Once the emotions which surfaced in the meeting with her mentor has somewhat mellowed, Qytheerah proceeds to throw herself once more into the celebrations. She catches a glimpse of Skrioth yelling something to Grafelda before leaving the Commons, and she's almost tempted to run after her before resolving to let the matter go.
I wonder what was that about. They seemed to get along nicely before...
In the end, she spends most of the day enjoying the festivities, entering competitions only to win some and lose others, before eventually naturally gravitating towards Tharok for a long overdue catching up. Happy to spend as much time as possible with her friend before he once again sets out into the wilderness, she lets the hours slip away, until the thinning crowd and the dimming light tell her it's time to call it a day. Tired but happy, she makes her way toward The Killin’ Ground for a final round of drinks before retiring for the night.
Still clutching Qyth's Resolve with a mixture of pride and hope for the future, she soon falls into a long, quiet sleep.
When Tharok approaches his seat with ale for him, Arcotrus nods a thanks and asks, "Is your sister enjoying her hopeknife day?"
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?"
Grafelda just frowns. Overly-sensitive, insane c#+~.... Then she shrugs and makes her way back to the festival. A bad mood overtakes her like a sudden summer storm. I wonder if she still would have run off if I had been some handsome elven lad. Whatever, not my job to babysit escapees from the loony house. Grafelda puts on a mighty frown, then goes to stand in a corner with her arms crossed over her chest. I wonder if I killed myself right here if anyone would even notice?
Tharok sets the horn of ale down on the rickety table between the two chairs, and sits across from Arcturus, back to the wall. He stares out at where Ruby is smiling hesitantly as a wiry old man offers to read her fortune, and then laughs when he pulls a coin out from behind her ear.
"Perhaps too much." His voice is pensive, companionable. "She's only twelve. And while she knows what this day means down to her bones, how can she not help but get excited? Still. Part of me is glad. There is enough grimness to come to last her a lifetime. Let her have this moment of fleeting joy."
The half-orc sighs and stretches his legs, ankles crossed, and then relaxes in the chair, one arm resting on the table, hand curled around his own drinking horn.
"What of you, Arctorus?" Tharok studies the other man, his gaze neutral. "It's been some time since we shared ale. Over... two years, I believe, since that night in the Ramblehouse. How have you been faring?"
Arctorus shrugs, "Same as usual I guess. Time not spent working with the militia is spent in the Longhouse. And don't forget about the continuous looks of fear and rumors I get to deal with thanks to how I look."
He looks over his shoulder towards the celebrations, then scowls and turns back to Tharok. "Jagrin still won't tell me about my parents, just that she was 'Dragon-Cursed.' I'd love to yank him up and make him tell me, but then I'd be cast out and really be treated like a monster."
He drags his hand along the table in frustration, his claws digging furrows into the wood. "I know he knows more than that, though. I just don't get why he won't tell me."
He sighs, then says, "Sorry, it's just frustrating. How about you, how have you been?"
Seeing the scarred half-orc standing aloof on the very edge of the amphitheater, Qytheerah cannot help but stop by and investigate what all that brooding is about.
Poor Elda. And here I thought she had made herself a friend...
"Hey Grafelda. I've seen you and the outsider have some sort of altercation earlier. I know we haven't been the closest of friends in these last two years but... is everything alright?"
She smiles shyly. "Come on. If it weren't for you giving us the right rhythm, we might never have found the strength for that last pull. I owe you – if there's anything I can do, you just have to tell me."
Wandering around the Commons, it is hard for Qytheerah not stumble upon Arctorus, if only for her former team mate's considerable size. She finds him absent-mindedly watching an armwrestling competition, where a couple of militia boys are eager to prove their prowess against anyone willing to tackle them.
"I've never had the chance to properly thank you for your work as an anchor earlier. Without you, we'd probably have found ourselves face in the sand before the real competition even began. Which in turn would have meant having to suffer those guys' snipes for the months to come" she says, pointing to their former adversaries with a nod of her head.
"You know what, big guy? Most people in Trunau are either mistrustful or afraid of you, but I don't believe you're all that bad. You just happen to be tall and strong and... well... scaly I guess. That's what they're frightened by. Well, I'm not frightened either. Me, you, armwrestling, first to make it to two out of three wins. What do you say?"
There's a wide beam on her face as she suggests that. Whether it's just cockiness, or some sort of enthusiasm fueled by the day's high spirits, you can't really tell. Probably, it's just a good natured challenge – mixed perhaps with a genuine attempt at making friends.
___________________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________
Seeing the scarred half-orc standing aloof on the very edge of the amphitheater, Qytheerah cannot help but stop by and investigate what all that brooding is about.
Poor Elda. And here I thought she had made herself a friend...
"Hey Grafelda. I've seen you and the outsider have some sort of altercation earlier. I know we haven't been the closest of friends in these last two years but... is everything alright?"
She smiles shyly. "Come on. If it weren't for you giving us the right rhythm, we might never have found the strength for that last pull. I owe you – if there's anything I can do, you just have to tell me."
Grafelda starts, then slowly looks up when Qytheerah speaks. Uhn? Oh...Well. I was trying to help that girl, but she was really strange. She didn't know what a bluff was, and she didn't know what Belkzen was, and she thought Trunau was at war with the dwarves or some such b%+~@++s," Grafelda says. She kicks the ground angrily. "When I questioned her on why she was so god's damned strange, she acted like I'd insulted her and her entire family and stormed off cryin'. Bloody hells! Am I that ugly?"
Tharok listens with grave attention, and when the other man finishes, he sighs and nods his head.
"I hear you." He rolls his horn of ale within his hand, looking into the depths of the amber liquid, and then reaches down to poke a hole in the thin film of ice that's formed on its surface. Pulling his white-furred cloak closer about his shoulders, he nods his head.
"When I - well. After I returned from my foray north - I came back and felt like I had no purpose here. Nothing specific, other then man the walls and be a good citizen. And - that wasn't enough."
Tharok's voice is halting, as he tries to find the right words for the difficult memories.
"So I realized that although my heart did and always will belong to Trunau, the walls here were too - I don't know, small, or suffocating after awhile. I had to get out. Find another way to serve. Which is why I travel east to the mountains, keep a look out for orc movement and try to hunt those bloody damned big mountain goats to bring back as fresh meat."
He looks up then, catching Arctorus' eye. "Doing so allows me to be of help, while also allowing me outside. To be alone. To get away from memories, these walls, and the constant press of people. It does me good."
