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Lightning webs illuminate the sky as thunder can be felt rumbling on the ground. The rain has fallen heavily this spring, causing the trees of this hillside to bud and grow full quickly. Your attention is pulled towards a ramshackle ruin of a small fort whose gate is laying open. A small group of rough men in worn mismatched armor are pushing a short and stout hooded figure ahead of them. Walking through the gate is a tall figure that you can’t quite make out. One of the men that’s encouraging the hooded to continue, hits him with his quarterstaff in the back of the leg. The figure falls but catches themselves with an outstretched arm into a puddle. *Splashing*
Splashing settles as children are throwing stones into the river, Tanu River as you well know it. They are playing because it is Freeday, a day of rest. A day without chores, or work, or gathering stones. Running around the feet of the elders about the “commons” of the Hamlet. Man of them shouting after the children, threats of putting them to work mucking out the stalls of the stables.
Horse hooves sink and with a suction slurp pull free as the wagon adds to the ruts of this soggy courtyard. The lightning lights up the tall figure, a muscular and attractive half-elf woman in half-plate armor Morningstar at her side. The hooded figure stands barely chest high to the half-elf. Pulling the hood free with a snap of the fabric reveals a dwarven man. She tosses the hood to the ground… The dwarf is thrown into a cell, bruised and bloodied. He lays on the stone floor as a chain falls from around his neck displaying a disk with an axe on the face of it. One of the guards is cranking a handle raising a bucket from a well just outside of the cell. Tossing the water onto the dwarf, the man lets the bucket drop into the well. The rope creaking the wheel as it lowers.
The constant creaking of the Pebble Mill is something that everyone that called Pebble Mill home have blocked out. It can be heard before the outer wall is seen from the road. It is the sound of stability for everyone in the hamlet.
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Winter has passed and spring is here. There is large open topped wagon with a team of heavy draft horses hitched in front of it. The driver and workers all wear the sigil and colors of House Nenonen. Armas Nenonen, the Duke of Languard. They are dismounting and make their way into the mill.
Where do you find yourselves, and what are you up to on the morning of this day of rest?
Krezen was already in Pebble Mill when the wagon arrived, having come down early to trade a few spring furs. He stood near the millpond now, a small stack of pelts bundled at his feet, watching the heavy horses snort clouds into the cool morning air.
The sigil of House Nenonen caught his eye. Nobles didn’t usually bother with Pebble Mill.
He shifted his weight, folding his arms across his chest as the workers dismounted and headed into the mill. The other villagers gave them wide, curious looks; Krezen simply frowned, more puzzled than suspicious.
Freeday was meant for rest, but clearly someone had business.
For the moment, he stayed where he was - quiet, observing.
In a village this small, everyone knows everyone, more or less and on a Freeday, everyone , liberated from their labor, can wander where they will. Jermaine Purth is glad he at least got out of his family house. His mother, Jenevieve Purth is a wonderful woman, a lovely woman really, full of love; but she still treats her eldest son like he’s a child at times (To her credit, she’s gotten better), and it can drive the scrawny and short Jermaine up the proverbial wall. At least she doesn’t have the perpetual look of embarrassment Jermaine’s father Jeram has when he sees his eldest, nor the smirking smug look of physical superiority Gand (Jermaine’s younger brother) often gives his ‘big’ brother.
So, despite the fact he is no outdoorsman, and often prefers to spend free time reading, Jermaine is actually out and about just to avoid said family. So it is, that he dares the chance of rain and lightning, considering seeking out Brathas only to observe the Driver and worker dismounting and heading towards the mill.
His eyes lock onto the situation with curiosity, and a hint of disappointment. Not a courier I don’t think, so no chance of a missive from the Black Tower or any other who might have received my letters in interest in apprenticeship to be a wizard In his late teens, most would probably think of him as too old for the training anyway, but Jermaine had studied on his own as as possible. He liked to think he knew more of arcane magic than any non-caster in Pebble Mill. The small man’s dreams remained large regardless, and for now, well, whatever this was, it was at least a distraction.
Anvar Erdukr cursed under his breath as the chill spring mist clung to his beard. The old dwarf’s boots squelched in the mud while he checked the straps on his wagon for the third time. Jenny, his mule, flicked an ear and snorted, unimpressed by the fuss. Months on the road meant every buckle mattered. From the corner of his eye, Anvar watched the Duke’s men roll in—a massive, open-topped wagon pulled by draft horses, their harnesses gleaming with oil. The sigil of House Nenonen glared from every tabard, bold as a challenge. Anvar spat into the mud. “Bloody nobles,” he muttered. “Always making a show.”
Nearby sat Lodric. A mountain of a man, he was far from what the bards would sing about when it came to heroic figures. He was as broad as he was tall, with both a chest, and a stomach, that resembled a barrel. Despite it being Freeday, he had spent many an hour at his shop at work. For people needed to eat regardless of the day. But now he had closed shop, having done the minimum that was needed, and he was taking a well deserved break. He had brought his lunch, which included a copious amount of red wine, with him, and he was enjoying watching the horrible weather from the cover under which he sheltered.
Seeing Anvar from where he sat, he chuckled. ”Yeah. But we can only stare at the trees for so long before it gets boring. At least the ‘nobs strutting around keeps things interesting.”
