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TRUNAU COMMONS
A light snow whips about wildly as an unforgiving wind lashes the rise upon which Trunau rests. Cloud cover obscures the warmth of the sun, an impenetrable sheet of white and grey stretching out as far as the eye can see in every direction. There is little activity in the lower streets, and even less around the Barterstones and roads leading further into Belkzen or Lastwall. A thin dusting of snow and frost covers the town. In the thick of winter and isolated in the Holds of Belkzen, it would seem a desolate sight were it not for the crowd of revelers and celebrants gathering in the Commons. Normally a staid people, the inhabitants of Trunau seldom find cause for jubilation, but today is one such occasion.
Today is the twelfth birthday of Chief Defender Halgra’s youngest daughter, Ruby. Furthermore, the Councilors seem to have agreed that another has more than earned the right to name themselves a native of Trunau: Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars. The townsfolk have been busy preparing all day for the hopeknife ceremony, as well as the festivities that will follow in its wake. An impressive throng of spectators move about the town Commons, the air thick with the buzz of their many conversations and excited cries. It is not until their weathered town leader, Halgra of the Blackened Blades, takes the stage that the murmur of the crowd wanes and subsides. After a moment of silence and a proud glance at Ruby, Halgra turns again to the those gathered upon the stone floor of the Commons and begins to speak.
“Many thanks to all of you for joining us this night, so cold as it is. Maybe we can find occasion to warm our community’s bones with such an event. It has long been my privilege to serve Trunau in my capacity as Councilor and Chief Defender. Never am I prouder than on such occasions as these, where we welcome more proud defenders of our home into the fold with a well deserved hopeknife ceremony. I am always gladdened, even overjoyed, to bestow a hopeknife to one of our own. Doubly so when one of those happens to be my daughter.” Halgra produces two simple wooden cases, laying each on the small table before her. She removes the lid to each, producing a pair of small daggers affixed to a silver chain. One of the hopeknives is of exquisite craftsmanship, while the other appears to be a far cry from high quality. Halgra smiles warmly as she turns to regard Ruby and Qytheerah atop the stage beside her. “Ruby and Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars, by the traditions of our town established since the fall of the Hordeline, we name you citizens of Trunau and defenders of our way of life. This hopeknife represents your responsibilties as a citizen 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 orcish hordes offer, and it is your duty now as a citizen of Trunau to provide such a release as needed. We must all remember. . .” Halgra pauses briefly, and several in the crowd murmur in unison as she continues, “a hopeknife is given not as a weapon, but a hope that it shall never be drawn.”
“Do you both swear to guard Trunau from all comers, to the bitter end, and to use your hopeknife only for its intended purpose?” Halgra’s face carries a severe weight as she stares at her daughter and Qytheerah, the question hanging ominously in the air. Ruby—dusky skinned, black haired, and painfully shy—nods her head in response to her mother’s question. As Qytheerah offers her own assent, Halgra nods and clutches each of the recipients in turn by their wrists, yanking them forward and exposing them for all to see. “If the orcs come, this is where you cut—here, here, and here.” Halgra indicates which arteries should be severed in case of capture as the pair look on. As she finishes, Halgra sheathes their hopeknives places both necklaces around the necks of their new owners. Giving each a reassuring clap on the shoulders, Halgra turns once more to the crowd below.
“Tonight, Ruby and Qytheerah have been seen and named full members of our community—our Let us welcome each, and celebrate their acceptance into our way of life! ” The crowd echoes Halgra’s last words in unison, as the ceremony concludes. Several militia men and women begin hustling about the Commons, fetching coils of rope and buckets as they make their way to the center of the amphitheater floor.
There are typically games and contests held after the ceremony has ended, the most popular being a tug-of-war involving those who have just been granted their hopeknife.
Though your dagger is a far cry from the quality of Ruby's own hopeknife, the reason becomes apparent to you as soon as you unsheathe it. This is the first knife you made in The Clamor, a long time ago. It would seem that Sara Morninghawk kept the failure hidden all this time, and even took the time to hone the blade into a serviceable weapon. Etched along the dagger's blade is are two words: "Qyth's Resolve"
Morgder reaches for his cup, but he's not used to his lack of depth perception yet and knocks it over. Cursing under his breath, he quickly picks it up and finishes what remains of the drink. Stupid giant bashing out my bloody eye... He angrily tears through the rest of his dinner as the sun sets over the horizon. After weeks of recovery he finally feels at his full strength, so he sits in the woods and eats with the setting sun, enjoying the wilderness. As the frost starts to set in he washes his hands in a nearby stream and heads back inside the walls. Apparently there was to be a celebration today.
Morgder walks through the empty streets until he reaches the site of all the gathered people and noise. Right, that one girl's birthday. Sapphire was it? He finds a good wall to lean against that gives him some space from the crowd. He wouldn't be able to see over them anyways, plus he doesn't want to scare any children that look his way. He eavesdrops on some of the nearby conversations, giving a grunt at their newest citizen. What kind o' name is Reflects-the-Stars? He pushes the thought from his mind as Halgra begins to speak. Ah, Ruby! Well I was close.
As the hopeknife ceremony proceeds Morgder scans the crowd for reactions. A hard community that has such traditions. One that is in touch with the reality of their situation though. He looks around at those he knows has lost a friend or family member to one of those knives. You have to be realistic about these things. He gives a little frown as Halgra asks the two a question. You can't use it to gut an orc?
As the ceremony concludes he grunts a brief call of support, still lost in his own thoughts. He takes the monstrously sized waraxe off his back and rests it on the ground, blades up, inspecting the edge. I wonder where Helena is. Probably close to the front, she always loves an excuse to be joyful for however long it's offered.
Arctorus watched on, standing towards the back of the crowd as usual, facing the brunt of the cold breath of Kuthona's wind as the winter air whips through the town. Rarely was he ever comfortable enough to move to the warmer, central parts of the crowds during these festivities. So, he watched on in silence as the two young ones women receive their hopeknives.
His clawed hand reaches up and feels his own small blade resting against his chest beneath his clothing. The one and only time this town has ever really cared to pay me any attention was at my own ceremony. And the crowd wasn't even half this size.
As he watched, his eyes eventually made contact with Patrol Leader Jagrin Grath's. The man had been smiling as he observed the newest recruits, but that smile faded once his gaze met Arctorus'. Grath nodded slightly to him, but then turned his eyes away without waiting for the young Trunauan to respond.
Arctorus sighed, the steam of his breath rising into the air. He let his eyes wander about some more, taking in faces familiar yet foreign to him, despite his lifelong residency in the town. He spotted Tharok standing with the rest of his kin near the podium, but did not wave to the man he once considered a friend. They had grown apart in recent years, and it saddened him to have to admit so. He could count his friends on the fingers of one hand. And unfortunately, two of those individuals weren't residents and only passed through town on occasion.
So, the hulking form of Arctorus watched on in silence over the heads of most in the crowd, when he spotted someone he had not seen before. A woman who also managed to stand almost a head above the crowd, her hair the color of a roaring flame. She was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and his mouth gaped slightly as he spied her at a distance. He blinked a couple of times before turning his head slightly so as to not be caught staring.