Tharok leans back in his chair. "It's also why I thought maybe you'd like to come when I leave in a few day's time. We'd ride east on my cart for perhaps a week till we reach the base of the Mindspin Mountains. Then hunt for goats and do some scouting for a month or so, and when we've got enough for a full load, we turn around and come right back."
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's a quiet time. Outside of hopeknife festivals, I usually enjoy silence and the stillness of nature. But you might like it. Hard work hauling those goats down from the high cliffs. Time spent traveling. Camping. Looking for enemy movement. I don't know. What do you think? Would you want to come?"
Skrioth manages to find the Ramblehouse, and presumably bumbles her way through getting food, warmth, and a room. All of these new experiences and challenges have left her emotionally drained.
"I thought the trip here was the hard part, but no, just being here is hard. So many strange customs and questions from the landwalkers. The food was acceptable, the singing was horrible. I am unsure what different sizes of beds there are, but there is only me. It was nice of that kindly older gentleman to offer to keep me company for the night. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble just sitting on that stool and I doubt he'd have been able to talk all night as he promised. At least this place is dry, and sheltered from the wind, unlike sleeping on the ground has been lately."
She curls up and prepares for sleep. "Tomorrow I will figure out this business of who keeps attacking Trunau. Despite Grafelda's statement to the contrary, it seems more likely that dwarves are the culprits. There was only the one dwarf on the team today, and he seemed badly injured, whereas orcs seem to be everywhere, including Grafelda. Yes, dwarves seems more like, but that for tomorrow."
"You performed well too. Congratulations on your victory, but are you sure you want to do this?" Arctorus asks. When she puts her elbow down on the table, prepared to go, he shrugs and sits opposite her, taking her hand carefully in his claw.
The first round went took some time, but surprisingly to Arctorus, the young human had some spunk to her. Whether it was still that the excitement from earlier was still flowing through her veins or what, he did not know, but she gradually managed to pull his hand over and touch his knuckles to the table.
A yelp of a cheer went up as a crowd gathered around them. The people thoroughly enjoyed watching the "Dragon-Man of Trunau" get bested by this young girl. As she reveled in the spotlight, Arctorus' blood began to boil with frustration.
Aiming to make a name for yourself at my expense, are you? I think not, young one. It will take more than that to best me!
He slams his scaly arm back up on the table, his brow furrowed in anger, and says, "AGAIN! Best of three, remember!?"
This time, be it fear of drawing the wrath of the scaled monster, the distraction of the crowd, or some other factor weighing against her, the tides had turned in Arctorus' favor. He slowly and steadily inched her knuckles to the oaken table they sat at. Without waiting for any sort of response from the crowd, he slams his elbow back up to the table and says, "AGAIN!"
The crowd around their table had grown rather sizable at this point, but Arctorus did not care, too lost was he in his desire to show these pinkskins just what happens when they incur the wrath of the Dragon.
As they locked up, Arctorus' claws clasped around her hand firmly, and again, the inevitable march towards the table top as he leaned in against her with all his weight, as well as his anger. Once their bout was over, he leaned back and caught his breath, finally managing to calm down and actually take in the sight around him: one of disgusted glares from most of those gathered.
Great. Now I've went and let my temper get the better of me, and have shamed this poor girl on her hopeknife day. And done nothing but prove these people right. I am nothing but a monster.
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Arctorus (5):
Despite his history, Arctorus finds the lure of a social experience hard to resist. For a brief moment, it seems the town has chosen to overlook his draconic countenance and stigma. Unfortunately, their regard is as fleeting as his proximity to the team of competitors who ushered in a victory for the Chief Defender's youngest daughter. The onus of interacting with the townsfolk now upon Arctorus, he finds himself in a familiar place: hoping for contact without any clue as to how to interface with his fellow Trunauans.
A nearby gathering of aged, inebriated men share in open discussion, and Arctorus thinks it as good a place as any to attempt to interject himself. The oldest is speaking as he approaches. "Always so eager to get their damned knives, clueless about what it means. It ain't a weapon! A hopeknife is a symbol—an obligation! What do kids know about such things? True enough, it marks ya as a member of Trunau's community, but it cuts any ties to youth. A hopeknife is there for one purpose, and we all know it well. Halgra put it best, if ya ask me. 'Hope ya never got to use it.' It's just a reminder 'bout how terrible a world it is we live in."
What few were listening seem a bit confused at first as the older gentleman stops speaking, staring over at Arctorus. Then, as one, they all turn to regard the behemoth behind them. Then, as one, they make polite excuses about the sudden necessity to be elsewhere.
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Qytheerah (20):
It is well known to Qytheerah that Rodrik enjoys a bit of a celebrity status in Trunau. He is the groomed-to-lead successor of his father, Jagrin, despite only being older than Kurst by a matter of minutes. He has an infectious spirit that lends itself well to being a Patrol Captain, and his presence has done wonders for what would have otherwise been a sagging morale problem. Perhaps the largest contribution to his being a celebrity of the village is his talent for writing, however. He has composed many ballads, stories, and plays, many of which have been displayed on the stage of the very Commons Qytheerah now stands in. But his latest poem has not struck quite the chord that his previous works managed.
Making her rounds through the throngs of revelers, Qytheerah cannot help but overhear one of the newest militiamen, a young man named Grelin Thaust, offering a rare praise of the poem most of Trunau rejected as absurd. "Come on, have you guys even read Rodrik's latest work? Don't let other people make your mind up for you—give it a read yourself! 'The Other Side of Contempt' is controversial, don't get me wrong, but that's what's so damned great about it. Rodrik isn't afraid to push the limits in his writing. I think Trunau should encourage that sort of thing instead of clapping their hands over their ears every time they hear something they don't like."
Judging from the sound of those gathered around young Grelin, the rest of the crowd disagrees.
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Much of the remainder of the night is passed enjoying what other games the ceremony has to offer. There seems to be no shortage of tests of strength, and nearly as many tests of one's stomach. Arctorus and Qytheerah participate in a great deal of the former, be it something as tame as arm-wrestling or something as strange to observe as the caber toss. Arctorus enjoys great success at most of the events, and it even earns him a few more moments of the crowd's approval and comradery before dissipating once more into curt awkwardness. Likely the most enjoyable contest—the crown jewel of Trunau's competitions—is the Siegestone Eat-off.
