Let us welcome her, and celebrate her passage into adulthood! Trunau forever!” The crowd echoes Halgra’s last words in unison, signaling the end of the ceremony.
Once Halgra finishes her speech, the townsfolk waste no time transitioning to the ceremony’s more lighthearted festivities. Two men, whom you recognize to be Kurst and Rodrik Grath, prominent members of the town militia and the two eldest sons of Patrol Leader Jagrin Grath, start boasting of their strength and ask Ruby to point to her champions, who will face off with the men in a tug-of-war.
As Ruby starts selecting people, you realize she just pointed at you.
Mortoth allows himself a small smile as he passes through the Trunau gates. He's always liked this place and these people, their resilience and independence; in many ways, it's how he's always seen himself. Climbing the hill to the Ramblehouse, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, that he likely understands the hopeknife tradition better than most outsiders. Just as he once did, Trunau's youth face the prospect of adulthood and the certainty of death all at once, at the age of 12. Many "civilized" people would no doubt consider it barbaric or even cruel to inflict that kind of knowledge on a child. Mortoth, however, knows it to be the simple reality of life in Belkzen.
These thoughts return to him again a few hours later as he watches Ruby Halgrasdaughter take her hopeknife from her mother. Seeing the girl's shyness engenders a spark of sympathy in the bounty hunter...
...much of which disappears when she thrusts him into the spotlight by choosing him for the tug of way contest. Mortoth's eyes widen, and he glances around briefly to gauge whether refusal is an option - but it is clear from the expectant looks on the faces of the nearby Trunauans that his doom is already set. With a sigh, Mortoth stretches his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, and begins making his way toward the rope.
Shivarra isn't sure she agrees with the hopeknife tradition. Denying the attackers part of their plunder isn't bad, but sinking that blade into some orc's eye would be so much more satisfying. Besides, it's not completely impossible for a slave to escape, and one should cling to survival and claw their way out to the end.
Still, as far as ceremonies go, it is a marked improvement over those of the orc tribes, especially in terms of quality and abundance of the feast. She is entirely too willing to cheer as the squirt learns to kill herself better if it means free booze, good roast and a company of an enthusiastic young man or a few for the rest of the night.
Of course, this is where the damn kid goes and drags her into something unnecessary, delaying her plans for the celebration. It goes without saying that should she decline, she'll have to leave at once at the very least, so, grumbling under her breath, the half-naked witch steps down into the circle, grabbing a new mug of ale on the way as she finishes what little remained in the first one.
Grod glances around nervously. Me? Odd, nobody picks me for anything. Well, nothing good. Kid's got sense though. I am strong. Striding purposefully to the role, Grod takes the end, the waves to the others. "What are you lot waiting on? Let's win this thing for the little lady."
Wondering why Ruby seemed to have only selected half-orcs for her champions - We aren't all that strong, he thinks to himself - Mortoth takes a spot on the rope just in front of Grod. "Best get to it if that's how it's going to be," the bounty hunter agrees, nodding. He grips the rope and readies himself. A small part of him feels a bit sorry for the badly-outnumbered Grath boys, but he imagines it's all part of the celebration; surely it wouldn't due to have the champions of the woman of the hour be defeated.
Ummm.... hello? the man says, somewhat nervously of the group of burly hunters gathered around the table.
They were as rugged and provincial as the landscape they were forged from, rough skin and suspicious eyes, fully armed and armoured beneath their furs despite being in the centre of town in the middle of the afternoon.
He supposed that was the way of things here. Where this outpost was sat so close and surrounded by orcish tribal territory, people had become accustomed to hard living. Dressed in his pale blue travelling suit; compass, map case and tools hanging from his belt and the rest of his gear packed fastidiously away in a small leather backpack, wide-brimmed hat plonked on his head and wisps of hair jutting out at odd angles beneath, he could not make himself more conspicuous if he had tried.
And he suddenly felt a little foolish.
The men at the table turn around and then begin snorting laughter before turning back to their pitchers of dark ale and muttering something in a language he doesn’t understand.
What was that? he ventured. I don’t suppose you speak Common do you? Or elven? Or maybe even a little Ancient Osirion. No… I don’t suppose you do…
I’m looking for someone to guide me into the mountains. I have it on good authority that there is an ancient tribal outpost a few miles east of here, Rabid Wind clan… no, Raging Wind! he snaps his fingers as he remembers. I’d love to have the chance to dig there, to… one of the men stands then and draws himself up in front of the man. …study how they lived…. he adds with a small gulp.
The hunter was at least a hand or two taller than the stranger and at least half again as wide across the shoulders.