Who IS that? They aren't from here, that is for certain. I'd have noticed her before now.
Watching the crowd from the elevated position the stage grants her, Qyth's voice joins the others in a triumphant uproar. Pride and exhilaration are threatening to overwhelm her, but it's only as she reads the inscription on her newly acquired hope knife that a single tear flows down her face.
Heh. There's a big soft heart beating under those green muscles. Always been.
I'm sorry Sara, but as soon as I see you, you're getting a hug, whether you want it or not.
She puts Qyth's Resolve, as she has already named the weapon, back under her blouse. Once again, her mind begins to stray, this time in a completely different direction.
I'm finally a full citizen of Trunau. Perhaps now Rodrik...
She turns the thought away immediately, though, a bit irritated by her own pettiness. The meaning of this ceremony is dedication, loyalty, and the willingness to make the most extreme of sacrifices in defense of your hometown. It's not about giving you the courage to come forward to your crush, you thick-headed Shoanti! Somehow, her mind voice has sounded a lot like Sara when pronouncing the last sentence.
She's now scanning the people gathered in the Commons, looking for familiar faces. She's sure Tharok's somewhere in there – he wouldn't have missed his little half-sister's coming-of-age ceremony for anything in the world. She also wonders if Grafelda, her fellow student and militia recruit, has opted to take part in the festivities. Despite their frequent meetings – either on errands assigned by their respective masters or during militia business – they've never quite managed to open up to each other, and Qytheerah has never dared to ask what the story behind the half-orc's intricate pattern of scars was. Still, she has many reasons to suspect the intimidating refugee's story must have been a tragic and painful one, and she genuinely hopes to see her comrade-at-arms find some solace from her past in days such as this.
As she limps her way down the stage, eager to tackle the day's contests, she spots with the corner of her eye a lone dwarf leaning against a wall on the very edge of the crowd, apparently inspecting his own massive waraxe.
That must be the dwarf who charged a giant all by himself. It's good to see he's better now. I hope he's staying in Trunau for a little longer; we need brave warriors such as him around here.
She is less thrilled by the sight of Arctorus, however. Not that she bears him any ill will; on the contrary, not unlike many Trunauans, she has barely ever interacted with him, and the little she knows of him comes from tales Tharok has told her. No, it is more akin to a sense of uneasiness. And to be completely frank, her reasons are pretty petty, too. She has hoped to have a chance to shine in today's games; but if the hulking dragon-like man has also opted to compete, she knows how slim her chances are.
Luckily, his attention seems to be mostly focused on that newcomer. Can't say I blame him. She's surely a step up from the sort of visitors Trunau usually gets. Which, to be honest, mostly consist of rampaging orc hordes, but still.
She's now right at the bottom of the short flight of stairs leading down into the clearing at the center of the amphitheater. Before mingling with crowd, she turns back and looks at Ruby, still hesitant to put too much distance between her and her mother.
"Hey Ruby! Your brother Tharok has been telling me great things about you. Today, in the games, we'll show Trunau what us girls can do! What do you say?"
________________________________________________________________________
Oblivious of the looks and stares that might be sent her way Skrioth pushes forward through the crowd, wondering at the purpose of the gathering. She had only just arrived in the town, which she gathered was called "Trunau." An interesting word. It feels strange on her tongue, but she likes the sound of it. The people seem very rough. Strong. Not unlike her own people who had been forged in wars and hatreds since forgotten, but these Trunens, Trunauans? Well, whatever they are called, they seem to still be at war. An attack only recently. Weapons constantly at hand.
The cold of the day, the lack of heat from the sun, she considers, "it could be night already, if not for my body telling me it is still the day."
Finally, she reaches a point in the crowd where she can see the spectacle before them. "Ahhh, a coming of age ceremony. Two young women. Taught to immure themselves to the realities of death and war. A very stoic life these people lead."
Brushing a hand across the forge shaped amulet under her tunic, she prays, "My Lord Angradd, I know only that you have brought me here, nothing more? What am I to see? What am I to do? Your call no longer pulls at my soul, so I can only conclude that I have reached my destination. There is no coincidence in the ways of the gods, so my arrival today has significance. The chieftain? Her daughter Ruby? The other one? With a name like Ruby, I can understand how your flame would follow her, but the other has a quality about her. What was the name? Qytheerah? A name not unlike one my people might use."
As she watches the woman descend from the dais, she notices the limp, "a damaged flipper? As if life here was not already difficult enough, that one shall have it double hard for her trouble."
Skrioth looks around, wondering at the possibility of ever finding warmth in these abominable mountains.
For three days Tharok had been certain he'd miss this ceremony. Having set out late from the Mindspin Mountains, he'd urged his two mules on, risking longer travel hours that might expose him to the watchful eyes of orc patrols. Yet he'd wanted to bring back a true bounty for this hopeknife ceremony, and had worked hard to kill four of the large mountain goats, shooting them off their high perches and then dragging them onto the back of his cart.
He'd just barely made it. Riding in through the gates this afternoon he'd grinned up at the guards who called down at him, asking if he'd forgotten about his sister's ceremony. He'd not bothered to stop and exchange pleasantries as he normally did, but rather drove the cart to the Kessen Plumb's. He'd knocked on the man's door, called out his greeting, and then abandoned his cart and cargo to the man's ministrations, running to his mother's home where he bathed and dressed in his brother Jarlo's second finest outfit.
He wouldn't have missed this for the world. Ruby was his favorite, and to see her up on that stage being handed a hopeknife by his mother at once made him grim and tore at his heart. He cheered just as loudly when Qytheerah received her own emblem of citizenship, clapping his hands over head and making fleeting eye contact with his friend as she gazed out over the crowd. Pride and joy were rare emotions in his heart, but tonight, they flowed over in abundance.
After the ceremony ends, Tharok wades through the crowd to the stage and for the first time in his life fights the urge to scoop up Ruby as he's always done. Instead, he shakes her hand with mock-seriousness, and then roughs her hair and turns to Qytheerah, one arm around his little sister's shoulders.
"My mules will never forgive me for how I drove them these past days to get here on time. But I'd never have forgiven myself if I'd missed this moment. Congratulations!"
Bantering as they walk toward the amphitheater, he catches sight of Arctorus, and in a burst of goodwill, raises his hand high in greeting, recalling better times past, and wondering what the future may hold.
It's then that he catches sight of the flame-haired Skrioth, and his eyes go large. Tharok may fancy himself as tough as the mountains and as calm and collected as the most stoic of patrol leaders, but still Skrioth turns his head so that he almost trips.
Abashed, he fights to regain his dignity and turns to Qytheerah by his side.
"Who is that?" He shoots her one more glance, and then fights for a nonchalant tone. "Has she been in town long?"
"Look who's here, Ruby! Speak of the devil... Well met, Tharok!"
"My mules will never forgive me for how I drove them these past days to get here on time. But I'd never have forgiven myself if I'd missed this moment. Congratulations!"