A large crowd has gathered for Ruby's celebration. Ruby herself is not exactly thrilled with the prospect. Given her tiny frame and the flavorless goop that the Siegestone produces, it's easy to understand her hesitance. Arctorus himself is loathe to be dragged into the event yet again. Despite the advantages afforded him his great size, his draconic heritage also greatly influences his food preference. Flavorless porridge, as it so happens, ranks pretty low on the list of things his stomach will put up with. Chief Defender Halgra decides to join in on the contest herself, beside her daughter Ruby, though she feigns defeat shortly after her youngest daughter nearly spills the contents of her stomach. Another man at the Longhouse is not so fortunate in his fortitude however. Already reeling from booze, his decision to join the event was short-sighted. Every ounce of the porridge he consumes mingles with an ungodly amount of ale when he begins spraying the table in front of him with projectile vomit. Several in the vicinity retreat in horror.
Many around the table eat a few bowls before admitting defeat, and the contestants continue to dwindle one by one until only two remain: Sara Morninghawk and a local tanner, a rotund woman named Vera. The rivalry grows fiercer by the bowl, but Vera begins to sweat from the strain even as Sara shows no signs of slowing in her onslaught. In the end, the tanner puts up an admirable fight, but Sara's bottomless pit wins out another year. Most are too full by this point to rouse to excitement, instead stumbling down the bluff to wherever home is, holding their stomachs with a permanent grimace.
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It is well known to Qytheerah that Rodrik enjoys a bit of a celebrity status in Trunau. He is the groomed-to-lead successor of his father, Jagrin, despite only being older than Kurst by a matter of minutes. He has an infectious spirit that lends itself well to being a Patrol Captain, and his presence has done wonders for what would have otherwise been a sagging morale problem. Perhaps the largest contribution to his being a celebrity of the village is his talent for writing, however. He has composed many ballads, stories, and plays, many of which have been displayed on the stage of the very Commons Qytheerah now stands in. But his latest poem has not struck quite the chord that his previous works managed.
Making her rounds through the throngs of revelers, Qytheerah cannot help but overhear one of the newest militiamen, a young man named Grelin Thaust, offering a rare praise of the poem most of Trunau rejected as absurd. "Come on, have you guys even read Rodrik's latest work? Don't let other people make your mind up for you—give it a read yourself! 'The Other Side of Contempt' is controversial, don't get me wrong, but that's what's so damned great about it. Rodrik isn't afraid to push the limits in his writing. I think Trunau should encourage that sort of thing instead of clapping their hands over their ears every time they hear something they don't like."
Judging from the sound of those gathered around young Grelin, the rest of the crowd disagrees.
'The Other Side of Contempt' uh? I'll have to find a way to get my hands on it. Poor Rodrik, those people don't want you to challenge their ideas. Instead they only see you as their Patrol Captain, if only you weren't born in a town constantly under siege... Qytheerah thinks as she claps her hands to show her approval of Grelin's speech.
Grafelda starts, then slowly looks up when Qytheerah speaks. "Uhn? Oh...Well. I was trying to help that girl, but she was really strange. She didn't know what a bluff was, and she didn't know what Belkzen was, and she thought Trunau was at war with the dwarves or some such b&%%%@%s," Grafelda says. She kicks the ground angrily. "When I questioned her on why she was so god's damned strange, she acted like I'd insulted her and her entire family and stormed off cryin'. Bloody hells! Am I that ugly?"
"What? No, of course you're not, Elda! Why would you say that?"
Saying such things... I might have had it rough, but at least I have felt the tender embrace of a mother, the loving voice of my parents telling me how beautiful I was to their eyes. No one has ever told you that, hasn't he, Grafelda?
"You may not be a slender, diaphanous elven creature like she is, but that doesn't mean there's no beauty in your strength, no harmony to be found in the stories hidden under the pattern of your scars. Anyone who can't see that is not worth your time" Qytheerah says, a gentle yet resolute tone in her voice.
"And yeah, she did strike me as strange, too. Now that I think of it, just a few moments before we started pulling she referred to us as 'land people', if you'd believe it. Weird, huh?"
"You performed well too. Congratulations on your victory, but are you sure you want to do this?" Arctorus asks. When she puts her elbow down on the table, prepared to go, he shrugs and sits opposite her, taking her hand carefully in his claw.
The first round went took some time, but surprisingly to Arctorus, the young human had some spunk to her. Whether it was still that the excitement from earlier was still flowing through her veins or what, he did not know, but she gradually managed to pull his hand over and touch his knuckles to the table.
A yelp of a cheer went up as a crowd gathered around them. The people thoroughly enjoyed watching the "Dragon-Man of Trunau" get bested by this young girl. As she reveled in the spotlight, Arctorus' blood began to boil with frustration.
Aiming to make a name for yourself at my expense, are you? I think not, young one. It will take more than that to best me!
He slams his scaly arm back up on the table, his brow furrowed in anger, and says, "AGAIN! Best of three, remember!?"
This time, be it fear of drawing the wrath of the scaled monster, the distraction of the crowd, or some other factor weighing against her, the tides had turned in Arctorus' favor. He slowly and steadily inched her knuckles to the oaken table they sat at. Without waiting for any sort of response from the crowd, he slams his elbow back up to the table and says, "AGAIN!"
The crowd around their table had grown rather sizable at this point, but Arctorus did not care, too lost was he in his desire to show these pinkskins just what happens when they incur the wrath of the Dragon.
As they locked up, Arctorus' claws clasped around her hand firmly, and again, the inevitable march towards the table top as he leaned in against her with all his weight, as well as his anger. Once their bout was over, he leaned back and caught his breath, finally managing to calm down and actually take in the sight around him: one of disgusted glares from most of those gathered.
Great. Now I've went and let my temper get the better of me, and have shamed this poor girl on her hopeknife day. And done nothing but prove these people right. I am nothing but a monster.
"OUR victory. And yes, I'm sure. Bring it on, scaly!"
The moment her elbow hits the table, she knows she has just bitten off far more than she can chew. The prospect, however, does not scare her. She has already had her glory today. Now it is about fun.
As hand and claw intertwine, she reviews in her mind all the countless hours spent performing her celestial devotions. Breathing slowly, she clenches every fiber in her muscles as she gets ready for the ordeal.
Falayna, grant me strength. Help your faithful show that a woman can, if not triumph, at least hold her own against such a formidable opponent.
And, indeed, much to her own surprise, not only she discovers she can fight Arctorus to a standstill: slowly but surely, she manages to lower his forearm until it touches the wood. Have I just beaten one of Trunau's strongest? A sense of pride and disbelief catches up with her; and indeed, it must have shown, for the dragon man is currently looking at her with a surly expression in his eyes.
