Verrin Tieruk's page

Verrin says "I’ll go back to town and tell everyone that you are following the zombies north. You are welcome to stay at my home, such as it is."

"No farmers, no nothing. Just my house and my cemetery."

Verrin smiles and puffs his chest. " Gratitude accepted!"

"Had to be them zombies."

“The Tieruk’s don’t take handouts, we’ve got our pride”. Looking at the damage, he changes his mind and permits himself to accept a gold piece. He hands Niu nine gold. "You are too kind."

It is an hour’s walk to Verrin’s home. The corpseman alternates between angry silence at the violation of his graveyard, wild speculation about
its causes (demons, warlocks, and Chelaxians top his list of suspects), and amazed descriptions of things he saw during the battle at Falcon’s Hollow (most of which you witnessed or caused).

The corpseman leads you up the north road, which quickly bears northwest. The dirt road is easy to follow, and twin ruts from wheels show where many carts and wagons have carried supplies and workers to the forest to work for the Lumber Consortium. He grumbles about having to walk “Damn zombies scared off my cart mule, I’ll be lucky to get her back” . About an hour out of town Verrin turns onto a less-used, wheel-rutted trail that leads into an area of sparse saplings “Them Erastil priests planted, said something about regrowing the forest” .

Trying to be sociable, he invites you to stay the night at his home if you feel the need, even offering you a quick meal of bread and honey to strengthen them for more adventuring. However, as his cabin comes into sight between the saplings he starts to glower again, as he can see the door is wide open “I never leaves it open, raccoons get in and eat my food” . His home is little more than a shack, though he is not embarrassed by it—he owns it and the land it’s on, a rarity in these parts even if it doesn’t make him a wealthy man. Not only has the door been broken open, but also his place has been ransacked, with the food stores in particular scattered about (all the meat is gone). Nearby, the half-eaten corpse of a mule attracts a cloud of flies. A mule cart lies overturned behind the cabin. Upon seeing the state of his home and mule, Verrin flies into a tantrum and angrily kicks the side of his shack, complaining bitterly “Nothin’ good ever happens to me!” .

"Ain't never. Yer a dwarve? That's okay with me watever that being. Wanna see me yard? This away. I do like yer sword. It be short too." Verrin draws a an axe handle with a nail hammered through it. "C'mon." He heads north on the road.

Verrin responds to Rhen "It all happened so fast like....I don't know. Theys ain't here and they was going this a way and that a way. Mines musta gone the other way. I be glad ta show yuh my yard. Yah can even stay at me home ifn ya want. You sure are a short one."

"N-n-no, Melady. Only cemetery in these parts is mine. I own it you know. The land and the house. That's quite a nice sword you have there."

"Theys not from my graveyard. Not a one of 'em."

Verrin rubs his chin as he recalls. "Well now that you mention it, some was headed this a way and some was headed that a way. But only them two directions. Some was following me, others was going....northwest. Nice sword you have there, sir."

Hearing Ranok's words he seems changed that someone knows something about the undead. "You know about undead? You kill them? Well what I saw was the bodies in the cemetery pulled themselves up out of the earth and started walking off without so much as a “how do you do?” I had nothing to do with them getting up like that. They was all kinds of different too. Some decomposed just the way I buried them. Some had sharp teeth like they wasn't humans. When I ran back here and looked back I saw some were walking, bloody skeletons and some ran on all four like dogs."

Verrin Tieruk stands short and slender, with narrow shoulders and poor posture. Though he is a slim fellow his arms and back have wiry muscles from digging graves. His sloppily shaved face bears a few razor nicks in it. Heavy dark circles rim his dull gray eyes, which linger uncomfortably on whomever he encounters, as often as not staring at some part of the person’s face rather than the eyes. Though he’s yet had opportunity to use it, he carries a homemade weapon, just a coffin nail hammered through an axe handle, hammered into a flat blade, and sharpened; while not a terribly effective weapon, it is easily concealed in sleeve of his threadbare coat. He is visibly upset beyond self control.

"Ye gotta do somethin, Sheriff! They didn't even bother to say hello. Fancy hat ye got there, sir."