"Give them a couple fistful of fodder on my behalf too, then. This ceremony wouldn't have been the same without you, for neither of us. But as usual, I suspect the deepest sigh of relief has been heaved by your mother, even if she'd never show it".
It's then that he catches sight of the flame-haired Skrioth, and his eyes go large. Tharok may fancy himself as tough as the mountains and as calm and collected as the most stoic of patrol leaders, but still Skrioth turns his head so that he almost trips.
Abashed, he fights to regain his dignity and turns to Qytheerah by his side.
"Who is that?" He shoots her one more glance, and then fights for a nonchalant tone. "Has she been in town long?"
"I think I can safely say today's the first time anyone in Trunau has cast his gaze upon her. Though it sure looks they're trying their best to make up for the lost time."
"Give them a couple fistful of fodder on my behalf too, then. This ceremony wouldn't have been the same without you, for neither of us. But as usual, I suspect the deepest sigh of relief has been heaved by your mother, even if she'd never show it".
Tharok looks back over his shoulder at where his mother is shaking hands with the Patrol Leaders and clapping other important folks on the shoulder. Moments like these always bring out the leader in her, and she never passes up a chance to project grim determination and confidence.
"She'll never show it or even acknowledge it, but yes." Tharok's voice is quiet. "But that's mother, isn't it Ruby?" He grins down at his youngest sister. "Tougher than stone. Unless you tempt her with Varisian pudding, and then, well, all bets are off."
"I think I can safely say today's the first time anyone in Trunau has cast his gaze upon her. Though it sure looks they're trying their best to make up for the lost time."
Tharok's dark skin darkens further, and he coughs into his hand as he frowns and stares ahead, as if suddenly noticing something important within the amphitheater. "It's important to know, ah, who walks amongst us, for the security, of, um -"
He trails off as both Ruby and no doubt Qytheerah give him a level look, and then gives up and grins. "Regardless. You two ladies are all I need to feel welcomed back home. Come on. Let's see if they've already set up the tug-of-war."
As Skrioth watches the townsfolk and their revelry, she tries to move towards the edge of the crowd, hoping to be able to determine the overall size of the throng, and the village, without revealing her lack of distance vision.
She makes no attempt to avoid physical contact with any passersby, nor does she make eye contact with any individuals as she goes. Although she does try and take note of any dwarves in the mix, "Angradd is a dwarf god, after all," she muses. She takes a mental note of one such creature, dark and dangerous he seems, with an eye patch, and a lot of recent scar tissue. "One to swim clear of, or one to approach," she wonders.
At one point, while circling the area, she finds and queries a child revealing a soothing voice, as soft as seafoam, "excuse me youngling, but where would one find food and warmth in this place?"
Arctorus returns the distant greeting from Tharok, but makes no move to join him, as he was clearly busy with his family and friends.
He slowly joins the movement of the crowd towards the sight of the usual tug-of-war ceremony, but cannot help but try to move closer to the red haired beauty, as a moth drawn to a flame.
Grafelda lurks in the rear of the crowd during the ceremony. She often suspected that her scars made other people uncomfortable around her, and she certainly didn't want people to notice her. She's heavily swathed in brown linen and fur against the cold, and wears her wooden armor as she always does. Her face is smeared with a thick layer of pig fat mixed with red dirt to make a paste that acts both as face paint, and protection against the wind. While the speech is meant to be inspiring, it just makes Grafelda angry. Where was my hope knife? Why didn't my mother bash my skull on a rock as soon as I was born?
As her rage simmers in the back of her mind she can feel her power fetish pulsing on its cord around her neck. It beats like some extraneous organ between her breasts, leaking some unmentionable fluid down her sternum. Ack, I hate it when it does that. Have to calm down.
Grafelda closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths, focusing on slowing her heart rate and letting go of the pain. By the time she is ready to open her eyes again, she hears an unfamiliar female voice.
At one point, while circling the area, she finds and queries a child revealing a soothing voice, as soft as seafoam, "excuse me youngling, but where would one find food and warmth in this place?"
Some beautiful red-haired stranger is standing near her, questioning Jembal Honnicker. Damn. Never saw a woman with skin so smooth and hair like that. She must come from somewhere where life is easy. Grafelda openly stares at Skrioth, until after Jembal shrugs at her shyly. Realizing that she's staring, Grafelda clears her throat and steps up to Skrioth. "'Scuse me, Miss. I think I can answer your question. The Ramblehouse is our inn, it's near the north gate to town. You'll have to go down the bluff and through the wall, that way." Grefelda then points out the right direction.
With a preternatural awareness, Skrioth feels another approach, but sensing that this is not a hostile encounter, she turns towards Grafelda and appraises her quickly. Strong, proud, rough, a local, and yet she greets me openly despite my appearance. "My dear, I can not thank you enough for your welcoming manner towards a stranger in your shoal."
Skrioth extends her hand in the greeting fashion she has observed being used earlier, "I am Skrioth, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Please forgive me though, you said down the "bluff?" I don't follow you, what is a bluff?"
Grefelda returns her greeting, feeling a rush of excitement when she touches the mermaid's soft skin. The orc witch's face blushes, but her greasy face paint cover it well. "You're standing on a bluff, Miss Skrioth," Grafelda says, a bit incredulously. She motions broadly to indicate the plateau that makes up the southern part of town. "What's a shoal?" she then asks. Maybe this girl is crazy..? Who doesn't know what a bluff is? That and she makes up words...maybe my common isn't as good as I thought...
"Oh no," she thinks, "What do I say now?"
Skrioth takes a deep breath.
"My apologies. You see, I'm not from around here. My people, elves you know, we live by the water. A shoal can mean many things, a sandbar, or the bank of a river."
"Riiiiight. Well, do you want me to show you the way to the Ramblehouse?" Grafelda asks. Why do you always have to be such a b&@&@, Grafelda? Just because she's a little strange doesn't mean you should act like she is. Look at yourself! What is a hag like you even doing talking to a girl as pretty as Skrioth?
"Again, you are too nice to a stranger. I do not wish to bother you, but would very much appreciate the company if it isn't too much trouble." She pauses, "What can you tell me of your town here? Clearly you have troubles from time to time. I noticed a few dwarves. If you have such conflict with them, why permit them inside of Trunau?"
"It's no trouble, miss. I am a member of the militia, it's the least I can do."
Grafelda starts off towards the inn, leading the "elf" woman behind her. "Where do you come from that you are so ignorant? I mean no offense, but we are in Belkzen. Surely, you realize what that means?"
Arctorus watches as the woman is lead away from the hopeknife celebration by the painted orc with a fresh pang of loneliness striking at his gut. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.
Get over it, Dragon-Cursed. What did you think would happen if you got close to her anyhow, that she would actually talk to you?
He returned his attentions to the preparations of the tug-of-war as it was being prepared, curious as to who would be on the teams.