As soon as round two begins, she feels there's something different in her opponent. His strength, at first just superhuman, is now overwhelming. His bicep is bulging, even bigger than it was before. Probably bigger than Sara's. She grinds her teeth and taps into any reserve she has, but it's soon clear that it's all for nothing. Her hand rapidly falls against her seemingly unstoppable foe. Her fight spent, round three soon becomes just a formality.
She's about to get up to congratulate her opponent when she notices the small crowd that has gathered around them. Faces looking at her with compassion, and him in commiseration. Her defeat she has accepted, but this she cannot stand.
"You think the big dragon man has hurt the little, helpless girl?" Qytheerah says, standing now to her full 6' 1". "Think again. I may be no Halgra, no Sara Morninghawk, but I work the forge day and night and what little time I have left I spend training with the militia. I'm as strong as any Trunauan – nay, probably even stronger than most. And yet Arctorus, here, has defeated me fairly and soundly. We should consider ourselves lucky to be able count on one such as him in the defense of our beleaguered hometown." Her arms folded against her chest, her posture is firm and solemn even as her voice betrays some of her anger.
"Arctorus, it's been an honor to have you both as a team mate and an opponent today. Hope to do it again soon" she says, extending her open palm in a friendly gesture.
___________________________________________________________________________ ___
Arctorus, confused to have someone in this town argue on his behalf, cautiously accepts the offered handshake in silence.
As the pitch black of night finally settles, and the cold begins to bite a bit too hard, the crowds begin to disperse from Trunau's Commons. In their wake is the carnage of their celebrating, which will no doubt serve as a busy morning for the militiamen tasked with cleaning up their practice yard. Above, the cover of cloud does not relent. The starless, moonless night is a foreboding reminder of exactly what Trunau is: a small collection of torch and lantern light in a sea of bleak darkness. None are more aware of this than Morgder as he finds a place to bed down beyond the city walls. But even to one as formidable as he, the chill is taking a bit extra with its toll, and he sets to getting himself a fire set up to stave off the worst of the frigid wind's brunt. As he finally coaxes the fire to life, he becomes keenly aware of a pair of men approaching—torches lit—from the direction of Trunau. Their feet crunch through the accumulating snow and stop just short of the dwarf's makeshift camp. Much to Morgder's surprise, it is the Patrol Captain brothers, Rodrik and Kurst.
"A gift." Kurst speaks curtly before depositing a large parcel onto the ground before Morgder. The offering contains a small tent, a bedroll, and a large bundle of tindertwigs. "The Meesons figure they owed you some payment for saving their store from the giant. After Rodrik reminded them, I mean."
Rodrik smiles as Kurst concludes, nodding in agreement with his brothers words. "Trunau recognizes those who help defend the walls, no matter what steps delivered them here. As such, I think it's time we formally recognized you, master Morgder. If you would accompany us back up top, I think we have much to discuss." Realizing suddenly that his words might seem a bit sinister, Rodrik raises his hands before him, palms forward, and shakes his head briefly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so alarming. Must be the militiaman in me talking. We're holding a small gathering at the Hopespring, and I think you'll like what we have to say. Kurst, help him with his things" A sigh from Rodrik's sibling follows as he regathers what was just dropped.
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At various points throughout the night, each of you are visited by the tandem of Rodrik and Kurst, plus whoever they manage to gather along the way. They seek out Morgder first, then make their way to the Ramblehouse to call on Skrioth. From there, they make their way up to to The Ivory Hall. Rodrik disappears inside for a few moments while Kurst waits outside with the others. After enduring the brunt of Halgra's annoyance for a few moments, Tharok is asked to join the congregation. From there, it's a short walk to the very top of the bluff where The Longhouse rests. Arctorus, Grafelda, and Qytheerah are all awoken and brought into the fold. Perhaps unsurprisingly, all of those who participated in the tug-of-war have been rounded up, minus Ruby, to share in this secret meeting.
Just beyond, the Hopespring bubbles merrily, somehow remaining unfrozen despite the considerable cold sweeping over the ledge where the waters spill down onto the lower flat of Trunau. The Grath brothers have constructed a small bonfire just beyond the enormous elm tree that rises above the Hopespring, warm enough and large enough to accommodate those who have been summoned. Once all have been gathered, Rodrik produces a large, green-tinted bottle of wine. With Kurst's help, he pours a cup for everyone gathered—including he and his twin. After he has indulged his own thirst for a moment, he looks into the eyes of those gathered. His brother Kurst, on the other hand, seems to be markedly avoiding eye-contact.
"First off, I apologize for calling on all of you so late. I had meant to do so earlier, but the celebration got the better of me. For that, you have my apologies, but I hope the merit of our discussion here tonight will warrant the rudeness of its beginnings." Rodrik kneels down and places his wine cup on the ground. He reassures himself with a glance to his brother before he continues speaking. "Trunau is my home, and always will be. And I love it. But in order for her to go on being the last bastion of Belkzen, she must be bettered. Too many are eager to follow only what they have known for fear of what they do not. Too many are close-minded." Rodrik stares directly at Arctorus as he says close-minded. "Arctorus, I apologize for how our father has treated you. You are a tremendous force for the preservation of Trunau, and you have been wronged in spite of this."
Kurst seems a bit nervous at his brother's words, but manages to add his own weight to the apology, saying, "Y-yes. . . father has been hard on you. And many of the town besides. Brother is right."
"And there are others yet who have been wronged." Rodrik states, glancing at Grafelda, then to Morgder. "As many of you have probably heard, our father Jagrin means to step aside as Patrol Leader. I am to be his replacement. Keeping Traunau thriving is paramount, but I do not mean to continue allowing old prejudices and stubbornness to ruin what could be accomplished. As such, I hope that each of you will support me and help me usher in this era of tolerance. There are troubling reports coming out of our northern patrols—orcish warbands on the move, congregating in large hosts. I need people of extraordinary talents I can depend on to see this town through the troubles ahead. And I must say, I agree with all of Ruby's selections during the celebrations that took place today."
Ah, quiet. Morgder was learning to like the town, but he still needs his silence, away from the crowds. As the fire lights and he sees the men he stands up, but relaxes when he sees who it is. He gladly invites the two to his fire.
He raises his one good eyebrow a the gift. "It's much appreciated. I'm sure I'll make good use of them." He looks between the two for a minute, thinking on it. That's one thing his father taught him, unless somebody has a blade held to your throat, it never hurts to take a moment to think it through. After a time he nods. "Alright, let's get to it."