Ain’t nothin’ out there but them orcs. the man hisses. An’ the on’y thing gettin’ dug out there is your grave if you as foolish as you look. Go back where you came from.
A few half-orcs in the tavern curl their lips in distaste but say nothing.
Ah, yes. Quite. Well, good to know. Th-thank you for the warning! the smaller man says hurriedly and makes himself scarce.
Once outside, Dr Samuel Ballard sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. It had been exactly the same for about a week now. Spurred on by his sense of adventure and desire to study this wild frontier, he had travelled to Trunau in the hopes that he could find someone, somewhere here, who would act as a guide across the plains and into the mountains.
In all his previous expeditions, funded by the university as they were, he had always considered himself rather fortunate. But it seems here at least his fortune has run out.
He shoulders his pack, and makes his way back to his meagre lodgings.
Sam had seriously considered making the long trek south back to Lepistadt, maybe even all the way back to Absolom, and seeing if the universities there would allow him to end his sabbatical early.
But word had reached him that the Hopeknife Festival was soon going to be upon the town and in the run up to it he had felt a distinct change in atmosphere about the place. The dourness in the air was replaced by a sense of excitement and anticipation that he hadn’t yet witnessed in his stay.
And so, he had decided that he would stay and observe the festival at least, take some ethnographic notes on the strange culture that had developed here which was so focused around the resistance to the orc tribes and the fragile peace they maintained.
He sat in the same tavern as the men had chased him from three days sense but had struck up conversation with a burly half-orc named Malthu who actually seemed rather friendly and even bought Sam a drink.
He swills the thick, black liquid around the glass, unsure of it. Malthu had been throwing them back for the best part of an hour but to Sam the ale looked suspiciously like lamp oil. Catching the innkeep’s attention, he leans forward across the bar and whispers;
Hello. I don’t suppose you have a dry white wine do you? the look of incredulous disdain on the man’s face is all the answer Sam needs. Ummm… for my lady-friend I mean…. she’s ummm…. over there. Somewhere. Not to worry! And then to save face he takes a deep swallow of the oil and fights the feeling of his stomach flipping over.
He is about to respond to Malthu’s mention of plague but finds the half-orc has wondered outside. Following, Sam finds an enormous crowd gathered in the square, and a little girl pointing in his direction. Or more likely to a man behind him. But the crowd shoves him forward and suddenly, head swimming a little, he finds himself among a group of half-orcs and being gestured toward a thick rope, the laughter of the crowd at the sight of his slender arms ringing in his ears.
Sam had been on expeditions for nearly a decade, and his body had become lean and fit as a result, wires of muscle running across his shoulders and chest where he had become so practiced with the shortbow. But standing among the burly half-orcs and rugged humans, he must have looked little more than a halfling to the gathered masses.
Yverstrix watches the crowd and ceremony with a skeptical eye, a familiar, bitter thought washing over him as young Ruby is shown how to use her knife, I don't be seeing how it would be that Grakk would be hiding here, amongst these folk... I be thinking this has been another wild goose chase...
He's shaken out of his dark thoughts when the young girl points at him, looking around to see what he's being accused of before relaxing and then laughing as he realizes what's happened, "Aye, the lass do be having a good idea for the muscled sort," he bellows aloud, then starts making his way over the the rope.
He winks at the young girl, glad to see the clear joy in the celebration despite the darkness it entails, and happy to have something...anything.... to do.
Sam approaches the rope somewhat nervously, looking back over his shoulder at the group of half-orcs who also appear to have been picked from the crowd.
So how does one... that is to say... is there proper technique to this?
Mortoth eyes the human a bit skeptically, but he notes the solid frame under the man's hesitant exterior. "Grab hold," he says dryly, "and try not to fall over. If you can manage to pull a bit, that would be ideal."
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Ah yes, of course. the doctor says, taking hold of the rope, feeling it's rough surface on his hands and suddenly wishing he had gloves.
Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than was inevitable, he takes position in the centre of the group, neither leading from the front nor anchoring at the back.
Yverstrix smiles at the smaller man, "Aye, that's after being a good place for yourself.... Just be minding the possibility of rope burns, and don't be wrapping it around your hands. A few good pulls and it's like as no to be crushing your wrists, or worse." He steps to the back, stretches himself to warm his muscles and then takes up the end of the rope. "Oh, and don't be worrying if I start to snarl a wee bit. I'm of a mind to win for the lass."
Rodrik shouts for all the crowd to hear. "Get up here, Ruby's chamnpions! Unless you are afraid to face me and my brother!" He flexes his muscles with a grin.
"Line up there, behind Ruby, and see if you can pull us across the line!"
