"Why was he next in line if he'd just been promoted?"
"Nepotism?" Varys offers. "Although it may have been earned as well."
Clover shrugs. "Or he was promoted to the job that's next in line?"
Sergeant Omast, do you think anyone might have been jealous of him? At work or in love?
"Hmpf. Not likeelly." Omast said, slurring his words more seriously. "Likes too manny haf orcks. Liked." He suddenly burst into tears.
Then fell forward onto the table, snoring. His mug tipped over, dumping ale all over the table and rolled off to hit the floor with a clump.
Thorfinn was crossing the tavern with a keg on his shoulder when he spotted you at your table.
He dropped the keg in surprise, then flung his arms wide.
"Friends! I woke up and couldn't find you!" He shouted, then stepped forward and used his enormous arms to sweep you all into a bone crushing mass hug. "Glad I am to see you all well!"
"Oh," Varys says, staring at the quickly-drunk-to-unconsciousness sergeant and the growing spill of beer. He picks up his journal before the spill can creep too far down the table.
Liked too many half-orcs. Varys had noticed a certain tension in the town. Half-orcs were accepted to a certain extent, but there was still an element of racism among some of the townsfolk. That was evident enough in the "too many" comment.
This had been mostly unhe--
Oof!
Varys barely registers Thorfinn while being lost in his thoughts, and then he finds himself lifted off the ground. Varys was a fairly tall half-elf. Thorfinn was taller by a wide margin.
"Good morning," he squeaks. Another squeak, and Willow bursts free from a near-suffocating pocket and begins running around Thorfinn's broad shoulders. "You were very drunk last night."
Before he begins to turn blue, Varys taps on an enormous bicep for release. "This isn't a wrestling match," he rasps.
"Ha! Thorfinn! Where've you been, mate? I missed you!"
Thorfinn let you all go and leaned on a couple of your chairs with a creak.
"I have no idea! I woke up in the stables with a blue ribbon." He said and shrugged. "I was quite proud! But mighty puzzled as to what I had to do to get it. Plus none of you were around. So what have you all been doing?"
"I have no idea! I woke up in the stables with a blue ribbon."
Perhaps bringing the sergeant to the tavern had not been the best idea. Varys catches his breath and then looks back and forth between Omast and Thorfinn.
"Well, do you remember the kindly patrol captain that we met last night, Rodrik Grath? He died. His brother asked us to investigate. This drunk man was his patrol partner, and we were trying to ask him questions before...well, before he passed out."
The half-elf furrows his brow. "I don't suppose anyone has a dose of alchemist's kindness, or a draught of Polypurpose Panacea to share with our quarry."
Asher stands and walks to the bar, grabs a pitcher of what he presumes is beer, returns to the table, and holds it over the passed-out form of the patrol sergeant. "Funny enough, I think I found some of that 'alchemist's kindness' you want." He sips at the beverage and winces. "Well, this is certainly not brewed by 'Alchemist Brewers of Cheliax', but let's pretend for this little...ah, venture...that it is a dose of ABC's finest stout, the 7 sins of the Diabolique shall we?"
He upends the pitcher onto Omast's head.
Clover frowns with disappointment as she looks at the passed out sergeant.
"Maybe we could take him somewhere more comfortable to lie down as a start?
Varys joins Clover in frowning.
"Asher, that's not alchemist's kindness!"
Varys suddenly worries whether they'll have to pay for all of that beer, too. He had brought some extra funds on this trip, but had not planned on spending it all in the very first town he came across, and certainly not on libations.
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Thorfinn reached out and picked up Sgt. Frumms head and peered closely at him. Then he let the mans head thump to the table again. Frumm snored on without interruption.
"Oh yeah, he's way out of it." He said nodding.
He frowned and stood thinking.
"Hm. Well, if we're in a hurry, there's an old home remedy my ma used to use on my pa when he was drunk out of his mind. What was the recipe...
"Cayenne pepper," He said, counting on his fingers; "Mustard--the hot kind, ipecac, asafetida... and oil of cloves... Or was it? No, it was croton oil. Wait, yeah, and a thimble full of blasting powder. That'll do it."
"If he's so far gone that a pitcher over the head won't wake him, Thorfinn, I don't know what will."
"Good to see you, thorfinn" He observes the outcold Frumm "I've never seen him this out."
"Maybe we should wait and find him again tomorrow, earlier in the day."
Varys blinks, listening to Thorfinn explain his "remedy". "That sounds... expensive. And dangerous." He looks at Clover. "I agree that waiting may be a good idea. Should we take him back to the barracks?"
"Yes, that's far too much to pay."
"Thorfinn, if you wish to spend your winnings as you please at the Barterstones, I won't stop you. But can you help us take him to the barracks to sleep this off first?"