Once everyone is gathered and the drink is poured, he gives it a curious sniff. It's been a long time. He takes a deep drink, enjoying it for the first time in a long while. At the words of apology Morgder shrugs. "Less crowded, way I see it." As his words continue Morgder stays silent. Well, that was unexpected. He remains silent for the time being, eying the others to see their various reactions.
Arctorus gives an appraising look at Rodrik, then asks, "And can you provide me the answers I have sought?"
Qytheerah gulps down the cup of wine she's offered, its astringent taste finally helping her wake up fully. She listens intently to what Rodrik has to say, nodding in agreement when he talks about the wrongs Arctorus and Grafelda had to suffer. Inwardly, though, she's swelling with pride at the thought Rodrik picked her as part of his newly formed 'inner circle'.
Once his speech is over, she meditates for a moment, looking each and every one of those gathered around the large elm tree in the eyes to gauge their thoughts. Then, she chimes in, breaking the silence that was once again slowly engulfing the Hopespring.
"I overheard some people talking about your last work today. 'The Other Side of Contempt', is it? Not everyone seemed to agree with the contents it espouses, alas. I'll tell you what I thought back then. Living in a town which is constantly under siege has made them stuck on their ways. They look at their leaders, and they would rather see defenders, not free-thinkers. And in my heart of hearts, I can't say I blame them".
"But I love Trunau. Even more so because it chose me, it gave me shelter when I was nothing more than another mouth to feed. And I think it would be selfish of me not to share this gift with others who would take it. For what is worth, I'm with you, Rodrik."
And may Falayna and Iomaede bless this meeting.
Tharok sits in silence to one side of the bonfire, listening intently as the brother's speak. His expression is inscrutable, and the firelight casts dancing shadows across his harsh features. With his thick-ruffed goatskin coat pulled about his rawboned frame, he looks like a primitive statue, a heathen effigy carved from time immemorial and left here to study the enigmatic depths of the fire.
He makes no overt movement to speak after the brother's have said their piece. Rather, he listens attentively as first Arctorus and then Qytheerah voice their thoughts and questions. With that, he turns back to the brothers, waiting to see how they respond.
Arctorus gives an appraising look at Rodrik, then asks, "And can you provide me the answers I have sought?"
Rodrik's face softens a bit at the question, but he responds by shaking his head. "Kurst and I were only kids when your. . . when the patrol went missing. Father's always been tight-lipped about it. I think maybe it reminds him of how mother was lost. I can't promise you answers about your parents, Arctorus, but I can promise you a real place in our community."
At Qytheerah voicing her agreement, Rodrik smiles at the young woman and nods. He then looks to the others expectantly.
When Skrioth first saw that the militiamen had come for her, she assumed the worst. "Grafelda! She must have turned me in as a spy!" However, once they explained that this was a friendly call, she relaxed a bit.
When she emerged from the Ramblehouse her body gave an involuntary shiver. "And I thought it was cold during the day?"
When the group was finally brought together at the Hopespring, Skrioth kept reminding herself to listen and learn, however after listening to the brothers and then Qytheerah, she couldn't hold back, "Do I understand that your people dislike one another merely because they are of different races?"
Arctorus wasn't sure what to say. He did not know if he could trust this man, despite growing up alongside him. However, Qytheerah trusted him, and she had shown her courage and quality earlier.
"Very well, I will support you in this, as long as you show your loyalty to us in turn."
He takes the claw of his left hand and makes a small cut along his right palm, then extends it towards Rodrik. Let us see if his actions will back his words.
"You may not be a slender, diaphanous elven creature like she is, but that doesn't mean there's no beauty in your strength, no harmony to be found in the stories hidden under the pattern of your scars. Anyone who can't see that is not worth your time" Qytheerah says, a gentle yet resolute tone in her voice.
"And yeah, she did strike me as strange, too. Now that I think of it, just a few moments before we started pulling she referred to us as 'land people', if you'd believe it. Weird, huh?"
Grafelda's frown sticks for a moment, but then cracks and slips away. She looks at Qytheerah to make sure the girl isn't mocking her. Qytheerah's honest expression reassures the witch. Then slowly, the corners of her mouth quirk up a bit. "Thanks, Theerah. I appreciate that."
"And there are others yet who have been wronged." Rodrik states, glancing at Grafelda, then to Morgder. "As many of you have probably heard, our father Jagrin means to step aside as Patrol Leader. I am to be his replacement. Keeping Traunau thriving is paramount, but I do not mean to continue allowing old prejudices and stubbornness to ruin what could be accomplished. As such, I hope that each of you will support me and help me usher in this era of tolerance. There are troubling reports coming out of our northern patrols—orcish warbands on the move, congregating in large hosts. I need people of extraordinary talents I can depend on to see this town through the troubles ahead. And I must say, I agree with all of Ruby's selections during the celebrations that took place today."
Grafelda had not yet fallen asleep when the boys came for them, so she wasn't too put off by the impromptu meeting. After listening to Rodrik's speech Grafelda nods. She lets the others say their pieces first. Then she says, "I'll help you as well. I owe Trunau my life."
Morgder sits and listens to the other responses, his one good eye shifting over them. I know Helena would approve. He mulls it over while he drains his cup of wine. Where the hell else are you going to go? You decided to give this town a shot, and here they are offering you a perfect opportunity. You have to be realistic about these things. Mordger grunts to break his silence once there is a suitable pause in the conversation. "By my blood and my bones, I will stand and fight with you."
"If he is in," she points at Morgder, "then I'm in. I can't let him go without me."
As one by one his companions voice their support, Tharok remains quiet, still watching, still listening. Finally he is the only one to have not yet spoken, and when he does, his voice is thoughtful.
"Rodrik, you speak as if you were about to accept the responsibilities of Chief Defender, not Patrol Leader." This is not mockingly said, but rather pensively so.
"Have you brought these concerns to my mother? She is one of the most open-minded and inclusive people I know. I am sure she would welcome your thoughts. How would you change these intolerances of which you speak?"
The frigid wind gusts, sending the flames streaming and fluttering between the logs into the dark.
"Unless you speak of a purely martial endeavor? You mentioned orcs massing in the north. Do you mean to adopt a new strategy to bolster our defense?"
Rodrik regards Tharok and says, "Your mother has done much for Trunau, but she entrusts a great deal to my father; the training of our fighting men and the methods they employ. And as great a force as he has been for our home, he has allowed his spite to cloud his judgment on more than one occasion. I can think of no better example than Arctorus." Rodrik removes his sword from its sheathe several inches, then presses his own palm against the blade's edge to cut it similarly. He presses his hand into Arctorus's and allows their blood to mingle in the symbolic gesture.