Anvar looked up from the worn leather strap he’d been fussing with, his bushy brows knitting into something between a smile and a scowl. The big man stood there like a tree trunk, arms folded, watching the dwarf work.
“Ah, butcher,” Anvar rumbled, his voice gravel and smoke. “If ye be looking for adventure, then sign on with me for a season or two. I could be using a strapping lad like yerself to give a hand. Me old bones are beginning to creak and groan with all this travelling!”
It was the same complaint he’d been trotting out for twenty years, and the same lie—his bones were as stubborn as ever. But the road was long, and the company of a strong back never hurt. He spat into the mud and tugged the strap tight, pretending not to notice the Duke’s men unloading crates from their wagon. House Nenonen’s colors gleamed like fresh blood in the morning mist.
Anvar’s eyes narrowed. “Mark me words, lad,” he muttered under his breath, “where nobles ride, trouble follows.”
Lodric gave a booming laugh in response. ”Adventure? For a fat lout like me? Why, I’d drink us dry before we left town. And besides, who’d be feeding all these fine folks with me gone? The ‘nobs?” He waved at the procession. ”My answer is the same as last time. Sit and drink with me, and the future will let itself be known.”
Brathas had been in a barn, working on a scene with the rest of the theater troupe.
Sampo, at 16 a year younger than Brathas, was the most handsome lad in the village and was generally the male romantic lead in any story. His parents were farmers and he took every opportunity to shirk his duties.
Venla, a year older than Brathas, was fairly tall and broad-shouldered with long brown hair. She was studious and diligent and typically played the female romantic leads. Her parents were farmers and brewers (though Venla's attention to detail had made her the primary brewer), and today she had brought a jug of small beer.
Tilda, a scrawny and energetic 14-year-old, was the youngest member of the troupe. She brought skill at acrobatics and mime to her performances, often cast as a fey but sometimes a younger romantic lead. Her father had died of illness two years ago, leaving her mother to raise six children. The theater troupe were sort of unofficial guardians to Tilda, keeping her (relatively) out of trouble and even on occasion watching some of her younger siblings.
The scene wasn't working out as well as hoped. The book that Anvar had brought back, "Tusk Love," had to be adapted in such a way that it retained at least some of its risqué nature, but no so much as to get the show shut down. Currently the idea was to move some scenes behind a curtain with lanterns casting shadows, and then use props to make the shadow-play too ludicrous to cause much offense.
"Let's take a break," said Brathas, pouring a bit of the small beer for himself.
"Sounds like something is going on by the mill. Shall we go see?"
It is raining outside, so the youths put on their cloaks before heading out.
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"Huh. Nobles, or at least their retainers."
Brathas sees the half-orc Krezen off by himself, and the butcher Lodric talking to Anvar.
He moves over to Jermaine and nods. "Any idea what's going on?"
Brathas sees the half-orc Krezen off by himself, and the butcher Lodric talking to Anvar.
He moves over to Jermaine and nods. "Any idea what's going on?"
Jermaine looks intrigued enough at what he's watching, but when Brathas walks up to talk to him, the scrawny runt of a man looks up at his much (MUCH) taller theater friend and says "Not as much as I should know. I never did learn more about nobles and their going on," Jermaine doesn't like admitting ignorance, finding it a capital sin, "Noble business to be sure, and quicker eyes than mine may have seen more. I looked to see if a courier was with them, no such luck. How goes rehearsal?"
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Thunder rolls over Pebble Mill, rattling the shutters and shaking loose drips from the mill’s old rafters. Jormvo has claimed his usual refuge beneath the mill’s loading shed, just far enough under the overhang to stay dry, just close enough to the open air to justify not going indoors. His cloak is draped over his shoulders like a defeated banner, his boots are off, and his hanbo rests across his knees like an old friend keeping watch.
A dented tin cup of ale sits beside him. It smells faintly of barley, strongly of comfort, and unmistakably like Jormvo.
The hamlet is quiet for a Freeday. No children near the river, the Tanu is swollen, angry, and loud, its dangerous current commanding healthy respect from even the boldest youth. The commons is filled instead with the murmurs of adults trying to enjoy their rest while eyeing the storm. Jormvo hums in time with the steady creaking of the millwheel, as if the sound is his personal companion.
The slurping, sucking sound of hooves through mud draws his eye. A House Nenonen wagon rolls into the courtyard, workers hopping down and bracing themselves against the rain. Jormvo lifts his tin cup in greeting.
“Freeday for us… not for them,” he murmurs with a crooked smile.
“World’d spin off its axle otherwise.”
He retrieves a smooth stone from his pocket and turns it thoughtfully between his fingers. The stormlight gleams on its polished surface, and for a moment, Jormvo looks almost scholarly, almost the man he once was.
“Storm like this makes a man think,” he says, tucking the stone away.
Then, with a shrug and a sip of ale: “Or at least pretend to.”
With a grunt, he pushes himself up using his hanbo, tucks the ale cup into his belt, and ambles toward the commons. He nods to every passerby, some get greetings, some get advice, all get the warm, ale-scented presence of Pebble Mill’s unofficial uncle and wandering philosopher.