Grobradon is glad he's not the only one reluctant to part with that much just for reviving a man Assuming he lived through the cure
Thorfinn waived a hand.
"Nah, it's on me. I just won some money taking a dive for some guys trying to impress their girls. I'll take this guy to the barracks and feed him the cure. Hope you guys have a good line of patter, 'cause he's not going to be happy. If he's not exploded." He said, picking Sgt. Frumm up like a kitten.
"It'll take about an hour all told. You gonna follow me or do other stuff until then?" He asked.
Asher turns and looks at the others. "What do we need to do still?"
"What about going to find his girlfriend instead of just waiting around?"
"That's good, yeah. Where do we find her?"
Rodrik’s girlfriend, Brinya Kelver, occupies humble rooms in a boarding house just northwest of the Commons. You catch her in an unenviable state, her face wracked with grief and stained by hours of tears.
Inviting you in she composes herself as best she can, but breaks into sobs periodically.
"Miss, ahh...miss Kelver. My name is Asher. This is my friend Varys," he says gesturing to the half-elf, "and you may know Clover and Grobradon, both locals here in Trunau." He sits down next to her, thinking for a moment, before continuing. "Kurst asked us to look into the...the death of, well of your fiancé, if I am not mistaken."
Varys feels uncertain about leaving Frumm to Thorfinn's maniacal devices, but feels like things will be okay when all is said and done. He trails along with the group, waxing on about the possible deadly interactions of the substances the wrestler had been proposing, counterbalanced with positive (and unexpected) interactions. He almost doesn't notice the state of Brinya Kelver's abode. He reminds himself to put on the sad, concerned face. Furrowed brow. Pursed lips, pulling the corners down.
[b]"Yes, what can you tell us about Rodrik? Had he made any enemies?[/ooc]
It wasn't therapy, but hopefully it wasn't too forward, or too soon.
"We're so sorry for your loss; the man was an amazing poet I... I admired him." Grobradon nods
She nodded; then gathered herself together and started talking about Rodrik.
She explained that the couple had been seeing each other for months, and Rodrik finally proposed to her using his mother’s ring.
Even once they were engaged, Rodrik was careful to keep the relationship hidden from his father, who wouldn’t approve of the match. Decidedly not.
Brinya grudgingly respected her beloved’s wishes for privacy, though his cowardice inspired no shortage of annoyance as well, and was a source of contention between them.
It didn’t help that Rodrik soon became preoccupied with some sort of investigation, what he called “his greatest work”—the details of which he refused to share with Brinya.
To make matters even worse, Rodrik’s father, Jagrin, did finally find out about the couple’s relationship, and repudiated his son for betrothing himself to a “filthy half-orc.”
At Grobradon's statement of admiration, Brinya smiled fondly.
Brinya talks at length about his beautiful poems (which initially attracted her to him), and about how Rodrik was always writing something. She confides that Rodrik kept a journal as well, and suggests the entries he wrote up to his final night might provide insight into his murder. Unfortunately, she has no idea where the journal might be.
Obviously, there’s his room in the Ramblehouse, but Rodrik also frequently went to Trunau’s Sanctuary with his writing.
According to Brinya, Rodrik said he had a “thoughtful muse” there, but he never elaborated.
Brinya had always just assumed her lover was finding solace in devotion to Iomedae, but now she wonders if there really was someone at the church—someone who might know more about what happened to Rodrik, or worse, betrayed him.
Asher listens intently as the woman explains her story. "His greatest work. Hmmm." He looks at the others. "Could be that is what he was poking around in that the mystery guest felt motivated to deal with him. Likely."
Varys is too busy jotting notes down in his journal ('more racism--why?') to notice anything else, but his pointed ears perk up at the mention of Rodrik's journal.
The secret compartment in the desk. But it was empty.
And then there's this thoughtful muse. Melira, perhaps? Maybe not, unless Rodrik was two-timing his betrothed. A fey, then, or an outsider (preferably one of the celestial types)?
They should return to the Temple, then. Just because High Priestess Varvatos was either unhelpful or daft didn't mean that there might not be someone (or some thing) else of interest there.
Varys looks up from his notes and fixes his gaze on Brinya. Think of something appropriate to say. Hmmm...
The half-elf pulls his spectacles down further on the bridge of his nose before ultimately removing them. "Before he died, Rodrik placed an order with Sara Morninghawk for a hopeknife engraved with the phrase 'For Rodrik, my love'. The knife was not retrieved upon completion, to our knowledge. Do you know anything about the purchase or why it may have been made?"
Brinya looked embarassed.
"Well, when we got engaged, we traded hopeknives to symbolize our union, and had Sara Morninghawk engrave them with our love notes.” Pulling at her heavy silver necklace, Brinya reveals her own hopeknife
dangling from the chain. “See? This was Rodrik’s hopeknife. It says, ‘For Brinya, my love.’"