"How many overtures have we ignored from Lastwall, out of unfounded fears that they will somehow seize our freedom? How much the stronger would our mettle be with but a single detachment of the Knights of Ozem atop our gates? Amidst our patrols?" Rodrik watches as a small rivulet of blood trails down from his palm and drips onto the cold, snowy ground. "I have shed blood for Trunau, and I would gladly spill more. But we cannot let petty pride prevent us from seeing reality. The orcs of Urgir stay their march for now, and we even do trade with them. But how long can we expect them to be content with economy? When Grask Uldeth decides to march south, rallying many tribes under one banner, how long will Trunau hold out, alone and isolated? We can no longer spend our days condemning would-be allies. A time will come when we face not warbands, but a force of orcs like the hordes of old."
Skrioth thinks to herself, I just don't get it. Why all of this worry about orcs? So many of them live in Trunau already."
"I would know more of Skrioth before I work with her. Yesterday she made it clear that she was hiding something, and was acting very suspicious. We've only all just met her, how do we know she's not a spy for the orcs?" Grafelda asks. "Tell us where you're really from, and why you came here, and let us decide whether or not we can trust you, Skrioth."
Arctorus nods at Rodrik as they make their blood pact. He then turns to eye Grafelda and then Skrioth as the orc woman makes her accusation. He doesn't even realize he is doing it, but he has taken a couple of steps to put himself in a position to protect the elf-woman if necessary.
"Angradd, why does she hate me so?"
"Grafelda, and the rest of you, there is an irony to this accusation. On the one hand, it is proposed that you accept help from afar, and on the other Grafelda would have you refuse my help, because I have come from afar."
Skrioth rises and gazes at her feet as she begins to pace. "It is true that I am an outsider. It is true that I do not understand your ways. But it is also true that I seek to learn your ways. Not so that I can harm you, but because I seek to aid you."
She stares at the fire, and her voice changes, going down two full octaves. "I have seen a time of great trouble and strife coming to Trunau. There will be war. There will be death. There will be Giants, and possibly a dragon. It might be fate, or it might be the gods." Her voice returns to normal, "we have been drawn together, at this time and place, and I have been unable to resist the call, for it has pulled me here, through the great sea, and all the way from my village in the River Kingdoms."
She faces her accuser, "Grafelda, you were first to show me kindness when I arrived yesterday, but since you have chosen to accuse me of being a spy for the orcs. In fact, you and Tharok are the first orcs I have ever met. I have no love of orcs, or hatred of them for that matter, but if defending Trunau requires fighting them, I shall do so. When you asked yesterday, I answered your questions, so I do not understand. How could you expect a newcomer, even if she be from the great cities of Pitax to understand your ways on the first day she arrived. I come from a fishing village, as I told you. We compete in feats of agility and the arts, not strength, such as the games I saw today, but that does not mean our ways are wrong, and yours are right."
Finally she brings her boarding pike to the ready, and glances to Arctorus, "Please sit brave warrior, I can handle this." She turns her gaze back to Grafelda and with fire in her eyes, "if it is only strength that is respected here, then you can come and test mine now Grafelda." Skrioth drops into a fighting stance.
"We don't need to do this, Skrioth" Qyth says, putting herself between the two contenders.
"It's true that we respect strength, but it's also true it comes in many forms, with physical strength being perhaps among the lesser. Elda's point is a different one. Indeed, I must confess I share her doubts – everyone gathered here can proudly claim to be a Trunauan at heart, either by birth" she says looking at Tharok and Arctorus, "or adoption, like me and Elda. And as for Morgder, I say that anyone whose path into the city has led him straight through a boulder-hurling giant has more that earned his siege fee."
She pauses for a moment, as if pondering something, before resuming her talk. "That is, everyone but you, Skrioth. Still, how can all of you not see this is the very sense of what Rodrik has been trying to tell us? A Trunau more open towards the outside world, capable of seizing talents and opportunities when they present themselves?"
"You might be weird in your speech or manners, and I don't know what to make of your vision, but I don't think you're an orc spy. At least, I hope so – for I fear that if that's what orcs look like nowadays, next time a horde comes to invade it'll find Trunau's gates open and the population greeting it with open arms" she jests.
"So yeah. Welcome, graceful one."
Rodrik sighs as the situation in front of him escalates quickly, then speaks harshly, "Enough!"
"You surprise me, Grafelda. After all you have been through here, to think you would be the one to cast suspicion on a newcomer is disappointing. How many whispered of treacheries to come when you stumbled through our gates? How many whisper of it even to this day, despite how much you have given to Trunau's defense?" Rodrik makes a slow circuit around the fire, interposing himself between Grafelda and Skrioth. "Many view every half-blood that arrives with such unfounded suspicion, expecting a hidden blade where there is only a refugee seeking a home. I cannot help but think of all of those we could have helped, who could have earned a place here had they not been confronted with open suspicion. These prejudices only weaken our position here! We cannot continue letting paranoia drive away potential allies."
Finally, Rodrik wheels around to where Skrioth and Arctorus yet stand. "I apologize, miss. Precarious as our position is, it is sometimes difficult to reconcile the line between survival and kindness. However, I will warn you against further threats of violence, no matter the abuse. Unfairly accused or no, brandishing a weapon against a member of our community is forbidden."
Tharok awaits for the spike in tension to ease, and then once everybody has sat once more, resumes his line of questioning.
"Would you therefor seek a more formal alliance with Lastwall, Rodrik? Ask for a detachment of Knights of Ozen? What might they ask in return? And when does your father plan to step down? Are we planning for next year, or next week?"
His voice remains steady and calm, quiet and curious. "Can a new Patrol Captain make these decisions without the support of the Council?"
Grafelda snorts and raises one eyebrow at Skrioth. "I ain't gonna fight you, girl. I just want to hear the truth, before I let you watch my back."
"You surprise me, Grafelda. After all you have been through here, to think you would be the one to cast suspicion on a newcomer is disappointing. How many whispered of treacheries to come when you stumbled through our gates? How many whisper of it even to this day, despite how much you have given to Trunau's defense?"
"They were right to do so!" Grafelda says. "I have earned my place here honestly and with hard work. I'm not saying we should reject people different from us, just that we should be cautious around outsiders. Asking a few questions is different from excluding someone. I certainly answered plenty when I showed up to town." The half-orc witch shrugs, "Maybe you've never known true pain and terror, but I have and it's made me cautious."