As Shivarra sets aside her drink and grabs the rope, she glares at the opponents balefully, sapping their strength.
Samuel holds on, waiting for the inevitable jolt and bracing himself as best he can. Whilst nervous, he has to admit that the novelty of the situation is quite appealing and he makes a mental note to write up a page in his journal later that evening.
The entire ceremony of the Hopeknife is fascinating, that a culture has developed around the singular idea of resisting the neighbouring enemy even to death.
Ruby's team pulls the militia men closer to the line, as they try to dig in and hold position. A few of them start sliding from the effort.
"Go Ruby! Go!" a man shouts from the crowd, followed closely by much cheering.
When the initial haul comes on from the guards, Sam feels like his arms are going to pulled from their sockets. He stumbles forward and the contest is almost over before it begins.
It is only due to the mountain of flesh ahead of him that he fairly bounces off that he is able to scramble and regain his footing.
Oof! Terribly sorry, sir. he gasps as he grabs at the rope once again. I was waiting for someone to shout 'go!'
He finds his feet beneath him and digs in, lending what strength he has to the team and, finding that his much stronger team-mates seem to be gaining the upper hand, begins laughing like a loon. It is involuntary, brought on by the absurdity of the situation he finds himself in.
Yes, pull! Come on Ruby, we've almost got them! he laughs.
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Mortoth takes a brief moment to examine the rope, the stances of the men and women pulling on either side, and the angles between them, then adjusts his own stance and angle slightly in response. It's more instinctive than deliberate, but the next jerk feels just a bit more effective, a tiny ounce more efficient.
Cracking a crooked smile, Grod shakes his head. What are these humans thinking? Is this supposed to be an actual competition or not? Of course, he muses, it'd be even easier if I could've hitched Cera to this rope. We don't really see the help, though.
Shivarra was fully prepared to sabotage the competition to make her work easier, but as it appears to be unnecessary with all the brutes on their team, she holds the impulse back and just goes with the flow in case someone here has some weird notions of fair play.
A few more of the militia jump up to grab the end of the rope on Roderick and Kurst's side, but even so, Ruby's team pulls the whole lot of them over the line.
The men fall down, laughing as they stumble all over each other.
Ruby beams with pride at having selected such a strong team.
After the initial roar of the crowd, and bets being settled all around, Roderick and Kurst walk up to you.
"Well done, Ruby! You are going to make a fine leader some day."
"For the rest of you, let's have a drink and tell us your stories. I have seen some of you enter town before, but none of you are residents, correct?"
He seems to be ignoring Sam or the moment.
"No, though I've been through once or twice," Mortoth replies, offering a hand. "Mortoth Spellborn, I'm called. Actually, I don't mean to be rude, but I need to speak with your father. Is he around here somewhere?"
The witch frowns at the 'orcish blood' comment. People are what they are, but orcs are not the sort of kin one should be proud to be related to.
"I wonder. One might find it alarming that our town's militia officers are so woefully inattentive," Shivarra flatly observes as sweeps her unruly hair behind her back. "I can think of much more enjoyable things than bringing up my story, anyway, drink or not."
Mortoth also looks sideways at Malthu when he champions the virtues of "orcish blood," but doesn't comment on it. He does catch the Iomedaen symbol and the old tattoo it is modified from, though, and he touches his broken tusk thoughtfully.
Sam's back stings where Malthu claps him but the gesture is well-meaning and the archaeologist is stil on something of a high having won his first tug-of-war.
Oh how the chaps in Halls would have a good laugh at this.
He seems unfazed when the guardsman ignores him, he is well aware that he is a stranger in these parts. And to them, he must seem like a strange stranger indeed.
He spots the opportunity to intervene when Malthu gets so upset about bein unacknowledged.
Oh I'm sure no offence was meant Mr... well, Malthu, if I may venture. Only that your contribution at the Sanctuary is doubly remarkable given that you were not born in Trunau.
I for one would love to hear how you came to help out there. he offers an easy and reassuring smile to the much larger half-orc. Perhaps over some more of that... delicious... ale.
Grod squints a bit when asked if he is a resident, then scratches his head. "Umm, well, I'm originally from up north, near the Realm of the Mammoth Lords. My father is one of the Kellid tribesmen. Err...was, I guess. Do people retain their ethnicity in the Boneyard? A question for another time, I suppose. At any rate, I've been hanging around town for a few weeks. I met some of Halgra's out in the wilds, they seemed like a good bunch, she's certainly got some impressive daughters. They helped me out of a tight spot, and were nice enough to let me follow them back here. I've done a bit of this and a bit of that around town since."