Spirits soar high as the Trunauans begin to mingle with one another once more. The wooden stands that ring the open, stone floor of the amphitheater play host to several vendors who offer a broad selection of refreshments. There is seldom cause for such celebration—for such jubilance—but the people take the reprieve offered by a hopeknife ceremony whenever they can. It's a welcome and necessary distraction from the severe lifestyle they're forced to live here beyond the protection of Lastwall's forces.
Halgra takes the stage once more when Patrol Leader Jagrin Grath and his men finish constructing the ringed sand-pit at the Commons center. it would seem the tug-of-war is ready to commence. Ruby is brought back up to the stage as Qytheerah is being fetched to return. A duo of Patrol Captains recognized to many as Rodrik Grath and Kurst Grath stand behind Halgra to either side, barely managing to maintain their solemn expressions. The Chief Defender regains the attention of the crowd with a few clinks of her empty tankard against the table. Her dark hair whips about wildly as a particularly strong gust of wind tears through the open aired Commons, but she barely seems to notice.
"Those who have gained a hopeknife have gained not just acceptance into our fold, but a grave responsibility. It means they have set themselves on a path that will harbor challenges without count. A Trunauan knows that life holds many trials in store for them. And tonight is no different!" Halgra nods to Rodrik and Kurst, who return the gesture and scramble off of the stage to rejoin a gathering throng of patrolmen on one side of a long rope that divides the circular sand-pit. The men and women seem to be conferring to one another as the Chief Defender watches on from the stage.
Halgra turns to Ruby as Qytheerah reaches the stage, and says, "Trunau will always watch your backs now. And you will need them for the challenges you will face, even this one. So, as I have done times beyond counting, I will advise you thusly: choose your allies well! You will need someone COURAGEOUS to lead the charge; someone FIERCE to give your enemies pause; someone STRONG to beat back your foes; someone GRACEFUL to defy the horrors beyond; and someone LOYAL to depend upon until the bitter end. Go now, daughter, and choose wisely!" As Ruby descends the stairs in a hurry to make her selections, Halgra beams at Qytheerah and indicates the side of the sand-pit opposite the Patrol Captains. "You'll be helping, of course, as a newly minted Trunauan yourself."
Ruby's first choice is predictable, her meekly smiling head bobbing up and down as she closes the distance to Tharok, her older half-brother. She indicates her selection with a brief touch on the half-orc's wrist, then whispers, "Someone loyal." Her eyes survey the crowd again, and she bounds forward once more. She slows to a cautious approach as she nears the entrance where Morgder stands and Grafelda moves with the newcomer in tow. Not quite brave enough to lay a hand—now matter how gentle the hand might be—on the grizzled dwarf, she points at him instead. "Someone courageous," she begins, then continues, pointing at Grafelda and Skrioth as she almost-squeaks, "someone fierce, and someone graceful."
Surveying the crowd from the entryway, Arctorus can feel the knot in his stomach growing as the child's eyes are inevitably drawn to the scaled behemoth that stands like a tower at the fringe of the throng in the Commons. Somewhere between excited and frightened, she calls out in his direction, "And someone strong!" She points directly at Arctorus, and much of the crowd goes silent at first. Thankfully, the awkward interruption is dispelled as a hand claps Arctorus midway up his back—incapable of reaching his broad shoulders—and Agrit Staginsdar calls out from behind him, "Arright y'big lug! Ye 'eard the lass! Git yer scaly arse t'the rope!"
An entire gathering of Trunauan citizens parts open to make room for Ruby's motley crew of teammates. Nevertheless they continue in their revelry, and cheer on the heroes as they make their way to the sand-pit where Qytheerah stands. On the opposite end, a grinning Rodrik Grath calls out "Alright boys, show 'em no mercy!" The dwarven woman offers a smile full of mirth up to the draconic visage as she shoves him along towards his chosen-for-him task.
"I guess you'll have to wait until after the game to get warm. C'mon," Grafelda says to Skrioth. She goes to her appointed place at the rope. The witch twists her neck side to side until it cracks loudly. Then she spits in her palms and gets ready to grasp the rope. Never done the before. Hope I don't mess it up. Especially not in front of Skrioth and the whole town...Even Mrs. Morninghawk is watching. Grafelda feels her face blush again under the layer of grease. She's so strong, I bet the other team wouldn't stand a chance.
As Ruby descends the stairs in a hurry to make her selections, Halgra beams at Qytheerah and indicates the side of the sand-pit opposite the Patrol Captains. "You'll be helping, of course, as a newly minted Trunauan yourself."
"Aye aye, Ma'am!" Qytheerah answers enthusiastically, as she follows Ruby down the stage and takes her place opposite the Grath youth.
"Hey Rodrik! Permission to take leave from the militia for this one! she half-seriously, half-mockingly asks of the Patrol Captain, shouting to make herself heard over the strong gusts of wind making her light blouse puff out and flutter.
And yet, she doesn't seem all that bothered by the cold. Indeed, she's trying her best to strike a bold pose, legs slightly apart, arms crossed and the shadow of a cocky smirk on her face. Turning around to survey the crowd, she now spots Sara's unmistakable silhouette standing near Agrit Staginsdar and towering above everyone else but Arctorus. Briefly making eye contact, she winks at her master and friend while patting her own bicep.
Ruby's first choice is predictable, her meekly smiling head bobbing up and down as she closes the distance to Tharok, her older half-brother. She indicates her selection with a brief touch on the half-orc's wrist, then whispers, "Someone loyal."
Despite never doubting for a second who Ruby's first choice would have been, Qyth is nonetheless delighted when the half-orc joins her in the sand-pit. "Here we are again. Ready to do that? Your girls are once again counting on you, Tharok!"
Her eyes survey the crowd again, and she bounds forward once more. She slows to a cautious approach as she nears the entrance where Morgder stands and Grafelda moves with the newcomer in tow. Not quite brave enough to lay a hand—now matter how gentle the hand might be—on the grizzled dwarf, she points at him instead. "Someone courageous," she begins, then continues, pointing at Grafelda and Skrioth as she almost-squeaks, "someone fierce, and someone graceful."
Ruby is doing well. The dwarf and Elda would have been my first picks, too she thinks as a satisfied smile unconsciously appears on her face. She finds the choice of the red-haired stranger a bit unorthodox, but if it is someone graceful she's looking for, she can't really say she blames her. And by the looks of it, most people seem to agree with this stance.
"Hey Tharok. Looks like your kind sister has just provided you with another chance to introduce yourself to our charming stranger. You should thank her once this is over" she jokingly teases her friend.
Surveying the crowd from the entryway, Arctorus can feel the knot in his stomach growing as the child's eyes are inevitably drawn to the scaled behemoth that stands like a tower at the fringe of the throng in the Commons. Somewhere between excited and frightened, she calls out in his direction, "And someone strong!" She points directly at Arctorus, and much of the crowd goes silent at first. Thankfully, the awkward interruption is dispelled as a hand claps Arctorus midway up his back—incapable of reaching his broad shoulders—and Agrit Staginsdar calls out from behind him, "Arright y'big lug! Ye 'eard the lass! Git yer scaly arse t'the rope!"
I would have probably gone with Sara, still, I recognize an obvious choice when I see one.