Grafelda looks back to Skrioth. "If you're not a spy, fine, what are you? You say you came here from a fishing village half way across the world...why? I'd imagine anywhere would be higher on a list of tourist destinations. What was that prophecy you just spoke?"
What was that prophecy you just spoke?"
"I do not know your laws and rules, so I apologise for my ignorance of them." She places the butt of her weapon on the ground, leans against it and smiles. "If we are not to settle this by force, perhaps a singing contest, the way my people do it?"
She waits for Grafelda's response, but then interjects, "It was not a prophecy, it was a vision I have seen, in my dreams. Fire and war, Giants and dwarves. Of orcs, I have seen nothing. I was drawn here, by Angradd, although I know not why. So then, who sings first?"
"I think we should be willing to at least hear Lastwall out—offer them a moment of respite when they are passing through. I labor under no delusion that changing the hearts of Trunau will be easy, or accomplished in a short span of time. But it is a task I feel worthy of undertaking. Councilor terms are short. One needs but to demonstrate a better way, to win the hearts of the people, and it is a position that can be their own." Rodrik sees the weariness evident on the face of those gathered. He gleans a resistance by some he had hoped would not be there, but expected nevertheless. He looks tired.
"At any rate, I've stolen enough sleep from each of you tonight. Maybe tomorrow we can continue the discussion over a breakfast, when we've rested and had time to mull it over. I'm staying at the Ramblehouse tonight. Come dawn, I invite each of you to share a table with me. If any of you wish not to be a part of this, I understand fully, and harbor you no ill will. But I ask you to consider it at the very least. I think we can do good things—great things—together." Rodrik reaches for a small pale and heads towards the Hopespring to set about dousing the bonfire.
Echoing his brother's sentiments, Kurst finally speaks again, "Please consider what my brother has said. He's just trying to do what's best for Trunau, and. . . I think he's on to something. We can do better."
______________________________
TRUNAU
Temperatures dip steadily lower as the night progresses, even the shelter afforded by the walled buildings of Trunau doing little to quell the chill. The warmth of hearth and fire makes for a stalwart companion, however, and eventually sleep takes hold. When morning finally dawns, the situation outside has not improved. Though the wind has lessened to a light breeze, heavy snowfall dominates the air, coating the world in white and dull grays. It continues to gather upon the ground in growing mounds, though the streets are kept relatively clear thanks to the town's early morning traffic. Of the merry townsfolk encountered the evening prior there is no sign, replaced instead by dour and severe faced persons shuffling through the relentless weather to their daily routines.
Those who awaken in or approach The Ramblehouse in the morning hours are confronted by a bit of a commotion at the entrance to the inn. A trio of militiamen stand outside the doorway refusing entry to any who approach. The usual smell of Cham Larringfass's hearty breakfast stew is markedly absent this morning. Something is clearly amiss.
Arctorus tugs the heavy clothes he wore close around his neck as he trudged his way towards the Ramblehouse. He spies the militiamen at the door, and narrows his eyes at them. He then heads straight for the door.
Emerging from her sleeping closet at the Ramblehouse in the morning, Skrioth senses things are not what they should be. A strange current flows here.
She moves towards the common room to check things out.
Tharok watches Rodrik and his brother leave, his final words hanging in the air: hear Lastwall out. Councilor terms are short.
So there was some kind of offer or overture in the making. Rodrik had heard of something, something that his father wouldn't countenance. Tharok watches the brothers leave, and the questions they had chosen not to answer hang loud in the air:
When is your father stepping down? Have you brought these concerns to my mother? How would you change these intolerances?
Still, when the fire is doused and the others rise stiffly to leave, Tharok does the same. He doesn't immediately return to Halgra's, however, but rather accompanies Qytheerah to her home, talking in muted tones and airing his concerns, sounding her out, and allowing that he too is interested in learning more, hearing more, but that he's not about to swear to anything without more information.
Finally he returns home. His mother is asleep, and while he hesitates by the entrance to her chamber, he decides to not wake her. These matters can wait till morning.
When the household rises, it's the usual bedlam of shoving, shouts, and boisterous good natured wrestling for the breakfast. Almost a dozen brothers and sisters yet reside under Halgra's roof, and while most are full grown, old habits die hard.
Taking Halgra aside, Tharok asks her some guarded questions: have there been any overtures from Lastwall? Would she consider a stronger alliance if it meant bolstering Trunau's defenses? Did she know when the current Patrol Captain intended to step down?
Then, still uneasy, he dons his white goatskin cloak and heads down to the Ramblehouse, mind slowly churning with these thoughts and preoccupations. When he sees the militamen standing outside the door, however, he halts, and glances around to see if anything else is amiss before spotting Arctorus' large form lumbering toward the door. Hurrying, he catches up with his childhood friend, and together they approach.
Spy? Morgder looks at Skrioth's confused, pretty face. No brains for it, the orcs or her. However he decides saying that aloud probably would cause more harm than good, at least within the group gathered. He listens quietly, stewing over it. One of the skills he has mastered is saying a great deal less than he knows. Once they say their goodbyes he stands. "At breakfast than." And turns to go back to his little camp without another word.
He tent helps to bite off a little more of the chill, but he feels claustrophobic inside of it. Still, as it starts snowing he appreciates the cover more and gets some sleep beside the coals.
He wakes up early and spends some of the frosty morning hours out hunting. But his mind is elsewhere and he comes up empty for the day.
Morgder goes inside the walls to have some breakfast and listen to more talk, but finds himself barred out. He grumbles unhappily, walking up to the trio. "Wha' happened?" He says simply.
______________________________________________
During the short walk that separates the Hopespring from the Longhouse, Qytheerah listens intently to what Tharok has to say, silently letting him vent out his apprehensions before voicing her own opinions.
"I don't think anyone, not even Rodrik, would ever dare defy your mother, or even act without consulting with her first. I mean, to everyone here, Halgra is Trunau. Perhaps the only reason he summoned us is because he doesn't want such an esteemed figure to get her hands dirty with controversial opinions. You know, let her play the part of the impartial leader while we fight the battle for the hearts and minds. Though that's a big perhaps. And he surely seemed confident about his plan, whatever it may be."
He averts her eyes, as if afraid to be about to say something Tharok wouldn't like hearing. "Still, I think a lot of what he says makes sense, especially the part about us being but a single rock holding out against the tide. And I'd surely like to see more foreign faces around here." She pauses, then sighs. "Tell me frankly, Tharok. Do you think my feelings for Rodrik are clouding my judgment about this whole thing?"