In the wilds, you say? Sam says, suddenly interested. Is this Halgra a guide by any chance? I couldn't trouble you for an introduction, could I?
"You should," the witch prompts Grod to agree, before turning to the human. "It's been a while since that old war troll did anything of the sort, but who knows, you just might convince her to remember the good old days if you really try."
Yverstrix shakes his head, "No, I've come from Janderhoff, and I've just come to look for someone who's right needing an introduction to thirty inches of steel. Name's Yverstrix Halfbloodsson, but you can call me Yver."
He smiles and offers a massive hand in getting, " Find it's being a mite more manageable than the mouthful they inflicted on me."
In the wilds, you say? Sam says, suddenly interested. Is this Halgra a guide by any chance? I couldn't trouble you for an introduction, could I?
Giving Sam a look like he'd just asked what swords were for, Grod points in the general direction of the woman who'd narrated the ceremony earlier. "Uh...the lady who gave Ruby her hopeknife? That's Halgra. She's the, umm, " he says, trying to recall the human word for a village chief. It wasn't a word he'd heard much, growing up in an orc tribe with a Kellid nomad for a father. "mayor, I think is what they're usually called. In Trunau they say 'Chief Defender'. She's in charge here."
"Sancuary, eh? Well, they aren't really from here either, more closely tied to Lastwall it seems. Still, they seem good folk."
Ruby says she will meet you for breakfast at the Ramblehouse common room in the morning to thank you for your efforts, as she is whisked away by friends and family.
"Enjoy! Be merry tonight! You have all done well this day."
As the festivities calm down, you look for your beds...
Shivarra leaves early with the group of hunters she joined after the contest upon noticing their rapt attetion to her state of dress. She's not sure when or where she'll end up actually going to sleep, but if Ruby has any good sense, she'll know not to expect everyone to be up until late morning after such a big celebration.
Malthu likes Dr. Ballard's answer a lot better than Rodrik's. "Yeah, more ale! Let's get outta here." Malthu moves on to find some more ale, hands one to the Doc, and starts to tell his story, one that takes quite a while to tell.
At last the story reaches its conclusion. ". . . I guess you could say Malthu the Terrible died from plague. In his place there's just Malthu, tryin' ta pay back the folks that gave me another life and new adventures." He raises his mug in toast. Here's ta new adventures!"
"So, tell me what you're doin' here again? You're not from these parts, that's for sure."
As the tug-of-war team go their separate ways, Dr Ballard approaches Ruby and offers her his hand and a smile.
Congratulations, miss. Well won. I'm sure the whole town is proud of you. I'd be delighted to join you for breakfast.
Then, still considering whether travelling south was his best option since he could find no one to escort him into the orc lands - certainly he had made a fool of himself by suggesting Halgra - he decides to at least spend the evening with this interesting, if somewhat frightening half-orc.
Would anyone care to join us? he offers the rest of the group, uncertain where exactly to lay his eyes on the female and instead opting to awkwardly look just sightly over her head.
As Malthu tells his story, Dr Ballard's face betrays his emotions at every turn. First a grimace of distaste, then his mouth forms a round 'O' of shock as Malthu describes the death of his children and finally wide-eyed sympathy at his plight and eventual redemption.
My you have lived a life. Sam comments, for once unable to think of anything else to say. Those folk at the Sanctuary certainly sound like they did you a good turn. But I'm terribly sorry to hear about your children, you have my condolences. I don't have children of my own but I had a dog once, Henry. He was a lovely thing, a mongrel, and he got run over by a wagon. It broke one of his hind legs and he was so miserable after that. We tried to get it fixed but.... he looks over the top of his mug to see the half-orc curling his lip and frowning. ....but that was of course nothing like what you went through. Is...ummmm.... how I was going to finish that story.
<Ahem!>
Well, for my own part, you quite rightly deduce that I am not local to these parts, but from much farther south. I'm a doctor - not a medical practitioner you understand - but a doctor of history and archaeology. I study ancient people and civilisations.
I teach at a university you've probably not come across, it's called Lepistadt, charming town full of cobbled streets and neat little terraces. Not at all like this. he waves nonchalantly behind him. Ah which is to say, Trunau is just as lovely but in a different way.
Anyway, I came here because I was fascinated by the struggles of the humans and the orcs - the wild frontier! And to better understand how these two cultures have clashed over the centuries. he sighs. But I can find no one who will serve as my guide into the mountians, they all think me on a fool's errand. he finishes, actually starting to become accustomed to the foul ale.
The Twisted Nail is an orc tribe dwelling in the northern Mindspin Mountains that is ruled by a hill giant chieftain.