An entire gathering of Trunauan citizens parts open to make room for Ruby's motley crew of teammates. Nevertheless they continue in their revelry, and cheer on the heroes as they make their way to the sand-pit where Qytheerah stands. On the opposite end, a grinning Rodrik Grath calls out "Alright boys, show 'em no mercy!"
"Oh, we won't need it" she boasts, flexing her arm as well as pointing at Arctorus' massive shape making his way towards the sand pit. After cracking her knuckles and neck, she picks up the rope while making the most intimidating expression she can muster.
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Skrioth is unsure what just happened. She looks at Grafelda, "what, what, what is going on? Fierce? Graceful? I do not understand, please explain this to me."
As the pair gets closer to other "chosen ones," Skrioth's concern grows. "The one eyed dwarf?" She shakes her head quickly, and throws it back, takes a deep breath, and exclaims briefly, "Angradd"
She steels herself to the challenge ahead, stretches forth her left hand towards the chieftain's daughter, "Congratulations on your, umm, ceremony thing."
"Thanks. . ." Ruby replies to Skrioth, blushing slightly and avoiding more than a brief instance of eye contact. It's likely the child takes after whoever her father may have been. Though she physically bears many of her mother's traits—dark hair, coal-grey eyes, and dusky skin—her bearing and demeanor are anything but. Where Halgra is bold and confident, Ruby is timid and reserved. Fortunately for her, the team she has assembled for herself is not so meek.
Arctorus' anxiety grows ten fold, for various reasons. He felt like he was a prisoner being marched to a jail sentence. He remembered his own hopeknife ceremony, and how the people he had chosen seemed to only put in a half-effort. It was embarrassing for someone of his size to lose at this event.
Yet this all was dwarfed by his sudden proximity to the woman he had admired from afar. Her beauty was even more imposing on the towering man now than it was before. He even manages eye contact once, but quickly turns away and looks to the little girl that had chosen him. He bows to her and Qytheerah, saying, "I will do my best to honor you both, as it is your day and you deserve the best efforts I can give."
In a gesture she very rarely has to perform, Qytheerah lifts her gaze to meet Arctorus', towering a full 5 inches above her. She then speaks, a bit hesitant at first and then more poised as she goes on.
"I... thank you Arctorus. I know you will." A small pause, she averts her eyes for a while before resuming. "Truth be told, I was a little nervous when I first saw you among the crowd. Afraid to have to compete against you, I suppose. Now that you're on our side, I feel much more confident about our odds" she says, raising her arm to give him a vigorous pat on the shoulder.
The wind whips about Tharok as he shucks his heavy cloak, folding the thick white goat-fur over one arm and setting it aside on the iron-cold stone of the plateau. He stands tall and limber for a half-orc, his frame not nearly as muscled as that of Sara Morningstar, Arctorus, or even Grafelda and Qytheerah. What he possesses instead is a rangy litheness developed over years of scaling cliff faces, that climber's build which is somewhere between a dancer's and an acrobat's.
He's not surprised that Ruby selected him, but he is pleased; it's no small honor to be chosen by a newly hopeknife-gifted member of the community. He wraps his arms around himself a couple of times, clapping his hands against his sides as he does so, and then rolls his neck and steps up to where the small group stands.
"This is a hopeknife ceremony," he says to Skrioth, voice a low baritone. "Each member of our community is given one when they pass into adulthood. It marks both our commitment to our settlement, and our final means of escape should we be taken by orcs."
He holds Ruby's gaze for a moment, not wanting to believe such a fate could ever take his youngest sister, and then then forces himself to smile as he shakes off the dour thought.
"I'm Tharok Cragsoul, son of Halgra, and Ruby's older brother. Though not eldest." He nods to Skrioth, and then to the dwarf.
Tharok can't help but stare for a moment as he gazes upon the dwarf close up for the first time. Morgder's appearance both fascinates and repels. To think his head was nearly crushed by a hill giant! Tharok blinks and tears his gaze away from the disfiguring damage done to the dwarf's skull, and turns instead to the scaly red hulk that looms behind the group.
"And this is Arctorus, another long standing member of our community." Tharok's smile becomes pensive as he studies the other young man. Has he grown even taller? At this rate, he'll be rivaling the giants themselves by the time he's twenty.
"Arctorus," he says in wary welcome, extending his hand. "Good to see you again. I could have used your help out in the Mindspin Mountains last week. Near broke my back hauling those mountain goats down from the bluffs. Maybe you'll come out with me the next time I go?"
Then, clapping his hands together, causing them to sting as he drives blood into them, he takes up a position behind Qytheerah and picks up the rope. Leaning forward, he whispers, "Remember, we're supposed to pull against Rodrick, not fall gratefully into his arms."
"And this is Arctorus, another long standing member of our community." Tharok's smile becomes pensive as he studies the other young man. Has he grown even taller? At this rate, he'll be rivaling the giants themselves by the time he's twenty."Arctorus," he says in wary welcome, extending his hand. "Good to see you again. I could have used your help out in the Mindspin Mountains last week. Near broke my back hauling those mountain goats down from the bluffs. Maybe you'll come out with me the next time I go?"
Arctorus shakes Tharok's hand in return, careful to avoid his claws cutting into the half-orc's flesh. They had grown sharper over the years, and he didn't want to risk harming one of the sons of Halgra. "It would be an honor to join you on a hunt, Sir Cragsoul. Though I fear my own skills at such a venture are lacking..."
He then turns to the fire haired beauty he had been introduced to and bows, formally introducing himself. "Arctorus, Dragon-Cursed."
If it were physically possible for the scaled man to blush, he would be glowing.
Skrioth didn't expect such a full explanation to her simple question, nor did she expect the complete round of introductions.
She gestures towards Grafelda, "you all probably already know my new friend Grafelda. My name is Skrioth, and I am most pleased to meet all of you, especially you sir dwarf. I am not from around here, but I did gather that this was a sort of naming or adulthood ceremony. What I meant to ask is what are we doing with this rope?"
A quizzical look appears on the young Shoanti's face as the red-haired stranger asks her question, not sure if her ignorance of something so commonplace is real or feigned. She turns toward Grafelda as if to ask her what's exactly the deal with their new team-mate, but then opts to just roll with it.
"Nice to meet you, Skrioth. I'm Qytheerah, apprentice smith and militia recruit. As for the rope, it's basically a test of strength. Both teams pull as hard as they can and those who are dragged past the midpoint line first are called the losers."
Then, clapping his hands together, causing them to sting as he drives blood into them, he takes up a position behind Qytheerah and picks up the rope. Leaning forward, he whispers, "Remember, we're supposed to pull against Rodrick, not fall gratefully into his arms."
"Oh shush you" she retorts, blushing vehemently.
"She's a smith? Angradd, you confuse me. Is it her, or the dwarf?"
"Ahh, a test of strength, I understand now, but how does selecting a member for the quality 'graceful' enhance the team's ability to win?" She ponders the game a moment. "I imagine a people will have games and tests that enhance and measure those qualities deemed most important to survival in their environment."