The night has brought new questions buzzing in Qytheerah's mind, adding to those already left pending after their meeting by the Hopespring. Eager to see them answered, she wastes no time making her way out of the Longhouse, anxiously headed towards Trunau's only inn.
Arctorus' usual sleeping place is empty. He must have preceded me. Hope I didn't overslept!
This doubt quickens her pace, and in short succession, she passes the two inner gates separating the top of the plateau from the lower town. In just a couple of minutes that nonetheless seem hours to her, she reaches her destination, only to be greeted by the gut-wrenching vision of three militiamen blocking the entrance. Her heart starts beating fast; dark thoughts begin to swirl in her head: thoughts of betrayal, of conspiracies uncovered, of violent plans hastily carried out. Three of her companions are already there, but she hastily bypasses them to talk straight to the guards.
"What happened here? Why are you preventing us from entering?"
__________________________________________________________________
Grafelda grudgingly accepts Skrioth's explanation of divine calling to Trunau, and leaves it at that. She returns to her bed as quickly as possible, not being accustomed to being out late at night.
In the morning she makes her way to the Ramblehouse, cursing the cold as she pulls her cloak tightly about herself. When she sees the situation in front of the inn, she jogs the rest of the way. Grafelda arrives just in time to hear Theerah's inquiry, and waits to hear the response.
As people begin to approach the door, two of the militiamen step forward and cross spears before the only means of egress into The Ramblehouse. Behind them, the third member of the guard detail takes one step forward, his ruddy face a tapestry of weathered age lines framing dull, blue eyes. All save for Morgder and Skrioth recognize him as Brendeth Hull, one of the most senior of Trunau's patrolmen. He is not a particularly wordy man, but he's often regarded as one of the hardest men to be encountered in the whole of the town.
His voice cracks in a throaty cough before he addresses the gathering throng of onlookers. "No one takes a step inside until Jagrin says otherwise. No one!" The situation seems tense for a moment, until the door behind him opens to reveal Kurst, sullen faced with bleary and red-rimmed eyes.
"It's okay, Brendeth, you can let these ones pass." Defeat is evident in Kurst's words as he addresses the veteran patrolman.
"As you say, lad." Brendeth nods to those before him and steps aside to let each pass.
Inside, the inn is sorely lacking in what is typically a very welcoming ambiance. Two enormous hearths on either side of the room sit cold and empty save for scant embers from the night prior. The common room is empty of any patrons, replaced instead by a cold draft and frosty windows. It is a disturbing sight to behold for those who call Trunau home. The Ramblehouse usually stands as a small bastion of cheer in an otherwise bleak place. Seeing it cold, empty, and lacking in the fellowship it is famous for is akin to seeing a corpse. Seeing the mask of depression on Kurst's face as he leads all of you to a table does little to dispel the macabre impression.
Kurst attempts to look each of you in the face as he speaks, but ultimately fails, his eyes studying the top of the table as he weakly manages, "It's Rodrik. He's dead."
Morgder gives a snarl and widens his stance as words get heated, but relaxes when Kurst steps out. Still he's on edge. Something ain't right here.
Inside he finally sees it. He swears under his breath, then shakes his head and kicks a chair. "S~~*!" He looks back at Kurst. Poor lad. Those two were close. He was more than just a community lost to him.
______________________________
Qytheerah's eyes narrow as she's about to forcibly make her way into the Ramblehouse when she hears Kurst's voice granting them access. It's the look on his face, though, that definitively and conclusively breaks any fight that's left in her. A look that can only forebode her worst fears.
Kurst attempts to look each of you in the face as he speaks, but ultimately fails, his eyes studying the top of the table as he weakly manages, "It's Rodrik. He's dead."
I wouldn’t even have a hopeknife to exchange. Plus, he’s a Patrol Captain. He can have every girl she likes – why should he pick a cripple?
Remember, we're supposed to pull against Rodrick, not fall gratefully into his arms.
Trunau is my home, and always will be. And I love it. But in order for her to go on being the last bastion of Belkzen, she must be bettered.
I think we can do good things—great things—together.
Please consider what my brother has said. He's just trying to do what's best for Trunau, and. . . I think he's on to something. We can do better.
Do you think my feelings for Rodrik are clouding my judgment about this whole thing?
A plethora of voices scream in unison within Qytheerah's mind. She slams her fist on the table, one, two, three times, her head lowered, unable to sustain Kurst's – or anyone's – gaze. When she finally finds the strength to speak, it's barely a whisper.
"How..."
_____________________________________________________________
Tharok knows and respects the guards at the door to the Ramblehouse. At the sight of their grim faces and crossed spears, he raises his hands indicating that he means to cause no trouble. Already, however, his suspicions are raised, and when Kurst emerges, they solidify.
Following inside silently, he feels his heart hammer as the words are spoken, and for one of the few times in his life feels his blood actually run ice cold. His stomach knots, and he frowns so as to hide the apprehension that swamps him.
Trunau stands because its constituent members stand together. United, they are able to do the impossible. As such, it's unheard of for one of their number to be killed. Murdered. It's not just an attack on Rodrik, though that's foul enough - it's an attack on the very fiber of Trunau, on the very unity that holds it together.
As Qytheerah begins to shake and pounds the table, Tharok steps up next to her, his eyes on Kurst, and places a steadying hand on her shoulder. All his gesture is meant to convey is, you're not alone, we're here together, we'll deal with this.
"Kurst. Damn." Words fail him, and his voice shakes with emotion. "You have - for what it's worth - my condolences. All of ours. What happened? When? Are there any suspects?"
Skrioth slowly observes the faces and reactions of those around her. It is most unfortunate that he passed away. He seemed to be a man with ideas and a plan.
She looks at Kursk, "I am quite sorry for your loss. I am most humbled to have been one of the last to have seen him when he was alive."
Arctorus follows the others to the table, but remains standing nearby rather than taking a seat. He looks down to the cut on his hand, still fresh, before closing his claw into a fist and clenching his teeth.
I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. Of course the first time I get someone on my side, willing to try to help me find out what happened to my family, and why I am here, someone kills them. Whoever did this...they will pay...
He then looks to Kurst and says through his clenched jaw, "How did it happen, Kurst. Tell me."
Grafelda files in after the guards let them through, glad that it wasn't too much trouble to find out what's happening. A feeling of dread builds in her stomach as she walks into the Ramblehouse. The sight of the cold empty hearths brings genuine sadness to her. Grafelda often seeks solace in the warm cheer of this place. When Kurst tells them what happened, she is shocked. "What?!" she blurts. She grips the table's edge hard with both hands to steady herself, and waits for more information.