Brinya goes on to reveal that Rodrik lost the hopeknife she had given him in the course of his investigation.
When she learned of the loss on the night of Ruby’s hopeknife ceremony, Brinya was furious, and she told Rodrik she didn’t want to see him again until he found it or otherwise made things right.
If she had known that night would be the last time she would see her beloved, Brinya laments, she would have acted much differently.
With Rodrik’s death, Brinya’s anger at him quickly transformed into overwhelming grief, and she unfairly blames herself for his death.
Ah, that's right: the tradition here was an exchange of rings and knives. That turned the macabre into something more endearing. Varys had read something to this effect on the bumpy, snore-filled ride from Kaer Maga.
But the loss--that was curious, especially the timing. Then perhaps Rodrik had retrieved the knife initially, but it had been lost later. Or he had lost it and then put in the order for a new one to try to recover it.
Furthermore, the knife that had been used to cut Rodrik's wrists was neither Rodrik's nor Brinya's. It had been that unfinished, unengraved, dull, practically handle-less affair.
"If it is lost, then it can yet be found. There is divinatory magic designed to locate objects. Perhaps there is a wizard or cleric within or near Trunau who can employ such a spell to help with the finding. Otherwise, we can keep looking for it."
Then again, Sister Varvatos had indicated there were likely no arcanists in town. Again, she had been very unhelpful.
Varys looks at the others before asking a follow-up question. "Have you heard of someone named Melira?"
Brinya frowned in thought, but shook her head.
"I'm sorry, I don't recall anyone by that name."
Varys nods. "That's all right. No one else does either."
He realizes that the question is probably coming across as odd to all of the people he asks. But it would be fruitless to ignore the question just because it's odd.
He looks at the others expectantly. "That's all that I have for Ms. Kelver."
"Do you or anyone else have any idea what he was investigating? Or where?"
"I'm sorry; I have no idea. I asked, but he wouldn't tell me. I don't think he told anyone. Maybe if you could find his journal he might have written it down there."
He notes the gesture, and knows the culture and sees the guilt "We'll look for the journal. I , please, don't blame yourself if your last talk with him was a disagreement. This is not your fault." Perhaps it's not part of the investigation, but it feels decent to say so
Varys is glad that Grobradon has kinder words than he is able to muster. He finishes jotting down a few notes and stands up to leave.
Outside the boarding house, Varys flips back and forth between the pages of his journal. He draws his hand up in the air and seems to, in his own mind, conjure the corkboard back at the Ramblehouse. He draws his finger between a few different points, adjusting the ethereal board. He mutters a few things under his breath, shaking his head and seeming to take pins out and put them back in in different locations.
"Yes, well we have followed up most of the leads and learned some useful information. We could seek the deceased's father, although that might be more of a character witness than useful to gain intelligence. The smith's apprentice, Urnsul, would likely prove similar. Given reports from Brinya and Sara respectively, I don't think either will be particularly friendly either. Unless I am mistaken, our search may be leading us back to the Sanctuary to find Rodrik's thoughtful muse."
And perhaps Sister Varvatos would be more helpful this time around. Clerics could divine the location of objects, could they not?
Beyond that, Omast would need to sober up before they could gain much more from him. It could potentially be worth investigating the graffiti more on their own as well. But next, to the Temple.
"Let's head there then."
Grobradon nods
"Yes, this muse person might be able to point us toward the journal, which seems to be the thing we need most."
You arrive at the Sanctuary of Iomedae and have to wait a few minutes while the High Priestess Tiyari Varvatos finishes up the noon service for the handful of worshipers there.
When she gets off and removes her ceremonial helm, she greets you politely in the refectory where a light repast is laid on.
"Welcome, gentlemen and ladies. How goes your investigation?" She asked.
"Priestess." Asher nods, greeting her. "Thank you for letting us inspect the body earlier. We were told that Roderik comes here regularly—" Asher interrupts himself, clearing his throat, "came here, excuse me—to visit before he died? Possibly to meet with someone."
TYARI VARVATOS
She thought for a moment.
"Well, I have noticed the Patrol Captain meeting with Katrezra, a long-time half-orc resident of the Sanctuary. Fairly frequently in recent weeks. I have occasionally overheard the two of them muttering something about ghosts, half-orcs, hopeknives, and white swords, but I don't know any details.
"Old Katrezra claims to have visions; and though I cannot vouch for their prophetic accuracy, I do believe they are more than just hallucinations."
Varys practically blanches as the priestess finally reveals critical information. She had not thought to share this information with them on their previous visit? The half-elf almost snaps and says as much, but stops himself.
Instead, he pulls out his journal and begins scribbling furiously. Here at last was a connection about the paint. The investigation was deepening.
"Katrezra," he repeats after he scribbles a few notes. "May we speak with this person?"