Skrioth takes a long pause, wondering at the wisdom of revealing more about herself, but she decides she was led here, and to this town, these people, this team for a reason. "Lord Angradd, I will trust your intentions here." She continues, "my people conduct games of speed and agility and often competitions involving the arts. I have heard that some of the land people, humans that is, hold competitions to raise the largest animals or vegetables."
Hmm, an interesting spectacle. I rather like this one compared to the last. He absentmindedly picks at the blade of his axe as he contemplates how the fountain works. His mind is brought back to the people around him as he suddenly notices Ruby talking to him. Courageous, eh? I suppose you could call a suicidal charge that. He hefts his axe onto his back and follows Ruby, suddenly aware of all the attention being drawn to him. Some outsider, just brought into the city? Sure he helped that one time...Morgder tries to give a warm smile to those looking at him, but the responses quickly let him know that he should stick to grim.
As the team is assembled he nervously looks away from the two shining beauties. What kind of game is this? He looks at the scarred half-orc and the giant scaled man. I thought I seemed an outsider. As the attention gets more and more drawn towards their group he looks down. Give me back the giant.
He turns in surprise as the beauty named Skrioth singles him out. He clears his rugged throat. "And why's that?" Ever blunt, ever subtle. He grunts as he looks down at the rope. "Strength contest, pure and simple. I imagine this big ol' bastard will be our anchor." He says, jutting a thumb towards Arctorus.
"Ahh, a test of strength, I understand now, but how does selecting a member for the quality 'graceful' enhance the team's ability to win?"
Qytheerah was about to answer when she realizes Skrioth's objection is quite a sensible one.
Probably Halgra was trying to teach her the importance of having a well-rounded team of friends to count on, with this tug-of-war being just a pretext...
She's still pondering her answer when she believes to overhear something about land people coming out of their peculiar new acquaintance.
Land people? As opposed to what? Birds?
She has no time to further delve into the matter, however, as the competition's about to begin.
Skrioth appears momentarily perplexed, "Anchor? Because he has no father?" and then her face lights up, "Oh! Because of his size, he will keep us from moving! His lack of a paternal parent is not the reason for his choice as anchor at all! This now seems both an obvious and a necessary strategy. What other tricks are there to winning this game?"
Glancing back and forth between Qytheerah and Morgder, "let's see how this goes," and Skrioth states simply, "Angradd," as if it is all the explanation needed and hoping to see some reaction in one or both.
Morgder feels the stirrings of a recollection as Skrioth utters only a name: Angradd. The implications were decidedly dwarven, given the name. Was it an old acquaintance? Some scion or ancestor of a once great house? The memory is slow to manifest, made worse by the injury gifted to him by the hill giant that nearly turned the dwarf's head into mashed pulp. Inspiration finally dawns. Realization finally manifests fully, the one-eyed dwarf recalling Angradd as belonging to the pantheon of dwarven Gods his kin revered. More than that he cannot recall. Worse still, the present situation does not allow him a chance to.
Arctorus has barely secured the looped end of the rope around his waist and set himself as the team's anchor when the gathering of militiamen and women across the sand-pit heave in unison. While the combined might of those on Ruby's side far outstrips the muscle of those they oppose, they are facing off against veterans of the tug-of-war. These men and women perform such duties at hopeknifings on a regular basis, and move as one instead of many. Unprepared and lost in conversation, Ruby's teammates were not prepared for the suddenness of the competition, and it is everything they can do to plant their heels and brace against the pull of Rodrik and Kurst's team. The white knot at the center of the rope is yanked a full ten feet before halting, bobbing dangerously close to victory for the militia. . .
What handicap their unannounced start afforded the Graths is lost in moments. Anchored by Arctorus' obstinance, Morgder and Qytheerah are able to clamp down on the ropes with a hands like a vise. Their combined weight and heft manage to halt what progress the other team has made, enabling Ruby, Skrioth, and Tharok an opportunity to start churning their legs slowly but steadily, inching the marker back towards the middle of the field. Ruby's frantic grunts can be heard at the head of the line, her zeal and devotion standing in for her lack of power. Her chosen allies all continue struggling, breathing, and growling. It is an uncoordinated surge of desperation that serves as stark contrast to the well-oiled machine laboring across the way. Unsightly as their struggle might be, however, Ruby and her team are making headway.
"Whoah now, fellas!" Rodrik jokes, playing to the crowd. "Looks like they've got a little fight in 'em after all!" In response, the crowd roars in laughter all around ongoing competition. The laughs eventually turn to cheers, until they are all chanting Ruby's name in unision. . .
More through coincidence than strategy, Ruby's team rallies and manages to all heave the rope in unison. It is a comical sight to behold as the combined resistance of the militiamen and women suddenly gets nearly rag-dolled by the unmitigated brute force of their opponents. Rodrik manages to regain control of the situation as he takes command of his crew. With a rhythmic chorus of "Heave!" they regain their stoicism and halt what looked to be a game-ender.
Their fight seems far from depleted as Rodrik, Kurst, and the rest continue steadily dragging the knot back towards their end of the sand-pit. But the match has begun to drag on, and the amateur mistakes of those untested in such a match are beginning to lessen. Grafelda catches on to the strength of unity required to excel at the contest, and begins to growl out commands to the rest of her teammates with simple counts of three. Immediately, the white knot halts its retreat and begins dancing back towards Ruby again. It's a foregone conclusion as they finally settle into a groove, Grafelda continuing to bark out a count to coordinate their efforts. Rodrik Grath recognizes the inevitable even as the rest of his team does not. Fastened as the anchor of his own team, the handsome man grins widely as he reaches for the long knife tucked into his belt.
Kurst stands at the head of the line, and is the first to pitch forward and plant face-first into the sand. All the rest tumble forward clumsily , falling atop one another in one huge pile of people, sand and rope. All except for Rodrik, that is. A loop of rope still hangs about his waist as he falls backwards on his ass after he severs his tether to the rest of the team. Once again the crowd roars to life with laughter, even as Kurst groans beneath the weight of his team. All around, the crowd of celebrants presses in to congratulate the winners, especially Ruby and Qytheerah. Ruby, though worn out from the ordeal, beams with positive joy as she and Qytheerah are hefted up on the shoulders of their neighbors and paraded around the Commons as champion.
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Angradd, I know that name. Oh crap...come on remember, you know this. Torag's...cousin maybe? No, he'd be better known...maybe a second neph-oof! He grunts in surprise as the rope suddenly burns down his forearm and he's lurched forward. He growls in anger at the suddenness, then wraps the rope around both arms and tugs back with all his might.
There's scarce ground made as he realizes the team is stronger, but the other is far more organized and used to working together. He lets the weight rest on their huge anchor for a moment, then times his pull with the others and barks a laugh as they nearly tear the other team off their feet.
It costs them though, and they lose more ground to the organized team. But he does not give up, and probably more through sheer strength than teamwork they managed to win. He drops the rope and quickly goes to pick his opponents out of the mud, offering them a strong arm to stand up with. "You did well, I'm sure if we didn't have that big bastard in the back you would have had us!" He laughs as he wipes some of the mud off his arms.
He looks about at the cheering crowd. Well I'll be damned. Maybe I can get on some good sides after all. He goes out and tries to mingle a bit with the people, being open with strangers for the first time in years. He's still not the best at talking with people, but the fun and relaxed environment amongst good people has made him comfortable for the time being.
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Her team having won, Skrioth falls to the ground, breathing heavily. Her legs, so recently acquired, are simply not used to this sort of abuse. She hurts in places that she literally didn't have just a few weeks ago. Her left hand has been mangled, as no one warned her against wrapping it up in the rope to get a better grip. She calls upon Angradd's healing powers and repairs the physical damage, but the pain does not recede immediately, and the scar tiissue from the rope burns will likely be a permanent reminder of this event.
Surprisingly, she feels good about the accomplishment, despite her foolish injuries. She looks to her teammates, all of whom seem to have known one another previously. "Yes, I am truly an outsider here. I don't understand even the simplest aspects of their lives. I need to spend some time trying to learn about them, their lives, their loves, their goals, and their history. I may never become one of them, but at least I will understand them."
She wipes some wisps of hair out of her face, revealing a few large tears running down her cheeks. She brushes at them quizzically, "strange, that never happened before."
----------------
Skrioth will make an effort at speaking with the locals. Her newfound resolve to learn about them being the driving force.
Seeing the beauty fall upon their victory, Arctorus reflexively darts to her side, kneeling down to check on her. "Are...are you alright? Do you need me to take you to The Sanctuary for their attention?"
He starts to help her sit up, but stops just short, as he doesn't want to accidentally hurt her delicate skin with his sharp claws.
Morgder:
Though not exactly rare, dwarves are far from common in Trunau. It's no surprise when many of the citizens of the town rely on stereotypes to dictate their approach to Morgder: a lot of ale. It's certainly not as stout as the stuff the brewmasters of Glimmerhold created, but it's also not as bland—a good drink for such a celebration as this. Handled horns are proffered to Morgder as fast as he can drink them, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, everyone eager to share in a moment with the dwarf who charged the giant.
By and large, they're mostly interested in hearing a personal account of what happened that day when the goblins broke on Trunau's walls. An aged and gangling cotter named Petrick presses his own horn of ale against Morgder's after hearing a rather lackluster and straightforward retelling of the dwarf's heroic charge. Throwing back a hit of his drink, he draws a sleeve across the foam collected on his thick mustache and says, "We thank the Lady Inheritor you came when you did, master Kragmantle! You gave Patrol Leader Jagrin and his boys a chance to drive that beast back before it did some real damage. Though, and you didn't hear this from me," Petrick begins, shifty-eyed, before leaning in conspiratorially, "I hear his boy Rodrik is set to replace his pap as Patrol Leader. It's a good thing if y'ask me! Jagrin's a good man, and he's done right by us. But he's startin' to show his age. New blood up top is what we need, I think. And new friends to throw back them devils what think us Trunuans an easy mark!"
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Skrioth:
There seems to be no end to the amount of townsfolk willing to share in Skrioth's company, though the number of them willing and brave enough to actually speak to Skrioth is a bit more modest. Much of her mingling is met by gaping stares, awkward smiles, and dumb nods. Occasionally some of the more alpha-minded boys and men will demonstrate how not afraid they are of the fire-crested beauty in their midst, but they have decidedly less to offer in conversation than their nonchalant approach suggests. Even so, they are polite enough to Skrioth, if clearly suffering from pangs of lust. It is not in direct conversation that she is able to glean anything worthwhile, but in overheard conversations on the periphery of her circuit through the crowd.
"Some of the kids around town have been drawing on buildings and walls, apparently." It is a remark made matter-of-factly, likely one line among many in a never ending slew of small-talk and banter.
Another voice is heard above the din of suitors, "Drawing on buildings? Gods help us, they haven't gotten their hands on a load of charcoal again have they?"
"Nope, not charcoal. Swords as white as a cloud painted all over the place. Seen poor old Omast scrubbin' and cursin' at one of them on my way up to the Commons this evening. Whatever they are, I don't reckon they come off too easy."
A pronounced scoff answers in response, followed by a quick utterance of, "Kids these days. . ."
Skrioth looks up at Arctorus, somewhat aurprised at the kindness shown by the strange man. She releases a smile and stretches forth her newly healed appendage, "I could indeed use assistance, but only to stand up, my lower extremities are just unused to this sort of activity." She appears entirely unconcerned with the claws as Arctorus helps her to her feet.
Once standing, she rubs her butt and thighs a bit, trying to work out some knots. She looks up and realizes just how massively large Arctorus is. She has noticed that she is unusually tall amongst the locals, but this man towers over her.
Gesturing to the throng she asks "How often do these things occur?"
With a final heave Tharok gives the rope all he's got, sweat burning on his brow as his breath plumes out before him in rapid pants, and digging his heels in and rearing back, he and his team finally manage to haul the guards across the line - and then the rope goes slack.
Suddenly off-balance, the half-orc windmills his arms before falling back into a crouch, rocking back onto his heels and steadying himself with an outstretched hand, but then he's up with a grin and this time he does scoop up Ruby as he used to, lifting her into the air and turning in a circle before setting her down and adopting a solemn mien.
Placing one hand over his stomach, he sketches a rough bow. "Madam Ruby, your team is honored to have served you well. A good omen, that, winning your first contest on your hopeknife day." He allows his grin to shine through once more, and then throws his arm around his little sister's slender shoulders and hugs her close to his side, turning to the rest of the team.
That's when it strikes him. How unusual this all is. How rare such feelings of joy and camaraderie are. Most months - most years, even - are bleak affairs, as epitomized by the hopeknife, either spent in solitude amongst the mountain passes or traveling across the plains, always on the lookout for orc warbands. Even when Tharok returns to Trunau, he often feels a stranger in the midst of the familiar, a silent, sometimes even elusive shadow that transacts his business, visits with his family and few friends, and then slips off again back into the wild.
This, however, this feeling of openness and sharp gladness, is rare. To smile unabashed, no matter how the cold wind cuts. To feel pride in Ruby, to share in an endeavor as he just did with his team, temporary as it might have been. It feels good. It feels like a glimpse of another life, another way of living. One that might have been his, had the world been just a little different.
But it's not. No matter how good the day and raucous that night's revelry, Tharok knows this moment will pass. These feelings will grow subdued and then fade. The brightness in people's eyes will grow dark with concern and wariness, and once again attention will turn to the distant horizon in expectation of the next warband that might be their last.
Still. For all that, it's a grand day. Tharok gives Ruby a squeeze, and then allows her to squirm free of his grip. He smiles at Qytheerah sharing the moment of victory, and then turns to Grafelda.
"Good work. With the timing. It brought us together. We were in trouble until you did." He claps a hand on her shoulder as he passes her, and steps into the crowd, looking for his mother. Even though it's a celebration, it's high time he gave her a report of the orc movements he saw while in the Mindspin Mountains, and beyond that, he's yet to give her a real hug. He never feels like he's truly returned until that happens.
Falayna, I'm not worthy to be called your faithful if I lose this one. It doesn't matter if we're fighting against Rodrik, or Kostchtchie himself... we... WILL... PREVAIL!
Her muscles burn from the effort the competition has cost her, but as the last pull grants victory to their team, she can't help but shout at the top of her lungs.
Galvanized by their hard-fought but resounding victory, Qytheerah is still busy congratulating her team mates when she's dragged away by the cheering crowd. With the corner of her eye, she sees Skrioth falling to the ground, and she's about to ask to be laid down when she glimpses Arctorus running to her side.
You'd better watch out, Tharok. Looks like you have competition coming your way. Big competition.
Relieved to see her in good hands, or at least claws, she decides to let herself savor the moment instead. Sitting on her fellow countrymen's shoulders, she shakes hands, exchanges jokes, strikes various poses and just allows the triumphant sensation of being paraded around the Commons to wash over her. It's only when she catches sight of Sara Morninghawk that she jumps down and awkwardly runs toward her, vigorously striding with her stiff left leg as if, for only a moment, she forgot about her infirmity. And then, fulfilling her previous resolution, she hugs her.
"I can't... I can't believe you kept it. A poor excuse for a blade, made by a poor, crippled excuse for an apprentice... and still... still..." As the day's emotions finally catch up with her, her voice breaks down in loud sobs, tears copiously streaming down her face.
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Realizing he had been caught staring, Arctorus averts his gaze awkwardly at Skrioth's question. "Every time a group of the young ones come of age. It's different for each race, I suppose, but for most here, it is on their twelfth year."
He casts a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the locals congratulating each other, but turns his attention back to the stranger.
I'm nearly as much of an outsider here as this one, despite rarely leaving the walls of this town.
__________
"So humans reach their full maturity at twelve years?" She continues some banter with Arctorus trying to understand more about the hopeknife tradition and other things regarding the locals. Eventually Arctorus moves of to carouse with some of the other locals.
After a bit, she looks around for Grafelda. Spying her, she waves and moves towards her. "You were going to show me where I could get food and warmth? Some place called the Ramblehouse? Also, if you are free to answer more questions for me?" She looks at Grafelda, "you had mentioned something about Belkzen, and you were about to explain what being in Belkzen was all about. I gathered it might have something to do with your conflicts with the dwarves, but we were chosen to participate in this tugs of war event, and were unable to complete the discussion?"
Morgder enjoys the drink, not having a good supply of it for many years. He gives a grin and a shrug at the praise. "Just glad I could distract it long enough. Your boys saved me that night, not the other way around. Looking back, it was a damned foolish thing, charging a giant by myself..." He arcs a brow at the gossip. "Don't underestimate experience. Even if he starts failing in the field, having an old man giving the orders is usually best."
He smiles at Qytheerah sharing the moment of victory, and then turns to Grafelda.
"Good work. With the timing. It brought us together. We were in trouble until you did." He claps a hand on her shoulder as he passes her, and steps into the crowd, looking for his mother. Even though it's a celebration, it's high time he gave her a report of the orc movements he saw while in the Mindspin Mountains, and beyond that, he's yet to give her a real hug. He never feels like he's truly returned until that happens.
"Yeah...it was nothing," Grafelda mutters as Tharok walks off. While the others split up to socialize with the townsfolk, Grafelda just stands there watching them all. I don't even know how to do what they are doing. What do they say to each other?
After a bit, she looks around for Grafelda. Spying her, she waves and moves towards her. "You were going to show me where I could get food and warmth? Some place called the Ramblehouse? Also, if you are free to answer more questions for me?" She looks at Grafelda, "you had mentioned something about Belkzen, and you were about to explain what being in Belkzen was all about. I gathered it might have something to do with your conflicts with the dwarves, but we were chosen to participate in this tugs of war event, and were unable to complete the discussion?"
"I'll answer you questions, but first you gotta answer mine. Where do you come from? Why are you so ignorant of day to day things? You touched in the head or somethin'?" Grafelda crosses her arms over her chest and waits for a satisfactory response. Such questions are something any five year old could answer after all. Is she trying to con me or what?
Skrioth is startled by Grafelda's verbal assault. "I respect your distrust of strangers. I imagine you are owed the answers you ask. I will answer each in turn. I come from a fishing village in the River Kingdoms. Our ways are very different than your ways. If you were visiting my village, I am sure you would be just as ignorant of everyday things. Am I touched in the head? I suppose I am."
Skrioth takes a deep breath. "I apologize for having offended you by not knowing your ways. I appreciate the conversation from earlier. I will find my way to this Bramblehouse. Down the bluff and through the wall, in this direction I believe you said."
Skrioth turns immediately away from Grafelda and starts walking in the designated direction, trying to maintain her composure. "Don't panic! Swim casual! She thinks I'm a spy? Sent to scout the town? I was asking questions, I was acting ignorant. I will need to be more circumspect in the future."
"Wait, miss!" Grafelda says, hustling to maintain pace with her. "I don't mean to scare you, I've just never met anyone like you before. It seems like you're from a different planet or something. Belkzen is the name of this nation, it is ruled by orcish tribes. Trunau is a tiny outpost of civilization in their midst. We have no quarrel with dwarves, but we are frequently raided by orcs."
Grafelda continues to walk with Skrioth, even if she tries to outpace her. Gotta keep an eye on her until I know whether she's lying or not.
The draconian man watches as Skrioth walks off with the painted orc-blood. He then turns and casts a glance towards Tharok celebrating with his family, and Qytheerah being carried off like a heroine returning from war.
The others were all also being congratulated by clutches of townsfolk and militia men. Arctorus was quickly becoming just another person in the crowd once again. He tightens his claws into fists, and turns and steps away from the grounds, making his way towards some of the other games, hoping to at least find some sort of humorous scene unfold around one of them.
Stomping off, or as best as one could do who was unfamiliar with actual stomping, Skrioth yelled over her shoulder to Grafelda, "please, leave me alone, you've made your dislike of outsiders quite clear, and I get it!"
Wiping a wrist across her face she thinks, "again with the water in my eyes? What is up with this? It never happened when I had nictiating membranes. Do all landwalkers have such weak eyes?"
It's a long day, and by the time dusk begins to fall Tharok feels as exhausted as if he'd spent the day climbing the mountain slopes with a full pack. After catching up with his mother and spending some time with his family, he makes his way back through the crowd to link up with his few friends. He spends time with Qytheerah, catching up on the latest, and bringis a flagon of ale to share with Arctorus and further outline his idea for a goat-hunting expedition into the mountains. Finally he simply sits down to one side, feet up on a stool, and watches the small town enjoy itself for the final hours of the day.
When the cold grows too piercing and the wind too sharp, when the shadows begin to not only lengthen but flow into each other, Tharok heaves a sigh, stands, and pulls his white goat-fur cloak about his frame. Bidding farewell to those around him, he makes his way to Halgra's home, a place as full of memories as there are brothers and sisters.